"Yes, right there, Martha. Thank you. That hits the spot," the Dowager Duchess Elena said with a contented sigh. A young maid was giving her a massage as she sat in her favorite armchair in the grand, sunlit drawing room of the Carson estate.
Martha, the maid, replied with a warm, respectful smile, her hands never ceasing their work on Elena’s tired shoulders. "My mother normally does this for my father back in our village, Your Grace. She says it relaxes his muscles and gives him more strength, especially after he cos ho from selling a lot of our farm produce at the market."
"You don’t say," Elena replied, her eyes closed in blissful relaxation. "Wow. Well, you have really learned from the best then. You are a natural at this, my dear." Elena closed her eyes completely as Martha’s skilled fingers began to get to the really good part, the tense knot of muscles at the base of her neck.
It was into this peaceful scene that Delia entered the drawing room. A maid who welcod her at the entrance followed her, carrying carefully wrapped food produce in paper and muslin that held so ingredients. As Martha saw the young Duchess enter, she wanted to stop her massage and greet her properly, but Delia, seeing the peaceful, sleeping expression on the Dowager Duchess’s face, imdiately raised a single finger to her lips, a clear, silent instruction: "Shhh."
Martha nodded her head in understanding and continued her gentle, rhythmic massage. The maid that had followed Delia in then quietly took her to the kitchen, while Martha continued her work. In a few minutes, the massage was done, but Elena had completely slept off in the chair.
"Your Grace?" Martha whispered, trying to wake her, but the Dowager Duchess did not want to wake up. She was too comfortable. Martha, not wanting to disturb her further, simply helped to set her posture in the chair so that she could sleep well without getting a crick in her neck.
After a while, Elena woke up with a soft, contented groan. "Oh my," she said to the empty room. "My shoulder, my neck... that child has magical fingers." She stretched, feeling more relaxed and limber than she had in months. "My whole body feels better."
It was then that she heard a small crash from the direction of the kitchen, followed by a series of stifled giggles. She walked to the kitchen and saw a group of young maids standing at the doorway, peeking inside and giggling amongst themselves.
"What is going on here?" Elena’s voice, now full of its usual authority, rumbled through the hall.
The maids, startled, imdiately bowed their heads and scattered themselves, going back to their duties. Elena entered the large, bright kitchen and saw Delia on the floor, picking up so herbs and what looked like ground grains that she had knocked off the table.
"What is all this?" she asked, her voice a mixture of confusion and surprise.
Delia turned to see her, a slightly embarrassed but happy smile on her face. "You are awake, Grandmother," she said.
"Wait!" Elena said, her mind still trying to catch up. "What are you doing here, in my kitchen?"
Delia smiled. "I wanted to make you so food, Grandmother."
Elena was completely shocked by her reply. "Make ... so food?"
Delia nodded. "I am almost done. Can you please go to the dining area? I will co and serve you there."
Elena, too confused to argue, could only nod and do as she was told. A few monts later, Delia ca in, still wearing a simple kitchen apron over her fine dress, a tray in her hand. She placed a single, steaming bowl of a simple, creamy porridge in front of the Dowager Duchess. She then stood beside Elena, the empty tray still in her hand, waiting anxiously for the verdict.
Elena looked at the simple porridge with a deeply skeptical expression.
"Well," Delia said, a small, nervous smile on her face, "I am not very good at cooking."
"You are a Baron’s daughter, and now a Duchess," Elena replied, her tone a little gruff. "You are not supposed to know how to cook. That is why there are people who are hired to do such things." She took another suspicious look at the porridge. "But," she sighed, "I will take your word for it."
"I normally make my own food at the Ellington manor," Delia explained quietly. "I taught myself how."
Elena was shocked by this revelation. She looked up at Delia. "Why on earth would you do that?"
"The Baroness," Delia began, her voice a low, matter-of-fact tone, "she does not allow to eat what the rest of the family eats. Unless my father is joining us for a al, and that is a very rare occasion because of his poor health." She continued, "When he is not joining us, she would tell the kitchen staff not to give anything to eat. The cook, a very kind woman nad Mrs. Mary, would secretly give so raw ingredients so that I could go and make a little sothing for myself, just so I would not starve."
"When the Baroness found out about it, she allowed it, much to my surprise. I think she enjoyed the humiliation of it all. So, I do not eat breakfast. I only eat dinner. And if I am very lucky, I will get to eat a small lunch. She then began reducing my portion sizes. That kept going on for years, and it... it wrecked my appetite, and my body. After that, I never really cared about food anymore. I just saw it as sothing I needed to have once in a while, just to stay alive." She looked at Elena, her eyes now shining with a new, hopeful light. "But now, I want more."
Elena just looked at her, her own heart aching with a feeling of pity.
"The als that Eric makes," Delia continued, a warm, happy smile on her face, "they are so good that they make want more. And I also want to be able to make food myself, to feed him. And I want to keep doing the sa for mother, and... and for you, too." Delia looked down at the simple bowl of porridge. "I made this hoping that it might make you feel better after your long day." She looked up at Elena, her expression a little pleading. "Could you... could you just have one bite, please?"
Elena looked at the porridge. She looked at the young woman standing beside her, at the hopeful, anxious look in her beautiful blue eyes. She picked up her spoon, took a small portion of the porridge, and brought it to her mouth. She chewed it slowly, her expression unreadable. She then took another spoonful, and then another.
Delia smiled, a wave of relief washing over her.
Elena finally set her spoon down and looked at her. "It is bland," she said, her voice a simple, honest statent of fact.
Delia just stood there, her smile faltering.
"Well, what are you doing just standing there?" Elena said, her voice now a playful, scolding grumble. "Get so milk and a little honey from the kitchen. Don’t you want to finish the food you made for ?"
Delia’s smile returned, brighter and more beautiful than ever before. "Yes, Grandmother," she said, her voice full of a happy, relieved energy. "I am coming."
She went to the kitchen to get the milk and honey. Elena looked after her, a slow, fond smile spreading across her own face as she took another bite of the plain, simple, but surprisingly wonderful porridge.
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