To Winter at Wildsyde by Emma V Leech

Author:Emma V Leech [Leech, Emma V]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-06T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Miss Butler,

I am shocked and dismayed…

How dare you…

What the devil are you playing at you dreadful girl…

Do you want me to ruin you?

Oh, God, I’m doomed.

― Excerpt of a letter from Mr Inigo de Beauvoir to Miss Minerva Butler, never sent.

6th December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth had seen little of her husband since the afternoon of their terrible row. He’d kept his distance, and she’d been glad of it, needing time to decide how best to use the information that Mr Clugston had given her. Instead, she had thrown herself once more into work at Wildsyde, despite Gordy’s words about not wanting a home still ringing in her ears. He might think he didn’t want a home, but it was perfectly obvious it was what he needed above all else. To her relief, she’d had her monthly courses towards the end of November, and was not pregnant. She still had time, though time to do what exactly she had no idea.

As if she didn’t have enough challenges, Ruth had decided it was high time to tackle Mrs MacLeod. So had begun her war of attrition. She’d started on a small scale, praising Mrs MacLeod for her magnificent cooking. The woman was a very fine cook, once she stirred herself to be bothered to produce anything more complex than stew and tatties. Apparently, it was the laird’s favourite and, if it was good enough for the laird, it was good enough for everyone else. Ruth had bitten her tongue with difficulty against the desire to remark that he might discover a new favourite food if ever he had the chance to try anything else.

Though she knew full well she could simply employ another cook—even a fancy French chef if she wanted to—Mrs MacLeod was a challenge, and Ruth intended to win her over.

So it was with subterfuge in mind that she settled herself down at the kitchen table with some large cookery books and a carelessly placed catalogue for a Rumford Stove. Her housekeeper, the redoubtable and aptly named Mrs Crust, was seated beside her in lieu of the housekeeper’s sitting room which was, as yet, unusable. Mrs Crust had taken this in good heart when Ruth explained that she would have every modern convenience and luxuries unheard of in her previous position, if only she would be patient enough to bear with them whilst the castle underwent its renovation.

Mrs Crust had been magnificent, taking the endless parade of workmen trooping through the house with dirty boots better than Ruth felt she had a right to expect. She also well understood Ruth’s need to conquer Mrs MacLeod, knowing full well that, with her capitulation, the rest of the Scottish staff would follow.

So, with her partner in crime at her elbow, Ruth sipped at her tea and sighed with regret over the recipe book.

“It’s a shame, what with Christmas coming,” she said, with a low voice that was not quite low enough for Mrs MacLeod not to hear it over the kneading of her dough.

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