The Prizefighter’s Hart by Emily Royal

Chapter Twelve

Griffin gazed up as his wife entered the breakfast room, looking even more disappointed than she had last night.

“Good morning, husband,” she said. “And Rowena—I trust you slept well?”

His daughter shoveled a forkful of Mrs. Morris’s scrambled eggs into her mouth and shrugged.

“Rowena,” he growled.

“Good morning,” she said, her mouth full.

Not particularly civil, but better than no response at all.

Dorothea took a seat, avoiding his gaze.

Had she expected him to visit her last night?

He wanted her—his body’s reaction as he’d passed her chamber last night told him that. He’d had to use all his willpower to stop himself from charging into her room, spreading her legs, and fucking the prim schoolmistress out of her. But the last thing he wanted was a wife distracted by passion, when she needed to focus her efforts on polishing that little hellion into a lady.

The door opened, and Mrs. Morris entered carrying a platter of bacon. As soon as she left, Griffin’s wife spoke.

“I’ll make a start on drawing up a list of positions we need to fill in order to run the house properly.”

Rowena glanced up and looked from Griffin to Dorothea, then back again.

“Do we need more staff?” he asked.

“We need at least four footmen to tend to a house of this size,” she said. “I’ll reserve judgment on exactly how many until I’ve interviewed the current staff and understand their capabilities. And, of course, we’ll need a butler and a housekeeper.”

“We have Mrs. Ellis,” he said.

“That woman isn’t even out of her bed yet!” she cried.

Rowena let out a snort. He glared at his daughter, and she stared defiantly back.

“Dorothea,” he said, fixing his gaze on his daughter, “has my daughter been courteous toward you?”

The defiance left Rowe’s eyes, and she flushed scarlet.

“Rowena has been very civil,” Dorothea said, “given that a stranger is now in charge of her home.”

“Mrs. Ellis is no stranger,” he replied. “She’s been with us for five years.”

Temper flared in her eyes. “I meant myself. I’m lady of the manor, whether you like it or not.”

Rowena snorted. “That’s told you, Papa.”

“Dorothea,” he continued, “last night, Mrs. Ellis mentioned several instances of bad behavior on your arrival. Perhaps you can elaborate, so I can decide whether my daughter needs to be punished.”

Rowena glanced uncomfortably at Dorothea, who looked up and paused.

So, Mrs. Ellis had spoken the truth last night. Rowena had been up to something.

“I had a very pleasant evening after supper,” Dorothea said.

Ugh—pleasant. Not that bland word again.

“I had no idea what an abundance of wildlife there was round these parts,” she added.

“Wildlife?” he asked.

“I swear I heard a natterjack toad just as I retired.”

She smiled at Rowena, a glint of devilry in her eyes. “I often confuse the toad’s call with the sound of linen flapping in the breeze.”

What the devil was she on about?

“Particularly,” she continued, “the sound of ladies’ undergarments which, of course, should be neither heard nor seen.”

The color drained from Rowena’s face, then Dorothea let out a laugh.

“Of course I jest,” she said. “As to your question, I believe Rowena is an innovative young woman, and I look forward to discovering exactly how lively her imagination can be.”

She rose to her feet. “And now, if you’ll both excuse me, it’s time I inspected the house.”

Inspected it?She sounded like a sergeant on her way to a drill, ready to find fault with her soldiers.

She fixed her blue gaze on Griffin. “I would like to see the ledgers. Are they in your study?”

“Mrs. Ellis sees to them,” he said.

“Not any more, husband.”

Rowena’s gaze flitted between the two of them, her lips curled into a smile.

“As you wish,” he said. “But any decisions regarding expenditure must be run by me.”

“Naturally.” She nodded, then exited the room.

He glanced at his daughter. The expression in Rowena’s face as she watched Dorothea was something he’d not seen in her before.

Admiration.

*

After surveying thefamily rooms and the servant’s quarters—which all needed a thorough refurbishment—Thea wandered round the back of the house, the ledgers tucked under her arm, and entered the kitchen.

Dirty dishes were piled in the sink at the window, almost completely obscuring the sunlight. A fire burned in the range—above which a pot was suspended with heaven knows what inside it—and her eyes stung with the smell of smoke.

The chimneys couldn’t have been swept for years. How could anyone work under such conditions?

Mrs. Morris stood by the sink, strands of graying hair peeking out from beneath her cap. She picked her way through the pile of dishes but may as well have been an ant attempting to scale a mountain.

