In instant, Lysander was there, picking up the spoon from the floor and handing it to her.

"So clumsy. Heavens." She gingerly accepted the spoon from him, clearly taking care that their hands did not touch in any way. She carried the spoon to the sink and wiped it with a damp cloth before returning to the stove.

"I'm glad you're here." She didn't look at him, not quite.

Lysander realized that he probably ought not to allow his heart to lighten at the notion she was glad to see him.

"You're tall enough to reach the soup tureen on top of the cupboard. If you wouldn't mind?"

It might be rather pathetic, but he wasn't even disappointed. He was more than happy to be of use to her, in any capacity. He reached the tureen down to the worktop. Gemma clucked in dismay and wiped at the gleaming porcelain with the cloth, although Zander thought it looked quite pristine.

"Would you mind dishing the stew into this?" She stepped back. "I fear I shall only make a bigger mess with only my left hand."

Lysander nodded silently. He took up the full, steaming pot quite comfortably and transferred the creamy stew into the tureen.

"Thank you." She still didn't look at him, not quite. Her gaze tended to rise to his cravat and no higher. Lysander didn't care. He was standing close to her and she smelled like herbs and good cooking.

The man he'd been had always favored good cooking. Now, not only was Lysander feeling interested in eating the supper she'd prepared, he thought he might be becoming rather fond of herbs as well.

"Are you hungry? You must be, for Mr. Bing has worked you like a stable hand all day. I hope you were careful not to overdo."

Lysander simply shook his head. Then he felt the unusual pressure of words wanting to bubble up. He wished to tell her the things he learned today, about working slowly and breathing through the overwhelming moments, and that he'd discovered that the silence of the dale helped him. He hadn't known that before. In Worthington house — and verily, in London itself! — there was never true silence. Not like this, not the bone-deep peace of the dales.

Soon they had all seated themselves at the table, Gemma without her apron, Lysander and a freshly scrubbed Bing, who wilted somewhat at the sight of the creamy chicken stew. Thanks had been offered. The silent dining tradition observed by the hungry and hardworking lent a peace to the room. Lysander savored his first spoonful of the hearty stew and discovered that his long-lost appetite had somehow returned to him.

No one spoke for quite a while, for they had all had a very long day. Lysander could not help his gaze fixing across the table upon his hostess. She managed to find anywhere else to look at while they supped.