Tangled In Time

Unravelling

We followed a path that eventually merged with the one we had travelled down earlier, leading us to the back door of the kitchen. Blake peered through the window first, carefully opened the door, and gestured for me to enter ahead of him. The kitchen lay cloaked in complete darkness, leaving me waiting patiently for Blake to join me before venturing further into the room.

Suddenly, the room burst into a soft, inviting yellow glow as a light switch was flicked. Startled, I jumped as I turned to see a small, red-haired woman standing at the bottom of the kitchen steps.

"Come on now, Blake, what are you doing in my kitchen... And with a girl who's barefoot, no less?" the woman said, her voice soft, even though she had an exasperated expression on her face, her Irish accent strong.

"Cook!" Blake greeted her with unbridled enthusiasm, slipping past me to plant a friendly kiss on her cheek. "I thought maybe we could whip up some sandwiches." I observed their heartwarming exchange from the doorway.

"Sit down," Cook instructed, pulling out a chair. "And you, put those shoes on; this is a kitchen, for Christ's sake." Blake obediently took a seat and courteously pulled out a chair for me.

I settled down beside Blake at the table. "Now, I've got some crusty bread and fresh ham," Cook announced, seeking my approval.

"Yes, please," I responded. Cook walked over to the oven, retrieved a loaf of bread, and produced a knife, placing them in front of Blake.

"Just because you're the Lord of the house now doesn't mean you're too refined to cut bread," she teased. Blake took up the knife and started slicing thick, hearty pieces of bread.

"When I was younger, I used to wander down here for hours and insist on helping Cook prepare meals. At first, she would refuse and send one of the maids to take me back upstairs to Father. But I kept coming down every day, so eventually, Father said I could. Others who visited would say it wasn't the... what's the right word?" Blake said as he put his cut pieces on another chopping board that Cook had laid out.

"'Done thing'," Cook chimed in.

"Yes, that's it. People would say it wasn't the 'done thing' for a boy of my status to be hanging around in the servant quarters. But neither Father nor I cared," Blake reminisced. Cook smiled at Blake with the warmth of a grandmother for her grandson, already slicing pieces of ham onto another plate.

As I listened, I noticed the way Blake's tone softened when he spoke about his father, the words laced with something unspoken—a longing, perhaps, or an ache he didn't voice. It struck me that this kitchen, this small slice of his world, might be where he felt most at home.

Feeling the need to contribute, I asked, "Would you like me to butter the bread?" As I began to realise that the man who had scared me half to death this morning and the man who had read that speech in the ballroom were not the same as the man now sitting beside me in the kitchen—the real Blake.

Cook shot Blake a raised eyebrow but said nothing, disappearing into the pantry and returning with a butter knife and a pot of butter.

After Blake had finished slicing the bread, he pushed it over to me, where I began to spread it with butter. Cook would then take two slices of ham and assemble them onto a large plate. Although the sandwiches were meant for the staff, Cook wrapped one for me and one for Blake in napkins, patting his shoulder.

"Now you two, out of my kitchen," she said with no malice but affection in her voice.

Blake and I exited through the kitchen door back out to the gardens, making our way down the footpath that led to the forest and old cottage. The cool night air settled around us, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and fresh grass. The soft rustle of the wind through the trees accompanied our steps, creating a quiet symphony that felt miles away from the ballroom's chaos.

We paused at the forest's edge, finding a spot to sit. Blake removed his jacket and laid it on the ground for me to sit on. The gesture, small as it was, made me pause. He was always surprising me in these quieter moments—unpolished, thoughtful in ways that caught me off guard.

We settled down into peaceful silence, both of us contentedly nibbling on our sandwiches. It was one of those comfortable moments, unlike earlier at the swing. I welcomed the gentle breeze from the night on my skin. I finished my sandwich a lot quicker than any lady should in the 1940s, but I had been so hungry.

The bread was soft and buttery, with the ham salted just enough to make the flavours sing. As I ate, I couldn't help but glance at Blake. He seemed far away, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of the house. There was a tension in his shoulders, a weight that hadn't been there in the kitchen. It made me wonder if this carefree version of him was just another performance, like the one Charlotte had given earlier.

After a few more moments of silence, I suggested, "You should return to your party." I brushed crumbs from my fingers; I still couldn't quite wrap my head around the entire situation.

Blake rose to his feet, brushing his hands down his trousers, and then released a long sigh, looking back at the house. The faint hum of music drifted through the still air, a reminder of the world we'd temporarily left behind. "I really should, but I really don't want to." He looked back at me. "Well, not yet anyway. I hate these things, being the centre of attention anyway."

I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Shouldn't you be celebrating with Charlotte?"

His tone shifted as he glanced back at the house. "Well, she certainly enjoys all the attention. I'm sure she won't miss me for a while longer." There was something in the way he said that which struck me as off; he was using a tone that a man who had just gotten engaged to a woman he loved surely shouldn't use. My expression must have revealed my thoughts because he quickly added, "I'm not really into the whole public thing. Charlotte is."

"I don't like being the centre of attention either; it makes me want to throw up most of the time," Blake laughed, his hands slipping into his pockets. Then, he asked, "Can I show you something?" I looked up at him and replied, "Sure, what is it?"

"Come on," he said, holding his hand out to me. I took it, and he helped me to my feet before picking up his jacket and shaking it off. "Here, put this on."

"Won't you be cold?" I asked. He laughed and rolled his eyes, saying, "I was fighting in a war this time two years ago; a little bit of cold won't hurt me." I accepted the jacket from him and slid my arms through it. The faint scent of cedar and smoke clung to the fabric, mingling with the lingering warmth from his body. It felt oddly comforting.

"Suits you," Blake chuckled as I looked down, realising it was far too big.