Rules of a Ruse (Regency Christmas Brides #2)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Alden heard the faint sound of the dinner bell as he sat in the study, reviewing the ledgers. He had to admit that the accounts were impeccable, and his respect for Miss Sidney grew with every line he read. Not only was she strikingly beautiful, but she was also extraordinarily competent with numbers.

He rose and took a moment to adjust his cravat. He had been unable to change for dinner and he hoped it wasn’t a formal affair.

As he made his way towards the entry hall, he saw Miss Sidney descending the stairs, adorned in a lavender gown with a white net overlay. Her hair was elegantly piled atop her head, making her look every bit the epitome of perfection. He couldn’t help but marvel at how someone so beautiful and accomplished was seemingly hidden away in Scotland.

He waited for her at the bottom step. “You look lovely, Miss Sidney,” he praised.

“Thank you,” Miss Sidney replied. “It isn’t often that we have guests and I thought I should at least attempt to look presentable. ”

“I can’t imagine that you don’t have suitors banging down your door,” Alden said with a grin.

Miss Sidney visibly tensed, her smile faltering slightly. “What did I say about flattery?” she asked, her tone suddenly more reserved.

“It is merely the truth,” he countered.

“Well, do try to keep your truth to yourself,” Miss Sidney remarked, clasping her hands in front of her. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

“What of your aunt?” Alden inquired.

“She informed me that she would join us when she was able,” Miss Sidney responded.

Alden found himself pleased by that unexpected news. He was rather enjoying spending time with Miss Sidney. Offering his arm, he asked, “May I escort you?”

Miss Sidney placed her hand on his and he led her into the dining room. He noticed that the table was set for them to dine at opposite ends of the long, rectangular table. Slipping her hand from his, Miss Sidney moved to sit at one end, placing her white linen napkin on her lap.

Alden took his seat, but he did not like how far Miss Sidney was from him. He preferred to admire her up close, not from afar. As he settled in, the footmen stepped forward, placing bowls of soup before them. He looked down at the soup and asked, “What is this?”

“Powsowdie,” one of the footmen replied before stepping back.

Alden noticed that Miss Sidney was demurely sipping her soup so he assumed it must taste better than it looked. He picked up his spoon and dipped it into the broth, bringing it to his lips. The flavors of dried peas and barley surprised him.

“This is delicious,” Alden acknowledged, raising his voice to ensure Miss Sidney heard him.

Miss Sidney gave him a questioning look. “Pardon? ”

Alden raised his voice even further. “This is delicious,” he shouted.

“I am so glad that you like it,” Miss Sidney responded. “Not everyone would eat a soup that is prepared in a sheep’s head.”

Alden dropped his spoon. “I beg your pardon?” He must have misheard her.

Miss Sidney smiled. “Powsowdie is also known as Sheep’s Head Broth,” she explained. “The cook prepared it with sheep’s trotters.”

“Trotters?” Alden repeated, his voice tinged with disgust.

“Yes, trotters are the feet of the sheep,” Miss Sidney revealed. “The cook wanted to prepare you a traditional Scottish meal.”

Alden stared at the soup, his appetite vanishing. “And you like this?” he asked incredulously.

“Don’t you?” Miss Sidney asked, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“I did before I realized what was in the broth,” Alden admitted.

Miss Sidney laughed lightly. “It is common for sheep’s trotters to be boiled and are used in various dishes.”

Alden flicked his wrist at the footman. “Take this away,” he ordered, unable to stomach any more.

Placing her spoon onto the table, Miss Sidney said, “Perhaps the next course will be more to your liking.”

He dreaded his next question, but he asked it, nonetheless. “What is the next course?”

“Roasted Fowl with Drappit Egg,” Miss Sidney replied.

Alden let out a relieved sigh. “As long as it is not prepared in a sheep’s head, I will no doubt enjoy it.”

Miss Sidney offered him a reassuring smile. “I can confirm that it is not prepared in a sheep’s head.”

“Good,” Alden said, feeling slightly better .

“But it is prepared in a lamb’s head,” Miss Sidney said with a satisfied look on her face.

Alden eyed her curiously, wondering if she was just goading him. Why would Roasted Fowl be prepared in a lamb’s head? Was everything in this blasted country prepared with a head of some sort?

Just as he was about to voice his incredulity, Mrs. Hardy entered the room with a white sheet draped over her head. She sat down, and a footman quickly set a place for her. The sheet now had three holes cut into it: two for her eyes and one for her mouth.

