The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,33

you be ready in the morning?”

Marianne blinked. Easy as that? “Oh—I—yes, of course! Though I hadn’t meant to depart so soon and leave you without a cook.”

“So you’ll change the course of your life to spare me the trouble of contacting an agency? That’s obliging of you.”

Spluttering with surprised laughter, Marianne granted the truth of this. “Sally—Mrs. White—will do well as cook, I think, given more experience. You might like also to hire some of the new kitchenmaids on a permanent basis. They are all good workers.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. White”—the headmistress took on the new title seamlessly—“what she would prefer, in consultation with the housekeeper. And you are always welcome here. As a cook or, if you need any honest work, a chambermaid.”

Marianne laughed. It was easier to laugh now. The easiest thing, now that there was something to do next besides cook, and cook. “I have some money awaiting me...I think.” Her sisters had been dowered, but what had her mother done with Marianne’s share of the money?

She’d never thought of it before. Never thought of Lincolnshire as a place she might return, or her sisters and their families and her mother as pieces with which she might fit again.

Or Jack, and his mother and sisters. The land, the hives, the bees.

She had so much to tell the bees. And there was so much forgiveness to beg.

“I shall see my mother and sisters,” Marianne said unsteadily. “And Mr. Grahame, if he’ll have me.”

“A woman can never have too many sisters,” said Mrs. Brodie. “You won’t forget, I hope, how many you have here.”

After suggesting a time for Marianne’s departure the next day, the headmistress bade her good night. When she took her lamp and closed the door, the little room still seemed bright. It only needed Marianne’s own lamp.

She sat on the bed, stroking the plain quilt that covered it, and looked around the simple room. She’d never made this space a home, saying the kitchen was her home. But her heart was divided. Maybe some part of her had always known she would leave again.

Without realizing it at the time, she’d always called Lincolnshire home. And she loved the idea of going toward it, not escaping. She could return home proud of what she’d learned. She knew a useful trade; she knew how to fight. She had sisters of the heart and, thank God, a home. Maybe someday she’d be able to be proud of how she mended the relationships she’d hurt.

All she could do was try.

For now, there was one more thing to do before sleep. She hung her apron on its hook, then pulled her book of recipes from the pocket. It was small in her hand, but represented much. Lessons learned, failures, successes. Experience documented, ignorance corrected.

She didn’t need it anymore. She remembered it all.

Hefting the little book one more time, she set it on the washstand. A little something to help Sally, maybe. Something to show that Marianne had been here and that she’d made something new of herself.

Mrs. Brodie’s Academy had been a good place to be, and she could come back someday if she wanted to. Because people left, and they returned. And it was all right.

If she was at peace in her own heart, and with those she loved, then it was all right.

Chapter Nine

AN UNEXPECTED FROST had fallen during the night, and Jack had been awake since before dawn, trying to ward off damage. The great fields of wheat, oilseed, and barley would be all right, but delicate peas and beans would suffer, as would every kitchen garden from that of Westerby Grange to the humblest cottage.

Buckets in hand, Jack and every servant and tenant he could rouse had paced the rows, dribbling water onto each growing thing to thaw it before sunrise. It was grueling and arduous, this race against the sun and the sudden snap of cold.

By the time day broke, they had saved almost everything. Viola and the household staff of the Grange saw a hearty breakfast served in the great entrance hall to everyone who had worked at the land that morning.

When the platters of eggs and rashers of bacon and thick, steaming oatcakes had all been consumed, the other men melted off to the usual day’s work.

“And where are you off to?” Viola, pin-neat in a lavender morning dress, asked Jack. “No one would fault you for finding your bed again.”

True, though he didn’t feel like sleep. The success of the night’s task had buoyed