"I see."
"My brother-in-law once suggested I put rocks on the lid. He said it would cook even faster."
"I see," Helen said automatically, and then she added, "No, actually I don't see."
"It keeps the steam inside, which increases the pressure. That, in turn, allows the jam to cook at a hotter temperature."
"Your brother-in-law must be quite scientific."
"Yes, he is quite." Ellie set the lid on the pot and added, "It is of no matter, anyway. I'm in no rush. I only have to make sure the maids stir it frequently."
"That sounds easy enough," Helen said.
"Oh, it is. Completely foolproof." Ellie held her hand a few inches above the stovetop one last time to check that the heat was not too high, and then they left the kitchen.
Ellie pinned a watch onto her sleeve so that she would remember to check on the jam at appropriate intervals. It cooked slowly but evenly and, in Ellie's opinion, tasted delicious. The pot was thick and didn't get too hot over the low heat, so Ellie was able to grip the handles as she stirred, which was an added convenience.
Since her preparations did not require her undivided attention, she decided to turn some of her energies over to the smelly mess in the orangery. It irked her to no end that she hadn't yet been able to deduce how the saboteur was killing off all of her favorite plants. All that she had been able to figure out was that the smell was not coming from the plants themselves.
The plants were quite dead, that much was irrefutable. But the smell was coming from discreetly placed piles of kitchen garbage that Ellie suspected had been intercepted on their way to a pigpen. Mixed in with the garbage was a suspicious brown substance that could only have been obtained from the ground of the stables.
Whoever wanted to cause her trouble must be very devoted to the cause. Ellie couldn't imagine hating anyone enough to gather horse droppings and rotten food on a daily basis. However, she did love her little indoor garden enough to don a pair of working gloves and haul the smelly mess outside. She located a few sacks and a shovel, resolved not to breathe through her nose for the next hour or so, and dug in.
After five minutes, however, it became apparent that her skirts were getting in her way, so she found some twine and sat down on a stone bench to tie them up.
"A charming sight."
Ellie looked up to see her husband entering the orangery. "Good morning, Charles."
"I have often wished you would lift your skirts for me," he said with a lopsided grin. "Who is the lucky recipient of so charming a gesture?"
She forgot her dignity and stuck out her tongue at him. " 'What' would be a more appropriate word."
Charles followed her gaze to the stinking pile tucked away behind an orange tree. He stepped forward, sniffed the air, and recoiled. "God in heaven, Ellie," he said with a gag and a cough. "What have you done to the plants?"
"It wasn't me," she ground out. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to think that a rotting sheep's head would help an orange tree to thrive?"
"A what?" He walked back over to the tree to get a closer look.
"I've already cleared it away," she said, pointing to her sack.
"Good God, Ellie, you shouldn't have to do this."
"No," she agreed, "I shouldn't. Someone here at Wycombe Abbey clearly does not appreciate my presence. But if you will pardon my pun, I am going to get to the bottom of this mess if it kills me. I won't tolerate this situation any longer."
Charles let out a deep breath and watched as she plunged her shovel into the mess.
"Here," she said, "you can hold the bag open. Although you might want to use some work gloves."
He blinked, unable to believe that she was cleaning this up on her own. "Ellie, I can ask the servants to do this."
"No, you can't," she said, quickly and with more emotion than he would have expected. "They shouldn't have to do this. I'm not going to ask them to."
"Ellie, that is precisely why we have servants. I pay them very generous wages to keep Wycombe Abbey clean. This is simply a ... smellier mess than usual."
She looked up at him with suspiciously bright eyes. "They are going to think I did this. I don't want that."
Charles realized that her pride was at stake. Since he knew a thing or two about pride himself, he didn't press her. Instead he said, "Very well. I must insist, however, that you let me wield the shovel. What kind of husband would I be if I sat here and watched while you do all of the hard labor?"
"Absolutely not. You've an injured arm."
"It's not that bad."
She let out a snort. "Perhaps you forget that I am the one who stitched you up last night. I know precisely how bad it is."
"Eleanor, give me the shovel."
"Never."
He crossed his arms and regarded her with a level gaze. God, she was stubborn. "Ellie," he said, "the shovel, if you please."
"No."
He shrugged. "All right. You win. I won't shovel."
"I knew you would see it my—yikes!"
"My arm," Charles said as he yanked her against him, "is working quite well, actually."
The shovel fell to the ground as Ellie twisted her neck to look at him. "Charles?" she asked hesitantly.
He smiled wolfishly. "I thought I might kiss you."
"Here?" she croaked.
"Mmm-hmm."
"But it smells."
"I can ignore it if you can."
"But why?"
"Kiss you?"