Page 8 of How the Belle Stole Christmas

Christmas Eve

Breakfast was a blissfully quiet affair.

The Piedmonts and Mrs. Lawrence did not come down.

And Balwyn, who climbed out of Maria’s bed nicely tousled and barefoot, was an early riser.

He’d been whistling as he exited her rooms, obviously uncaring that he might be seen, which made Maria feel a great deal better—or at least more tolerant—about Wilma’s presence.

He’d gone to work in Talbot’s old study, waving away her offer of breakfast, a meal he rarely indulged in, preferring only coffee.

Just as well, Maria mused, looking down at her plate. The toast was burnt and the eggs far too runny. Only the tea was acceptable. Barely.

Alicia was the only one to join Maria in the breakfast room. The girl sat opposite her, repeatedly scratching at a red patch of skin beneath one ear like a dog with fleas. Maria observed the girl silently, wondering what on earth was wrong with her.

“We’ll have a lovely dinner this evening…and games,” Maria said over her tea.

“Humph.”

“I’ve invited Dr. Forester to join us.”

Scratching at her ear, Alicia finally glanced at her, eyes gleaming with hostility.

“Dr. Jonathan Forester,” Maria continued, though the girl showed little interest, “is a neighbor of mine. He studied at Oxford. He’s a physician. In case you’re the least interested.”

A friendly face, one that didn’t completely convey its loathing of Maria, would be most welcome at the dining room table this evening.

Hopefully, Jonathan would have no trouble getting here, she mused, looking out over her ice encrusted garden.

The rain had slowed to a light, misty drizzle that enveloped the house.

The roads would be difficult, but Jonathan’s home wasn’t terribly far.

“Matchmaking again?” Alicia pushed aside her toast in disgust. Scratched at her throat. Rubbed her forearm.

“Not at all. Dr. Forester has been my neighbor for years. He has no family since the death of his father. I didn’t want him to be alone.”

Alicia cocked her head. There was a tiny glimmer of…approval? “That is rather kind of you, Lady Talbot.”

“We’ll light the yule log,” Maria said, encouraged. “Enjoy a lovely meal. Perhaps a game of Snapdragon?”

“I think the quality of the meal may be debatable.” Alicia scratched at another patch of skin, picked up her sketchbook, and walked off.

“Well.” Maria watched her departing back. “That’s a start, I suppose.” Setting down her cup, she came to her feet and nodded at Owen, who stood by the door. “I think I’ve put this off long enough.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

Maria straightened her shoulders and marched in the direction of the kitchens to discuss matters with Mrs. Killigrew.

“Please keep in mind, Lady Talbot,” Owen said in a nervous tone from behind her. “We had no choice. I only did as you bid.”

Dear. God.

Maria coughed in utter horror, waving her hand in the air to dispel the thick cloud of smoke emanating from Mrs. Killigrew.

“Can you please put that away?”

“No, I cannot.” Mrs. Killigrew clenched the pipe between her stained teeth that much tighter.

The cook’s appearance had been something of a shock, given that Maria had become accustomed to the motherly Mrs. Peasley.

Mrs. Killigrew was an unkept lump of a woman.

Age indeterminate. Hair a puffy white cloud stuffed beneath a cap.

Teeth, those left, yellowed from years of pipe smoking.

Flour dusted her dirty apron and coated her hands.

Owen has good reason to be nervous. I should sack him over this.

Maria cleared her throat. “I wish to discuss the meal last night. The lamb was—”

“The fault of one of these London girls you brought, your ladyship,” Mrs. Killigrew nodded towards Ann, a timid, red-haired girl, who fairly cringed against the worktable. “Can’t manage the simplest of tasks. Put the lamb into roast while I returned to Appleton.”

“But why? The larder is full. Not to mention the weather.”

“You had no potatoes,” Mrs. Killigrew accused. “No. Potatoes.” She enunciated each word as if Maria had committed the gravest of crimes. “You can’t have lamb without potatoes. I braved the weather outside to make sure the meal had”—the pipe wobbled back and forth as her jaw tightened—“potatoes.”

“Well…I—”

“Daft thing didn’t watch the lamb. And I had to go out,” she growled. “Thank goodness Jacobson had plenty at The Painted Speck. He’ll send you a bill later.”

“I see.” Had it not been Christmas Eve, Maria would have been inclined to sack Mrs. Killigrew on the spot—and possibly Owen as well—and take her chances with poor Ann and Betsy, who surely had learned something from Mrs. Peasley.

“Understandable, of course. Perhaps in future, should you require anything else, you might send one of the girls instead of going yourself. Also, the eggs at breakfast?”

