his sisters’ favorite flowers; meadowsweet, lavender and marigolds. His grandmother sighed as he placed the last flower into his bouquet.
“Pick six of the large top blooms for me, Rhys,” she said. “The older, the better.”
“Why, Grandmother? Those are no good for the table.”
“No boy, they aren’t, but they are excellent for tea. Your grandfather has swelling in his knees and elbows which is bad business for someone who rides as often as he does. The man practically lives in the saddle,” she added with a scoff. “The marigold will soothe the aches in his joints and quell the swelling, and then perhaps he will not fall and kill himself.”
Rhys nodded and cut the flowers for her. They were big and old, a few were even about to go to seed. They turned toward the kitchen door just as the milk-scalding maid came out to look for them.
“We are coming, Magda,” Irelli called out before the girl could say a word. “Come Rhys, the food is ready and the family is seated in the morning room, ready to come in to breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, giving her his arm.
The sky was still only barely lit and he did not want his grandmother to fall in the dark. The day always started this early at Kenilwurt. In the kitchen, his grandmother washed the fiddleheads and the large marigolds, putting the fiddleheads into a pot of roaring boiling water and the flowers into the third teapot as the three scullery maids stood neatly in a row watching her. The finishing touches to the dishes were Irelli’s responsibility. She did this for every meal, every day, and had done so since she had come into Anlawdd’s house at the age of sixteen. She turned to the egg-poaching maid and told her to pour the boiling water onto the teas and cover the teapots. She washed and trimmed the herbs expertly, placing the spring onions on the platter next to the slices of cheese, the tomatoes in a bowl and the thyme was coarsely chopped and sprinkled over the cheese curds and the rosemary stripped from the stems, finely chopped and tossed over the poached eggs. She fished the fiddleheads from the boiling water and placed them on the meat dish between the strips of bacon and the plump sausages; they immediately started soaking in the fat from the hot, fried meats.
Lastly, she took the ends off the bouquet of flowers Rhys had picked and placed them neatly into a jar of water. Irelli stood back and looked everything over while allowing the milk-scalding maid to undo the strings of her apron. Satisfied, she nodded her head and the maids began to retrieve the dishes and exit the kitchen. Rhys followed Irelli out into the hallway. They passed the scullery maids at the staff entrance to the dining room delivering the trays of food to the stewards who would place them attractively along the breakfast buffet. Rhys knew that in accordance with Irelli’s household style, the only servant who would be present when the family came in to dine would be the head steward.
When he led his grandmother into the morning room, Rhys was greeted by excited hugs and chatter. It was obvious that he had given them all a terrible fright. Everyone was overjoyed to see him up and about again.
He found his father and grandfather pouring over some maps of their lands at the desk while his sisters and his mother were sitting near the fire, all four working together on a large piece of embroidery. Erasmus stood gazing at the titles on the spines of the books along the shelves. Rhys settled his grandmother in the seat next to his mother and went to join his valet at the bookshelves.
“Everything alright, Master Rhys?”
“I asked you to stop calling me Master, Erasmus.”
“I apologize. I am just so happy to see you up and about again. We had long gone past worrying to being quite beside ourselves with grief.”
“I am glad that the gods have returned me to you, Erasmus. To all of you.”
Erasmus was taken aback by Rhys’ frank outlaying of emotion
“Pick six of the large top blooms for me, Rhys,” she said. “The older, the better.”
“Why, Grandmother? Those are no good for the table.”
“No boy, they aren’t, but they are excellent for tea. Your grandfather has swelling in his knees and elbows which is bad business for someone who rides as often as he does. The man practically lives in the saddle,” she added with a scoff. “The marigold will soothe the aches in his joints and quell the swelling, and then perhaps he will not fall and kill himself.”
Rhys nodded and cut the flowers for her. They were big and old, a few were even about to go to seed. They turned toward the kitchen door just as the milk-scalding maid came out to look for them.
“We are coming, Magda,” Irelli called out before the girl could say a word. “Come Rhys, the food is ready and the family is seated in the morning room, ready to come in to breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, giving her his arm.
The sky was still only barely lit and he did not want his grandmother to fall in the dark. The day always started this early at Kenilwurt. In the kitchen, his grandmother washed the fiddleheads and the large marigolds, putting the fiddleheads into a pot of roaring boiling water and the flowers into the third teapot as the three scullery maids stood neatly in a row watching her. The finishing touches to the dishes were Irelli’s responsibility. She did this for every meal, every day, and had done so since she had come into Anlawdd’s house at the age of sixteen. She turned to the egg-poaching maid and told her to pour the boiling water onto the teas and cover the teapots. She washed and trimmed the herbs expertly, placing the spring onions on the platter next to the slices of cheese, the tomatoes in a bowl and the thyme was coarsely chopped and sprinkled over the cheese curds and the rosemary stripped from the stems, finely chopped and tossed over the poached eggs. She fished the fiddleheads from the boiling water and placed them on the meat dish between the strips of bacon and the plump sausages; they immediately started soaking in the fat from the hot, fried meats.
Lastly, she took the ends off the bouquet of flowers Rhys had picked and placed them neatly into a jar of water. Irelli stood back and looked everything over while allowing the milk-scalding maid to undo the strings of her apron. Satisfied, she nodded her head and the maids began to retrieve the dishes and exit the kitchen. Rhys followed Irelli out into the hallway. They passed the scullery maids at the staff entrance to the dining room delivering the trays of food to the stewards who would place them attractively along the breakfast buffet. Rhys knew that in accordance with Irelli’s household style, the only servant who would be present when the family came in to dine would be the head steward.
When he led his grandmother into the morning room, Rhys was greeted by excited hugs and chatter. It was obvious that he had given them all a terrible fright. Everyone was overjoyed to see him up and about again.
He found his father and grandfather pouring over some maps of their lands at the desk while his sisters and his mother were sitting near the fire, all four working together on a large piece of embroidery. Erasmus stood gazing at the titles on the spines of the books along the shelves. Rhys settled his grandmother in the seat next to his mother and went to join his valet at the bookshelves.
“Everything alright, Master Rhys?”
“I asked you to stop calling me Master, Erasmus.”
“I apologize. I am just so happy to see you up and about again. We had long gone past worrying to being quite beside ourselves with grief.”
“I am glad that the gods have returned me to you, Erasmus. To all of you.”
Erasmus was taken aback by Rhys’ frank outlaying of emotion
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