Page 42 of The Marchioness Who Tempted Fate
Sure enough, as soon as they were safely back inside, Percival said, “Now, Tiffany, your assignment is to write what the gardener said, first in English, then in Latin.”
Tiffany stared at him. “But, Percival, it is well past teatime, and I must go oversee the evening meal.”
“Oh, so now I am Percival.”
“Well, yes, because I can argue with Percival, but not with Lord Northbury, My Lord.”
Percival grinned at her. “A fine distinction, and one well-taken.” Then he went on more soberly, “But I give you leave to argue with me when we are in private, and promise that you have my ear if you need to argue with me in more public venues.”
“Truly, My Lord?”
He ran one finger down the curve of her cheek as she looked up at him. “Truly, Tiffany. I have come to value your good sense as well as your hard work. You are both rare and precious.”
Tiffany blinked, and a tear spilled down one cheek. “Aw, now look what you’ve gone and made me do, My Lord. I never cry.”
“I am sorry, Tiffany. I meant it as a complement. I didn’t mean . . .”
Tiffany blinked furiously and took out one of her carefully hemmed handkerchiefs. “Good tears, My Lord, Percival. They’s good tears, the kind that come when your heart is full.”
Percival cupped her cheek in his hand, and used his thumb to brush away the drops. “Good tears?”
She nodded, cuddling her face into his hand. “Good tears.” Then she pulled away, recollected herself and said, “Dear me, look at how the shadows have stretched across the garden. The kitchen will be in utter chaos if I do not fly. If you will excuse me, My Lord?”
Percival let his hand drop. “Of course, Miss Bentley. I enjoy the dinners prepared under your supervision far too much to allow proceedings to go forward without your delicate touch.”
Tiffany swept him the deepest, most reverent curtsy she could manage, then fled. Her heart pounded with panicked, confusing emotions. She desperately needed the solid sanctity of the kitchen and its demanding, but well known, routines.
I know what happens to serving maids who become attached to gentlemen. I know, I’ve seen it, I cannot imagine it of Percival. I can’t. But I don’t want to stop, don’t want to be away from him. Oh, whatever shall I do?
Chapter 28
Percival stared after Tiffany as she hurried out the garden door.
Whatever has come over me? I have never behaved so toward one of the serving staff in my life. But she is not like the others. Not refined, exactly, but graceful, insightful, charming, witty… what is wrong with me? I should not be having such thoughts.
Percival began to tidy away the papers that Tiffany had left behind, mute testimony to her state of mind, for she usually put everything away neatly at the end of a lesson.
“Carrots,” he muttered to himself. In his mind’s eye he could see her nibbling daintily at the sweet, young carrot, her expression mute testimony to her enjoyment. What would it be like to touch his lips to that delicate bloom?
She is like a flower half unfurled and I am a bee maddened with sudden desire for the hidden nectar.
“Oh, Percival,” he chided himself aloud. “Next you will be writing sonnets to young vegetables, buzzing bees, and roses.”
He put the books and writing materials in their place on the shelf. Work, that was the ticket. Work. Good solid rows of figures, statements from the farms, suggestions from his man of business.
God’s whiskers, but he was mortally tired of it all! It had so little meaning, and was so dreadfully cheerless. But Tiffany, bright, curious, intellectually thirsty Tiffany . . . oh, the sweet changes she was making in his heart, as well as in life, for the whole manor.
When he arrived in his study, he found more evidence of Tiffany’s gifts to all of them. Delicate scones, sliced bread, a wedge of cheese, and several wafer-thin slices of roast beef, flanked with pickles, pats of butter, and a fruit compote to finish.
He sat down at his desk and looked at the array of delicious food. While he knew that Tiffany did not prepare every morsel personally, he could imagine her cutting the little wedges of dough for the scones, slicing the bread, haranguing Michaels to cut the meat into thinner slices, and scooping the fruit mixture into its cut-glass dish. Over the last few weeks, during his surprise visits to the kitchen, he had found her at one time or another doing each and every one of these things.
“You know,” he remarked to McClellan, who stood at hand, “I had never thought before now how much of a cook’s personality is imbued into the food prepared.”
“An interesting observation, My Lord,” McClellan replied. “Miss Tiffany does put a great deal of heart into preparing meals. We have remarked upon it belowstairs, as well as abovestairs. She does not stint the staff, nor does she waste.”
“Yes, she is remarkable,” Percival mused. “Truly remarkable. I’ve never met her like before, nor am I sure when I might again.”
Percival buttered a slice of bread, then bit into it. Perfectly raised, not a whisper of a taste of chalk or other impurities, for Tiffany inspected every barrel of flour that was now brought in. Sweet, creamy butter, just lightly salted because Tiffany flew up into the boughs over bitter or stale butter in her kitchen.
