Ellie giggled and nodded, willing to allow him this dictatorial streak because it made her feel all warm inside. He released her again, and they made their way downstairs, Ellie practically having to run to keep up with him.

The kitchen was beginning to bustle with activity as Monsieur Belmont and his staff began their preparations for the day's meals. Mrs. Stubbs was off in a corner, trying to ignore the Frenchman as she supervised the three maids who were cleaning up after breakfast.

“That's my jam on the stove right over there,” Ellie said to Charles, pointing to the large pot. “Mixed berry. Helen and I prepared it together, and—”

“Three minutes, Eleanor.”

“Right. I just need to stir it, and then—”

“Just stir it,” he said.

She walked halfway to the stove and then said, “Oh! I really should wash my hands first. I was wearing work gloves in the orangery, of course, but the mess was so foul.”

Charles sighed impatiently. Really, the chit could have been done and gone by now. “Wash your hands, stir, and be done with it. There's a bucket right over on that table.”

She smiled, dunked her hands into the water, and then let out a little shriek.

“What now?”

“It's freezing. Monsieur Belmont must have had ice brought up. Perhaps we will have an iced fruit for dessert this evening.”

“Ellie, the jam…”

She reached out for the pot, scowling as the servants edged away from her. Clearly, they still didn't trust her in the kitchen. “Here, I'm just going to move it to this table over here, where it can cool and—”

Charles would never be quite certain what happened next. He had been watching Monsieur Belmont expertly chop an aubergine when he heard Ellie let out a cry of pain. When he looked up, the large pot of jam was falling to the ground. As he watched in helpless horror, the pot hit the ground and the lid bounced off. Purple jam flew through the air, splattering the stove, splattering the floor, and splattering Ellie.

She howled like an injured animal and collapsed upon herself, sobbing in agony. Charles felt his heart stop and he ran to her side, his boots sliding through the hot, sugary jam as he raced across the kitchen.

“Get it off me,” she whimpered. “Get it off me.”

Charles looked at her and saw that the boiling jam was stuck to her skin. Good God, her skin was still being burned as he stood there watching. It appeared to be exclusively on her hands and wrists. Without taking time to think, he grabbed the bucket of cold water she'd used earlier and plunged her hands into it.

She jerked against him and tried to yank her hands out. “No,” she cried out. “It's too cold.”

“Darling, I know it's cold,” he said softly, hoping she couldn't hear the way his voice was shaking. “I have my hands in the water, too.”

“It hurts. Oh, it hurts.”