Miss Sidney continued to sip her soup, unperturbed by her aunt’s peculiar behavior. Alden found this situation maddening. Perhaps it was because he was famished, having not eaten since breakfast, and now facing a traditional Scottish meal that, truth be told, frightened him a little.

He couldn’t wait to get married and leave this blasted country behind.

A footman collected Miss Sidney’s bowl and she wiped the sides of her mouth with the napkin. “I am sorry you didn’t like your soup,” she said.

What Alden wouldn’t give for pea soup, a sparerib and some pudding for dessert. Perhaps if he spoke to the cook and requested something different than Scottish food.

Knowing that Miss Sidney was still waiting for a response, Alden said, “It is of little consequence.”

“I spoke to Bryon, and he assured me that all the spiders at the cottage were removed,” Miss Sidney said.

“All the spiders?” Alden asked, dread creeping into his voice.

Miss Sidney bobbed her head. “This is Scotland. Spiders are very common indoors during the winter. It is much warmer there.”

Alden frowned. “Wonderful.”

“I do believe that you will find your cottage up to snuff,” Miss Sidney said. “The view isn’t as nice as the other one, mind you, but it has recently been remodeled.”

The footmen stepped forward and placed plates in front of them. Glancing down at his plate, he saw the Roasted Fowl with a poached egg, and his stomach growled. Despite his earlier reservations, he needed to eat. He picked up his fork and knife and started eating. To his pleasant surprise, the fowl was tender and moist.

They ate in a comfortable silence, but Alden noticed that Mrs. Hardy was hardly touching her food. He turned to address her. “Is the fowl not to your liking?”

No response.

Alden turned a questioning glance to Miss Sidney. “Does your aunt not speak?”

“When she is a ghost, she tends to keep to herself,” Miss Sidney replied. “Just pretend as if she isn’t here.”

“That is rather hard to do,” Alden said.

Miss Sidney placed her fork and knife down onto the plate, indicating she was done. “Ghosts can be quite peculiar about their meals,” she said with a wry smile. “But I assure you, she means no harm.”

Alden settled back in his seat. “This is certainly the most unique dinner I have ever attended.”

“Welcome to Scotland, Mr. Dandridge. There is never a dull moment here,” Miss Sidney responded.

“I am beginning to see that.” He reached for his glass and said, “I must admit that I am impressed by your bookkeeping skills.”

Miss Sidney leaned to the side as a footman collected her plate. “My father taught me how to balance a ledger and I suppose it stuck,” she revealed.

Alden placed his glass down. “That was rather progressive of your father.”

“My father encouraged my intellectual prowess,” Miss Sidney said, a hint of pride in her voice. “He never once made me feel less than for not being born a man.”

“Nor should he have,” Alden said, his tone firm.

Miss Sidney offered him a weak smile. “My father had no sons, and it took many years before my parents had me.”

Alden pushed his plate away. “My mother did her duty. She bore an heir and a spare for my father,” he said, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Sidney said.

“You said nothing wrong, Miss Sidney,” he rushed to assure her. “My family is complicated and is not something that is pleasant to talk about.”

Miss Sidney bobbed her head. “I understand. I try to avoid speaking of my uncle at all costs. He is not a man that I admire or wish to emulate in any way.”

A footman collected his plate before another one placed a plate of pudding in front of him. Alden eyed it warily. “Dare I ask if this pudding was prepared in any head?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“No, of course not,” Miss Sidney responded. “Petchah is a traditional Scottish dessert.”

Picking up a spoon, Alden tapped the pudding before asking, “Is it made with sheep’s trotters?”

A laugh escaped Miss Sidney’s lips. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “It is simply pudding.”

He scooped some pudding up and brought it to his lips, but Miss Sidney’s next words made him pause.

“Although, I think it is only fair that you know that it is made from calves’ feet,” Miss Sidney shared.

Alden let out a sigh, muttering under his breath, “What is wrong with this blasted country?” He stared at the pudding, feeling only frustration. Well, he might as well at least try it, especially since he had come this far.

He took a bite, trying to pretend he wasn’t chewing calves’ feet. Nope. He couldn’t do it. He lowered his spoon to his plate.

Miss Sidney watched him with a sympathetic smile. “It is an acquired taste,” she admitted. “Not everyone takes to Scottish traditional dishes right away.”

Mrs. Hardy suddenly jumped up from her seat, her ghostly guise fluttering as she hurried out of the room.

Miss Sidney watched her aunt’s hasty departure with a serene expression, but then she shoved back her chair and rose gracefully. “I do believe I shall retire for the evening,” she announced.

