The Way to a Gentleman's Heart - Theresa Romain Page 0,6

greeted the maids as they bustled through the servants’ hall, then entered the larder to retrieve the dough Sally had placed in the cool room the day before. The buns and loaves had risen slowly and were now beautifully puffed, ready to pop into the ovens and feed a hungry academy.

Still adjusting her cap and apron, Sally joined her a moment later and helped to carry the dough from the larder into the kitchen. Marianne then peered into the adjoining rooms to look for Jack, but in vain.

She hadn’t spotted him upstairs in the servants’ attic quarters, either. Though, of course, he hadn’t moved into the academy upon accepting the temporary post as her kitchenmaid. Instead, he had the nicest lodging of any maid in England, keeping his room at an elegant hotel.

Maybe he was still there. Sleeping away the day, never planning to roll up his shirtsleeves and help with today’s meals.

Yet if he didn’t intend to return, why would he have come so far to see her? And bring her strawberries?

She couldn’t fathom. But she also couldn’t wait any longer. She had to leave now or risk missing the pick of today’s offerings at the butcher, the greengrocer, and the fishmonger. Just as she was setting aside her cap and cramming her everyday hat onto her head, Jack entered the kitchen with a small parcel in hand.

“Morning, Mrs. Redfern,” he said with a wink, and with entirely too much good cheer for a man who was going to peel vegetables all day.

“Good morning,” she grumbled back, wishing for a cup of tea from the kettle she hadn’t yet heated. These mornings when she went for supplies were always a scramble. “What’s the parcel? You’ve been shopping at this hour?”

“No, I went shopping before this hour. You told me we’d have to rise early. Here, look what I got for you.”

He handed over the little package, pulling loose the twine as he did. When Marianne took it in her hands, the paper fell open to reveal a palm-sized section of honeycomb. Sunlight-gold honey dewed the intricate little hexagons. Each was a reservoir for the sweet liquid, each itself of pleasant-scented wax.

The sight and smell of it tugged powerfully at her memory. When she brought the honeycomb to her nose to breathe in the scent, suddenly she was twenty years old again—back in Lincolnshire, wearing thick, long gloves and a hat with netting to protect her face. And she was laughing, telling the bees in her father’s hives that Jack Grahame had asked her to marry him. This was an old tradition, really more of a superstition. One had to tell the bees of any weddings to come, or they’d grieve at being left out of the celebration and might stop making honey.

But that marriage never happened. Instead, Jack’s father arranged his son’s wedding with the well-dowered daughter of a wealthy merchant.

When the banns were called for Jack and Helena Wilcox, Marianne hadn’t bothered to tell the bees. Let them continue on, happy in their ignorance.

They hadn’t stopped making honey, as far as she knew, but she hadn’t been around long enough to collect it. She’d thought she was protecting herself by leaving before the banns were called a second time. She had protected herself.

But she’d hurt herself too. There was so much she had missed by fleeing her home.

“Where did you get this honeycomb?” she asked.

Jack doffed his hat, looking pleased. “I persuaded a confectioner to open early.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to bring you some, because I was remembering the bees your father used to keep.”

So. He recalled those days too. “Why?”

Now he looked annoyed. “I don’t know, Marianne. Maybe because seeing you reminds me of the way we grew up, helping the beekeeper collect honey and wax, and it was a nice memory, and I wanted to share it with you.”

Yet all of that belonged firmly in the past. The Redfern land now belonged to the Grahames, sold by Marianne’s mother upon being widowed five years before. Jack’s father had been living then, and he’d snapped it up using the Wilcox money that had passed into his hands.

There was no room for Marianne and Jack in that memory anymore, certainly not together.

“That’s not what I’m asking, really.” She bit her lip, wishing for a taste of sweetness. “Why...any of this? You came to London. You brought me strawberries.”

“And honeycomb,” he pointed out.

“I don’t understand why you’re here, Jack. I have a good post, and you have your life in Lincolnshire.