Jack by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing
Published: 2016-06-13T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

* * *

Somebody—or something—was in the kitchen.

Madeline knew that Teak House had a pantry mouser, a gray tabby more interested in dreaming of mice than snacking on them. Few cats would take on prey larger than a mouse, though, and the rustling down the corridor was larger-than-a-mouse in nature.

She set aside her list of medicinals, despite her reluctance to leave the herbal. The space was cozy, private, and peaceful. The winter moon beamed through the mullioned window, and dried plants and flowers hung from the rafters.

The noise came again, a scrape, a bump… Unlike some households, nobody slept in the Teak House kitchen, except possibly the cat.

Mrs. Abernathy’s departure had resulted in a general lightening of household morale, though the tweenie was feuding with the scullery maid, both of whom were enamored of the head stable lad.

He—a young, black-haired behemoth burdened with the name Apollo—was flirting with both girls every chance he got, and a deserted kitchen was an excellent place to flirt on a winter night. Madeline took a last whiff of rosemary—the herb for remembrance—picked up her carrying candle, and blew out the flames in both mirrored sconces.

She made her way down the corridor to the kitchen quietly, but not stealthily. She who had behaved scandalously in the library had no wish to embarrass others in the kitchen.

“Where is the damned butter?” Jack pulled out one drawer after another, then started opening cupboards.

“In the window box.”

He ceased his plundering. “I thought you were Pahdi. You’re nearly as quiet, though you’re more fragrant than he.”

“Thank you.”

“That was an observation, not a compliment. Belmont passed along his regards when I called upon him this afternoon, by the way. What brings you to the bowels of the house at such a late hour?” Jack was in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, his cuffs turned back. An ink stain on the heel of his right hand suggested he’d been at his ledgers or his correspondence.

Madeline was in her nightclothes, covered in several layers from neck to ankles, and upon her feet she wore the warmest footwear she had—Jack’s house slippers.

“I’m organizing the herbal,” she said, fetching the butter. “Mrs. Abernathy neglected the medicinals, and somebody had best set them to rights before illness visits the house. Shall I put together a tray?”

“I’m not hungry,” Jack said. “I was tending the fire when a log fell, and the resulting mess gave me a singed knuckle.”

Hence, his search for the butter.

“You’d be better off with a cold cloth.”

He held up his left hand, which sported a red third knuckle. “You won’t kiss my mishap better?”

“I might—if you do as I tell you.”

The narrowing of his eyes said he liked that, liked that Madeline would put him in his place.

“Wait here,” she said, retrieving a clean towel from the stack on the counter and retreating down the corridor. Outside the back door, Madeline scooped a handful of snow into the towel.

“Use this,” she said, passing Jack the towel full of snow. “It will take the heat out more effectively than the butter would, and save the kitchen stores.

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