Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

T he following day, Ciara was walking through the corridor when she suddenly heard a commotion in the main hall. There were two voices discussing something obviously urgent. One voice belonged to the housekeeper, while the other was one of the servants.

Curious and concerned by the raised voices, she hurried toward the main hall, finding both women in a state of distress.

"What do you mean it is not working?" Mrs. Dawson demanded, her stern voice even sterner than her usual demeanor.

"It has gone completely cold," the servant girl explained apologetically, looking down at her feet as if it were her own fault.

"Well, get Mr. Thornby to fix it." Mrs. Dawson immediately came up with a solution as Ciara lingered on the last stair, not wishing to intrude on their conversation but still curious to find out what was all the commotion about.

"Mr. Thornby is not here," the servant girl clarified with equal concern. "He has taken the day off."

Mrs. Dawson frowned. "Always in the worst possible moment, isn't it?" she sighed heavily. "And what about Mr. Huxley or Mr. Gibbons?"

"They already left," the servant girl's whiny voice replied.

Ciara knew that some of the workers at the manor house did not live there. They spent several hours working then they returned home. So, it was quite possible that the men who were required to solve the issue at hand were not present.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Dawson?" Ciara finally dared to intrude. The moment the two women heard her voice, they turned to her with Mrs. Dawson's steel blue eyes shooting right through her.

"Ah, Your Grace," she said respectfully but coldly, "it is nothing. We shall sort it out shortly."

Ciara insisted. "What is there to sort out? Perhaps I can help."

Mrs. Dawson raised an eyebrow. "With all due respect, I doubt that, Your Grace. It appears that the large stone oven, essential for the evening's dinner which was specially requested by His Grace, has stopped working."

"It has gone completely cold, Your Grace," the servant girl added for more clarification. "We cannot seem to get it working again. Without it, the roast and the pastries for this evening's dinner will be ruined."

"There is no one who can take a look?" Ciara asked.

"I just inquired about the men knowledgeable in that," Mrs. Dawson explained.

Ciara hesitated for a moment then she made her suggestion. "Perhaps I might take a look?"

"You?" Mrs. Dawson gasped.

"Yes, if you don't mind, I would like to take a look." Ciara smiled in a reassuring manner, fully aware of the fact of how ridiculous that sounded. A woman being able to check an oven. But the truth was, she spent many evenings working in the nunnery kitchen where they had a large, stone oven, and she had learned a thing or two about why it might stop working.

The servant girl glanced at Mrs. Dawson for confirmation, but the housekeeper was still taken aback by the suggestion. A moment later, she acquiesced. "I… suppose you could take a look," she said as if she had only recently learned English and needed to think of the words she was going to use.

The three women walked into the kitchen in silence then Mrs. Dawson announced to everyone what was to take place.

"Her Grace is about… to take a look at the oven." She said it as if she were describing the most incomprehensible notion in the world. Again, Ciara did not hold it against her. She had lived her entire life being told she couldn't do something, being told she was not enough. This was not a matter of proving herself. It was simply a matter of being helpful which was all she ever wanted to be.

Ciara turned to everyone with a smile. "Let's see if we can figure this out together," she said, rolling up her sleeves.

The staff watched in surprise as Ciara knelt by the oven, inspecting it closely. She noticed that the flue was blocked, preventing the fire from drawing properly. Then, she grabbed a pair of heavy gloves and a long metal poker.

"Mrs. Dawson, if we can clear this blockage, we should be able to get the fire going again," Ciara explained. "Can you hand me that broom handle?"

With the staff gathered around, Ciara carefully worked the broom handle into the flue, dislodging the blockage bit by bit. Soot and ash fell, and the kitchen maids quickly swept it away. After several tense minutes, the blockage was finally cleared, and Ciara coaxed the fire back to life.

"There we go," she said with a smile, stepping back as the fire roared to life once more. "The oven should be working now. Let's get those dishes back in and finish preparing for the dinner."

The kitchen unexpectedly erupted in relieved cheers and applause. The servants beamed with gratitude, their eyes shining with admiration.

"That was… exceptional, Your Grace," Mrs. Dawson said as she stood before Ciara.

"Thank you, Mrs. Dawson." Ciara felt herself blush a little at the praise. "When one finds oneself in… unusual situations, one picks up a few unusual skills."

Her comment made the other servants chuckle, and even Mrs. Dawson smiled a little, only to turn serious once again, clapping everyone to get them to focus once again. "Now that we have the oven working again, let us make sure that the dinner isn't late."

Ciara watched as the staff all dispersed back to their positions, working with renewed energy and confidence. She hoped that she was a bit of an inspiration for them and that her unusual skill didn't make her appear odd, but on the contrary, that it assured them she was just like them, used to the work that was required of her.

Mrs. Dawson led Ciara out of the kitchen, addressing her respectfully. "You may focus on your tasks now, Your Grace. You have been truly helpful today."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dawson, those words really mean a lot," Ciara said, genuinely feeling a sense of belonging. She remembered the applause she was greeted by once she had solved the problem, and even now, the housekeeper was hopefully, slowly warming to her.

Two months, she remembered. Don't get attached to these people.

