“Come then, my lord,” Puddy said, bustling about the kitchen and setting a huge china bowl on the scrubbed wood table. “You must be first to do the honours.”
Edward frowned at Puddy, but found even his impatience to leave couldn’t compete with the expectation in the woman’s eyes. As children, Puddy had been the source of the only hugs and soft words that the two of them experienced. Not to mention the secret parcels of sweets and cakes. In all the days that he’d been sent to bed with no supper (and there had been plenty of those), Puddy had always managed to get someone to sneak him sustenance. A thick slice of cake or something equally mouth-watering would generally take the sting out of his punishment.
So now, to see the short, dumpy lady with her hair greying and a fond look in her faded blue eyes waiting for him to stir the pudding ... well, blast.
He took the large wooden spoon from her and stepped up to the bowl.
“Close your eyes,” she warned.
Edward opened his mouth to protest the fact he was no longer in short coats, but caught the fierce warning look in Violette’s eyes and thought better of it.
“Stir clockwise, from east to west,” the cook added as Edward stuck the spoon in the thick, dark mixture.
“That’s to honour the journey of the magi,” Violette said, explaining their daft tradition to her husband. “There are thirteen ingredients, too, to represent Christ and the twelve apostles, and when you stir, you must make a wish and never tell a soul or it won’t come true.”
Edward groaned inwardly, closing his eyes as he stirred the sticky contents. The rich scent of dried fruit and spices wrapped around him, and for a moment he was lost in memories of a sweeter kind. He remembered another night like this as a young man of perhaps fourteen, holding up his baby sister so that she could have her turn to stir and make a wish.
Suddenly he was glad on Violette’s insistence that he come down here. There had been little enough warmth and love in their lives. At least this was one memory that he could hold on to, and know that they’d both been truly happy. The wish came to him unbidden, that there might be other such days in his future. A foolish wish, he scolded himself, putting the spoon down. Better to have asked that he not let his temper run wild in the next few weeks and lose his sister’s good opinion forever.
It was all superstitious nonsense, in any case.
“Well, my duty is done,” he said, smiling at Violette and handing her the spoon. He turned to Puddy next.
“Mrs Puddleton, I know this pudding will be as much as a triumph as all of the others.”
To his surprise the woman reached out and took his hand, holding it between both of hers, a look of such warmth and hope in her eyes that he almost snatched it away again. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you home, my lord. Nothing ... nothing was the same after ... after ...”
She trailed off, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. Edward swallowed, appalled and uncomfortable by the show of emotion which ought not to have been directed at him. He withdrew his hand and gave the old lady a tight smile, before making his excuses and hurrying from the kitchen.
***
Violette watched her brother leave with a sigh of disappointment. She shouldn’t have expected anything less, of course. That she’d even persuaded him to come at all was something of a victory, she reminded herself.
“Don’t fret over him, Lady Violette,” Puddy advised, her voice warm. “He’s still raw, is all. This party will do him good, force him to socialise. Mayhap he’ll find himself a wife, that would be the best medicine he could find, if it were a sensible maid and not some flighty piece.”
Violette smiled and grasped Puddy’s hand. “Oh Puddy, I did miss you so.”
“Oh now, my lady,” Puddy protested, flapping her apron in distress. “Stop that or you’ll turn me into a regular watering pot. You’ve already turned my hair grey, running away like that. Oh, when I heard the news!” The older woman put a hand to her ample bosom and shook her head. “Not that I doubted you had reason with that wicked creature here, turning us all off and taking his lordship’s place.” She gave a disgusted sniff. “Still. Least said, soonest mended.”
Violette nodded and reached for Aubrey’s hand. “And if I hadn’t run away, I would never have met Aubrey,” she replied, watching with amusement as Aubrey coloured a little under the watchful gaze of the cook.
“That’s true enough,” Puddy said, measuring up her new husband with what Violette suspected was approval. “But now it’s time to stir that pudding or you’ll put me all behind like a lamb’s tail, and there’ll be no dinner for any of you!”
Violette laughed and turned to the large bowl, clasping the wooden spoon and closing her eyes. At the last moment, she turned to Puddy.
“You did remember the charms?”
Puddy tutted and shook her head. “Well, my lady, as if I should ever forget such a thing.” She raised her hand, counting off the tiny charms as she recited. “A thimble for another year single, a ring for marriage, a coin for wealth, a shoe for travel, a wishing bone for a wish, a horseshoe for luck, and an anchor for safe harbour.”
Violette sighed, content. “And if there is any way you can arrange for Edward to get the ring ...” she said, grinning at Puddy as she turned back to the bowl. “I’m sure we’d all be very grateful.”
Chapter 3
“Wherein the marquess is spoiling for a fight.”
By the time Edward reached the relative sanctuary of his study, leaving strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, he was feeling unaccountably annoyed.
Why had he agreed to this ridiculous farce? Mr Russell’s daunting grandmother had no doubt invited a host of simpering misses who would hang around his neck in the hope of snaring his title while he drowned under a tide of polite conversation and good manners. Well, he was giving Violette her damned party, but that didn’t mean he had to suffer through every moment of it.
Reaching for the decanter, he poured himself a generous measure and swallowed close to half of it in one large mouthful. With a curse, he found the liquor too fine, too different from the rot-gut he’d grown used to in the Dials. An increasing sense of irritation and frustration gnawed at his bones and he pulled at his cravat with sharp angry movements, throwing the blasted thing away from him.
He wanted to throw all his fine clothes from him in a similar manner and go back to the coarse, rough clothing that had become so familiar. He felt primped and dandified in his close-fitting coat and waistcoat. Everything pristine and gleaming and such a damned lie. He didn’t belong here. Not anymore. But he didn’t belong in the Dials either.