Chapter Ten

Irene awoke with a start and had that momentary, “Where am I?” feeling before she realized where she was. She slid off the bed and stretched. From the window, she noticed that it was already dusk, and the room, no, the chamber, Irene corrected, remembering the name Fiona had called it, was dimly lit. A cheery little fire did its best to chase away the chill air, and a bouquet of lavender stood on a table nearby. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a nap in the middle of the day, but she felt refreshed and looked forward to exploring the castle. She reached for the diary and headed out into the quiet hallway.

She hadn’t really lied to Fiona about getting lost. She did have a unique system when she traveled, but it was more than that. The reason Irene wasn’t worried about losing her way in Stirling Castle was because of her mother’s diary.

Her mother had written with such detail about every nook, every alcove, and every chamber in Stirling Castle that Irene felt as though she had a personal road map of the area. There was even mention of hidden passageways, dungeons, and what passed for a library in the thirteenth century. Irene’s stepfather, however, said the notion that his wife had visited Scotland was ridiculous. He was certain she’d never traveled outside the continental United States. Traveling to Europe had been a dream of theirs, but they’d never had the chance.

And yet Irene and her sister were convinced that their mother had been here before. That was the only explanation that made sense, which only added to the puzzle.

After a short time her good intentions to explore ended when she realized she was hungry. Exploring a castle on an empty stomach proved a distraction, especially when she could smell the rich aroma of fruit pies baking in the oven.

Irene gave up and followed the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg. It took longer than she expected, but she hoped she was getting close. Her mother’s notations weren’t as helpful as she’d thought they would be, and the photos in the brochures Irene had read on the plane had made the kitchens seem closer to the Great Hall than they apparently were. She’d misinterpreted the distance. Kitchens were fire hazards in this time period. Logically the best solution was to situate them as far from the living quarters as was practical. She’d read that some kitchens were even located in an outside building.

She paused. “Of course.” Changing directions, she raced down the ground floor corridor where the baking smells had been the strongest. She’d dismissed the area, as it looked like it led into the courtyard.

A few minutes later she reached a dead end. There was a flurry of activity and a parade of people coming and going, carrying baskets of fruit, sacks of flour, and spices. Irene entered the kitchens and was immediately engulfed in the sights, smells, and sounds of baking bread, baked apples, and laughter. The compact room was filled with women bent to their tasks. Some peeled and sliced apples, some kneaded and braided dough into loaves of bread, while others washed dishes or wiped down counters. Bridget was in the center of the activity.

Bridget had filled tins with sliced apples, sprinkled nutmeg and cinnamon, then placed rolled-out dough on top. She decorated each with sections of dough cut out in the shape of apples and leaves. Her creations were a work of art.

Irene paused, not sure if she was allowed entrance. One of the women nudged Bridget, who looked up, her expression hesitant at first but then melting into a smile.

“You found us,” she said.

“Such yummy smells. I couldn’t resist.”

Bridget laughed, the sound so natural it brought an answering smile to Irene’s face. “The pastries in this country are an adventure for the tongue, my mother would say. The French say the English food is too plain, and for the most part I agree. The French have mastered many things, including perfecting anything to do with chocolate, but I love the simplicity of a good fruit pie and a well-baked bread. The pies have almost cooled. Sit a while, and I’ll get you a slice.”

“Do you cook pheasants in your pies?” Irene said, remembering one of the notations in the guide books.

“You know your history. The answer is a resounding no. We try to cook authentic recipes for the time, but there are some I have refused, and that is at the top of the list.”

Irene noticed a saying painted on the wall, titled A Recipe For A Successful Match:

Begin with a mixture of friendship,

Communication and respect.

Add a dash of attraction.

Blend equal parts of commitment,

Trust, and honesty.

Now fold in a generous cup of love.

“That is a beautiful saying,” Irene said.

“It’s been in our family for generations.” Bridget cut a generous slice of pie, set it onto a plate, and handed it to Irene. “The poem also serves as the matchmaker motto.”

Irene took a bite of pie and closed her eyes as the combination of flavors melted in her mouth. “This is delicious,” she said with her mouth full. She swallowed and cut into the pie for another bite. “What you do is a family business, then?”

“It’s more of a calling.”

One of the women whispered in Bridget’s ear. Bridget’s expression changed as though a cloud had passed over the sun. She took off her apron and hung it on a hook. “I have to go, but stay, finish your pie. Mary will take good care of you and make sure you get back to your room, or you can participate in the games going on in the Great Hall.”

“I’m not much on games.” Irene rose. “Can I help?”

Bridget hesitated at the door. “Thank you for asking, but Fiona said she has things under control.”