“You were Father’s mate!” Gallowglass protested. “You are as much a de Clermont as Ysabeau or her children!”
Fernando carefully shut the oven door. “I am Hugh’s mate,” he said, his back still turned. “Your father will never be past tense to me.”
“Sorry, Fernando,” Gallowglass said, stricken. Though Hugh had been dead for nearly seven centuries, Fernando had never recovered from the loss. Gallowglass doubted he ever would.
“As for my being a de Clermont,” Fernando continued, still staring at the wall over the stove, “Philippe disagreed.”
Gallowglass resumed his nervous picking at the wax. Fernando poured two glasses of red wine and carried them to the table.
“Here,” he said, thrusting one at Gallowglass. “You’ll need your strength today, too.”
Marthe bustled into the kitchen. Ysabeau’s housekeeper ruled over this part of the chateau and was not pleased to see intruders in it. After giving Fernando and Gallowglass sour looks, she sniffed and wrested the oven door open.
“That is my best pan!” she said accusingly.
“I know. That’s why I’m using it,” Fernando replied, taking a sip of wine.
“You do not belong in the kitchen, Dom Fernando. Go upstairs. Take Gallowglass with you.”
Marthe took a packet of tea and a teapot from the shelf by the sink. Then she noticed the towel-wrapped pot sitting on a tray next to cups, saucers, milk, and sugar. Her frown deepened.
“What is wrong with my being here?” Fernando demanded.
“You are not a servant,” Marthe said. She picked the lid off the top of the pot and sniffed suspiciously at its contents.
“It’s Diana’s favorite. You told me what she liked, remember?” Fernando smiled sadly. “And everyone in this house serves the de Clermonts, Marthe. The only difference is that you, Alain, and Victoire are paid handsomely to do so. The rest of us are expected to be grateful for the privilege.”
“With good reason. Other manjasang dream of being part of this family. See that you remember that in future—and the lemon, Dom Fernando,” Marthe said, placing emphasis on his lordly title. She picked up the tea tray. “By the way, your eggs are burning.”
Fernando leaped up to rescue them.
“As for you,” Marthe said, fixing her black eyes on Gallowglass, “you did not tell us everything you should have about Matthew and his wife.”
Gallowglass looked down into his wine with a guilty expression.
“Madame your grandmother will deal with you later.” On that bone-chilling note, Marthe stalked out of the room.
“What have you done now?” asked Fernando, putting his tortilla—which was not ruined, Alhamdulillah—on the stove. Long experience had taught him that whatever the mess, Gallowglass had made it with good intentions and complete disregard for possible disaster.
“Weeell,” Gallowglass said, drawing out the vowels as only a Scot could, “I might have left one or two things out of the tale.”
“Like what?” Fernando said, catching a whiff of catastrophe among the kitchen’s homely scents.
“Like the fact that Auntie is pregnant—and by none other than Matthew. And the fact that Granddad adopted her as a daughter. Lord, his blood vow was deafening.” Gallowglass looked reflective. “Do you think we’ll still be able to hear it?”
Fernando stood, openmouthed and silent.
“Don’t look at me that way. It didn’t seem right to share the news about the babe. Women can be funny about such things. And Philippe told Auntie Verin about the blood vow before he died in 1945, and she never said a word either!” Gallowglass said defensively.