Page 32 of A Sea View Christmas (On Devonshire Shores)
SEVENTEEN
Just at this time these shops are filled with large plum-cakes, which are crusted over with sugar, and ornamented in every possible way ... for the festival of the kings.
—Robert Southey, Mr. Rowlandson’s England
Sarah thought back to the few Twelfth Night parties she had attended. They had hosted only one at Finderlay that she recalled, and what an evening it was. Could she manage anything half as grand?
Twelfth Night concluded the Twelve Days of Christmas and was followed by the Feast of the Epiphany, which marked the arrival of the wise men in Bethlehem to see the Christ child.
In preparation for the final celebration of the season, Sarah set out to prepare a Twelfth Night cake big enough to serve a houseful of guests.
She assembled the ingredients and began.
First she weighed out several pounds of flour and scooped it into a large basin.
Making a cavity in the flour, she filled it with some warm milk mixed with yeast. Then she added sugar, chopped butter, eggs, cream, brandy, cinnamon, nutmeg, and mace.
The recipe instructed her to beat the batter with the hands until stiff.
A lengthy effort she did not relish. She was about to reach in and begin the arduous task when Mr. Henshall entered the workroom.
“Came to see if ye needed any help down here.”
She smiled at him. “I could do, yes. Excellent timing.”
He walked around the worktable and stood beside her. As always, she was instantly aware of his nearness, the warmth and strength of his broad shoulder close to hers.
“What’s it to be?”
“A Twelfth Night cake. My first. Although I made a bridal cake for Claire that was somewhat similar.”
“What can I do?”
“We need to mix the batter by hand until it is as stiff as a hasty pudding.” She hesitated, then said, “You helped me make my very first cake, the summer you were here. Remember?”
“Aye.”
She still remembered him standing close, his superior strength easily accomplishing the task in a fraction of the time it would have taken her.
“That was only a simple pound cake,” she said. “I hope I have improved since then.”
“Ye have indeed, and I’ve tasted the proof daily.”
He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves before washing and drying his hands. “I’m happy to help. I am not much good in the kitchen, but I can stir with the best of them.”
“And I greatly appreciate your willingness.”
He reached into the basin and began mixing with his strong hands.
She thought again of his long-ago quip about cooks having muscular arms. His certainly were.
As he kneaded the mixture, the muscles of his forearms rippled beneath skin covered with fine golden hairs.
She resisted the urge to touch them, just as she had that first time.
Forcing her attention elsewhere, Sarah busied herself by measuring out the fruit and dredging it in flour.
In short order, the batter was well combined and thick.
“Keep going while I add the fruit,” Sarah said and gradually added the floured currants, candied orange, and lemon peel. Finally, she dropped in a dried pea and a bean.
When all was incorporated, he helped her transfer the stiff batter into a papered and buttered pan and then washed his hands again.
When she began to heft the pan, he said, “Allow me. That must weigh two stone at least.” He carried it to the oven for her, carefully placing it inside.
She said, “That reminds me of what you said the first time you helped me stir something, about cooks having arms like caber tossers.”
“As I recall, I excepted you from that description.” After shutting the oven door, he walked back and stood before her. He encircled her wrists with his hands and slowly slid them up and over her arms, all the way to her shoulders.
She shivered with pleasure.
“As I said then, yours are slender and feminine.” His hands slid lower once more, as if testing the firmness of her muscles.
“Although on closer inspection, uncommonly strong for a gentlewoman.” He smiled into her eyes. Still lightly clasping her arms, he lowered his gaze to her mouth.
“I want to kiss ye, lass.”
In response, she unconsciously pulled her lower lip between her teeth, before her mouth parted to reply. No response came.
When she did not object or pull away, he slowly leaned down, bringing his face close to hers.
Her pulse leapt in anticipation. His nose lightly brushed hers as he angled his head, and then his lips touched hers.
Again pleasure ran through her. How could one mere touch light a wick within her, body and soul?
First one gentle kiss, then another. Kisses that expressed desire but also love and devotion. Oh yes, this was the man for her....
She tentatively responded, returning the sweet pressure, the sweet caress, with her own. Then he broke the kiss and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tenderly close.
Mrs. Besley hobbled in and drew up short upon finding the two of them locked in an embrace. Sarah pulled away.
