Ordinary Sunday

The first Sunday following their betrothal began with the domestic crisis of Ernest Teucher discovering his fiancée commandeering his kitchen.

He paused on the threshold, blinked, retreated two paces into the corridor, verified he had not wandered into the estate brewery, and stepped forward once more.

The scene remained unchanged.

Eleanor stood beside the massive, flour-dusted oak table, a white linen apron pinned over her pale wool dress, sleeves rolled past her elbows. A streak of flour marked her left cheekbone. Lady Anna stood beside her, whisking buttermilk with quiet discipline, while Hollen Vane occupied a low stool by the scullery window, eating clotted cream directly from a brass ladle.

Ernest folded his arms. "May I inquire as to the nature of this assembly?"

Eleanor glanced up, gray eyes bright. "Good morning, Baron."

"What is taking place in this room?"

"We are baking," she said, driving her palms into a mound of dough.