Alden felt a stab of disappointment at that. He wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to Miss Sidney. The evening, despite its peculiarities, had been intriguing, and he found himself longing for more of her company.

He rose from his seat and bowed politely. “Good evening, Miss Sidney.”

She dropped into a curtsy. “Good evening, Mr. Dandridge,” she said. “When you are ready to depart for your cottage, Bryon will see to the coach being brought around front.”

“Thank you,” he responded, though he wished he could think of something to prolong their conversation.

As Miss Sidney walked off, Alden’s mind raced. He wanted to keep her longer, to learn more about her, but he found himself at a loss for words.

Once departed from the dining room, Elinor made her way to the kitchen on the lower level. She was starving and needed some sustenance. Even she couldn’t stomach what Mrs. Beaton had prepared.

She stepped into the kitchen and saw Mrs. Beaton cutting a loaf of bread. “Come, sit,” she encouraged. “I figured ye’d would be doon right about now.”

Elinor went to the table and sat down. “I’m sorry, but I tried to eat the food you prepared. I’m afraid I couldn’t stomach it.”

Mrs. Beaton laughed heartily. “Ye’ll never truly be a Scot if ye cannae eat our traditional food.”

“I prefer British food,” Elinor said. “Fortunately, you are an excellent cook and prepared those dishes perfectly.”

“Now, ye can stop with yer flattery,” Mrs. Beaton said, placing a slice of freshly baked bread on a plate. “How did Mr. Dandridge fare?”

“Not much better than me, I’m afraid,” Elinor responded.

Mrs. Beaton walked the plate over to the table and set it down. “Poor man. He must be starvin’,” she remarked. “I heard he acted like a bampot over house spiders.”

Elinor shrugged. “I do not fault him for that. House spiders can grow to be rather massive, especially here in Scotland. And do not even get me started on how fast they are or how you can hear a thud when they drop down from the ceiling.”

“Should I make Mr. Dandridge a typical Scottish breakfast or should we go easy on him in the mornin’?” Mrs. Beaton asked.

Her aunt stepped into the room, the white sheet draped over her arm. “I am thinking sliced haggis would be an excellent breakfast tomorrow for our guest.”

Mrs. Beaton wiped her hands on the apron that hung around her neck. “Ye do realize that some folks actually enjoy haggis.”

“I know, but we are trying to get Mr. Dandridge to leave, and quickly,” Elinor said. “Once he realizes that Scotland is not to his liking, he will return home.”

“Very well, but I will be servin’ bread for breakfast, as well. I dinnae want the man tae starve,” Mrs. Beaton responded .

Her aunt settled into the chair next to Elinor. “I think Mr. Dandridge is used to me in the sheet now.”

“Does that mean you are going to finally take it off and converse with us?” Elinor asked.

“Perhaps, but I do think I need to up the stakes,” her aunt replied. “What do you think about me playing the bagpipes?”

Elinor’s brow furrowed. “You don’t play the bagpipes.”

“Precisely,” her aunt replied with a mischievous smile. “What if I started to learn? We have a bagpipe set in the music room.”

“I think that is a terrible idea,” Elinor said.

Her aunt clasped her hands together. “I knew you would love it.”

“No, I said it was a terrible idea,” Elinor corrected. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I am, but I have already made up my mind. When Mr. Dandridge comes to call tomorrow, I shall impress him with my skills,” her aunt said with a satisfied nod.

Elinor huffed. “You have no skills.”

Her aunt feigned outrage. “I will have you know that my great-grandfather played the bagpipes.”

“That doesn’t mean you would be good at playing the bagpipes,” Elinor remarked. “Besides, I am taking him to visit Gwendolyn tomorrow. I do say that is punishment enough for one day.”

With a bob of her head, her aunt said, “You make a good point.” She promptly rose. “I am going to bed. It is late and I am tired.”

Elinor eyed her aunt suspiciously. “You are plotting something, aren’t you?”

“It is best that you don’t know,” her aunt said with a wink. “Goodnight.”

As her aunt hurried up the steps, Mrs. Beaton smiled and remarked, “Yer aunt is always up to somethin’,” she said .

Elinor rose. “She is,” she agreed. “I think I will go select a book from the library to read this evening.”

“Dinnae forget yer bread,” Mrs. Beaton said, gesturing to the slice still on the table.

Elinor picked up the bread and headed up the stairs. As she walked down the corridor, Mr. Dandridge stepped out of the dining room and she ran right into him, smushing her bread in the process.

