Again the Magic by Lisa Kleypas Page B

at once — oh, why did you wait so long to tell me?”
    Troubled by the feverish color that had swept over the girl’s face, Mrs. Faircloth tried to settle her. “The letter is in my room, and you will not have it until you finish every morsel on that tray,” she said firmly. “To my knowledge, nothing has passed your lips since yesterday — you’ll likely faint before you even reach the stairs.”
    “God in heaven, how can you talk about food?” Aline demanded wildly.
    Mrs. Faircloth stood her ground, holding Aline’s challenging gaze without blinking, until the girl threw up her hands with a wrathful sound. Reaching down to the tray, she grabbed a piece of bread and tore it angrily with her teeth.
    The housekeeper viewed her with satisfaction. “All right, then. Come to find me when you’re done — I’ll be in the kitchen. And then we’ll go to my room to fetch the letter.”
     
     
    Aline ate so quickly that she nearly choked on the bread. She fared little better with the soup, the spoon shaking too violently in her hand to deliver more than a few drops to her mouth. She couldn’t seem to focus on one thought, her mind jumbled and spinning. She knew that there would be no words of forgiveness or understanding in McKenna’s letter — there would be no mention of her. That didn’t matter. All she wanted was some reassurance that he was alive and well. Oh God, she was starved for news of him!
    Fumbling with the spoon, she threw it impatiently into the corner and shoved her feet into her shoes. It was a sign of how stupidly self-absorbed she had been that she hadn’t already thought to ask Mrs. Faircloth to begin a correspondence with McKenna. Although it was impossible for Aline to communicate with him, she could at least maintain a fragile link through the housekeeper. The thought caused a warm ache of relief inside her, thawing the detachment that had encased her for weeks. Ravenous for the letter, craving the sight of the marks that McKenna’s hand had made on parchment, Aline hurried from the room.
    When she reached the kitchen, her appearance earned a few odd glances from the scullery maid and the pair of cook maids, and she realized that her face must be very red. Excitement burned through her, making it difficult to stay calm as she moved around the huge wooden table to the side where Mrs. Faircloth and the cook stood, close to the brick-built oven range over the hearth. The air was laden with the smell of fish frying, the rich, fatty aroma seeming to curdle the contents of Aline’s stomach. Fighting a surge of nausea, she swallowed repeatedly and went to the housekeeper, who was making a list with the cook.
    “The letter,” Aline whispered in her ear, and Mrs. Faircloth smiled.
    “Yes. Just a moment more, my lady.”
    Aline nodded with an impatient sigh. She turned to face the stove, where a cook maid was clumsily attempting to turn the fish. Oil splashed from the pan repeatedly as each piece was flipped, the liquid spilling into the basket grate filled with unused coal. Raising her brows at the girl’s ineptitude, Aline nudged her elbow into the housekeeper’s plump side. “Mrs. Faircloth—”
    “Yes, we’re almost finished,” the housekeeper murmured.
    “I know, but the stove—”
    “One more word with Cook, my lady.”
    “Mrs. Faircloth, I don’t think the cook maid should—”
    Aline was interrupted by a shocking blast of heat accompanied by an explosive roar as the oil-soaked basket grate caught fire. Flames shot up to the ceiling and spread to the pan of fish, turning the range into an inferno. Stunned, Aline felt the cook maid stumble against her, and the breath was knocked from her lungs as her back struck the edge of the heavy table.
    Hiccupping for air, Aline was dimly aware of the kitchen maids’ frightened screams, overlaid by Mrs. Faircloth’s sharp cries for someone to fetch a sack of bicarbonate salts from the larder, to smother the blaze. Aline turned to escape