Page 24 of A Much Maligned Miss

Enquiry as to which was Lord Atherton’s parlor led to another porter showing her the way. “It’s through here, miss. Right this way.”

He was not down yet, so Caroline stood awhile warming her hands before the cozy fire. It had been bitter cold again and her toes and the tips of her ears still tingled. She wondered if her nose was red, for there had been no mirror on the small washstand in her room.

A footfall behind her had her turning around to see Lord Atherton enter the room. He flashed her a smile and she felt a glad flutter in her chest at the sight of him. Oh dear. She really was losing sight of things.

He had changed his coat for a maroon velvet jacket and the kittens’ heads poked out from his pockets. “I was planning on keeping the twins concealed until our dinner has been served,” he said ruefully, “but these pockets are not so deep as the ones in my woolen coat.”

She laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re entirely shameless, then, for they seem disinclined for concealment. Why not let them come and sit here before the fire?”

Scooping them out of his pockets, he approached the hearth and set them down on the rug before it. Caroline stepped back to make room for him. The kittens gamboled around, glad for the space to play, for they had slept away most of the day.

The door creaked, and they both turned to see a servant entering with a tray piled high with food. Caroline’s stomach rumbled. She felt famished. “I told you, you should have eaten a more substantial breakfast,” Gervaise commented, approaching the table and pulling out a chair for her.

Caroline hurried to the table. “Well, but if lunch had not been so dissatisfactory I would not be so hungry now,” she pointed out.

“Lunch was execrable,” he agreed at once. “I could scarcely taste the soup with my burned mouth but my overall impression was of scalding dishwater.”

“Your lordship will receive better service here,” the servant promised, unburdening himself of dishes and setting them on the table. “A right good spread we serve, all hot and fresh from the kitchen. Nothing stale nor congealing here!”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Gervaise responded gravely.

“I’ll just go back and fetch the cruet set and gravy boat,” the man promised, bobbing his head and backing out of the room.

“Obliging fellow,” Gervaise commented. “Let us hope our meal makes good on his boasts.”

They soon found he spoke nothing but the truth. An excellent oxtail soup was followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding served with a selection of root vegetables including carrots, celeriac, parsnips, and leeks.

The cats grew restless, weaving between their chairs until they received choice bits of beef which they consumed with every evidence of enjoyment. After eating they grew increasingly playful, skittering around the room, and whipping around to confront one another before rolling together in a tangle of fur.

“I hope they are not fighting,” Caroline said in alarm as Remus pounced first on her foot, and then Romulus’s tail.

“They would be hissing and cursing at one another if they were,” Gervaise replied, looking supremely unconcerned.

For dessert they were served a creamy rice pudding flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg. Caroline was secretly surprised to see him tucking in so heartily to such a humble pudding. Seeing her watching him, he cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her.

“You are fond of puddings,” she observed.

“I am. This surprises you? I have a sweet tooth.”

“It is not so much the sweetness as the stodginess that surprises me. I suppose I imagined you eating much more sophisticated fare, perhaps iced oranges or a vanilla blancmange.”

He smirked. “I would not turn my nose up at either of those options, but as a matter of fact when it comes to puddings, I believe the stodgier, the better. You should have seen the treacle pudding I ate last night, both your share and mine.”

She leaned an elbow against the table, propping up her chin. “I suppose it is your height that keeps you so slim,” she mused. “Poor Squire Pebmarsh is not permitted by his physician to eat desserts anymore. His daughters insist he carries a tin of Bath Olivers with him whenever he goes out to dine.”

“Bath Olivers?” he echoed, sitting back in his seat. “I believe my aunt Deborah used to eat them as a digestive aid. A thin, crispy biscuit, if memory serves.”

“Yes, those are the ones. I expect you like stodgy puddings as a leftover of your school days.”

“Did they not serve pudding at your girls’ school?” he asked.

“At Hamberleigh Hall? Only on special occasions, I’m afraid. Otherwise, we had to make do with bread and jam.” She grimaced. “It was not a very good school.”

“I expect Edgar’s was far better.”

His words instantly sobered her. “Well… Possibly,” she admitted.

“I do not know why you turn so stiff and awkward over it. It is not your fault that your mother favored your brother to a ridiculous degree.”