Luckily, this particular man was too preoccupied to look. Before him lay a burlap parcel, ripped open, its contents spread across the table. Spare bits of pie, picked-over joints of meat, jars and canisters of stewed fish and vegetables…why, it was the remains of their dinner!
And over said remains stood Jonathan, gorging himself like a man half-starved.
Which, Claire supposed, he was. Hadn’t she and Elizabeth made sure of that?
Still unseen, Claire began to retreat. Could she gain the corridor without drawing his attention? She rather thought she could—and would—have succeeded, if not for the inconsideration of the step stool beside the doorway. She tripped, threw out a hand to catch herself, and caught instead a rack of copper pots, knocking several to the floor with a thunderous clamor that sent Kippers scampering away.
Jonathan leapt to his feet, brandishing an eating knife. “Who’s there?”
Claire stood blinking in the dark—and realized her candle had been lost and gone out amid the confusion. The room’s only light now came from Jonathan’s candle on the worktable. She was grateful for the cover of darkness that preserved her modesty.
But now she found it necessary to speak before he gutted her with the dull blade. “You know,” she said in her haughtiest tone, “that food parcel was intended for the poor.”
Though his face was hidden in shadow, his body let slip a little start of recognition. He set down the knife. Then he seemed to hesitate, silence stretching between them. Claire could not see his eyes, but she could feel their gaze on her, appraising her.
At last he reached into one of his dressing gown’s pockets, pulled out his money-book, removed several banknotes, and placed them beside the knife. “Shall this make recompense?”
Claire raised a brow at the generous denomination. “That will do.” Having nothing else to say, she turned to go.
“Claire—wait—won’t you join me?”
Incredulity brought her up short. “Join you?” Aside from the impertinence… She looked pointedly at the table littered with crumbs, empty vessels, and used silverware. “Join you for what?”
“Er…” He began rooting in the burlap. “Ah! There’s still some bread, and”—unearthing a jar—“I saved you the prawns.” He presented them with an air of great chivalry.
Claire snorted. “A noble sacrifice.” Though prawns were her favorite, she knew Jonathan despised them.
While she continued to hang back, he bent to restart the banked fire in the kitchen’s big cast iron stove, then left the stove’s door open to add welcome heat and light. “I’ve something else for you, as well.”
“A fork?”
“No—well, yes.” He selected one and began polishing it with a fresh napkin. “But that’s not what I meant.” When the fork sparkled, he arranged it beside the bread and jar of prawns. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you alone, because I owe you an apology.”
Now he’d piqued her interest. Not that any sort of apology could melt her heart enough to forgive him, but it might be nice to hear, all the same.
She looked down at herself regretfully. “If I were decent…”
He chuckled. “You—the strange creature shivering in worsted wool last summer while we humans roasted in linen—not decent? You must be wearing four layers at least.”
Five, actually. She wore two shifts and a flannel dressing gown beneath her plush velvet one, plus a shawl wrapped round the whole. And she was still cold.
But she wasn’t about to admit as much aloud. Jonathan didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he knew her so well.
However, he’d convinced her she wasn’t indecent. Feeling more comfortable (well, aside from being chilled to the bone), she found herself moving toward the table, drawn chiefly by the prospect of the warm fire and vindication, alongside, not inconsiderably, the temptation of buttered prawns.
In silence he watched her settle on a stool, uncork the jar, and begin eating.
An uneasy quiet reigned until Kippers reappeared, seemingly from nowhere, and nimbly leapt onto the table. No doubt he’d smelled the prawns.
“Down!” she said, not expecting Kippers to obey (as he never did). She threw a prawn on the floor, and he jumped down to devour it.
Finally Jonathan cleared his throat. “Where to begin?”
She held his gaze calmly, making no reply. She would not help him. Nor would she betray any hint of curiosity. Sangfroid was to be her byword.
She tossed Kippers another prawn.
Jonathan looked away, fiddling with the napkin. “It seems all too inadequate to say ‘you were right’ and ‘I’m very sorry’ but…well, there it is.”
