“And we’ll eat in the dining room with him!” Jamie exclaimed.
Helen felt a pang. “No, dear, we’ll have a lovely supper in the kitchen.”
“But why?” Jamie asked.
“Because Mama’s the housekeeper, and it’s not proper for us to eat with Sir Alistair,” Abigail said. “We’re servants now. We eat in the kitchen.”
Helen nodded. “That’s right. But the meat pie will taste just as good in the kitchen, don’t you think? Now, let’s tidy up, shall we?”
But forty-five minutes later, when Helen and the children again came down the stairs, Sir Alistair was nowhere to be found.
“I think he’s still in his tower,” Abigail said, frowning at the ceiling overhead as if she could see the master of the castle four floors above. “Perhaps he sleeps up there, too.”
Both Helen and Jamie glanced instinctively up at the ceiling. Mrs. McCleod had said that she planned supper for seven o’clock. If Sir Beastly didn’t appear soon, his supper would be cold, and, more importantly, he might offend the only qualified cook for miles and miles.
That decided it. Helen turned to the children. “Darlings, why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if one of the maids can make you tea?”
Abigail looked at her. “But what will you do, Mama?”
Helen straightened her fresh apron. “Fetch Sir Alistair from his den.”
THE KNOCK ON the tower door came just as Alistair lit the candles. The light was fading, and he was in the midst of trying to record his observations on badgers. This was for his next great work: a comprehensive listing of the flora and fauna of Scotland, England, and Wales. It was a huge undertaking, one that he felt without vanity would place him in the ranks of the great scientists of his age. And today he’d been able to write for the first time in weeks—months, if he was honest with himself. He’d eagerly begun the work over three years ago, but for the last year or more, his work had slowed and faltered. He’d been beset by a sort of lethargy that made writing extremely difficult. Indeed, for the last few weeks he’d made barely any progress at all.
Today, however, he’d risen knowing exactly what to put down in his manuscript. It was as if a breath of reviving wind had been blown into his lungs by some unseen god. He’d spent the day in intense writing and sketching, accomplishing more than he had in months.
So when the knock interrupted his labors, he was not pleased.
“What?” he growled at the door. It was bolted so a certain female couldn’t just swan in at will.
“Your supper is ready,” she called back.
“Bring it here, then,” he replied absently. Sketching a badger’s nose could be quite difficult.
There was a short silence, and he thought for a moment that she’d gone away.
Then she rattled the doorknob. “Sir Alistair, your supper is laid upon the table downstairs in the dining room.”
“Nonsense,” he shot back. “I’ve seen my dining room. It hasn’t been used in near a decade, and it’s filthy. It’s not fit for man or beast to eat in.”
“I’ve spent all this day cleaning it.”
That gave him pause, and he stared suspiciously at the tower door. Had she really spent the day scrubbing out his dining room? It’d be a Herculean task if so. For a moment, he felt a flicker of guilt.
Then he regained his good sense. “If what you say is true, Mrs. Halifax, and I really have a newly cleaned dining room, I thank you. I’m sure at some point I may even use it. But not tonight. Go away.”
The silence this time stretched for so long that he was convinced she’d gone away. He’d returned to sketching the badger and was working on the difficult bit around the eyes when a great thump! shook the door. Alistair’s hand jerked and the pencil tore through the paper.
He scowled at the ruined sketch.
“Sir Alistair.” Mrs. Halifax’s voice came through the door, sounding very much as if she might be gritting her teeth. “Either you come out at once and eat the delicious supper that Mrs. McCleod spent all day cooking in the dining room that I and the other servants spent all day cleaning, or I shall instruct the footmen to break down this door.”
Alistair raised his eyebrows.
“I have scrubbed and polished, beaten and swept all the day long,” Mrs. Halifax continued.
He set his pencil down, rose from his chair, and approached the door.
“And I think it only common courtesy to—” she was saying as he opened the door. She stopped, mouth agape, and looked up at him.
Alistair smiled and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. “Good evening, Mrs. Halifax.”
She started to back up a step but then caught herself, although her wide blue eyes were wary. “Good evening, Sir Alistair.”
He loomed over her to see if she would flee. “I understand you have supper waiting downstairs for me.”
She clutched her hands but stood firm. “Yes.”
“Then I shall be pleased to dine with you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t dine with me. I’m your housekeeper.”
He shrugged and slapped his thigh for Lady Grey. “I dined with you yesterday.”
“But that was in the kitchen!”
“It’s proper for me to eat with you in my kitchen but not in my dining room? Your logic escapes me, Mrs. Halifax.”
“I don’t think—”
Lady Grey passed them and started down the stairs. Alistair gestured for the housekeeper to precede him. “And I expect your children to dine with us as well.”
“Abigail and Jamie?” she asked as if she might have other offspring about the place.
“Yes.”
She was below him on the stairs, but she shot a look over her shoulder that clearly stated that she thought he’d gone mad. And perhaps he had. Children never dined with adults, at least not in his level of society.
His beautiful housekeeper was still protesting when they made the hall outside the dining room, although Alistair was fairly sure she’d given up the idea of dining in the kitchen by then. Her objections were merely stubbornness now.
He nodded to the children when he saw them hovering in the hall. “Shall we go in?”
Jamie readily ran into the dining room, but Abigail frowned and glanced to her mother for guidance.
Mrs. Halifax pursed her lips, looking uncommonly disapproving for such a lovely woman. “We’re to eat with Sir Alistair tonight. But this will be the only time.”