course I can.”
“And she can undoubtedly scrub the pots when she's done serving, too.”
Elsbeth's cutting remark ignited a spark in Claire's eyes. Devon held up his hand quickly. She hesitated for a long moment, then nodded in graceful acceptance and eased back into her chair. Satisfied, he fixed his aunt with a hard look and declared, “There's nothing sinful in an honest day's labor or in rolling up your sleeves to contribute to the smooth functioning of a household. Neither of which, I might add, you have
ever
made so much as an
attempt
to do.”
Elsbeth drew herself up with an affronted huff. “I am a gentlewoman.”
“You're a parasite,” he countered. “You take without giving and invariably complain about what you get. I've tolerated your presence in this house only becausemy mother seems to find some pleasure in your company and we're bound by the ties of familial blood. But understand me very clearly, Aunt Elsbeth. For as long as Claire resides under this roof, you will treat her with the deference and respect befitting her social station as my wife. If you're unwilling to do that, you may pack your bags and Wyndom will see you safely to Williamsburg.”
Elsbeth's jaw sagged. But only for a fraction of a heartbeat. With an almost audible snap, she closed it and snatched up her knife and fork in a way that suggested she was thinking of leaping across the table and plunging them into his chest.
“I do think,” his mother said softly, “that you've taken Elsbeth's comment entirely the wrong way, Devon. I believe she meant her remark to reflect her awed appreciation for the breadth of Lady Claire's domestic skills.”
“Yes, yes,” Wyndom chimed in. “I'm sure she meant no offense.”
Not giving him time to offer proof otherwise, his mother chimed in breezily, “Going back to Devon's inquiry, Lady Claire…” She lifted a forkful of potatoes and sighed. “As you can tell, we're in desperate need of someone who can cook something that approximates palatable.”
“Lord knows that Mary Margaret tries,” Wyndom contributed, adding his own heartfelt sigh. “I was assured, when I bought her papers, that she was an exceptional cook.”
“Exceptionally bad,” Devon clarified softly and with a wince. He met Claire's gaze and added, “Mary Margaret came to us just over a month ago.”
“Well, better poor fare than poisoned fare,” Elsbeth piped up. “Before her arrival, we were living under a constant shadow of death.”
Claire furrowed her brows, glanced down at her food, and then back at him, clearly puzzled. He saw norecourse except to lay bare the utter stupidity that had gotten them where they were.
“Aunt Elsbeth and Mother heard reports—unsubstantiated, I might add—of a family poisoned by their slave cook,” he supplied. “They took it into their heads that Hannah was spending every hour of her waking day plotting our slow and painful demise. And despite her thirty years of faithful and exemplary service to this family, the hysteria reached absurd proportions. Rather than subject Hannah to it, I sold her to Jane Vobe, the owner of the King's Arms.”
Claire flinched visibly at the word sold. Devon watched her blink and swallow, watched her struggle for words. Did she understand how complicated the web of relationships was? The pain in having them torn apart? Or was she one of those who didn't understand anything at all and opposed the institution based on simplistic principles?
“It must have been difficult for her to be uprooted in that fashion.”
Difficult? Oh, yes. It had been difficult. But he wasn't about to admit to anyone that he and Hannah had both cried at their parting, that as he'd ridden away he'd wished with all of his heart that it could have been Aunt Elsbeth who had been sold away. Hannah had been the best part of his childhood, the time spent in the kitchen with her the best part of his every day since he could remember.
“Actually, it was handled in
“And she can undoubtedly scrub the pots when she's done serving, too.”
Elsbeth's cutting remark ignited a spark in Claire's eyes. Devon held up his hand quickly. She hesitated for a long moment, then nodded in graceful acceptance and eased back into her chair. Satisfied, he fixed his aunt with a hard look and declared, “There's nothing sinful in an honest day's labor or in rolling up your sleeves to contribute to the smooth functioning of a household. Neither of which, I might add, you have
ever
made so much as an
attempt
to do.”
Elsbeth drew herself up with an affronted huff. “I am a gentlewoman.”
“You're a parasite,” he countered. “You take without giving and invariably complain about what you get. I've tolerated your presence in this house only becausemy mother seems to find some pleasure in your company and we're bound by the ties of familial blood. But understand me very clearly, Aunt Elsbeth. For as long as Claire resides under this roof, you will treat her with the deference and respect befitting her social station as my wife. If you're unwilling to do that, you may pack your bags and Wyndom will see you safely to Williamsburg.”
Elsbeth's jaw sagged. But only for a fraction of a heartbeat. With an almost audible snap, she closed it and snatched up her knife and fork in a way that suggested she was thinking of leaping across the table and plunging them into his chest.
“I do think,” his mother said softly, “that you've taken Elsbeth's comment entirely the wrong way, Devon. I believe she meant her remark to reflect her awed appreciation for the breadth of Lady Claire's domestic skills.”
“Yes, yes,” Wyndom chimed in. “I'm sure she meant no offense.”
Not giving him time to offer proof otherwise, his mother chimed in breezily, “Going back to Devon's inquiry, Lady Claire…” She lifted a forkful of potatoes and sighed. “As you can tell, we're in desperate need of someone who can cook something that approximates palatable.”
“Lord knows that Mary Margaret tries,” Wyndom contributed, adding his own heartfelt sigh. “I was assured, when I bought her papers, that she was an exceptional cook.”
“Exceptionally bad,” Devon clarified softly and with a wince. He met Claire's gaze and added, “Mary Margaret came to us just over a month ago.”
“Well, better poor fare than poisoned fare,” Elsbeth piped up. “Before her arrival, we were living under a constant shadow of death.”
Claire furrowed her brows, glanced down at her food, and then back at him, clearly puzzled. He saw norecourse except to lay bare the utter stupidity that had gotten them where they were.
“Aunt Elsbeth and Mother heard reports—unsubstantiated, I might add—of a family poisoned by their slave cook,” he supplied. “They took it into their heads that Hannah was spending every hour of her waking day plotting our slow and painful demise. And despite her thirty years of faithful and exemplary service to this family, the hysteria reached absurd proportions. Rather than subject Hannah to it, I sold her to Jane Vobe, the owner of the King's Arms.”
Claire flinched visibly at the word sold. Devon watched her blink and swallow, watched her struggle for words. Did she understand how complicated the web of relationships was? The pain in having them torn apart? Or was she one of those who didn't understand anything at all and opposed the institution based on simplistic principles?
“It must have been difficult for her to be uprooted in that fashion.”
Difficult? Oh, yes. It had been difficult. But he wasn't about to admit to anyone that he and Hannah had both cried at their parting, that as he'd ridden away he'd wished with all of his heart that it could have been Aunt Elsbeth who had been sold away. Hannah had been the best part of his childhood, the time spent in the kitchen with her the best part of his every day since he could remember.
“Actually, it was handled in
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