Page 27 of When the Laird Conquers

“We cannot put our sorrow into the food, or it will taste terrible,” Christine had insisted back then.

And she had been right. Whenever grief had struck them while they were cooking, the meal had never turned out well. It was only later that she had admitted that she added more salt whenever she saw Agnes weeping.

“To help,” she had said, with that wry smile of hers. “I thought it might ease your sorrow if you thought of making the food taste good instead of how much you missed Mama.”

Agnes had not spoken to Christine for two days after that, won over only by a cream cake from her favorite London patisserie.

“Sorry,” Agnes said, shaking her head. “What was I saying?”

Iona smiled. “Ye were talkin’ about yer aunt savin’ ye from havin’ to be a cook, then ye went somewhere.” She put her hand on Agnes’s shoulder. “It’s good for the soul to wander in yer memories, sometimes.”

“Even if the memories are sad?” Agnes asked with a dry laugh.

“Especially if they’re sad.” Iona nodded, then muttered, “The Laird could do with learnin’ that, but what do I ken?”

Curious, Agnes scattered flour onto the workbench and began to fold the bread dough, hoping that if she looked like she wasn’t paying attention, Iona would say more.

Unfortunately, the housekeeper was wiser than that. Rather than spill the castle’s secrets, she nudged in beside Agnes and set to work chopping a marrow into very thin slices.

“Yer sister is the bairn’s maither, I take it?” the old woman asked after a while.

Hearing the word ‘is’ formed an instant lump in Agnes’s throat. How could such a minuscule word hold so much power, capable of resurrecting a person for a short while?

“She is,” Agnes replied.

“What happened to her?”

Agnes shaped the bread back into a ball and scored the top, praying that the sudden rush of grief wouldn’t ruin the dough. “She died giving birth.”

“Ah, many a good lass and a good maither has been lost to childbirth.” Iona sighed. “I’m sorry for ye, and I’m sorry for the wee one.”

Agnes swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“Thank ye for this,” Iona said. “Ever since the… well, the ‘madness’ that happened here, no one is around to help. When there’s no cook and no kitchen maids, it’s just Marcus and me. And Marcus couldnae cook an egg if his life depended on it. But he can carry buckets of water like he’s still five-and-twenty.”

Agnes got the feeling that the housekeeper wanted to say more, as a sort of exchange of stories, but whatever rules bound her seemed to bind Iona too. Why else would she change subjects so seamlessly or make a jest after almost touching on the past?

“I am intrigued by what happened here,” Agnes told her, “but I won’t get you into trouble by asking more than I should. And yes, your husband is very impressive when carrying buckets. A strong man, indeed.”

Iona looked relieved, as if she thought she might have said too much already. “We’re ever so glad the two of ye are here,” she said. “It’s nice to have some life in these halls again. Some cheer. And that wee lassie kens all about cheer.”

At that moment, Lizzy was smearing her hands in a dusting of the flour that had fallen from the workbench, reveling in it.

Agnes grinned. “She really does. She is like her mother, always finding joy in things.” She laughed as the baby decided to smear her face. “And always making a mess.”

While Lizzy played on the floor, covering herself in flour and then delighting herself by figuring out that the wooden spoon made an entertaining sound when banged against the workbench cupboards, the two women worked together.

They chattered about the weather and the sea, and when the wet nurse came in to feed Lizzy, she joined in the casual conversation. Iona waxed poetic about her husband and taught Agnes a lullaby to sing to her niece. And when the wet nurse left again, Agnes talked more about Christine and Aunt Tabitha and about the despicable Edwin, and regaled the housekeeper with funny tales of her worst cooking disasters.

Time seemed to fly by, as it often did when in good company.

All too soon, Agnes was back at the sink, washing the dishes from the delicious breakfast she had just shared with Iona: warm, fresh bread with salted butter and a thick spread of raspberry jam, then a wonderful sort of savory pancake with the thinly sliced marrow, eggs, and a dusting of herbs, finished off with a platter of apples and plums.

Lizzy, on the other hand, having had herself a hearty helping of milk, did not seem to mind at all that she had missed out on a veritable feast.

“I cannae give her back to ye,” Iona said as she rocked the sleepy baby in her arms, perched on a stool. “Och, ye daenae ken how it warms me heart to hold a wee bairn again. Ye cannae be cross or sad or bored when there’s a baby to coddle.”

Agnes chuckled as she dried her hands. “I am afraid you must give her back. I have to take her upstairs for a nap, or she will not be all smiles and charm later. She will be quite the grouch instead.”