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Ellen swallowed a bubble of startled laughter. She wasn’t scared precisely, but something close to it. Surprised, certainly. “I thought you were ill.”
“Oh, we were,” the girl assured her. “Terribly ill, weren’t we, Peter? Mama thought of calling the minister. Last rites and all that.”
“Don’t be daft, Caro,” Peter rejoined irritably. “We’re not Catholic. It was just to pray, and do what ministers do.”
“But you’re not ill now, it would seem,” Ellen clarified, and heard Jed’s barely suppressed snort of disbelief.
“Oh, no,” Caro said. “We’re con... con...”
“Convalescing,” Ellen supplied, and she nodded happily.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“But where is your mother?” Ellen felt sure an adult presence would have made itself known by now.
“She went to the doctor, with the baby,” Caro said. “Andrew’s still ill, and he’s only little. He had a fever. Mrs. Hepple was watching us, but she forgot she’d left a pie in the oven and went home to take it out. I expect she’s forgotten to come back. It was a while ago now.”
“I see.” Although Ellen didn’t really see at all. The island seemed to be filled with odd people, from the nonchalant Captain Jonah, leaving her alone in the cold and dark, to the absent Mrs. Hepple. Ellen wasn’t sure she liked it. In fact, she was quite sure she didn’t.
“I suppose we should see about supper,” she said after a moment. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” Peter piped up, “and I’m hungry.”
“Show me the way to the kitchen, then,” Ellen said, and Jed shuffled towards the door.
“I’ll just be off, then...”
Ellen rounded on him. “No, you won’t,” she said fiercely. “You can stay till Aunt Rose comes back. I don’t know the first thing about any of this.” And she would not be left alone in such a strange situation.
“You seem bossy enough to me,” Jed muttered, but he slouched into the kitchen after them.
The kitchen was a large, cheerful room in the back of the house, with an impressive blackened range and a large, square table of scrubbed pine. There was not an icebox in sight. Ellen felt heartened by these familiar sights, and she set about pumping water into a basin and making everyone wash their hands.
An inspection of the pantry revealed a bag of potatoes, a few carrots, and half of a cold game pie. Soon Caro was setting the table, Peter peeling potatoes, and Ellen sorting out the rest.
She leaned over the table, and her foot hit something soft underneath.
“Ouch!”
Jerking in surprise, Ellen looked down and saw two black-haired, black-eyed girls crouching underneath the table.
“Who are you?” she exclaimed. “And what are you doing under there?”
The girls scrambled out. One looked to be about six; the other maybe four. “We’re hiding from the Indians,” the older girl said shyly. “I’m Sarah.” Her dark hair was done in plaits, and she had a quiet, rather dreamy air about her. The other girl was quite the opposite; her hair was a riot of curls and her black eyes snapped fire, her little red mouth pursed in disapproval.
“You’re not Mrs. Hepple.”
“No, indeed,” Ellen replied crisply. “My name is Ellen, and I’ve come to look after you.”
“Mrs. Hepple said she’d bring an apple pie,” the girl said, and Sarah gave her a poke.
“Don’t be rude, Ruthie.”
“Well, she did,” Ruthie said, lip jutting out, and Peter cuffed her gently on the side of the head.
“You mind Ellen,” he said, his chest swelling importantly, and Ellen suppressed a smile. She had been expecting sickrooms, the stillness and despair she’d come to associate with such things, but despite the confusion and strangeness, she realized she liked this much better.
“Let’s sit down to supper,” she said.
