Chapter Thirty-Five

Cassandra worked in the kitchen with the menus for the week, expressed to the staff regret that she’d had no time to review things. She told them how proud she was of all they’d accomplished. The dowager found her daughter-in-law and greeted her in warmth.

Sighting her mother-in-law, she spoke in a quickened tone, “There is joyous news in that the duke recovers well from his relapse. Isn’t that so, Mother Madelaine?”

The dowager reached for Cassandra. “I know how much time you spent in his recovery, but you are correct, he recuperates and will soon be barking orders at everyone. Thank you for your care of my son. With your approval, I suggest we give each staff member a ration of East India teas and tallow candles.” She hesitated for a moment, “And brandy for the men? Do you approve, my dear?”

“Yes, Mother,” she was quick to say. “It is so much appreciated. All of you are our extended family. We wish to reward your loyalty and concern.” Cassandra looked away and took her apron from the hook in the kitchen where it resided for when she baked. “Indulge me please. I intend to make a humble pie.” And when he’s better, I hope he chokes on it.

“Humble pie?” asked the dowager.

“Yes, it’s a recipe of mine I used to bake quite often in summers at the school. I make the crust and then use whatever is available for use, even potato skins or carrot tops.”

She went to the larder, got the ingredients, placed the flour on a board, scraped a hole in the middle, added a cup of butter, pinch of salt and cracked one egg, rather fiercely, and then a pinch of vinegar and a third cup of warm water, and whipped up a storm. The kitchen staff looked at each other speechless. Cook joined the conversation, “Duchess, we can finish that for you if you’d like.”

“No, I need to pound the dough into submission.” She laughed too loud. “That’s a figure of speech.” Nonetheless, she slammed her fists into the mixture and worked the dough.

The dowager left, smiling.

Chester came to Cassandra with the duke’s message. She rolled the piecrust and fitted the dough into a pan. “He’ll have to wait until I finish.” She went to the stove and tested the stone fruit mixture. “Needs more cinnamon,” she said, and added it.” She removed the hot pot to the work area, and prepared the mixture. She took a bottle of brandy from the shelf and poured half of it into the hot copper vessel and stirred vigorously. She added the other half of the liquor until it bubbled and reduced.

The staff watched as she poured the whole pot into the pie pan, and then rolled out the top dough. “That ought to give him a jolt,” she muttered.

Chester asked, “Do you have a message for his Grace?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes upward. “Not one you can repeat.” One of the kitchen staff took the pie from her and placed it in the oven. “I’ll take care not to burn it, milady.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, removed the apron, and hung it on a hook. “Chester, when is his next dosage due?” she asked as she washed her hands and dried them on a clean towel.

“In ten minutes, Duchess. Shall I help?” he asked.

“No, I will come and minister to him one minute after the designated time.”

The staff busied themselves as if they hadn’t heard the commentary.

“Good day,” she said to them, walked out of the room and into the drawing room where she paced back and forth. How dare he embarrass her in front of everyone?

She checked the long case clock and at precisely one minute after the appointed hour, she went to his room. Cassandra tapped on the door, and didn’t wait for him to tell her to enter. Posh on him.

When she opened the door, he had his back to her. Cassandra’s heart burst from the magnificent sight of him dressed only in his breeches and boots. He looked every inch the man she knew and loved—just thinner.

“I’m here to give you the medication as you requested.” She went to his side table where the quinine was kept and prepared the proper dosage. “Will you kindly sit and take two spoonfuls?”

The duke followed her orders and dropped into a sturdy wood chair, accepted the first spoonful, and grimaced. “Foul stuff,” he muttered.

“Just like your disposition.” She exhaled. “One more.” This time she administered the spoonful forcefully.

“I deserved that,” he declared, but his hand reached for hers. He pulled her to him, and settled her on his lap. “I don’t have all my strength, so I’d appreciate if you don’t fight me. I’m told my disposition improves over time. If I hurt you, I apologize with utmost sincerity.”

She stared at a wall, away from his needy eyes, knowing he’d be hard to resist.

“Kindly look at me, Cassandra.” Gordon took his hand and turned her face to him. “When I awakened and didn’t see you, I thought you’d neglected me. I lashed out. It was unforgivable and so unworthy of all your care.” He kissed her forehead and whispered. “When I’m better, I will make it up to you in a special way.”

“I don’t need more jewelry or dresses,” she whispered, and still avoided his eyes.

“I wasn’t referring to fripperies, Cassandra. I thought of rather decadent things that only a healthy man can perform with the woman he loves.”

“Silly me to forget you’re a rake.” She laughed. “I need you to be strong and well for our child. I accept your apology and I understand.”

She looked at his pale color, and the dark circles under his eyes. “I don’t believe you should exert yourself so soon. Why not lay on the bed? Does the quinine make you drowsy? It’s occurred to me, I never had the opportunity to ask until now.”

“At times, yes. It drains me of my effort to recover faster when I know I have an eager companion who waits for me.”

She arose from the chair, “Come, Gordon. Rest on the lounge where you can recline if you so choose. I’ll look in on you from time to time. When you awaken next, the children would like to see you.”

He followed her instructions reluctantly. “Don’t treat me like an invalid.”

“Give yourself time, husband. By the way, I love your tattoo since I now know its history. You will have to tell the children of its power, and then flex your muscle. I guarantee Alfie will try to do the same without the tattoo.”

“I am told you’ve made me a humble pie,” he jested.

“News travels fast. Yes, I did. Would you like to know what’s in it?”

“Dare I ask?” He allowed her to cover him on the lounge.

“It’s a special flaky dough with brandied stone fruit. Lots of brandy. Lots of cinnamon. It’s very spicy. Did I mention it has lots of brandy?”

“I take it a piece of the pie will make me tipsy?”

“Probably, but you cannot taste it until you’re off your medication.”

“You are a strict nurse. Remind me not to get sick again.” He rested his head back, closed his eyes, and dozed.

Cassandra ran her fingers through his dark locks, kissed his forehead, and left the room.