“Sorry,” the cook said. “Came for the cream, but I can return later.”
“No need. I shall fetch it for you. Mr. Henshall was just helping me with the cake.”
“So I see.”
Sarah hurried into the larder, pausing long enough to draw a deep breath, and hoping the cooler air would extinguish the heat in her cheeks.
When she stepped back out, she adopted an unconcerned air, although she doubted either of them were convinced.
“Here you are.” She handed over the jug of cream, and when the woman left wearing a barely concealed smile, Sarah turned to Mr. Henshall. “Thank you for your help. Nothing more to do now until after it bakes and cools.”
“How long will that take?”
“Maybe two hours in the oven. I shall have to add another paper to the top once it’s colored to keep it from scorching. Then another few hours to cool.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” he asked, and the low timbre of his voice and the warm way he looked at her made her pulse leap anew.
Sarah swallowed. “I ... suppose I shall do the washing up.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Ach, well. Not my first choice, but I can help with that too.”
Since they were planning to dance in the larger drawing room during the party, they went ahead and moved the pianoforte from the parlour into that room for their group dancing lesson.
Jack came over to help, and together he, Mr. Henshall, James, and Mr. Gwilt moved the heavy instrument from one room to the next.
Georgiana had offered to help, but her mother snapped at her, “You need not always play the Amazon, young lady.”
Georgie reared her head back, stung, and was only slightly mollified when Sarah caught her eye and mouthed the word Sorry .
Viola had come over with Jack, ready to play for them. Once the piano had been moved, James departed for Killerton, and Jack to attend a horse auction with his father. Emily was already an accomplished dancer but joined them to watch and turn the sheet music for Viola.
The prospective students gathered for the lesson: Georgie, Effie, Mr. Henshall, and Sarah, although Sarah said she might not be able to stay long as she still had much to do in preparation for the Twelfth Night party two days hence.
While they waited for Colin to arrive, they moved the furniture from the middle of the room to the walls and rolled up the Turkish carpet.
Their teacher was late. How were they to proceed without him?
A few minutes later, a knock sounded. Mr. Gwilt opened the door to their tardy tutor. Colin entered in a fur-trimmed greatcoat, but he did not enter alone. A second man accompanied him. Mr. Gwilt took their coats, hats, and gloves, and Colin led his guest across the hall to join them.
“Pray forgive my tardiness,” Colin said. “Had a capital idea, but as often happens, it came a bit late.”
He turned to the young man beside him, who was, Georgiana knew, the same age as she was.
“This, as you may know, is Hubert Cornish. Met him at Salcombe Hill when his father hosted the shooting party. Home from Oxford for Christmas. Asked him to come as we need another gentleman to even our numbers.”
Hubert nodded and bowed. “Happy to oblige.”
Georgiana suppressed a groan. Her sisters were better acquainted with Hubert’s older sister, Charlotte, the magistrate’s proud daughter, but they were only slightly acquainted with her brother, as he had been away at school.
Georgiana, however, had encountered Hubert several times during her walks when he’d been home between terms. He was always so terribly polite to her—formal and flattering.
It was awful. And the way he looked at her made her want to look behind herself.
Surely he must have been gazing so admiringly at someone else.
And he was looking at her that way now.
She acknowledged him with a dry “Hubert.”
He bowed. “Miss Georgiana. What a delight to see you again. And who is your fair friend? I do not believe I have had that pleasure.”
“This is Miss Effie ... em, McKay?”
She noticed Effie wince at the surname. “Effie will do, if ye don’t mind.”
“A pleasure, miss,” Hubert said with another bow. “Do I detect a Scottish accent?”
“Indeed, ye do. We’ve come a long way to be here.”
“In that case, let us delay no longer. After all, we are here to dance.”
The other introductions quickly dispensed with, Colin rubbed his hands together and said, “Let’s begin. My dear sister-in-law, Viola, and I have devised a simple program. We shall start with an easy country dance.”
“Easy sounds like a good idea,” Georgiana said.
Colin nodded and turned to Emily. “Viola mentioned you are partial to the Duke of Kent’s Waltz, in honor of your former royal neighbor, so we have included it.”
“Excellent.”
Mr. Henshall, however, did not look as pleased.