Page 78 of West End Earl
Emma patted Phee’s hand that still gripped the rolling pin. “I understand. In your place, I would need to flatten something too. You go ahead and imagine that’s my brother’s face and kill the dough.”
Mrs. Shephard rocked on her heels. “Ah, it’s a man, is it? I should have known.”
“I received a letter from my brother. He’s getting married. And Phee—” Emma jumped when Phee hit the dough with the rolling pin again. “I mean,weare not pleased with the news.”
“Well then, here.” Mrs. Shephard grated sugar off a cone onto the dough in front of Phee. “Knead that in, Miss Fiona. Sprinkle, fold, press, and again. Some kinds of dough take a beating, and maybe that’s what you need to do today. Let’s see if we can salvage this. Sweeten and knead, there’s a girl. Mrs. Hardwick, come over here and we will attempt a crust again.” With kind but determined tugs, the cook removed the rolling pin from Phee’s grasp and placed it by the canister of flour.
Phee set into a rhythm, letting her hands work while her mind wandered. Grate the sugar, sprinkle it on the dough, then fold over and do it again.
Cal was marrying Violet. That no-good son of a bitch. After all those claims that he would get out of it. He’d bent to Eastly, like always.
And that beautiful letter he’d written and someone else had sent. Those words haunted her. She dreamed of him showing up and saying what was in that letter. He’d beenher Calin that letter, and he’d thrown it away. But then, so had she. Tossing the only love letter she’d ever received off a cliff was an impulsive move she’d almost immediately regretted.
If Cal married, there would be no more declarations of love and longing. Not that her recent behavior encouraged such declarations, but seeing him move on so soon made her heart ache.
She couldn’t deny now that a part of her had hoped he’d come. Hoped he’d apologize and fight for her. For them. In that fantasy, he told Eastly to hang and married Phee instead.
A tear slipped down her cheek, then splashed on the dough.
Phee rubbed at the ache under her breastbone, leaving a trail of flour on her apron. When she glanced up, Emma and Mrs. Shephard didn’t try to hide their concern. That pressure in her chest built until Phee confessed with a gasp, “It hurts.”
Just that. Tears fell, whether or not she wanted them to. Her shoulders shook, and for a moment Phee feared she’d shudder into a pile of emotional, tear-soaked bits—that this would be what broke her. That fatalistic thought sparked the anger all over again, becausehow dare he try to break her.
Of course, Cal didn’t know Phee lived as a woman now. That with the death notice and headstone for her brother, she’d set herself free. In fact, Cal didn’t know much of anything, and there was so much she wished she could share with him. The midwife said Emma and the baby were healthy. Their coffers were full after Emma received Adam’s life-insurance policy and inheritance. They had outmaneuvered Milton and hadn’t heard a peep from him.
Logically, the good in this new life outweighed the bad. But nothing felt logical at the moment. All Phee had were feelings of loss, and they were big enough to crush her under their weight.
The other two women stepped forward. Emma wrapped her in a hug while Mrs. Shephard rubbed a soothing circle on Phee’s back and murmured noises about the uselessness of men and the benefits of salt water in dough.
“You were hoping he’d see sense and follow us, weren’t you?” Emma asked.
Phee couldn’t muster much beyond a nod and sniffle. “I know it’s ridiculous when we never even hinted he’d be welcome here. I gave him no reason to hope. But…Violet Cuthbert.”
“You deserve better, Miss Fiona. Especially after this hard year,” Mrs. Shephard said. For a second, Phee was confused. Ah, the story they’d told the staff. On top of the death of her “cousin” Adam, Fiona had recently recovered from a fever that had forced a physician to shave her head. Another lie.
Phee offered a watery smile to the cook. “I’m sorry I cried all over the dough.”
Mrs. Shepherd shrugged. “A little salt water never hurt nothing. How about you ladies take tea in the parlor, and I’ll finish this crust. Quick as a wink, it will be ready for the oven. Baking lessons can wait for another day.”
Polly, the maid of all work, ducked her head through the kitchen doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, missus. There’s a gentleman come to call. Ahandsomeone.” Her eyes were wide as saucers.
A prickle began at Phee’s nape. “Does he have long blond hair?”
Polly nodded so hard, her cap shifted on her head and she grabbed to catch it. “Looks like a storybook prince, he does.”
Emma snorted, then covered the laugh with one floury hand. “You said you wanted him to follow us, Phee.”
“But…now? When I’m covered in flour, and my hair is a disaster, and I’ve been crying over his sorry hide?” Phee brushed her hands on her apron, as if that would make a difference. “Your brother is impossible.” A thought made her freeze. “Polly, is he alone? Or is there a blond woman with him?” Phee glared at Emma. “If he brought Violet, so help me God, I will bloody the parlor floor with his carcass and not regret it.”
“Brought a valet who’s nearly as handsome as he is, but no lady,” Polly said with a grin.
Washing her hands, Phee scrubbed at the white paste the dough left between her fingers. “Damn it, Calvin.”
“That’s more like it.” Emma grinned, swiping her palms over Phee’s cheeks to clear stray flour and tears. “Want me to go in first? Or would you like a few minutes with him in private?”
Phee hesitated, then looked at her apron and simple day dress. “Can you give me a bit to change and feel presentable?”
“Of course. I suggest the copper gown. It does marvelous things to the color in your cheeks.” Emma popped a slice of spiced apple from the bowl on the counter into her mouth and waved as she left the kitchen.
