The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,36
They ought to be the same thing, but somehow they’re not.”
He seized on the meaning behind the words. “So you love me.”
“As you say,” she said. “I love you.”
“Well. That’s settled.” Relief, gladness, peace were warm like the sun overhead, cool like the wind that softened its heat. They were balanced. Everything balanced. “And we’re to spend our whole lives forgiving each other, are we?”
Marianne raised a brow. “I should hope so. The alternatives are being perfect—”
“Impossible,” he sighed.
“—or not being together, or not forgiving each other.”
“Intolerable,” he said. “I see. You’re quite right, we should forgive each other thoroughly and frequently.”
“Something in the tone of your voice is...hmm. Do you mean ‘forgive,’ or do you mean something more...” She trailed off.
“Yes,” he said.
Again, she blushed, and he smiled. “So you left your kitchen.” He still had a difficult time believing it.
“It’s not mine; it’s the academy’s. And I can cook and create and show caring wherever I am. I should be sad to think I could only do that in one place. I’ll sort it out somehow.”
She freed her hand from his, unfolding to her feet to look at his work. “But what are you doing? Repairing my father’s old stable? This hasn’t been used since I was a child.”
“Ah. You inspired it. Or maybe your academy did.” Standing beside her, he pointed up at what he’d done. Explained what there was left to do. Once the space within was cleared, the old stalls demolished, there would be a great open space for whatever one wished. It would be a simple matter to install ovens and worktables—though one needn’t limit oneself.
“If I can’t find a cook to teach lessons here, I’ll still be able to use it. Think of the ballroom at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy, used for far more than dancing.” Reflexively, he rubbed his shoulder at the memory. “Why, in a space like this, anything could be taught.”
Marianne had listened thoughtfully, nodding her understanding. Now she looked into the open door of the stable, reared back, and returned to Jack. “It’s a disaster in there.”
“It’s not ready for a teacher yet, no,” he agreed.
“So.” She looked coyly at him, gaze aslant. “You haven’t anyone in mind for the job, you said?”
“I always have you in mind. But I wasn’t going to ask anything more of you, certainly not to leave London for me.”
“But I didn’t leave London. I came home.” She beamed at him, and he felt like a king. “This is brilliant. It’ll be like your own academy. You’ll be helping girls take care of themselves, just as Mrs. Brodie did.”
“Just as you’ve done all these years,” he added. “Look, I want to be scrupulously honest with you. Every fruit has a stone in it, and this building is the stone. I don’t want to tell you that it will take a great deal of time and money to bring back, but I’m telling you now all the same. I wish it would be easy for you to stay, no barriers in the way of the decision.”
“You’re here. My mother’s here. Home is here. And a place to cook is here.” She took his face between her palms and kissed him, sweet and lasting. “It’s easy for me to stay. And sometimes one of us might need to leave, and that’s all right. Just be honest with me.”
“And if I leave, kiss you when I come back?”
“That is a requirement,” she said. “Not every fruit has a stone, Jack. Some have seeds. When the fruit gets cut or damaged, that’s when the seed can grow into something big and wonderful.”
And it did. It had. It would. The friend of childhood would be the companion of adulthood and the strength of old age and the lover of a lifetime.
“Then you’ll marry me?” Jack asked.
“As soon as the banns are called for us.” Marianne took his hand again, looking at him with her heart in her eyes. “Come, let’s tell the bees there’s going to be a wedding.”
Jack kissed her, and agreed, and went with her.
Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
“Use your favorite poem or song to help you keep a rhythm,” Marianne told her new students. The girls looked at her like owls, eyes wide and blinking, half worried and half hopeful. “Get your hands into the dough—yes, just like that, Jemma. You can’t hurt it, Elsie—it’s all right even to slap it against the table.”
From her table at the front of the large converted room, she showed the half-dozen students how to knead and pummel and otherwise abuse their bread dough. “If there’s a fellow you’re angry with, you can imagine his face,” she said, working her fists into the soft mass.
As she hoped they would, the girls laughed, and they began to settle into a rhythm of their own at their long worktables. Some chanted in a quiet voice; some merely moved their lips. Some caught on quickly; some called for help from Mrs. Grahame—that was her!—and needed Marianne to stand near, coaching each step.
Marianne’s dowry, invested in the funds, yielded a steady dividend, and she used it to pay the students a wage to attend her school of cookery. These girls needn’t become maids at the age of twelve. They could learn to work with food, to gain themselves better posts. To help themselves and their families and those who loved them, lifelong.
With Marianne, they learned for a few hours each day, five days a week. Boys came for lessons at other times, other days. Some learned joinery, some studied languages and penmanship to prepare for clerkships. They too received a wage and were taught by those with knowledge.
Marianne still kneaded her dough to Shakespeare, but no longer to the words of Macbeth. Sometimes now it was The Merchant of Venice:
The qual-i-ty of mer-cy is not strained.
It drop-peth as the gen-tle rain from heav’n.
And sometimes she paced herself with sonnets. She particularly liked the one about the marriage of two minds, and love not altering when it alteration found.
Mercy and love, and the changes that time brought to a loved one. With these sweet balms, she had healed her heart. And whole, it was hers to give again.
She’d been like these girls once, uncertain of her place, though she’d had advantages they didn’t all have. She’d had a home to leave and to return to and the knowledge of love, though she’d thought it dust and shaken it from her feet.
And she’d been hired by Mrs. Brodie, been taught by Mrs. Patchett, aided by Katie and Sally and the four Js and several other marvelous maids and assistants. They’d all seen to her future. Now she did her piece to see to the future of other girls, one roll and sauce and tart at a time. One perfectly cleaved apricot.
One strawberry in season, and one honeycomb still sticky sweet.
Outside, one of the last cool days of spring chilled the ground and the air; within the just-christened Helena Wilcox Grahame Academy, all was warm and bright. Marianne would finish today’s lessons, then speak to Edith James about beginning to teach one day per week. The newest Grahame, Marianne and Jack’s first child, would be born near Midsummer. While Marianne recovered from her confinement, she’d need someone to teach for her all the time.
Edith had been Marianne’s first student, a quick and eager learner. She could take over the instruction, and well. And someday, so could several of the others. Love was generous, not selfish, and these girls watched out for each other.
They were exceptional young ladies, and sooner than they expected, they would be equal to anything.
About Theresa Romain
THERESA ROMAIN IS THE bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf trilogy. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received starred reviews from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. A member of Romance Writers of America and its Regency specialty chapter The Beau Monde, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.
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