Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Louisa was cooking.

Her plan was to surprise her husband with a sumptuous three-course meal. She was going to prove to him that Louisa Highworth could do it; that she was not a simpering, useless china doll, too squeamish to put her hands to good use. She might have been brought up to be a lady, but she could work when life demanded it, and life demanded it now.

She tied a wide linen apron around her dress, put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips as she looked at the ingredients at her disposal, which she'd placed on the rickety table.

Flour.

Oat flakes.

Bran.

Salt.

Lard.

Robert had placed them on the table earlier, with the cryptic comment that they'd have to make do with this until he could procure better fare. Somehow, she'd have to make a soup, a main course, and a dessert from this bounty. At least they had real bread from the bakery; the entire loaf that she'd bought earlier.

"Right. Soup." One required some sort of liquid to make soup. She'd brought a bucket of fresh water from the well and poured it into the cauldron that hung over the fireplace. Robert had been right; after scouring it with sand, it was reasonably clean. Thinking back to all the different soups she'd had in her life, there had been pea soup, carrot soup, beetroot soup, parsnip soup, or a soup with all of them in it. The problem was that none of these ingredients were available. How vexatious! Wasn't her husband a costermonger? Shouldn't he be sitting on vegetables galore? She looked around. Where were his goods? Certainly not in the cottage, nor outside, either. Not a single carrot or onion in sight. For a moment, she wondered where on earth he got his produce if he didn't grow it himself.

The fire crackled.

The water bubbled over and splashed into the fire, almost putting it out. She cursed under her breath, took some liquid out with a cup, then more and more … Was that enough? Maybe a little more? She poured the water back into the bucket and wondered what to do with it now. Robert would probably know. Where was the man? He'd left early this morning, claiming to be "going to work". She wondered if he was truly standing by the side of the road with his cart, sorting cabbages or calling out in his loud, hoarse voice: "Cherries! Sweet cherries! A penny a score!" or "Ho, ho hii! Here's your turnips!" Not th at she'd seen any cherries or turnips in his vicinity lately. And the only carrot she'd seen in the cottage had been fed to the donkey.

What did he do all day?

And since she was thinking about Robert, it had occurred to her once or twice earlier that something was off with him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Was it the way he spoke, perhaps? It seemed different, as if he'd changed his accent at one point during their journey; he dropped in and out of it and went through long phases during which he seemed to forget to speak it altogether. But then, maybe he'd always spoken like that, and she hadn't realised.

Louisa held the ladle in the air, thinking how he didn't seem to be quite the man she'd first thought he was. Then she shook her head. What did she really know about costermongers? She decided to solve that mystery later. She had to concentrate on her soup. She decided she wanted to cook white soup, her favourite, which was usually served at the balls at supper. Unless she was mistaken, it contained milk and mutton. She had neither. No matter, the flour would surely make the soup white.

Then, she supposed, something had to be added to give the water flavour, otherwise it would taste like nothing. She looked at the ingredients and her eyes fell on the salt. Of course! She dumped in two cups, and just to be on the safe side, a third. Then she stared at the remaining ingredients, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Then, having made up her mind, she doled out a generous cupful of the flour, the bran and the oat flakes into the water.

"Will that be enough?" she wondered. "It looks grey, not white. Just for good measure, for the colour, let's add some more flour." She added the rest of the bag. After a moment of consideration, she added the remaining bags of the bran and oats as well.

And then she stirred. Oh my! And how she stirred.

She hadn't realised that cooking required such physical effort. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she wielded the long, wooden ladle with both hands.

A feeling of elation filled her. Today was indeed a good day. Not only was she cooking, but Will was still living in town. She would meet him soon. She would talk to him. She would rekindle a dear childhood friendship. How she was looking forward to it!

The second time she'd met Will had been in town. She'd gone there with her maid to buy some ribbon for her bonnet. Louisa bought a roll of velvet ribbon at the haberdasher's and forgot her reticule there. While her maid went back to the shop to fetch it, she waited by the fountain in the market square.

She bent down to tie her boot, and just at that moment, she noticed a scuffle in the side streets. Curious, she went to see what it was about.

