Cook chuckled delightedly and gave Harriet a meaningful look. “Don’t ye be teasin’ me, Miss Harriet! Ye know what day ’tis. Or will be soon! And ’tis not Christmas. Not with the weather warming so every day.”

Harriet closed the lid of the last pot, the clang echoing pleasantly amid the burbling sound of the dumpling stew. “I know what it is. The new rector is in town, and Mother has asked him to dinner.”

A sly smile crossed Cook’s lips. “You’ll have to ask the madam about thet. I was tol’ to fix a sumptuous dinner and so I am. Ye should be pleased as pork, Miss Harriet.”

“I should be? What do I have to be pleased ab—Oh. I see. The captain.”

Blast it, she hadn’t thought about the fact that the servants, who had not been privy to the fact that the captain was a figment of the Wards’ collective imagination—only because it was suspected they might leak the truth—would believe the farce her mother was even then encouraging.

“Of course the captain!” Cook exclaimed. She beamed at Harriet. “Who else would I cook good mutton for if not your intended? I must say, ’tis a handsome man. I’m just a little miffed ye didn’t tell me who he was right away.”

Harriet’s jaw tightened. “Oh yes…well, I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for Mother.”

Cook sighed happily. “I’ve heard so much about the captain that ’tis almost a wonderment to meet him.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Harriet muttered. “Where is the good captain now?”

“In his room. The missus thought he should lie down a mite. I must say ’twas a good idea, fer he looked a bit snookered after meeting with the banker.”

Cook wiped her hands on her apron. “There. All done. Do ye think the captain’d like a maraschino jelly with his dinner? I saved a bit fer a special occasion and, well, there aren’t many more special than this.”

Harriet managed a faint smile. “I don’t know what he likes. I’ll have Mother ask him.”

“Ye’d best be findin’ out, miss. Ye’re the one as will be marryin’ him,” Cook said cheerfully, scraping dough out of a bowl and rolling it as though her life depended on it. “I hope yer young man likes lemon tarts. Fresh and crisp they’ll be, just the way ye likes them.”

“I like them any way I can get them,” Harriet answered truthfully. Even if they had been made in the captain’s name. “I thought we were saving the lemons for the Ladies Auxiliary Sewing Committee.”

“So I was. But the missus said to make them tonight and so I am. I always do as I’m told.”

That was a blatant lie. Harriet couldn’t count how many times she’d asked Cook not to give Stephen quite so many pastries between his meals, a request that was actively ignored by all parties concerned.

Still, what concerned Harriet the most was that Mother had requested the tarts. That was not a good sign. At all. “Where is Mother?”