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“Oh.” She covered her nose as if she could smell the rotten meal. “What did you do?”
He leaned forward and whispered, “Ah, this is quite the secret. Many in the army wanted to know what I did with my little kettle.”
“You’re teasing now. Tell me what you did with a kettle that was so heroic.”
He shrugged modestly. “Only fed my entire camp with rotten meal. I found that if I rinsed the meal three times and then threw it in with a kettle full of water, it made a nice soup. Of course, it was better on the days I’d caught a rabbit or squirrel.”
“How absolutely awful,” his sister said.
“You did ask.” He grinned at her. She was talking to him, and he’d bore her to death with silly stories of army life if it made her happy.
“Samuel...”
“What, dear?” His heart squeezed at her uncertain expression. She was right; they were their only family left to each other. It was important that she not grow distant. “Tell me.”
She bit her lip, and he was reminded of how young she was. “Do you think they will converse with me, all these titled English ladies?”
He wished in that moment that he could smooth the way for her, make sure that she was never hurt for the rest of her life. But he could only tell the truth. “I think most will. There’s bound to be a girl or two who will have their noses in the air, but those are the sort who aren’t worth talking to, anyway.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just that I’m so nervous. I never seem to know what to do with my hands, and I wonder if my hair has been properly done.”
“You’ve that maid Lady Emeline found for you. I’ll be there and Lady Emeline as well. She at least will not let you go out with your hair improperly done. And I think you perfect in any case.”
She blushed, her cheeks tinting a delicate pink. “Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then I shall remember that my brother was the best rotten meal soup maker in His Majesty’s army, and I shall hold my head high.”
He laughed and she grinned back. The carriage bumped over something in the road, and Sam looked out the window to see that they were crossing a narrow stone bridge, the carriage’s sides nearly scraping the walls.
Rebecca’s gaze followed his. “Are we coming to a town?”
He pushed aside the curtain to peer farther ahead. “No.” He let the curtain drop and looked at her. “But it won’t be much longer now, I think.”
“Thank goodness. I am sore.” She shifted restlessly in her seat. “It’s a pity poor Mr. Thornton could not come.”
“I don’t think he minds.”
“But...” She wrinkled her brow. “It does seem hypocritical, doesn’t it? I mean, that he’s not been invited just because he makes boots? You’re in trade, too.”
“True.”
“In the Colonies, I don’t think we would make such a fine distinction.” She frowned down at her hands.
Sam was silent. The fact was, these kinds of distinctions between men’s rank bothered him as well.
“It seems so much harder, here in England, for a man to raise himself purely by merit alone.” Rebecca was nibbling her lip now, still staring down at her hands. “Even Mr. Thornton had his father’s business, small though it might have originally been. A man who hadn’t even that—who was perhaps a servant—could he ever become respectable?”
Sam narrowed his eyes, wondering if she was thinking of a particular servant. “Perhaps. With a bit of luck and—”
“But it’s not likely, is it?” She looked up.
“No,” he said softly. “It isn’t very likely that a man who labors as a servant will become a man of means in England. Most will live and die a servant.”
Her lips parted as if she would say something further. Then she closed them firmly and gazed out the window instead. They were silent again, but this time the silence was a companionable one. Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. He wondered sleepily just how much his sister’s questions were prompted by O’Hare the footman.
He dozed a bit, and when he next woke, the carriage was turning into an enormous drive.
