“Of course, my dear. Follow me.”
I glance at Anton and he gives me a curt nod. I follow Thomas out of the sitting room and towards the kitchen.”
It’s just as charming as the rest of the manor. Suave country chic if I ever saw it. The room is all buttery timber and pale blue tile. There’s a deep farmhouse sink and a butcher block island with a gorgeous patina. Pocket doors open onto pantries, larders, a refrigerator hidden behind tasteful paneling.
It’s enough to make me swoon on my feet.
Margaret is standing by the windows with three men and two women, all of whom are dressed in chef’s whites. Something akin to jealousy rises up in me. I’ve been out of my whites for far too long.
“Ah, Jessa, there you are! You wanted to see the kitchens?”
“You’ve got her, darling?” Thomas asks.
“Of course,” Margaret says, waving me in. “You can go see to the chickens, Thomas. Come and meet my staff, Jessa.”
She does a quick rundown of everyone, including a designated pastry chef, who I compliment for the amazing tea and desserts. They welcome me politely and then scatter, each to their own tasks. The sound of knives chopping and pans sizzling is music to my ears. It fills a part of my soul I didn’t know was missing.
“This is pretty jaw-dropping,” I say. “You, this place, all of it. I think the kitchen might be my favorite part, though.”
“I don’t blame you. I love cooking myself,” Margaret tells me with a wink like we’re lifelong friends. “So even though we have a full staff, I come in here once in a while to get my hands dirty. I was just about to wash and dice some potatoes.”
“Need some help?” I ask eagerly.
“Oh, I couldn’t say yes to that! You’re our guest.”
“Really, I’d like to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the inside of a kitchen. Especially one as lovely as this. Please don’t send me away.”
Margaret laughs. “I can’t ask you to help.”
“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering. In fact, I’m begging.”
She raises her eyebrows with amusement, but then gives me a nod. “Alright then. It’ll be nice to have some company.”
“Yay,” I celebrate as I wash my hands in the cold stone sink next to the counter. “This reminds me of the kind of kitchen that Beatrix Potter might draw in one of her stories.”
“High praise,” Margaret laughs. “I used to read Peter Rabbit to my kids when they were growing up.”
I smile, wishing I had a sweet story like that to tell about my own childhood. But my parents didn’t bother with bedtime stories. One of the rotating nannies they hired sometimes read to me, but neither of the people who gave birth to me stuck around very often for the bedtime routine.
It will be different for my child, I tell myself as I start peeling the potatoes. My child will get bedtime stories every night. My child will get a kiss on their head and they’ll never have to guess if they’re loved.
They’ll know.
Margaret gives me a soft smile. “It’s the best of times, you know? Those years when you first start a family. When you become a parent.”
“What was it like for you?”
“A little scary, of course. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. But very exciting and a whole lot of fun.”
I smile. “Yeah. I’m scared, that’s for sure.”
“But you know the deciding factor?” Margaret asks.
“Tell me.”
“It all depends on the partner you have,” she says. “If you have the right one, then you’re invincible. Happiness comes easily then.”
My hands tremble on the second potato, but I manage to tamp it down. This would be the moment to correct her. Anton is not my husband.