“Miss Jordan… little Kimberly?” Mrs. Wilson emerged from the country house, her weathered face brightening with recognition. “Is it really you?”

“You know me?” Kimberly asked, taken aback.

“Good heavens, look at you,” Mrs. Wilson’s eyes misted over. “The spitting image of your mother.”

Seeing Kimberly’s bewilderment, Asher explained softly, “Mrs. Wilson was your mother’s cook at the Jordan estate. Your mother learned all her signature dishes from her.”

“Those eyes,” Mrs. Wilson’s voice wavered with emotion. “Just like Lady Rosalind’s. I used to hold you as a baby, you know. Such a precious little thing you were.”

At the mention of her mother, Kimberly felt a familiar ache in her chest, tears threatening. “I… I’m so pleased to meet you properly.”

They settled in Mrs. Wilson’s warm kitchen, where stories of Rosalind’s youth flowed freely over tea. Kimberly learned how her mother, a privileged young woman who’d never set foot in a kitchen, had determinedly learned to cook to win her father’s heart.

The revelation shifted something in Kimberly’s understanding of her parents’ love story. She remembered how deeply in love they’d seemed during her childhood, how her father had fallen into depression after her mother’s death. The question that had haunted her for years surfaced again: if he’d loved her mother so deeply, why remarry Victoria just two years later?

“Mrs. Wilson,” Kimberly ventured carefully, “did you know Victoria Darwin?”

“Lady Rosalind’s friend from Cambridge? Oh yes, dear. They were inseparable back then. Victoria was always visiting, though she lived in Surrey so the visits weren’t as frequent as they might have liked.”

Kimberly remembered liking Victoria as a child—she’d always brought pretty dresses and treats. But everything had changed when Victoria married her father. Though Victoria had been even more attentive as a stepmother than she’d been as an “aunt,” Kimberly had never been able to warm to her again.

“She’s my stepmother now,” Kimberly said quietly.

Mrs. Wilson fell silent, clearly weighing her next words. “Near the end… Victoria visited your mother frequently at the hospital. I overheard something one day, though perhaps I shouldn’t say…”

“Please,” Kimberly urged softly, “I need to know.”

“Your mother made your father promise that if he remarried, it would only be to Victoria. She was terrified of leaving you without a mother’s love, you see. She said she wouldn’t trust anyone else with your care.”

“But that’s…” Kimberly’s face drained of color. All these years of resentment, and it had been her mother’s wish? The truth struck her like a physical blow.

Asher’s hand found hers under the table, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. The simple gesture anchored her as her world tilted on its axis.

Mrs. Wilson prepared lunch—each dish a perfect mirror of Kimberly’s childhood memories. Pushing aside her emotional turmoil, Kimberly managed a bright smile and praised the cooking.

“Do you know,” Mrs. Wilson said warmly as they ate, “Mr. Blackwood here spent ages learning these recipes. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, he wouldn’t. Came by so often, always insisting on watching me cook.”

“Why would you do that?” Kimberly asked, turning to Asher with reddened eyes.

His expression softened with tenderness. “After your mother passed, you stopped eating properly. I couldn’t bear to watch that.”

“When Lady Rosalind married,” Mrs. Wilson added, dabbing at her eyes, “I had to retire due to illness. Mr. Blackwood visited often afterward—just a boy then, but so determined. He even paid for my medical treatment—insisted it was his tuition fee, bless him.”

Kimberly’s eyes widened as realization struck. “Those meals that appeared during that awful time… that was you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

That single word reverberated through Kimberly’s heart, carrying with it years of unspoken care and devotion.