Mr. Dandridge steadied her with a gentle hand. “My apologies, Miss Sidney. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“No harm done,” Elinor responded, though she glanced ruefully at the squished bread in her hand. What a waste, she thought.

“Where did you get bread?” he asked, almost eagerly.

Elinor blinked, searching for words. “I… uh… went to the kitchen to thank Mrs. Beaton for the wonderful meal and she gave me a piece of bread. I always eat a piece of bread right before I go to bed.”

“Then I am sorry to ruin your nightly routine,” he said with a slight smile.

A footman stepped forward to take her bread, and she brushed off the breadcrumbs from her hand. “It is all right.”

“Shall we go to the kitchen together to get a piece?” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” Elinor responded quickly. “I am still full from the delicious food I ate for dinner.”

Mr. Dandridge nodded. “Very well. I was just about to retire for the evening, but I was hoping to speak to you about something.”

Elinor mustered a smile to her lips as she pretended to appear interested in what he was about to say. “Of course. What would you care to discuss?”

He put his hands up, looking hesitant. “Why have you not started to decorate the manor for Christmas?” he asked. “I have looked, and I have not seen one decoration. ”

Her smile faded. “The reason is simple. I do not celebrate Christmas.”

“At all?” he asked, his tone softening.

She pursed her lips, feeling the weight of her memories. “My parents died around Christmas time, and I do not like to be reminded of such things.”

Mr. Dandridge’s eyes held understanding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Will there be anything else?” Elinor asked, adopting a more formal tone. She didn’t dare express her emotions with Mr. Dandridge. He was a stranger. How could he understand the pain she endured every Christmas season?

He took a step closer to her. “Have you considered that your servants might want to participate in the Christmas season?”

“I have not,” she admitted. “And quite frankly, it is none of your concern.”

“I know, but…”

She raised her voice in indignation. “I do not believe I asked for your opinion on the matter,” she replied. “Furthermore, I am in charge of this horse farm for now and I will decorate the manor as I see fit.”

Mr. Dandridge tipped his head and took a step back. “You are right. I assure you that I meant no offense.”

Elinor could see the contrite look on his face, but she didn’t care. She was angry. How dare he tell her what to do? She had run this manor- without him- and, if she had her way, she would continue to do so long after he was gone.

“Excuse me,” Elinor muttered before she walked away.

Once she arrived at the entry hall, she saw her aunt was watching her with a look of concern on her face. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I heard you from down the hall.”

“I am fine.”

Her aunt didn’t quite look convinced. “If you are sure…” Her words trailed off .

Elinor bobbed her head decisively. “I am.”

“Very well,” her aunt said.

With a glance over her shoulder to ensure they were alone, Elinor said, “Mr. Dandridge said the most bacon-brained thing. He said that I should consider the servants’ feelings about decorating the manor for Christmas.”

“He isn’t wrong, my dear,” her aunt responded.

Elinor reared back. “How could you say such a thing?” she asked. “Do you not miss my parents at all?”

Her aunt reached out and placed a comforting hand on her sleeve. “I miss my sister, your mother, every single day,” she stated. “But they are gone, and we are not. We must go on living.”

“I am not sure if I can do it,” Elinor admitted.

“You are stronger than you give yourself credit for,” her aunt said. “Sometimes, we must look past ourselves in order to start healing.”

Elinor frowned. “And you think decorating the manor will help me heal?”

“It couldn’t hurt to try,” her aunt replied, dropping her hand.

Taking a step back, Elinor admitted, “I am not sure if I am ready. My mother loved Christmas and our country home would be decorated to the rafters. It was such a happy time for me.”

Her aunt gave her a sympathetic look. “It still can be.”

“How?” she demanded, her back growing rigid. “My mother is gone, as is my father.”

“You still have me, and always will.”

Elinor bobbed her head. “You are right, and I am most grateful for that,” she said. “I just wish that my parents were still alive.”

Her aunt smiled. “But then you would have never known what you were truly capable of. After all, your father would be so proud knowing you were running a successful horse farm on your own.”

“That is true,” Elinor responded.

“Life is complicated and messy, but it has a way of working out precisely the way it is supposed to,” her aunt counseled.

Elinor glanced at the iron railings that ran the length of the stairs. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if we put up some decorations.”

“I agree,” her aunt said. “Come, let us retire for bed.”

As Elinor walked up the stairs, she hoped that she wasn’t making a mistake. The memories of her country home being decorated for Christmas were some of her most cherished ones. But perhaps it was time to make new ones.