“Ahem.”

Thea cleared her throat, and the woman glanced over her shoulder. The irritation in her eyes morphed into shock, and she dropped a plate. Thea winced at the sound of shattering crockery.

The cook wiped her hands on her apron and bobbed a curtsey.

“Ma’am,” she said as if addressing royalty.

“Mrs. Oake will do,” Thea said. “Might we discuss something over a pot of tea?”

“Begging your pardon,” the cook said, “but if luncheon is to be ready, I can’t spare the time for tea.”

“If you please,” Thea said, her voice firm.

“But Mrs. Ellis…” the cook began, and Thea interrupted her.

“Mrs. Ellis is no longer in charge.” Thea glanced pointedly around the kitchen. “And not before time, by the look of it.”

The cook turned her mouth into a frown, then she sighed and placed the kettle on top of the stove.

“Luncheon will be late,” she said.

“So be it,” Thea replied.

“But Mrs. Ellis…” the cook hesitated. “No matter. Will you want your tea in the parlor?”

“I’ll take it here,” Thea said. “I wanted to discuss a few matters with you…” she glanced around the kitchen, “…beginning with the fact that you’re run off your feet.”

“I’ve had no complaints from the master,” the cook said, her tone defensive, “and I’ve been here three years.”

“Three years!” Thea exclaimed. “And in all that time, have you had to cook, clean, and serve the meals?”

The cook nodded. “Mrs. Ellis says…”

“Mrs. Ellis knows less about managing a house than a horse knows about the principles of trigonometry,” Thea said. “The biggest problem with having to do everything is that you end up doing none of it well.”

“You’re saying I can’t cook?”

“Not under these conditions, Mrs. Morris,” Thea said. “How can you be expected to cook to the best of your ability when your time is taken up with everything else?”

“There’s Rosie. She comes once a week, on laundry day, and sometimes helps with the dishes. And Betsy, who cleans the house.”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“She does her best.”

“Only if her ‘best’ includes the dead mouse I discovered under the chaise longue in the drawing room,” Thea said. “I’m afraid there’s been little or no structured housekeeping, but now I’m here, that will change.”

“You can’t dismiss me!” Mrs. Morris cried, “I do my best. And Rosie and Betsy have no other means of income. A few hours a week is little to live on when they’ve families to support. Rosie’s ma is sick and needs every penny.”

“Which is precisely what I have in mind,” Thea said. “A cook, one young man, and two girls coming in once a week is not enough to run a house. And I never want to have to endure a steak like last night’s again.”

“I do my best, Mrs. Oake.”

“I’m sure you do,” Thea said. “That is why it’s imperative that you’re given more time in which to perfect your cooking. I intend to give you a full complement of staff in the kitchen to undertake tasks you should never have been expected to perform alone. Would you like that?”

The cook’s plump face creased into a smile, revealing a gap between her front teeth.

“Oh yes, ma’am!”

“Good,” Thea said. “Now, if we employ Rosie and Betsy full-time, which of the two do you think is more capable of assisting you in the kitchen? Or would you recommend I search elsewhere?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes, I’m asking you,” Thea said. “Consider it the first step along the path toward accepting your new responsibility.”

“They’re both good girls and would appreciate the work,” Mrs. Morris said. “Rosie’s helped me with the pots. Betsy prefers to stay out of the kitchen.”

“Rosie it is,” Thea said. “I’ll need to take a look at her before deciding, but I trust your judgment. Do you think the girls would object to living in?”

“On no! Rosie’s da’s right bad-tempered when he’s drunk.”

“Then I think we have a plan, Mrs. Morris.”

The cook’s face lit up into a smile. “So, I’m to be in charge of the kitchen?”

“It’s not a responsibility to take lightly,” Thea said, “but if you do, then you’ll have a properly run kitchen in no time. I would, however, ask that you permit me to teach you how to cook a steak properly. As for scrambled eggs…” she wrinkled her nose, “…the worst you can do is overcook them. I can show you how to cook to the best of your ability.”

“You can?”

“Of course.” Thea smiled at the enthusiasm in the cook’s expression. “I also intend to show Miss Rowena, though I suspect she’ll prove a somewhat less enthusiastic pupil.”

“She’s not a bad child,” Mrs. Morris said. “She’s just unhappy, what with her da never being around. Perhaps now you’re here, that’ll change.”

