Page 45 of The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter
Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were buried in fat wads of dough. “Take the scones out of the oven and set them on the window ledge to cool.”
“I also smell mince pies baking. What am I to do with those?”
She blew a loose curl off her face. “Um, they’re only tarts. They have a few more minutes to go. They’ll be ready by the time you finish putting the scones out to cool. Then you can help me make another batch, but this time we shall be making strawberry tarts. Once we finish those, then you must go. The ladies will arrive in about an hour to pick up their dough and I do not want them to find you here.”
“Why? Is Mrs. Bligh not with you?”
“Actually, she is. She is upstairs assisting my father.”
Alexander’s expression sobered. “How is he?”
She let out a soft breath. “Not well.”
Blast.
“You know you can count on me for anything you need. Do not be too proud to ask for my help, Viola. Your father is adored in the village and so are you.”
She said nothing, merely continued to work. “Well, if you insist on making a nuisance of yourself, then take the rhubarb and chop the stalks into small pieces about the size of a fingernail. I’ll make half of the tarts with strawberries and rhubarb, and the other half just strawberries.”
“Why not some just rhubarb?”
“Requires too much sugar and that is a costly commodity. Now, are you going to help or are you determined to stand there and be a nuisance?”
He did not take offense at her words, merely chuckled. “I am a viscount, therefor it is impossible for me to be a nuisance.”
She looked up from her work and cast him a genuine smile. “I do not quite see the logic in that statement.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would. But it makes perfect sense to any young lady versed in matters of society. A wealthy, dazzlingly handsome– if I do say so myself– viscount is always much desired. One’s stature is elevated when in the presence of said viscount.”
“Ah, I see. And what is said of a vicar’s daughter? Is one honored in any way by her presence?”
He cast her an affectionate smile. “Yes, and if one can cook as well as you, then I would rank her above the daughter of a duke.”
Viola laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I think that is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“Not at all. You are every bit as worthy as a duke’s daughter. Indeed, I would even rank you above a princess.”
She paused to regard him. “And this is why your father wants to treat you like a child and put you in leading strings. He wants to hold onto you tightly to make certain you do not botch your wife search. No one but you would ever consider a vicar’s daughter as anything more than bordering on genteel. Most would properly rank me as common.”
“Not a single thing common about you, Viola. And I am not going to botch my search, no matter what my father thinks. I know exactly what I am doing.”
She arched an eyebrow. “We’ll see. I would never contradict you in front of him, but I have to agree with his concerns. You ought to be in London where all the eligible young ladies can fuss and coo over you. The last place you should be is in a vicarage kitchen about to slice off your fingers instead of the rhubarb because you are looking at me and not at your task.”
He glanced down at his hand, relieved to see he had not actually sliced himself. He wiggled his fingers at her. “All accounted for.”
“There is a trick to protecting yourself.”
“From those society debutantes or your rhubarb?”
She giggled. “The rhubarb. Tuck your fingers in so that only your knuckles are exposed. Hold the stalks down with your knuckles as you chop. You won’t lose any fingers that way.”
“Ah, very clever.” He quickly chopped up the stalks. “All right, done.”
“Excellent. Now put the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar, and a pinch of salt into one bowl. Do the same with the other, only no rhubarb. I put some tapioca on to boil earlier. It is cooling by the oven. Now, you are going to slowly mix the tapioca into each bowl.”
He liked following her instructions, felt ridiculously proud of himself for assisting. She also had a naturally kind way of issuing orders, making him feel helpful instead of interfering or slowing her down.
She watched him pour each mixture into the tart molds that already had bottom crusts tucked in them. Then she stepped forward and began to crisscross thin strips of dough across each tart, her fingers working with a feverish speed. “Done.” She took another moment to brush a milky looking glaze lightly over each top strip. “Now, set them in the oven.”