“Problem with the stove.” Mrs. Killigrew finally took the pipe from her teeth, pointing the stem at Maria. “Fixed now. A few hiccups when starting a new position is entirely expected.” She raised a brow at Maria. “Lord Denton never complained. ’Course his kitchens were in much better shape.”

Maria pressed her lips together. Her temples were already beginning to ache, and she had yet to be subjected to Lady Piedmont today. “I suppose it can be difficult to step into another’s kitchen and take things in hand.”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“I merely wanted to ensure that all will be perfect for this evening— ”

“I’m preparing capon and roasted mackerel. Squash.” Mrs. Killigrew gave a belch and placed the pipe back in her mouth. “Potatoes.”

“Wonderful.” Maria attempted to maintain her composure. There was no help for Mrs. Killigrew. A somewhat adequate cook was better than no cook at all.

“Christmas Day will be lavish,” the older woman bit out. “Goose and venison. Currant stuffing. Slivered carrots. Potatoes. Gingerbread. The pudding will be ready.” Mrs. Killigrew nodded at the larder. “Your butler claims he’s been caring for it, but if he hasn’t, that isn’t my fault.”

“Delightful. Syllabub?” The drink was one of Balwyn’s favorites.

“Of course, Lady Talbot.” She turned back to the worktable, glaring at Ann. “Now, if you’ll forgive me, the mincemeat pies won’t make themselves.”

Maria gave her a weak smile and left the kitchens, praying that Mrs. Killigrew didn’t set anything on fire with her pipe or stab poor Ann with the knife she’d picked up.

Making her way back to the drawing room, Maria stopped before a window, studying the dismal sight of her poor garden caked in muck and rain.

There would be no walking the path to the beach today.

Nor enjoying what was left of her flowers.

But she had a library, and the house, thankfully, was well-stocked with spirits.

Best of all, she’d yet to see Achilles and Archimedes.

“Beggars go around back,” Owen stated firmly from the front door as Maria turned the corner.

“I’m not a beggar,” a phlegmy voice insisted. “I was invited.” The words were followed by a great deal of coughing. “I demand you let me in.”

Maria didn’t pause. There were few beggars to be found in Appleton and certainly none had ever wandered to Cove House. Perhaps the man was lost.

“I demand entrance.” The man coughed once more. “I’ll catch my death if you leave me out here.”

The door shut as Owen stepped outside, probably to throw the poor man off the property. Or perhaps he would merely direct him to the kitchens.

It was Christmas, after all.

Strolling into the near empty drawing room, Maria took a seat on one of her overstuffed chairs before the fire.

Alicia sat in a far corner, madly sketching away, pausing only to scratch at her neck.

Maria put Mrs. Killigrew aside and had only just relaxed into her book when Lady Piedmont strolled imperiously into the drawing room just as the clock struck noon, Lord Piedmont in tow.

Maria looked up from her book, regretting that her short reprieve was at an end. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

“I had a dreadful night,” Lady Piedmont scowled. “Where is my brother?”

“Lord Balwyn is using the study to catch up on his correspondence. Is the guest room not to your satisfaction, Lady Piedmont?”

“Good afternoon, aunt,” Alicia muttered before sending Maria a look that resembled pity.

A huff came from the older woman. “The mattress is not what I’m accustomed to. Barely tolerable. I would have been better off on a bed of hay.”

“I see.”

“One should be embraced as they drift off to slumber, not flopping about in a pathetic attempt at comfort. The room is drafty. I could hear the wind whistling through the windows. There was an abundance of salty vapors.”

Salty vapors? Maria’s brow wrinkled.

“Piedmont and I shivered all night, clinging to each other for warmth.” She nudged her husband.

“Terribly cold,” he murmured before heading straight for Maria’s sideboard.

“How terrible.” Maria clasped her hands, attempting to look chagrined. “That there was so little warmth to be had in your bed.”

Lady Piedmont jerked her chin at Maria, trying to determine if she’d been insulted.

Oh, you most certainly have.

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” she continued. “The Duke of Courtland stayed in the same room during my last house party and found it to be delightful. But I’ll be happy to have you moved.”

“Too much trouble,” Lady Piedmont trilled. “And Courtland isn’t the least discerning in nature, considering whom he wed.”

An amused sniff came from Alicia. She scratched again, the patch under her ear now stretching down to join the one on her neck.

Did Balwyn’s daughter have some sort of unknown affliction? That might explain her lack of suitors.

“More blankets, then, my lady. And I will ensure the fire in your room is roaring this evening.”

“Acceptable.” Lady Piedmont flounced into a chair, settling her skirts around her ankles. “I don’t suppose you have a library.”

“I do.”