Only, that was easier said than done.

Jonathan was in his study the following day with a single thought in his mind. His wife knew how to repair an oven. Jonathan had to admit that was one of the most peculiar things he had ever heard. A lady with such a skill. When Mrs. Dawson brought him dinner in his study that evening, she mentioned what had happened, and the story amused him beyond belief.

He tried to bury himself in his work, but a knock on the door interrupted him. "Yes?" he called out, and the butler entered, announcing that his cousin Rebecca was there for him. "Fine, send her in," Jonathan gestured at him.

Several moments later, Rebecca waltzed into the study, closing the door behind her. "Jonathan," she greeted.

"Rebecca," he replied, teasing her. "I am already married. You can't force me to attend any more balls where I have to speak to ladies and listen to them talk about the wonders of embroidery."

I have a wife who can mend an oven, he thought to himself with a smirk. He wondered what other hidden skills she had, this wife of his. The thought titillated him beyond belief.

"I actually came here to ask you about married life," Rebecca divulged, taking a seat opposite him at his oak writing table. "And speaking of married life, where is your wife?"

He lifted his gaze from the papers that surrounded him, shrugging. "I wouldn't know. Why?"

"Why?" she frowned. "How can you not know where your wife is?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "Because we are not joined with an umbilical cord? She is… around here somewhere, minding her duchess business. I don't have to chaperone her for that."

"But you are her husband," she reminded him of something he knew very well.

"Husband but not her keeper," he was adamant. "She is still her own person, and she can do whatever she pleases as can I. Nothing has changed."

"It has," she corrected him.

"Well, perhaps only minor technicalities have changed, but the essence has not," he urged. "I simply have another person living here in the manor with me, and we are adjusting our lives to each other… for the time being."

"Jonathan, you can't possibly mean that—" she started, but a knock on the door interrupted her.

"Yes?" he called out eagerly, grateful for the intrusion. The door opened momentarily, and the butler appeared.

"I apologize, Your Grace, but there is a letter here for you," he announced. "It arrived with the late morning mail just now." The man walked over to Jonathan's writing table and placed a letter on it. He bowed respectfully then closed the door behind him.

"A business letter?" Rebecca asked.

"Probably," Jonathan shrugged.

He took the letter in his hands. The letter, penned on creamy, thick paper, bore the elegant watermark of a reputable stationer. Carefully folded into thirds and sealed with a dollop of deep red wax, the seal was imprinted with an intricate family crest. Upon opening, it revealed neatly spaced lines of black ink, each stroke executed with the precision of a practiced hand. He sighed upon reading it.

"What is it?" Rebecca inquired.

"Just some silly thing I would rather not attend," he tried to evade her questioning although he knew that it would not work.

"What sort of a silly thing?" she demanded to know.

"Lord and Lady Weatherly are hosting their annual dinner party," he explained, referring to a relatively young married couple whose estate was nearby.

"How lovely!" Rebecca clapped her hands joyously, almost like a child. "Why, that would be a splendid opportunity for you to show off your wife." Jonathan rolled his eyes at the suggestion. Before he could say anything to that, she continued, "It is important to present yourselves as a happily married couple, Jonathan, seeing that you married because of the scandal… which you were responsible for, mind you."

Jonathan swallowed heavily. His cousin was right. All of this was his fault. He couldn't bring himself to think with the right head, and now, he was paying for the consequences.

He tried to remind himself that at least some good would come of it. He would bed his wife. He would taste her again and have her in his arms. And then, as usual, he would lose interest in her. That was what always happened. He couldn't find a reason why it would be any different now.

"Fine," he pouted.

"Oh, do not be like that." She grinned, amused by his behavior. "I shall see you both there."

"How lovely," he grimaced, much to her amusement.

"Now," she said clapping her hands again, but only once this time, "how about a game of Pall Mall?"

"Now?" he frowned.

"Yes, now," she confirmed. "I don't see you busy with anything else."

"Actually, I am busy," he urged. "Very much so."

"I beg you to reconsider," she said, pacing about the room and walking over to the window where she stopped to take a look. "You know, I've always liked that pond of yours."

His eyes widened. "Rebecca…" he started, but his voice betrayed him.

"Yes?" she asked, pretending to be all innocent.

"You… wouldn't," he said, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't usually, no," she agreed, turning to face him. "But if you force me, then I have no other option."

He sighed heavily, raking his fingers through his hair. "You promised you wouldn't use that anymore."

She shook her head. "I don't remember ever saying anything like that. You must have imagined it, along with that fear of frogs you can't seem to outgrow."

"It is because I fell into that damned pond as a child," he growled at her, although there was no anger in his words, only annoyance. "I could feel them crawling and swimming all around me as I found my way back to the bank. Disgusting creatures."

Rebecca laughed. "I would never bring one here to your home. Never," she said, teasing him. "But there is a pond very close by. Perhaps one of them might find its way here, just hopping merrily until?—"

"Fine!" he exclaimed, lifting his hands at her in a mock gesture of surrender. "Fine! We'll play the stupid game. Are you happy?"

"Yes," she nodded, glancing out at the garden. "Very much so."