Unlikely—given that Thea’s husband had left—presumably to spend the day at his inn—shortly after breakfast.

“We’ll see,” Thea said. “There’s one more thing I wanted to ask you. What do you do with the pineapples?”

“The what?”

Thea opened the ledger and pointed to a page.

“An entry five years ago refers to the sale of a quantity of pineapples. There are regular entries in prior years, but nothing since. Given that a pinery can yield a substantial income, it seems a pity it was discontinued, unless the plants died. Have you’ve never served pineapple?”

“Is it a form of apple?” the cook asked. “The fruit in last night’s pie came from the orchard beside the west wing. Pardon me, if I’d known we could sell them…”

“No, it’s something else entirely,” Thea said. “It’s a bizarre-looking fruit, considered a delicacy and a status symbol—so much so that many families in London will hire one to decorate their dining tables to give the impression of wealth.”

“Hire a fruit?” Mrs. Morris scoffed. “More money than sense, some of these folks.” She glanced at Thea. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect to your kind.”

“Not my kind at all.” Thea laughed. “I rather suspect you’re a jewel, Mrs. Morris. We need to give you the opportunity to shine.”

“I wonder…” The cook hesitated and shook her head. “No matter.”

“Mrs. Morris, if you wish to ask something, I shan’t object.”

“Its poor Will—but it’s not my place to say anything.”

“I’ll hazard a guess,” Thea said. “Will undertakes all the duties of a male servant with no help, and he, too, is not given a day off.” She shook her head. “It’s a wonder this house hasn’t crumbled to dust.”

“I meant no criticism.”

“I believe this is a circumstance where honesty is favored over diplomacy,” Thea said.

“It’s not the master’s fault,” Mrs. Morris said. “He’s a good man, begging your pardon. Please don’t blame him. But he doesn’t understand…” she trailed off, her cheeks reddening.

“I wasn’t assigning any blame to my husband,” Thea replied. “Tell me—how did Mrs. Ellis come to take up her position here?”

Understanding dawned in the cook’s expression. “Her husband was the parson in Sandiford, and he passed five years ago, about the same time the master bought the manor from Lord Gillingham. His lordship took the housekeeper with him but suggested the master hire Mrs. Ellis as her replacement. Or so I was told.”

“You weren’t employed here at the time?”

“No, ma’am. My predecessor left shortly afterward. She’s with a family in Brighton now.”

“And the rest of the staff?”

“They left also. Mrs. Ellis has a lot to say about economy in the home and the perils of frivolity.”

“There’s a difference between necessary expenditure and frivolity,” Thea said. “I take it Mrs. Ellis lowered the wages and drove the staff into leaving without a reference, which left the house—and Miss Rowena—completely at her mercy.”

The door opened, and Rowena appeared. “Mrs. Morris, I wondered if you had any…”

She spotted Thea and backed away. “I’ll come back later.”

“Stay,” Thea said. “Mrs. Morris and I were just discussing how I was going to teach her some of my recipes. You can learn them also.”

“I shall not,” the girl said.

“I’ve an excellent recipe for shortbread,” Thea continued. “My sister taught me…”

“I can think of nothing worse than being stuck in a kitchen, baking biscuits.”

“As you wish, Rowena,” Thea said, “but it’s a poor lady who doesn’t understand how her home is run.”

“I don’t want to run a home.”

“Then, if you expect people such as Mrs. Morris here to wait on you, or…” Thea glanced out of the window, “…if you wish to play in the garden all day rather than take care of your home—you must find an indulgent husband or protector to furnish you with such a lifestyle.”

“Like you did with my pa?”

Thea recognized the taunt for what it was. Bravado.

“I don’t view your father as an indulgent husband,” Thea said crisply.

Rowena laughed. “You’re learning. He doesn’t love anyone but himself. He never has and never will.” She folded her arms and glared at Thea, but she hadn’t been able to disguise the hurt in her voice.

How the devil was Thea ever going to communicate with her?

She must come to me on her own terms.

She rose to her feet. “Come on, Mrs. Morris,” she said. “There’s no time to indulge in idle chatter. Perhaps you’d show me the laundry? I’m anxious to see where the linen is washed.”

She exited the kitchen, beckoning Mrs. Morris to follow.

Before she left, she glanced over her shoulder and winked at Rowena. She could swear she saw the ghost of a smile on the girl’s lips.