Mrs McTaggart has made pastry （in bowl） for a rhubarb pie, if you wouldn’t mind preparing that, too.
Thank you again for all your help.
H. M-G.
Tying her apron, Flora set to work, fetching the ingredients and utensils she’d need to prepare the meat first, a fine haunch from a stag that her father and Sir Charles had shot a couple of weeks ago, with Ruaridh along, as usual, to lead the garron. Just the other day at Keeper’s Cottage, she’d made a stew from the tougher offcuts that her father had brought home, once the carcass had hung in the game store. The finer cuts were always saved for the house, of course. The game from the estate made a big difference to their rations, although her father always shared their allocation with others in the community who needed a little extra.
Setting the haunch in a large roasting dish, Flora added a handful of juniper berries and some dried mountain thyme. Then she went along the corridor and through the green baize-covered door that led to the front of the house. The air there was perfumed with the smell of the beeswax used to polish the rich mahogany of the furniture, overlaid with a faint scent of wood smoke. The dining room had been prepared for the evening, the table draped with a white damask cloth and set with silver cutlery and candlesticks. An arrangement of roses and trailing swathes of ivy from the walled garden formed a graceful centrepiece – surely Lady Helen’s work. On the sideboard stood several bottles of red wine. Flora uncorked one, carefully pouring most of the contents into a crystal decanter, and then took the remainder back through to the kitchen to pour over the meat before letting it rest in its marinade back in the larder again.
Once she’d peeled the vegetables and prepared the fruit for the pie, Flora set the kettle on the range and made herself a cup of tea before rolling out the pastry. She worked steadily and methodically with the capable neatness of one well used to such cooking, humming to herself to dispel the heavy silence that seemed to hang suspended within the walls of the empty house.
Just before six o’clock, as she was checking the roasting meat, she heard the sound of cars drawing up in front of the house and the voices of the returning fishing party. A minute later, Lady Helen hurried into the kitchen, pulling her broad-brimmed hat from her head and smoothing her hair into place.
‘Flora, dear, it all smells wonderful! You are a gem, stepping in like this. My husband was adamant that I should accompany them today so I couldn’t have managed without you. What can I do to help?’
‘Nothing at all, Lady Helen. I hope you had a good day’s fishing? I have everything in hand, so you have time to go and dress for dinner.’
Sir Charles’s voice boomed down the corridor, calling his wife back to the other side of the green baize door, and she gave Flora an apologetic smile before hurrying away.
A moment later, the kitchen door was flung open and Alec strode in, dressed in his tweeds and still wearing his tall fishing boots. Without saying a word, he gathered Flora in his arms and kissed her. She breathed in the scent of the hills and the river from his jacket.
‘My darling, I’m absolutely furious with my father over this. He had no right to demand that you do the cooking for tonight. They should have asked Mrs McTaggart to stay. Or paid someone else to come in.’
‘Och, I don’t mind a bit. I’ve enjoyed preparing the meal and it means I get to see you too.’
He gazed at her fondly and gently wiped a smudge of flour from her cheek with his thumb. ‘Let me do something to help? Washing up? I’m a dab hand at that, though I’m afraid my cooking skills leave much to be desired.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all done. Honestly, Alec, I’m fine. You’d better go and get changed. Dinner will be ready in an hour and you don’t want to keep your guests waiting.’
Reluctantly, he allowed her to shoo him out once he’d stolen another kiss from her, and she smiled as she listened to his footsteps retreating down the corridor to the boot room. Then she busied herself with the final preparations, setting plates and gravy boats to warm and sharpening the knife ready to carve the venison.
When Lady Helen reappeared in the kitchen to let Flora know that the guests were seated in the dining room, she was transformed. Her dark golden hair, shot through with those few strands of silver, was drawn back from her face with a pair of diamond clasps, highlighting the delicate structure of her cheekbones. Her fishing tweeds had been replaced with an evening gown the colour of the sea, embellished with crystal beading that sparkled softly, reminding Flora of moonlight on water.