Gwyneth tied the apron strings over her white day dress. “Nonsense. Though perhaps I ought to wash the paint from them first, hmm?”
Rosie made a disapproving noise, but she stepped aside to give the younger woman access to the wash water. “Don’t know why you got it into your head you had to learn how to cook. Ain’t that why I’m here?”
“And what about when you go to visit Emmy for a few days after she has her baby? Who will cook then?”
“Mrs. Lane can manage—”
“And so should I be able to.” She sent a warm smile toward her companion. “Can you not see, Rosie, how important that is? When I was in England, had I sullied my hands in the kitchen, it would have meant my family was poor. It would have meant no chance of a good match.”
Rosie huffed. “Well-off girls don’t cook here neither, Gwyneth.”
“But here, in this family, they can. I can learn how to help when help is needed. I can be useful.” More than just a pretty miss, taught more than how to play the pianoforte or embroider. She could do something that, in times of need, could lift a burden for someone.
As Gwyneth had known she would, Rosie sighed and handed her an old towel for her hands. “The most important lesson in bread making is knowing the dough—whether it’s too dry or too wet, which ain’t never the same day to day. The air has an awful lot to do with it, and the dough don’t rise a hoot on a dry, cold day. You’ll have to learn where to put it to rise in the wintertime so’s it gets enough heat from the stove but not so much it starts crusting up too soon.”
Gwyneth dried her hands and prepared to absorb all she could. She mixed, she kneaded, she added flour, she punched, and she nodded when Rosie indicated it was elastic enough, noting the consistency. Then she covered her beautiful ball of dough in its bowl and smiled at the victory.
A knock sounded on the front door, and both she and Rosie looked down at their messy hands.
“I got it, Mama,” Emmy called from out the hall. Her footsteps sounded, and a moment later they heard the squeak of the door opening.
“Good morning.” A male voice echoed their way, familiar enough to make Gwyneth want to run for the closet. Apparently Nathaniel Mercer was back from his trip to Virginia. “Is Mrs. Lane or Miss Hampton in?”
Another set of footsteps, this one the sure, measured step of Winter. “I am in, sir, but I regret that Miss Hampton is otherwise engaged this morning.”
And planned to be every morning, and any other time he might drop by.
There was a softer exchange that Gwyneth could not make out, and then the soft pad of Emmy’s steps toward the kitchen. Gwyneth moved to meet her as she entered the room, curious about her new friend’s reaction to the man.
His voice came her way again, too soft at first for her to catch over the other noises of the house, though as soon as she halted, she could make it out again. “…lovely young woman, and breeding too. If you feel the need to sell, she would fetch a high price, and I would be happy to—”
“You overstep yourself, Mr. Mercer.” Winter’s voice was as frigid as her name. “Emmy is no slave, nor is her mother. We have no slaves in the Lane family, as it is an abominable institution. Now I will wish you good day.”
Emmy looked positively smug, even making a little kicking motion as if to boot the man out the door.
Mercer cleared his throat. “I do apologize. I only thought—”
“I know what you thought, and I wished you good day. Now good day. And I thank you not to darken these doors again.”
Oh, Gwyneth could kiss that woman, and she would have run out to the hall to do so the moment the door slammed shut had she not been aware of the flour and dough still caking her hands.
Emmy shook her head. “Never in my life have I more wanted to spit in the face of a man. And oh, but does it make me miss my Henry. I hope they come home soon.”
“Soon.” Saying the word lit a lamp inside and warmed the oil of Gwyneth’s being until it spread all through her, as Thad’s kiss had done. “I think it will be soon, Emmy. I think they are close.”
“Do you?” Emmy’s voice was hopeful and just relieved enough to indicate she trusted her word.
Odd, really. But no odder than the surety she felt as she nodded. “I am certain of it.”
Emmy grinned at her mother and nodded toward Gwyneth. “I think Thaddeus really has met his match.”
Gwyneth indulged in her own little smile as she cleaned the dough from her hands. He had indeed. In ways he had probably yet to realize.
Twenty-Six
Thad slipped through the shadows beside Henry, tamping down the urge to look over his shoulder. The British ship that had come so close while they were running the blockade had certainly not followed them into port, so he needn’t worry. He need only praise the Lord for those beautiful clouds covering the moon, and for an able pilot who could steer them into the bay on the darkest of nights.