Page 17
Charlotte could not sleep, and she had no good reason for it. Dinner had been divine. The roast duck could not have been more tender, the treacle tart more sweet. Lady Cheston and Grandmama had done an admirable job maintaining a lively conversation, but it had lacked the entertainment of the evening before, and Charlotte had found herself missing Lord Cheston’s presence rather too much for comfort.
She released a frustrated breath and rolled onto her back. Moonlight was peeking through the curtains, illuminating the finely furnished room. The bed was soft, the blankets warm. She was perfectly comfortable, and yet sleep remained elusive. If she had been at home, she would have slipped downstairs to the kitchen and heated up some milk. Cook swore by that simple remedy for insomnia, and Charlotte had relied upon it often enough that Cook had taught her how to rekindle the banked fire just enough to warm the milk in a pan.
She paused her train of thought. Could she heat up some milk in the Tribbley Hall kitchen? The household staff would be asleep by now, and she had no desire to disturb them. Surely a jug of milk and a small pan would be easy enough for her to find. Sitting up in bed, she reached for the flint on the bedside table and lit the candle beside it. Its light augmented the moonlight well enough for her to locate her slippers and dressing gown. After putting them on, she raised the candle aloft, opened the door to her chamber, and tiptoed into the passageway.
The house was silent except for the creak of the stairs as she made her way to the kitchen. The faint smell of roast duck lingered in the large room, but the table was clear. Shelves hung on the far wall, covered with piles of dishes, bowls, and jugs. Some of the dishes were covered. Setting her candle on the table, Charlotte moved closer and reached for a large bowl covered in a cloth. She lowered it and raised the cloth, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell that assailed her. Yeast. Tomorrow must be bread-making day at Tribbley Hall.
Replacing the bowl on the shelf, she took down an earthenware pitcher covered with a small plate. She lifted the plate, peered inside, and smiled. Milk. Carrying it to the table, she set it down beside the candle and walked across the room to the fire. A few of the coals still glowed. She knelt down and blew softly. The corner of one of the coals turned bright orange, and a wisp of smoke drifted upward. Taking the tongs from the nearby coal scuttle, Charlotte placed two pieces of coal atop the glowing piece and blew again. The fresh coal shifted. She blew one more time. A little more smoke appeared and then a crack sounded. Sparks flew, and one of the new coals began to burn.
Satisfied that the fire was strengthening, Charlotte eyed the row of pans hanging from one of the large beams running across the ceiling. Taking the small one on the end, she poured a little of the milk into the bottom before taking the milk jug back to the shelf and claiming a cup. Setting the pan over the tiny flames, she pulled a wooden chair closer and sat down to watch. Experience had taught her that the milk went from tepid to boiling over in an instant.
The first tiny bubbles were just beginning to form in the milk around the edges of the pan when the door to the kitchen burst open. Charlotte leapt from the chair, her heart hammering.
“L-Lord Cheston!”
The gentleman staggered to a halt. He was wearing his working clothes again, and in his arms, he carried a bundle of sacks.
“Miss Densley,” he said. “Whatever are you doing here?”
Warmth flooded Charlotte’s face. She had considered meeting the baron while covered in mud to be humiliating. It was nothing compared to this mortification. How did one gracefully make excuses for helping oneself to things in her host’s kitchen in the middle of the night, let alone doing so while wearing nightclothes? She was quite sure it could not be done.
She cinched the cord around her dressing gown tighter. “Forgive me, my lord, I—”
He did not allow her to finish. “What do you have in the pan?”
“Milk.”
“Thank the heavens.”
He hurried across the room and dropped to his knees in front of the fire. One corner of the sack fell back, exposing the face of a tiny lamb. Charlotte gasped, but he ignored her. Taking a piece of the sack in each hand, he began to furiously rub the lamb’s limp body.
“What are you doing?” Charlotte asked.
“Trying to save his life,” he said through gritted teeth.
Charlotte did not ask anything more. Reaching for the tongs, she tossed four more pieces of coal onto the fire before picking up the poker and coaxing the fire to spread.
“The milk,” Lord Cheston said. “How hot is it?”
She checked the pan. Wisps of steam were beginning to rise. She dipped her finger into the milk. “Warm, but not hot,” she said.
He nodded, continuing to rub. “Would you take it off the heat?”
She did as he asked.
“Somewhere on the shelves, you’ll see a pewter bubby pot,” he said. “I need you to pour the milk into it.”
Charlotte had no idea what a bubby pot was, but she ran to the shelf, searching for anything made of pewter.
“How big is it?” she asked.
“Small. It looks like a miniature teapot.”
“This?” she asked, holding up a metal cup with a spout connected to its base.
“Yes.”
She hurried back, and setting the bubby pot on the floor beside Lord Cheston, she poured the steaming milk into it.
