The Adopted Debutante

An Evening in the Trellis Kitchen

As night fell upon Trellis Manor, the servants were busily tending to the last tasks of the day. Sir Carroll and Eloise had gone to the opera that evening, but had left earlier to bid Lord and Lady Delend a safe journey. 

With a fatigued sigh, Leeds placed the cleaned rifles in their holders and wiped the gunpowder from his hands. He closed the door to the shed and locked it securely. No ragamuffins were going to get their dirty hands on such beautiful weapons; not if Leeds could help it.

He made his way back to the house. Once inside, he knocked on the door to the kitchen.

" 'Tis not locked," Margaret's voice called through the wood. Leeds pushed the door open. "Well, you must be starving. Your dinner is waiting on the table."

She pointed to the meal sitting upon the large wooden table, then leaned over the pot of tea she was brewing. Gratefully, Leeds sat down to the plate.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"They'll come along," Margaret answered, swishing the contents of the pot. "Polly was to shine Sir Carroll's boots, and Libby is dusting Ms. Trellis' room while the master and young miss are out."

Even as she spoke, they could hear both Polly and Libby descending the stairs in the front hall.

"I don't care who that—that doctor thinks he is," Libby was saying as they entered the kitchen, "but to tell such a secret to Mr. Faulke is simply unthinkable."

"But you told 'im yourself, Miss Will'ams," Polly replied meekly.

"I?! To that braggart! Impossible!"

"I heard you..." 

Libby turned and found Leeds looking at her from across the table.

"Yes, he did, Miss Will'ams," Polly nodded.

"Well, it was not my intention to," Libby replied archly, "if I did."

Leeds gave a disdainful laugh. "Faulke hadn't been there two minutes before you—"

"No doubt it wasn't Dr. Newson's intent, either," Margaret smiled from her throne by the hearth. "Now get a bite, the both of you, or I'll eat what's left and the pan besides." 

She laughed at her own words and the tension was somewhat dispelled. Polly giggled as well.

"You'd be feeling a mite painful in your stomach, Miss Margaret." 

Her giggles were contagious—or at least the mirth behind them was—and the unpleasant subject was dropped.

"So...what must be done for the engagement?" Leeds asked.

Libby took a deep breath, "Well, Miss Trellis is to wear a satin gown that shall be the color of—"

"Yes, yes, yes, but what needs to be done?" Leeds insisted.

"We're not having it here, if that's the question, Leeds," Margaret told him.

Polly heaved an immense sigh of relief. Having the engagement occur at the Delends' ancestral manor spared her and Libby the enormous task of preparing the house for so many guests.

"Well, that's settled, then," Leeds nodded. 

He pushed the empty plate from him. Polly looked up from hers.

"You do think they're happy about it, though?" she asked. The others turned.

"Whatever do you mean, Polly?" Libby demanded.

"Oh, I don't know much," Polly said, shivering under the keen glances of her companions. "I...I suppose young folk can be nervous when they're a-goin' to be wed, can't they?"

"It can depen—" Leeds began.

"Of course they are nervous," Libby replied. "It's traditional to be frightened before being flooded in the celestial delights of wedded bliss." She breathed a happy sigh. "Jeremy could not help but be awed before the presence of a such an innocent, loving, charmingly beautiful angel..." She placed her hands over her heart in raptures. "To think that in one week they will be forever—"

"United in the contemplation of marriage," Leeds broke in abruptly upon her reveries. He turned to Polly. "And just because they're nervous, Polly, doesn't mean that they're inevitably destined for each other."

"What? How can you say such a thing?" Libby remonstrated, her rapture long since diminished.

"If a man were to marry every woman he trembled before, I dare say you and Faulke would have drowned in the wedded bliss of your celestial delights long ago."

"But Mr. Faulke doesn't tremble, he giggles," Polly observed candidly.

"I hope he chokes on them!" Libby replied tartly.

"Enough, Libby, your food's getting cold," Margaret rejoined.

"Oh, I haven't the appetite for food," Libby said, and promptly exited the kitchen.

Leeds brought Libby's untouched plate to the cook.

"You could probably use a little more tonight, Margaret," he said.

"Lord bless you, Leeds," Margaret said, patting his arm gratefully. 

Leeds smiled slightly, then turned and made his way to the door. 

"I'll be writing a letter to my cousin if anyone needs me," he said before closing the door behind him.

For a few minutes silence reigned in the kitchen, disturbed only by the scraping of the little spoons against the plates. At last, Polly looked up.

"Mr. Bylious made fun of me today, Miss Marg'ret," she said in a small voice.

"I wondered why you were crying in the corner this afternoon."

The maid flushed. She thought she had been discreet. She should have known Margaret's motherly heart would have noticed something was amiss.

"What did he say?" the cook asked kindly.

"He..asked me whether I wanted to marry Mr. Leeds or Mr. Flintworth..."

"Why?"

"Don't know, Miss Marg'ret," Polly said, chewing her lip, "I said I didn't care for Leeds, and he told Flintworth that...a scullery maid was a good bride for him."

Margaret frowned. "I suppose Flintworth didn't say much?"

"I don't know, Miss. Miss Eloise sent me off after that," Polly sighed. "I...I don't like Mr. Bylious much."

"He certainly has a loose tongue," Margaret nodded, making a mental note to ask Libby later what happened. "I'll be glad when his uncle returns. That always puts his bushy tail between his legs."

Polly giggled at the image. "My aunt Tilly says his uncle really doesn't like him. D'you think he'll be disinherited, too?"

"Too?" Margaret echoed. "Who else is disinherited?"

"Didn't old man Trellis--?"

"Polly! Don't refer to the late Lord Arthur Trellis so disrespectfully!" Margaret scolded her harshly. "No rich man should be so casually spoken of! Certainly not a man as great as he was!"

The poor maid winced. "I'm sorry, Miss Marg'ret. I didn't mean to disrespect him, honest! I know you used to work for him and--"

"That's not the point, Polly," Margaret interrupted. "He's a nobleman even in death. You need to respect that."

"Yes'm. I'm sorry."

The cook sighed, "It's quite alright. No harm done. Give me your plate."

Polly scraped the last of the sauce and brought the dish to Margaret.

"Do you think Mr. Carroll wants to keep My Bylious from being disinherited?" she asked. "Is that why he asked Mr. Flintworth to look after him?"

"Far be it from me to remark on what lessons Sir Carroll has or hasn't learned," Margaret muttered.

"Miss?"

The cook looked up with a smile. "Never mind about that, Polly. It's not our business. They have business with lords and ladies, but our business is much more important," she smacked the ladle against the rim of the pot. "Now to bed with you. We have a lot to do tomorrow morning."

"Yes'm," Polly sighed, remembering. "The luncheon..."

Margaret patted her back. "Goodnight, Polly."

"G'night, Miss Marg'ret."