Christmas at Thornton Hall. Lynn Hulsman Marie

any tour of duty with Edward at the Hall, I always returned to London exhausted. I decided that being in a heightened state all the time didn’t suit me. Better a calm routine, like the one Ben provided me.

      Sometimes, though, I did find relaxation at The Hall. Sometimes, after dinner was cleaned up, we staff all sat together in the kitchen, cozily drinking wine and watching videos. I had a fine time doing jumbles, sudoku and crosswords with the others. Since Ben, I’d rarely passed the time this frivolously in my off days in London, the way I had with Posy, when I was single. There was always a biography to be read or a gallery to be visited. And I certainly never watched films like The Terminator or Airplane. At home, Ben and I took in documentaries, or French films, or Woody Allen. Edward teased me about wanting to be the “smart girl with my ducks in a row” and delighted in flustering me.

      Edward and I took an occasional run together on the grounds. He’d pretend it was boot-camp, military style, and he always kicked my behind. From time to time, Lord Chinnerton, the Baron of Hinckley, would gallop by, enjoying the freedom to ride on his own land, and the land of his best friend alongside it. He was genial and casually friendly.

      “Good afternoon!” he shouted on one occasion. “The rain has left us behind, at least for today. Fine day for some exercise.”

      “It certainly is, Sir,” Edward had replied. “I’d venture Thunder thinks the same,” he said, approaching the horse’s muzzle and giving it a stroke. “Gorgeous!”

      “Not as gorgeous as your pretty companion,” he tipped his riding helmet to me. “‘To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides,’ as the quote goes,” he said.

      “Oh,” I responded, coloring. “It isn’t like that, Your Lordship. You see, we both cook at Thornton.”

      “I’m sure you do, my dear,” he said wickedly. “See that you enjoy every minute of it.” He nudged Thunder on and galloped away, kicking up mud.

      Sadly, it was all-too rare that we could find the time to sneak away to exercise, which was tragic, as Edward was an excellent baker and was always making double-batches for us staff… which we naturally gluttonously accepted. “You have to stop tempting me, or I’ll gain ten pounds,” I protested. He knew I found it impossible to say no to his sugary treats. Ben didn’t care for sweets and I didn’t really like to indulge when I was with him.

      “More of you to love,” Edward had shrugged. His saying that made my heart hammer.

      “A word of warning, Miss Juliet, if you don’t mind,” Seamus had said to me toward the end of my first stint at Thornton.

      “Course I don’t mind,” I’d told him, worried that he was going to tell me that everyone in the drawing room was gagging on the cocktails I’d just sent out. I knew pairing hibiscus and mint was risky but hadn’t thought of it as a deal-breaker.

      “I think Mr. Roth has his eye on you and the young chef,” Seamus said, busying himself by making a cup of tea.

      “Thank you, Seamus, but there’s nothing to keep an eye on,” I told him. “Do they like the drinks?”

      “Yes, yes, everyone’s oohing and aahing about the color and the flavor. Back to the point, though, Mr. Roth doesn’t like to know that those of us in his service have earthly wants and needs, like for food and water, and romance…or air, come to think of it,” he said, chuckling at his own joke.

      “Don’t worry. I have a boyfriend in London. I don’t need romance.”

      Back then, I was just getting a foothold as a chef in this world and didn’t want to jeopardize it, so Seamus’s words niggled at me. Plus, there was Ben. Even in the early days, I found myself defending Ben to Edward. Like that time we were making a multi-course Indian meal.

      Washing lentils at the sink, I told him how we made sense as a couple – how Ben was working to make partner, how he and I were intellectually compatible, how his law degree and my undergraduate degree in psychology made us both analytical, how we had similar views on financial independence. “We split all expenses now, and I suspect we’ll have separate accounts when we marry,” I said smugly, feeling like one of the smart-woman financial advisors from The Eva! Show.

      “You go Dutch at dinner. So he’s a cheapskate?” Edward asked. He measured out jasmine rice into a pot.

      “No! We’re simply both autonomous,” I told him.

      “That sounds hot,” he'd replied, getting under my skin again.

      “Do all relationships have to be hot?” I demanded. At the very mention of the word hot, I became aware of Edward’s shoulders under his close-fitting t-shirt. The family was out for the afternoon, so he’d taken off his chef’s coat and hung it on a chair. That’s Edward in a nutshell – a maddening combination of rule follower and risk taker.

      “Hell yes, relationships have to be hot. That’s part of it, anyway. A big part, if you ask me,” he said, turning from his pot and shooting me a look. Anyway, you can’t see much of him. How can you, when you’re always here with me?” He smiled.

      “Well, I’m trying to earn a good reputation in the business, in case you hadn’t noticed. That’s why I’m here, of course.” Not to be near you, I said in my head.

      “Or maybe you’re just holding out for someone of higher rank?” He tossed this out casually, rhythmically chopping onions while he spoke. “Crossing the invisible line has its appeal. I mean, that’s what I hear,” said Edward.

      I thought about Jasper Roth and flushed deeply, not waiting for an answer to my question. “Look, if you’re implying that I have some kind of crush…”

      “I’m just asking if…” his knife stopped. “Nothing.”

      “What were you going to say?”

      He didn’t answer. He lifted a pot lid, and began measuring out different colored powders into the curry he’d been making. I watched, pretending to be interested in the dish, but really wanting to hear Edward say more about Jasper. I reached around him to take the ghee off the stove, grabbing the hot handle of the iron pot without a potholder.

      “Damn!” I cried, letting go immediately.

      “Slow down, Jubes. There’s no rush.” He took my hand in his, and eased my clenched fist open. He kissed my injured palm, very lightly. “Let me wrap that hand up with some aloe gel,” he said.

      The tenderness set off a longing in me that I didn’t want him to see. “That curry’s going to be too spicy,” I said, pulling my hand away, pretending it didn’t hurt. “The tastes in this house are particular, you know. That combo will be too much for them, they’re not The Rolling Stones.”

      “There’s a saying in India, ‘Spice wakes the sleeping.’” He looked directly at me, his emerald green eyes with the gold flecks holding me in his steady gaze. Then he took my hand again, pulling against my resistance. “Open up for me,” he said. “You must be in pain. Let me look after you.”

      My hand did hurt, and I did need looking after. I imagined leaning forward and kissing his full lips. He always smelled like cinnamon to me, and I could almost taste it in my mouth. After a moment I said, “I’m here to do things by the book,” and I turned away.

      “That’s a shame,” he’d told me, letting me go. He waited a long time to speak, not saying anything until I checked in, looking at his face. “You know, Jubes,” he said, “I don’t chase after women. They usually come to me.” I opened my mouth to call him arrogant and he put up a hand to stop me. “I’m not building myself up, it’s just that most women I can take or leave, so I don’t make the effort. If they show up, I say yes.” A quick, hot jealousy flared up in my sternum and I involuntarily imagined him in bed with a faceless woman. Stop that, I told myself. He’s not yours.

      “I’m not a monk, you know,” he said. “If you’d respond to what I think have been