She immediately recognised Will's short, chubby figure. He was bravely facing three tall, lanky boys who were taunting him, his hands clenched in fists in front of his face. Then, as if on command, all three pounced on him, hitting, punching, and kicking him. Will fought back bravely, but he was no match for them. She recognised the blond locks of the tallest boy at once.

"George Cooper-Wiles!" Louisa cried. "For shame! I'll tell your father that his son is no better than a common gutter rat, ganging up with other street urchins to fight boys who are smaller and younger than you!"

For a moment she thought he hadn't heard, but as she turned to go fetch help, he stopped and ran after her. "Louisa, don't you dare tattle on me!" George pulled her back by the arm and slammed her against the wall of the house.

Louisa took a swing and smashed her fist into his face. He staggered back. The other two boys stopped beating up Will and gaped.

"Run, Will!" she shouted.

Will didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet and limped off towards the bakery for refuge.

Linda, the maid, came running and took Louisa home, scolding her the entire way. George and his friends had run off like lightning and were nowhere to be seen.

By dinnertime, he had a black eye. When asked what had happened, he said he'd fallen off his horse. He glared at Louisa the entire time, daring her to contradict him. She did not. They had an unspoken agreement that neither of them would reveal what had happened. George would die with humiliation if anyone were ever to discover he'd been hit by a girl, and Louisa would be confined to her room for the rest of her life if they found out she had involved herself in a street fight. They both sat at the dinner table, eating their soup in silence.

From that day on, Will worshipped her .

Robert returned later that day, a cheerful whistle on his lips.

"I've returned, madam wife. Mrs Gary sends this." He placed a bundle on the chair. "With best regards."

"Who is Mrs Gary?" She wiped her forehead.

"She lives on a farm nearby. She's elderly and half blind and dependent on outside help. I've been helping in return for food as payment." He set down a box overflowing with fruit and vegetables.

"What is this?" Louisa lifted a high-waisted brown linen dress from the bundle, the kind worn by working women. Suitable and sturdy without any adornment. Her hand slid over the fabric. It was faded and coarsely woven, but clean. There was also a simple white shawl and an apron. She picked up the cap that married women wore. It was not a frilly lace cap like her stepmother wore, but one of sturdy white linen. She stared at the clothes as the full implication hit her that these were the clothes of lower-class commoners. She was no longer a lady. She was a working-class peasant. A costermonger's wife. She had to dress like one. The thought stung.

"Clothes. She has no need for them and thought you might find them useful."

"I suppose it's useful." Her own muslin and cotton robes were too delicate for the kind of life she led now. She'd already torn a hole into one of them when it got caught on a nail in the doorway. She would have to put it aside and wear the rougher dresses, thereby erasing any indication of her lineage and breeding .

He stretched and rolled his shoulders back as if to ease a strain. Louisa noticed how broad and muscular he was. He filled the room with his presence, taking up all the space, making her feel small and vulnerable, even though she was anything but small. She looked away hastily.

"Mrs Gary asked me to sell her fruit and vegetables at the market in Dorchester." Robert had brought in several crates and placed them on the table. He tossed a carrot in the air, caught it, and bit into it with gusto.

Louisa perked up. "The market in Dorchester?"

"I'm going there tomorrow." He finished the carrot in three bites and threw the remains to the donkey, who was tethered outside the open door.

"I'd like to go with you if you're going to the market at Dorchester. I—I could help. With the selling." Her heart pounded against her ribcage at the thought of seeing Will as early as tomorrow.

"Certainly. Two hands are better than one. Hm. What do I smell?" He sniffed and wrinkled his nose.

She pointed proudly with the wooden spoon at the cauldron hanging in the fireplace. "White soup. I have decided to cook dinner, you see."

"Did you, now? I'm a lucky man; my wife has finally decided to cook for me. I'm a lucky man ind—" He approached the cauldron and stared into an indefinable greyish mass. "White soup, you say? It looks, er, dangerou—I mean, delicious."

