Page 15 of The Rise of a Forsaken Lady
“And—”
“You are pushing it, Eddie,” she said sharply.
He chuckled and stood, “You are in charge of setting the menu, sister dear. That is a gift you inherited from Mother. If it was me, we would end up eating green peas and fish heads.”
“So, now you are giving me work?” she gasped. “For shame, Eddie.”
“The ball is in a week,” Edward said at the doorway, “so, you better get to work.”
She wanted to fume, but she did not have the heart to do so. Penelope could never stay angry at her brother for long, no matter how much he irked her. Her attention went back to her book but realized she had lost her place. She could barely remember what the last five pages had said. Groaning, she skipped back to the last point she could remember and began reading again.
“Pardon me,” Mr. Moore’s voice said, and her heart did a funny flip at the sound before she even looked up. He was there, holding a tray of tea and a covered plate. “His Lordship asked me to give you some tea and…er…tarts, I believe.”
“He’s just trying to butter me up,” Penelope huffed sweetly while he settled the tray and poured out the tea.
The smell of rich rosemary wafted up and filled her nose. She took the cup and dropped three squares of sugar inside. “Rosemary tea…I am sure he is buttering me up now.”
She looked up and could see the unasked question in his eyes and smiled at his restraint. “He wants me to set the menu for his gathering for Lord Hillbrook in a week. Apparently, I inherited that gift from my mother.”
“Understood, My Lady,” he replied with a bow. “Have a good evening.”
A few questions bubbled up in her throat, but before she could ask one, Mr. Moore was gone. She sat there, blinking the steam from her tea eyes. The new footman is strange…well not strange really as that might skew him as odd, it is...he has more of lovely mysterious air.
She idled in the library until Martha came to get her for dinner. The table was set, and Mr. Moore was at the sideboard once again in his dark suit, standing rather soldier-like with his arms clasped behind him. Penelope wondered what he would look like in his full dark livery trimmed with gold trim and the family crest on his breast.
Dashing, she noted.
Looking around she noticed it was only her and Mr. Moore. “Where is Eddie—I mean, Lord Allerton?”
“I believe he went out on a request by Lord Hillbrook,” Mr. Moore said with the edge of his lips twitching.
And I am proven right, Penelope rolled her eyes.One word from the dratted Hillbrook and he goes running.
“I guess it just me tonight,” she sighed while sinking into the seat he had pulled out for her. She did not feel much of an appetite when Mr. Moore poured a glass of wine for her and settled a tray of stuffed partridge in an aromatic stew, sautéed vegetables, and light flaky bread before her.
Eying the meal, Penelope sipped her wine first. The house was filled with servants, but, somehow, she felt all alone. Perhaps Edward was right, perhaps she could use the upcoming ball to find a suitor. She looked up at the painting of the cottage on the hill. It was an accurate replica of a cottage in Chiltern Hills, northwest England, a place where she loved and was always in her memory.
“My Lady?”
Penelope snapped out of her musing to see Mr. Moore looking at her. “Pardon?”
“You have not touched your food in the last fifteen minutes,” he said cautiously. “Are you ill?”
She colored slightly. “No, just woolgathering. I tend to get lost in my mind a lot.”
Grasping her fork and knife, she cut into the—thankfully—still-warm meat and placed a section on her plate. She added some vegetables and broke a chunk of the bread to dip in the sauce. With every movement, she was acutely aware of Mr. Moore’s eyes on the back of her head and felt herself trembling a little. Soft heat crept up her neck. To feel his attention on her was…oddly flattering. Eating steadily, she finished the plate but declined dessert.
“I think that’s enough,” she declared. “Please take the rest back to the kitchen, Mr. Moore.”
With him gone she looked back at the portrait. Her father had taken her there once, and she had fallen in love with it. It was the one property her father had left solely to her. She had dreamed of taking her husband and children there to show them the legacy her parents had left her.
She retired to the sitting room where she had laid out her writing materials for the ball’s repast. Since the house made its own bread, biscuits, ale, and cheese, she did not need to buy those. She needed to check with Mr. Gastrell to know how much white and red wines they had, but that could be done after.
For the first course of four dishes, the second of seven and the third, nine, she had to plan for twenty dishes. Grabbing the first paper she wrote the heading with the words ‘First Course’ and then began to plan. God, she hated white soup. It was revolting to her, but many liked it, so she wrote that down and added turtle and soup à la Reine.
The second course was of haricot of vegetables, French pie, leg of lamb with sides of spinach, beef roast with red wine, roast sirloin with veal olives, mashed potatoes, and turnips. For the third, she added turkey roast and crab dishes. Dessert was jellies, custards, pies, cakes, and wafers.
For each course, she estimated a guest list of forty people and tried to figure out how many pounds of meats to buy and the seasoning for each. It was not heavy calculation, but it was monotonous and as she began to wrestle with plans including flummery or Solomon’s temple, fatigue began to creep up upon her like a soft but persistent wave.
