Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Hulsman Marie

anything to read. Kicking my jeans aside, I saw Edward’s handkerchief fall out of the pocket. Rose can help me get the blood stain out tomorrow, I thought. Or, I don’t know, maybe he needs it. It is his handkerchief, after all. I could just give it to him tonight. And. And maybe borrow a book.

      Edward and I were friends, I believed, even though we were so very different. He was a favorite of Lady Penelope, the Earl and Countess’s daughter, and she’d taken him from house to house before she’d married Jasper Roth. She always requested that he personally bring her tray when she took meals in her room, which was remarkably often, much to the annoyance of her husband. This was a breach of protocol – in a grand house, only the highest-ranking maids and butlers go into family quarters. Chefs remain in the kitchen. The nuances of English manners still manage to baffle me, but I do my best to play along. But Lady Penelope is a wild card. If she wanted to have a chef in her pocket, it was her prerogative.

      And Edward’s skills were undeniable, so no one could say Lady P hired him just as eye candy. He’d started in the military, which he’d joined after his mother died, and once his stint was over, he’d been accepted at Le Cordon Bleu, London. On the strength of his training and admirable military record, he was cooking in fine English houses in no time. His haute-cuisine skills passed Roth’s muster, but Edward’s heart was plainly in his everyday cooking. Whenever MacGregor presented him with a goose, a wild turkey, or venison from the grounds, he made magic. When I’d first cooked at the hall, Edward introduced me to the kitchen library that Terrence loved so much. That whole south wall, shared with the laundry room, was lined with built-in bookcases and featured a collection of all the standard, rare, and antique cookbooks that attested to his wide-ranging curiosity. The shelves also featured guides to wild game and fish, scientific books on herbs and botanicals, and food photography. Edward pointed out all the family’s favorites, and his, too.

      I use recipes as a guide and improvise from there, and that’s how I got really good, I think. Once I was out from under the thumbs of head chefs like Henri and that asshole from The Ivy I started to find my voice. When I got the chance to wing it, I felt exhilarated, and I did exactly that when I was cooking for myself or for friends. When I had employers with a more casual attitude, I got real job satisfaction from experimentation. And I’ll just say it straight – it felt good to have a tableful of diners who’d eaten all over the world fawn over me and tell me I’m the best. I’d never tell all that to Edward, though. I already felt vulnerable with him, like he could see right through me.

      Although I enjoyed working with him, I wouldn’t say it was easy for me as I was always in a state of high emotion around him, either on the cusp of a laugh or irritation. He threw me off balance. It wasn’t like that with Ben. With Ben, I’d been grounded and alert, and I could keep my feet planted. I always knew what to expect with Ben. That is, right up until the moment I’d found another woman’s underwear in his flat. Instead I felt floaty around Edward, as if I wasn’t Juliet, but just an idea that hadn’t fully taken shape. Boy, I thought, if I admitted that to Mother, she’d have a phalanx of analysts tackling me and tying me to a couch.

      Like one time, I’d been making a North Carolina-style brisket at Mr. Roth’s request, with molasses and white vinegar. It had to slow roast for seven hours in a huge Dutch oven. Without asking, Edward poked his head in the oven, lifted the pot lid and threw in a cup of brown sugar.

      “Why would you do that?” I asked, angry. Roth wanted what he wanted, and I was supposed to give it to him.

      He smiled devilishly. “Why not? Don’t you like it sweet?”

      “Because opening the pot alters the cook time and the recipe doesn’t call for brown sugar! And how about because it’s my roast?” My blood was boiling and I couldn’t see straight. I was usually more level-headed than this in the kitchen. In fact, I had a reputation for being the very opposite of a temperamental chef.

      “What’s the big deal?” he said amiably. “It’s good to stir things up a bit.” He was wearing a pair of oven mitts printed with winged, pink pigs on them. I was doubly infuriated by that whimsical touch. The kitchen was done in slate and mineral colors. All of the dishtowels, potholders and other linens were gray or black. Jasper Roth had had a heavy say in the recent renovation. Jasper would hate those mitts.

      “The best surprises in life happen when you just say yes in the moment.” He either couldn’t see he was winding me up or he didn’t care. “What else?” he asked. “Do you think maybe a little scotch bonnet?” he added, grabbing a pepper off the counter and making toward the oven.

      “No!” I shouted, reaching for the pepper, which he was holding high, just out of my reach. I’d promised Jasper Roth this specific dish and my name was on it. “Stop it, Edward, I mean it. Seriously, I mean it.” My voice was a bit too loud and I could feel I was red in the face.

      “Does it always have to be ‘seriously’ with you, Jubes? Can’t it ever be fun?”

      Lady Penelope poked her head through the swinging door just then. She looked from me, to Edward.

      “Am I interrupting something?” she asked Edward directly.

      “No, Your Ladyship,” I answered, steadying my breath in an attempt to appear calm. “What can we get you?”

      “Edward, if you’d be so kind,” she said, ignoring me, “I’d like a Nescafe in the dining room.” I could feel him glancing at my face, but I busied myself smashing the pits out of olives with the broad side of a French knife.

      “Of course,” he said to Lady Penelope. He boiled the kettle and spooned coffee crystals into a cup, and set a tray while she stood watching. As he carried it out, I expected her to follow him. Instead, she walked up closely behind me.

      “On second thought, put the tray on my vanity, will you Edward?” she called to him through the door. And then she said into my ear, “He’s not for you.”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “What I mean to say is, he’s an excellent chef, but he’s rumored to be a Lothario. Just a word to the wise. You’re best to leave him alone.”

      “There’s nothing between Edward and me, Your Ladyship.” As if it’s any of your business, I added in my head. “I have a fiancé.”

      She glanced at my naked hand, and said, “Oh, don’t you wear your ring at work?”

      Stammering, I said, “Well, we’re kind of… um… pre-engaged. Anyway, I have a boyfriend.”

      “Ah, well, that’s a relief. For you, I mean,” she said.

      Edward came back through. “I’ve set up your hot drink, Your Ladyship.”

      “Thank you,” she said, turning and walking out the door.

      I wiped my hands, picked up my French knife and got back to work. I couldn’t look at Edward. I felt foolish that I’d gotten that upset.

      After a few beats, he said, “Don’t mind her. That’s her way.” And then he was very quiet for a while.

      “It’s her house,” I said, impersonally.

      “You know, Jubes,” he’d said to me, “it’d be nice if you’d loosen up – in the kitchen, I mean. Rules are meant to be broken.” He was a bundle of contradictions in appearance and manner. His hair was still cut in military style but he had a thick tribal tattoo on the top of his left forearm that peeked out of the sleeve of his chef’s coat. His uniform was always starched and spotless, but he sported unorthodox accents such as a heavy silver wallet chain or a thick, brown leather wrist cuff with an antique barn nail wrapped around it. And well groomed as he was, the shadow of a beard was always threatening to appear on his square jaw.

      “In my book rules are meant to be rules. That’s why they’re called that. Rules.” I listened to myself talking, wondering why I was being such a prig. I sounded like Mother, a wet blanket on any hint of fun. I’d broken the rules in search of fun with Stephen, and I’d been left with egg