Would Lord Winters still respect her, if he knew that she was sickly? It was not debilitating in the way some illnesses were. As far as she knew, it posed no risk to life; but men were strange, and their respect hinged on simple things.
I don't care what he thinks,she told herself sternly. It was only part true. She cared more than she ever wanted to admit, and it made her face burn to think about it.
Father had noticed her blush, she saw it in his smile and the way he muffled a laugh behind the teacup. Yet when he spoke, his voice was even and calm.
"Now, how about dinner? I was thinking that we could have that chestnut soup you love so much. I went to the bakery earlier for fresh bread, too."
Aurora couldn't hide her smile. Like herself, Father had never been good at changing the subject. It was oddly sweet, how he tried so hard and yet never quite hit the mark. Still, she appreciated him for trying.
"I could eat," she agreed, and stood. Her book could wait for later, a quieter time.
In the early days, Father had hired a cook to make the afternoon and evening meals; his gardener's salary meant they could afford maids too, but Father had said that no cook could ever be as good as Mama.
As sad as Aurora had been to see the cook go, she understood. She had never tasted Mama's cooking, nor heard her singing while she baked; she had only heard of these things from Father's stories, yet she knew how difficult it had been for him to lose her.
Now, Aurora did most of the cooking. Father tried, bless him, but he was dreadful.
It was an excellent distraction from thoughts of Lord Winters, however, and so Aurora was in no position to complain. She set about chopping vegetables at their little table and lighting the hearth for the soup to cook. It was a rhythmic, repetitive system that Aurora found some enjoyment in.
While the food cooked, bubbling over the hearth, she set about cutting thick slices of bread. Father popped in to check on her at around four o'clock, but otherwise she was undisturbed.
She didn't think about Lord Winters once, which had to be some kind of record. Until they were settling down to eat at least, and she found herself wondering what kind of things an earl ate for dinner.
Father sat across from her at the dining table. It was a small room, but well decorated with the long wooden table and several frames filled with paintings of various flowers. She especially loved the painting of enormous willow trees, set against a beautiful background of bright blue sky.
"This looks excellent," Father said, as he took his seat. "You know, this might be the best meal you've made yet."
"You always say that," Aurora countered, but it made her smile. "It's only soup, anyway. I'll bet that Lord Winters is eating roasted pork and fresh seafood right now, with fancy desserts, too."
Father's smile was knowing. "Still thinking about him, aren’t you?”
Aurora’s cheeks burned, and she turned her face away. “No.”
“Well, if you’re so sure.”
They ate in silence for a while, although it wasn’t the awkward sort. Although both Auroraandher father loved to talk, they never felt the need to fill the quiet. Sometimes it was nice to simply be in his presence, without the need to speak.
Inevitably, Aurora’s thoughts drifted. Was it possible, that Lord Winters really did like her? It was improbable,ridiculous.Yet...well, she didn’t dislike the concept as harshly as before.
She had good ideas. Aurora was confident enough to say so without embarrassment. She was a hard-worker, and she knew her way around a garden almost as well as Father. It was easy enough to believe that Lord Winters liked her for her intelligence, but not forherself.
After all, hadn’t men before her proven that she was someone to be used? Discarded? Christopher had gotten close to her, pretended to care; and then he had stolen years of work, even the very notebook she had written in, and stood before the entire botanist’s group to shareherfindings as his own.
A tickle at the back of Aurora's throat made her pause. She took a spoonful of soup, but swallowing it made her throat close up and she pressed a hand against her chest.
“Aurora?” Father asked, his voice deep with concern.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice came out as barely a squeak.
The cough threatened to wreak havoc on her body, but Aurora fought it down. When she swallowed thickly, it eased the itch, but not enough to make it go away.
“Should I make another bergamot tea?” Father asked, and he was already half-rising from his seat.
“I’m all right,” she countered, waving with her free hand for him to sit.
He did, but with great reluctance in his posture. He was patient though, allowing her a moment to gather her thoughts and calm herself.
Slow, steady breaths. A deep inhale, followed by a quiet exhale. That was how Aurora finally got her cough under control, and her breathing returned to normal soon after. Only once she was positive there was no more worry, did she risk taking another taste of the soup.