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One step at a time. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. This was the path she’d decided on, and she must make it work. The consequences of failure were simply too unthinkable to contemplate.
Jamie landed awkwardly and slid off a chair in an avalanche of dust.
“Stop that, please,” Helen snapped.
Both children looked at her. She didn’t often raise her voice. But then, until a week or so ago, she’d had a nursemaid to take care of the children. She’d seen them when she’d wanted to—at bedtime, for tea in the afternoon, and for walks in the park. Times when both she and they had been in pleasant frames of mind. If Abigail or Jamie became tired or angry or out of sorts, she’d always had the option of sending them back to Miss Cummings. Unfortunately, Miss Cummings had been left behind in London.
Helen inhaled, trying to calm himself. “It’s time we were at our work.”
“What work?” Jamie asked. He got up and started kicking a cushion that had slid to the floor with him.
“Sir Alistair said we were to go away again this morning,” Abigail stated.
“Yes, but we’ll convince him otherwise, won’t we?”
“I want to go home.”
“We can’t, darling. I’ve already told you so.” Helen smiled persuasively. She hadn’t told them what Lister would do if he caught them. She hadn’t wanted to frighten the children. “Sir Alistair does need someone to clean his castle and put it back in order, don’t you think?”
“Ye-es,” Abigail said. “But he said he liked his castle all dirty.”
“Nonsense. I think he’s just too retiring to ask for help. Besides, it’s our Christian duty to help those in need, and it seems to me that Sir Alistair has a very large need indeed.”
Abigail looked doubtful.
Helen clapped her hands together before her too-perceptive daughter could make any more objections. “Let’s go down and order a splendid breakfast for Sir Alistair and something for ourselves. After that, I’ll consult with the cook and maids on how best to set about cleaning and managing the castle.”
Even Jamie perked up at the thought of breakfast. Helen opened the door, and they crowded into the narrow corridor outside.
“I think we came this way last night,” Helen said, and set off to the right.
As it turned out, that wasn’t the direction Sir Alistair had led them, but after a few more wrong turns, they found themselves on the ground floor of the castle. Helen noticed Abigail dragging her heels as they tramped to the back of the castle and the presumed direction of the kitchens.
Abigail suddenly halted. “Do I have to greet him?”
“Who, dear?” Helen asked, although she knew perfectly well.
“Sir Alistair.”
“Abigail’s afraid of Sir Alistair!” Jamie sang.
“Am not,” Abigail said fiercely. “At least, not very. It’s just…”
“He startled you and you screamed,” Helen said. She looked about the dingy walls of the hallway, searching for how to reply to her daughter. Abigail could be so sensitive. The slightest criticism sent her brooding for days. “I know you feel awkward, sweetheart, but you must think of Sir Alistair’s feelings as well. It can’t be very nice to have a young lady scream at the sight of you.”
“He must hate me,” Abigail whispered.
And Helen’s heart squeezed painfully. It was so difficult being a mother sometimes. Wanting to shield one’s children from the world and their own weaknesses, and at the same time needing to instill honor and proper behavior.
“I doubt he feels anything as harsh as hate,” Helen said gently. “But I think you shall have to apologize to him, don’t you?”
Abigail didn’t say anything, but she gave a single jerky nod, her thin face looking pale and worried.
Helen sighed and continued in the direction of the kitchens. Breakfast, in her opinion, generally made things better.
But as it turned out, there was very little to eat in Castle Greaves. The kitchen was a vast, terribly ancient room. The plastered walls and groined ceiling had once been whitewashed, but the color was a dingy gray now. A cavernous fireplace, much in need of sweeping out, took up one whole wall. Judging from the dust on the pots piled in the cupboards, not much actual cooking was done here.
Helen looked about the room in dismay. A single dirty plate lay on one of the tables, evidence that someone had eaten a meal here recently. Surely there must be a pantry with food somewhere? She began opening cupboards and drawers in a state of near panic. Fifteen minutes later, she examined her booty: a single sack of mealy flour, some oats, tea, sugar, and a handful of salt. She’d also found a small dried up piece of streaky bacon hanging in the larder. Helen was staring at the supplies, wondering what could possibly be made for breakfast out of them, when the full horror of her situation finally dawned on her.
