Heirly Ever After by Vernon, Magan (best classic novels .TXT) 📕

“Bye, Jacob.”

After hanging up, I slumped into the chair, leaning my head back to stare at the coffered ceiling. As if I didn’t have a time clock ticking down on my family’s situation already, now my sister was going to be another constant reminder.

I just had to think.

To get my darn head on straight.

And there was only one way to do that.

Shoving my phone into the pocket of my trousers, I headed toward the door. Looking left and right down the hall, I made sure no one was lingering around before I made my way out of the wing, down long hallways covered in priceless oil paintings and gold sconces.

I wondered if these were the types of things Madison painted. Even her small sketches somehow captured all of the beauty around us.

“Admiring the artwork?”

I froze at the slight southern twang ringing through the hallway.

Turning, I faced the smiling face of Madison’s sister, Natalie. While Madison was petite, all freckles and innocence, Natalie was a redheaded dynamo, her curves filling out the green silk dress like it was custom made for her.

Which it probably was since she was the lady of Webley.

“Ah, are these the new pieces you’ve picked out?” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. How much were they paying to restore these?

“The John Duncan Fergusson?” She closed the space between us, peering at the colorful landscape.

“I thought it looked familiar. A Scot trained in Paris.”

She smiled, turning to face me. “So you know your art?”

“We used to have something similar at our manor. I didn’t expect to see anything like it here, though. The Webleys are now okay with displaying Scottish artists?” I raised an eyebrow.

She laughed. “I think you’re the only one to point this out. Not even Gavin has noticed.” She sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “But, yes, since I found out more about the Webley Scottish heritage, I’ve been adding a few touches to the manor. Restored this piece myself after I found it being sold on GumTree out of some little town near Edinburgh.”

Swallowing hard, the sinking feeling went to the pit of my gut.

Did my parents sell this on GumTree themselves and now it was in this manor?

Would she have known?

“I should get going,” I said with as much exuberance as I could muster, my throat going dry.

“Oh, all right, well, I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

I should have kept talking to her. The historian would have been the one to know more about the Webleys and MacWebleys than anyone. But with the realization that the painting could have also very well been ours, I needed a break.

And the kitchen was just the place to do it.

Besides, the staff were usually the biggest gossips of the castle, so maybe I’d get more out of them than anyone else if I wanted to find out what the Webleys knew about the MacWebleys.

The smell of fresh-baked bread lingered in the air, and I glanced down at my watch. If they were starting dinner, this would be about the time they’d need to start a rise on the dough.

I followed my nose and headed down the hallway toward a large oak door that blended almost seamlessly in with the wall. Cautiously, I pushed on it, noticing it swung slightly inward. When the door swung outward, I curled my fingers around the cool wooden frame and pulled it toward me instead. The familiar hustle and bustle of a working kitchen with clanging pots and pans and hissing of steam rang through my ears.

A smile stretched across my face as I opened the door fully and stared at the large, open space, filled with the aroma of spices. There had to be at least a dozen workers huddled over large wooden prep tables or stirring boiling pots.

“Can I help you, sir?” A man in a stained white apron and hat stared at me as he worked dough against a butcher block.

“I came here for extra kitchen help. With all the guests.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Lord Gavin asked one of his guests to come in here to specifically request more help?”

Glancing around the kitchen, a few other eyes raised toward me but darted away when they saw me looking and frantically whispered amongst them.

Shaking my head, I unbuttoned the sleeves of my oxford. “No, I’m here to help. What’s on the menu for dessert?”

The air had changed as if everyone around me had let out a collective, silent sigh of relief. But the man in front of me just sized me up, his brows furrowed as he looked from my forearms all the way up the buttons of my shirt.

“You? You’re going to help?”

“Aye. Trained under Chef Tavish McHenley in Edinburgh for four years, and though he’s a Scot, and so am I, he was trained in France. So, if you need help with those desserts, I’m here,” I said, putting my arms out, shoulders relaxed. I knew, even in this fancy kitchen, that I could hold myself up with the best of them.

And this wasn’t about impressing the manor chefs anyway.

This was me, needing to release some of my stress and frustrations the best way I knew how: by making a masterpiece with dough.

If I happened to catch a few bits and bobs from the staff talking about dinner and the Webleys, all the better.

The chef shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes darting toward the table, the wall, then finally to me as he shrugged. “All right. Gemma is over at the prep table behind you if you want to see what she’s making.”

“Thank you.”

I turned away, ignoring the whispers around me as I headed toward the prep table where an older woman wearing a dark apron covered in flour stood over a stand mixer.

“Are you Gemma?” I yelled over the whir of the machine.

“Yeah. Whatcha need? Here to lick the batter?” she asked, not even looking up as she sifted flour into a bowl.

“No, ma’am.