Emma was too excited to sleep, she would go to the kitchen and make herself a hot drink. A soothing cup of milk with cinnamon and sugar would do the trick.
It was a balmy night, a full moon streamed in through the windows making a candle unnecessary. However, it was likely to be dark in the corridor so she had best take a candlestick with her. She had removed her cap and apron long ago, her feet bare beneath her skirts. She did not possess indoor slippers, her boots had to do for both inside and out and it was far cooler without them.
The nightingales were filling in the air with their song, there must be a dozen birds at least to make such a wondrous chorus. She was smiling as she glided into the kitchen and came face-to-face with Mr Bucknall.
‘I did not expect to see you up, sir, you should have rung. You should not be wondering about so soon after your accident.’
His teeth flashed white in the gloom. ‘What would be the point of ringing when there is no one here to answer apart from yourself and old Foster?’
Was this the time to tell him she had appointed a manservant to take care of him? Perhaps not, she would much prefer this news to be relayed to him in the daytime when there were others in the vicinity. ‘If you would care to be seated, Mr Bucknall, I will get you whatever it is you have come looking for.’
He swung out a chair with one hand and dropped into it. ‘I could smell bread baking from my chamber. I should like some of that and anything else there is to go with it. I can't remember how long it is since I had bread baked in my own kitchen.’
She collected a platter on which she placed several slices of the chicken, chutney, three thick slices of bread and a generous pat of freshly churned butter. She could not understand how there could be any of the chicken left when there was so many to feed. There was also a generous wedge of strawberry tart to go with his impromptu supper.
As she carried the tray through she realised that these items had been given only to herself and her children, no one else had eaten them. Her eyes pricked, it was a long time since anyone had treated her with such kindness.
In her short absence he had been busy lighting candles and the kitchen was now bathed in a warm glow. She could not help but be aware that he had a fresh white shirt on, but no cravat and the strong column of his neck was clearly visible. She scarcely noticed the puckered skin on the right-hand side, this was part of him, nothing to be bothered by. She had seen far worse injuries in the time she had spent on the continent; most wives and loved ones were just grateful their men survived in whatever shape or form.
‘Here you are, sir. I was going to make myself some hot milk, would you care for some?’
His snort of disgust made her laugh. ‘Cider or coffee – either will do.’
She had noticed a fresh flagon on the cool slate shelf in the larder. All desire for hot milk had now left her, she would give him his cider and then retreat to her own room is until he was done. Her bare toes curled at the thought of his reaction if he should realise how inappropriately she was a attired for someone who purported to be a respectable housekeeper.
The brimming tankard was placed beside his elbow, he nodded, his mouth too full to speak. He swallowed hastily. ‘I thank you, madam, do not let me detain you. I shall douse the candles myself before I retire.’
She remembered the changes she had made to his domain. How could she prevent him from returning there tonight? The thought of the house in uproar, her children woken from their slumber, was not a prospect she relished. ‘It was so kind of Mr Foster to vacate his chamber for you, Mr Bucknall. He has been obliged to remove to the attic in order to find somewhere to sleep.’ Hopefully reminding him that he was not the only one in the house, that others had needs and sensitivities to be considered, might keep him where he was for tonight at
It was a balmy night, a full moon streamed in through the windows making a candle unnecessary. However, it was likely to be dark in the corridor so she had best take a candlestick with her. She had removed her cap and apron long ago, her feet bare beneath her skirts. She did not possess indoor slippers, her boots had to do for both inside and out and it was far cooler without them.
The nightingales were filling in the air with their song, there must be a dozen birds at least to make such a wondrous chorus. She was smiling as she glided into the kitchen and came face-to-face with Mr Bucknall.
‘I did not expect to see you up, sir, you should have rung. You should not be wondering about so soon after your accident.’
His teeth flashed white in the gloom. ‘What would be the point of ringing when there is no one here to answer apart from yourself and old Foster?’
Was this the time to tell him she had appointed a manservant to take care of him? Perhaps not, she would much prefer this news to be relayed to him in the daytime when there were others in the vicinity. ‘If you would care to be seated, Mr Bucknall, I will get you whatever it is you have come looking for.’
He swung out a chair with one hand and dropped into it. ‘I could smell bread baking from my chamber. I should like some of that and anything else there is to go with it. I can't remember how long it is since I had bread baked in my own kitchen.’
She collected a platter on which she placed several slices of the chicken, chutney, three thick slices of bread and a generous pat of freshly churned butter. She could not understand how there could be any of the chicken left when there was so many to feed. There was also a generous wedge of strawberry tart to go with his impromptu supper.
As she carried the tray through she realised that these items had been given only to herself and her children, no one else had eaten them. Her eyes pricked, it was a long time since anyone had treated her with such kindness.
In her short absence he had been busy lighting candles and the kitchen was now bathed in a warm glow. She could not help but be aware that he had a fresh white shirt on, but no cravat and the strong column of his neck was clearly visible. She scarcely noticed the puckered skin on the right-hand side, this was part of him, nothing to be bothered by. She had seen far worse injuries in the time she had spent on the continent; most wives and loved ones were just grateful their men survived in whatever shape or form.
‘Here you are, sir. I was going to make myself some hot milk, would you care for some?’
His snort of disgust made her laugh. ‘Cider or coffee – either will do.’
She had noticed a fresh flagon on the cool slate shelf in the larder. All desire for hot milk had now left her, she would give him his cider and then retreat to her own room is until he was done. Her bare toes curled at the thought of his reaction if he should realise how inappropriately she was a attired for someone who purported to be a respectable housekeeper.
The brimming tankard was placed beside his elbow, he nodded, his mouth too full to speak. He swallowed hastily. ‘I thank you, madam, do not let me detain you. I shall douse the candles myself before I retire.’
She remembered the changes she had made to his domain. How could she prevent him from returning there tonight? The thought of the house in uproar, her children woken from their slumber, was not a prospect she relished. ‘It was so kind of Mr Foster to vacate his chamber for you, Mr Bucknall. He has been obliged to remove to the attic in order to find somewhere to sleep.’ Hopefully reminding him that he was not the only one in the house, that others had needs and sensitivities to be considered, might keep him where he was for tonight at
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