"You must be hungry." She handed him a bowl. "Help yourself. "

Robert attempted to lift the ladle out, but it was stuck. "Did you say it was soup?"

"Hm. Yes. The consistency is debatable, but it is definitely meant to be soup."

He set the bowl down and pulled at the ladle with both hands. "Highly solid, this soup," he commented, giving the ladle another strong tug. "Extraordinarily solid." Another tug, and he lifted the cauldron off the hook. "I'm impressed. What sturdy consistency, quite commendable, really. Have you ever seen anything so strong? It won't fall off even now." He carried it halfway across the room. "Like dried paste." He lifted it up to his nose and sniffed. "Or plaster. No, I have it! It's a lime-based mortar, used for binding stones together in construction." He lifted it up and down. "Houses built with this powerful adhesive are indestructible. It'll withstand the onslaught of an entire French artillery regiment, including an entire battery of Gibreauval 12-pounders."

"Gibreau-what?"

"The heaviest cannon of the French field artillery reserves. It fires rounds at distant targets; its rate of fire is about one round per minute, with a range up to 1700 yards. Although during the Peninsular Campaign they preferred the lighter 8-pounders, because fortunately for us, the challenging Spanish terrain hindered the movement of heavier artillery like the 12-pounder."

She blinked at him. "Ah."

He knocked at the side of the cauldron, which gave off a dull clank. "My point being, when the end of the world comes and the day of reckoning is near, when the angel's trumpets sound to herald the last day of civilization, Mrs Jones's house will be the only one left standing on the face of the earth, steadfast and strong, thanks to this miraculous adhesive, I mean, of course, soup."

Louisa dropped into a chair, shading her eyes with her hand. Her shoulders shook.

"As for the taste I can't say since it refuses to come out." He stuck a finger in, smelled it and licked it carefully. "Hm. Generously seasoned with salt. And it must be mortar since now my teeth are glued together. Gnn!" He bared his teeth. He used a branch to pry them apart in mock desperation.

She could no longer hold it in any longer and burst out laughing. She laughed until her sides ached and tears streamed down her face. She couldn't remember ever laughing so much. Certainly not since she'd been an adult.

He grinned at her. "Ah, she is laughing. That is good, indeed."

There'd only ever been one person who'd been able to make her laugh, and that was Will. The thought of him sobered her.

She mopped up her tears. "This is my first attempt at cooking. I dare say neither of us would survive if we were to eat it. What shall we do now?"

He set the cauldron down. "I'm afraid you have destroyed the cauldron for good. And I'd rather keep my teeth." He crouched down beside the cauldron. "We could try to sell this paste at the market tomorrow. Mrs Jones's miracle mortar! Or we could sell it to the army. That's it! Let's do it. I daresay we'll be rich in a jiffy."

Louisa laughed again. She threw her handkerchief at him. "Be quiet. You have made your point; you need not expound upon it. I shall, henceforth, never attempt to cook for you again."

"Ah. But 'tis only the first attempt. ‘Practice is everything,' says Periander."

A slight smile played on her lips. "Indeed. One supposes the Greeks must have known what they were talking about. So, you've read Periander?"

"Not willingly," he confessed.

She studied him thoughtfully as he continued to try to pull the ladle out of the cauldron. "Removing Excalibur from the stone would have been easier," he grunted. Finally, the spoon came out, and the cauldron fell to the ground with a clatter. "There. We'll have to buy another cauldron and ladle at the market tomorrow."

"But what now? I'm famished."

He picked up a bundle that he'd dropped by the door. "Let's eat this." He unwrapped it to reveal a partridge.

"It's a dead bird." Louisa crossed her arms. "It still has feathers. You can't possibly eat that."

"Yes, it is a dead bird. And correctly observed, it still has feathers. And I absolutely mean to eat it. Because one commonly eats birds without feathers."

"How?"

Robert heaved a sigh that came from the bottom of his heart. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you to pluck the bird. You wouldn't know how. Let me show you. Watch carefully, wife. "

As Louisa watched Robert prepare their meal, a single thought took hold in her: if he was a costermonger, she was the queen masquerading as a milkmaid.