6

      Mrs Shaw had floated on a cloud of contentment ever since the invitations had been posted on the day following Julia’s departure to London.

      Things were getting back to normal. Lady Sutton was giving a dinner party, her first for three years, and though it was to be small and simple, it was a step in the right direction as far as Rowangarth’s cook was concerned. Now, once more, she could proclaim her expertise. Before the death of Sir John, her reputation had been without equal, and she had scorned bribes of a superior kitchen, higher wages, and all the scullery maids she could wish for, to remain steadfastly loyal to Rowangarth.

      Acceptances were quickly received. All the guests were close friends of Helen Sutton, with the exception of Mrs Clementina and Elliot, though the presence of Edward Sutton would more than compensate for that of his wife and son, and since Judge Mounteagle and his wife would be there, it was reasonable to suppose that the lady’s ferocious stare would keep Elliot in his place. Mrs Mounteagle’s stare could stop a runaway horse, John once said, so Elliot should present no problem at the table.

      Already Mrs Shaw had spent two enjoyable sessions with her ladyship, pencil poised, notebook at the ready. It gratified her that Lady Helen always consulted directly with her cook on such occasions, which briefly elevated her almost to Miss Clitherow’s station, and though the dinner party was to be small and simple, none of the joys of planning and conferring and buying-in would be wasted on a cook who had languished unseen and unsung for three unhappy years. Now the menu was finally agreed, and calculating quantities and making timetables occupied her time, for even the most ordinary of dinner parties needed three days, at least, of preparation.

      Thick fish soup to start with presented no problem at all, nor the next course of poached whole salmon, served on a bed of green salad and covered, completely, with thin slices of cucumber. A joint of roast beef was child’s play to a Yorkshire-born cook, but the sorbet to follow would need ice in plenty in its making, and Miss Clitherow must be reminded to send the coachman to collect half a sackful of it, on the two mornings beforehand, from the fishmonger in Creesby.

      Fruit jellies to follow? Lady Sutton had enquired, to which Cook added her own suggestion that Mr Edward fair loved ice-cream and meringue pudding and might not that be offered too?

      ‘Very well, Mrs Shaw, but in that case there will be no ices to follow the savouries, wouldn’t you agree? Simple, remember? And could you make your special savoury for the gentlemen? It was always so much appreciated …’

      Cook purred her pleasure, for even after three years it seemed that her special, secret-recipe savoury was not forgotten.

      ‘You’ll see to it, milady, that Miss Clitherow asks Ellen to help wait-on?’ Sixteen at table was too much to expect of any parlourmaid, even one of Mary’s capabilities.

      ‘She has already done so. Ellen is willing,’ came the smiling reply. ‘I understand her uniform still fits her nicely so there’ll be no problem.’

      Ellen was Mary’s predecessor, who four years ago had married a local farmer: the housekeeper had been gratified by the pleasure with which the appeal for help was received.

      ‘Of course I’ll come, Miss Clitherow. It’ll be just like old times again. I’ll be there good and early, will I, to help with the silver and the table?’ Time away from the demands of two young children and the promise of goodies to take home with her made the prospect of once more working at Rowangarth a pleasant one. ‘And now that Lady Sutton is entertaining again, I’ll always be willing to give a helping hand – if I’m able,’ she had added hastily, so as not to tempt Fate overmuch.

      Mrs Shaw left the morning-room, casting her mind back to the huge dinner parties of twenty years ago. Almost indecent, they were, if you considered that the cost of the out-of-season strawberries alone would have fed a family of four for a week. Perhaps it was as well these days that, following the example set by the new King and Queen, entertaining had become simpler and the upper classes less inclined to dig their graves with their knives and forks.

      Next Friday’s dinner was to be small and simple, but perfect for all that, and the crowning glory of Lady Helen’s visit to the kitchens, even before the guests had begun to depart, would make it a day to be dwelt upon for a long time to come. Her ladyship’s thanks to all concerned would be sincere, and her suggestion that they should cool themselves by finishing off the remaining ice-cream and sorbets before they melted, would be met with smiles of delight.

      Rowangarth, thought Mrs Shaw as she returned to her kitchen, was her home and her pride and may the good Lord preserve it and, if He wouldn’t mind, see what He could do about providing an heir, which would please milady no end and maybe help the dear soul to smile a little more often.

      ‘Tilda!’ she called to the maid who had taken advantage of her superior’s absence. ‘Put that love book down this instant!’

      There would be no time for reading now. Rowangarth was coming into its own again, and by the time Friday had come and gone, that silly girl wouldn’t know what had hit her! Oh my word, no!

      The letter came long before she expected it. Addressed to Miss A. Hawthorn, there were raised eyebrows when it was handed to Alice at servants’ breakfast.

      ‘London,’ Tilda gloated, eyes on the postmark.

      ‘London,’ Alice confirmed primly, with not so much as a blush. ‘Miss Sutton’s live-in said she would write to me if I was of a mind to get a letter occasionally.’ Firmly, she pushed it into her pocket. ‘I’ll read it later.’

      She hoped it wouldn’t say that he wasn’t coming. Miss Julia would be disappointed – heartbroken – if she didn’t see him again soon. The letter was from Doctor MacMalcolm, she was sure. What she wasn’t so sure about was how she could quickly – and secretly – get it to the lady for whom it was intended.

      She cut a slice of bread then, spearing it with her fork, held it to the hot coals of the kitchen range.

      ‘Do you think, Mary,’ she murmured, eyes downcast, ‘you could give Miss Julia a message when you take breakfast up? Something I’ve just remembered. Would you tell her that I’ve run out of blue thread, and can she let me know if she’ll be going to York in the near future?’