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Chapter 1
Yuck.
Mabel scraped stiff fingers over her eyes and removed as much of the thick, gooey mud as she could from her eyelids. She cleared her vision enough to see the culprit hiding behind the tree at the edge of the pond, snickering behind an adorable little hand.
“Pippa, you get out here right now!” Mabel yelled, continuing to rub at the mud covering her eyebrows and dripping down her cheek. She bent over and scooped a handful of the murky pond water before splashing it on her face in an attempt to further clear the mud away. Dirty liquid slipped between her lips, and she immediately spit it out most unbecomingly.
“Pippa isn’t here!” a tiny voice squeaked through peals of giggles.
“Philippa Jane Sheffield, get your hide over here this instant before I lose my patience and withhold your pudding this evening!”
A tiny gasp pierced the warm air as little hands slapped against tiny hips. “You wouldn’t dare!” the sassy seven-year-old exclaimed indignantly.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Mabel countered with an identical pose, eyebrow hitched as she glared down at her formidable opponent. It was irrelevant that she did not intend to stay true to the threat; Pippa just needed to believe she meant it, and she would get her way. “Or shall I add it to my next letter to Papa?” Mabel tapped a finger to her chin, ignoring the crust of drying mud as she angled her face toward the warm sun. “Let us see. I could write, ‘Dearest Papa, among making strides in both French and Italian, our sweet Pippa has taken to launching gooey mud pies in her spare time at unsuspecting—’”
“Oh, fine!”Pippa stomped her tiny foot.
Mabel crossed her arms over her chest in victory as she raised an eyebrow at the little girl, staring into a copy of her own navy-violet eyes on her sister’s face. Mabel and Philippa were nearly perfect likenesses of their deceased mother—or so they were told—except for their stubborn streak, which was wholly Sheffield.
“Now, come,” Mabel said with barely-felt authority. “Giulia is waiting to resume your lessons, and I will have no more mud slinging today. Is that understood?”
Mabel realized her mistake. A miniature jaw jutted forward as Pippa crossed her arms over her chest, once again mirroring a larger version of herself. Despite growing up the daughter of a captain for His Majesty’s Royal Navy, Pippa didn’t take kindly to being told she could not do something. “Write the letter, then. Papa thinks it is fine to play in the mud. He likes my throw-jeck-shun anlee-suss.”
“Your what?” Mabel asked, completely at a loss for what Pippa could possibly be referencing. The little mite was always doing this in the days and weeks immediately following a visit or letter from their father—and they’d had a letter just a fortnight before. He was a good man of moral character and took his role as Captain in the Royal Navy quite as seriously as he took the responsibility of being a parent. But for all of the love and affection he bestowed upon his two daughters when on leave, he still had yet to master conversational etiquette with a seven-year-old, always using too-large words and concepts that were not quite within Pippa’s reach.
“You know,” Pippa drawled, obviously frustrated by Mabel’s inferior understanding. “With his cannons. His throw-jeck-shun anlee-suss.”
“Oh, right.” Mabel nodded as she inched closer to Pippa, who now stood in front of the tree with her hip cocked, and her arms still crossed. “The cannons. Papa’s throw-fleck-ton army-sass.”
“No.” Pippa shook her head, a tiny hand rising to her forehead in condescension.
Mabel took the opportunity to lunge, forcing a squeal from her younger sister as she swooped her into the air and threw her over her shoulder. She spun toward the house and strode in long, fluid steps, ignoring the small ache in her leg, the hollering for release, and small fists pounding her back. She reached the back door to the Sheffield house and stopped as enlightenment dawned, effectively halting all opposition as Pippa was stunned silent by the immediate pause.
“You mean projection analysis,” Mabel said. She could nearly feel the weight of Pippa’s chest shift as the little girl sighed, a tiny hand swatting her backside.
“I know, Mae. That’s what I said!”
Chuckling, Mabel set down the infuriatingly mudless girl and patted her behind. “Get those hands rinsed and then run upstairs and locate Giulia. Now.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Pippa called over her shoulder as she scurried away.
It was Mabel’s turn to shake her head as she watched her little darling dodge through the kitchen and up the back stairs. They were for the sole use of the servants, but no one minded that Pippa preferred the inner workings of the large house to get around instead of the luxuriously carpeted staircases specifically designated for the family. Mabel preferred her younger sister using the servants’ stairs, actually, as Pippa was, more often than not, covered in dirt or wet from the pond or dirty from some other malady; it was a wonder she had remained so spotless today. For the most part.
Mabel could hardly blame her sister; she had been much the same way when she was younger. But that was to be expected when a child grew up with mainly boys for companions. Her cousin, Charles, had been orphaned young and grew up right alongside Mabel as the brother she never had. They had resided together with Gram, the owner of their estate, which Charles was set to inherit.
Mabel had two close friends in Hattie Green and Amelia Mason—or now Amelia Fawn, she supposed. The woman’s name had changed often with her shifts in husbands, so it was sometimes hard to recall. Every second of her time that had not been spent in their company had been spent following Charles and his band of miscreants and trying to get into whatever trouble they found themselves getting into.
“Goodness!” Mrs. Henderson jumped back with a hand to her chest as she stepped into the kitchen to find a muddied and disheveled Mabel. An elderly housekeeper who was often more pretentious than the gentility she worked for, Mrs. Henderson was known for her theatrics and was skilled at elevating the most minor oddity or flaw.
“I was attacked by the little terror, Mrs. Henderson, but the situation is under control.” The mud on her face was beginning to dry, crusting and pulling her skin taut.
“I think not,” Mrs. Henderson announced with widened eyes and pinched lips. “That child needs a firm hand, Miss Mabel. She needs to understand that soiling one’s superior is thoroughly unacceptable.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Henderson. I assure you that I will make sure she understands how improper it is to soil one’s superior.” Mabel sniffed to fight the levity that sparkled in her shoulders, for Mrs. Henderson did not take kindly to being laughed at. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must wash up.”
“Hmmph,” Mrs. Henderson grunted with a nod before turning back to whatever task she had been diverted from, her keys jangling as her ample hips swung to and fro. Mabel snickered as she turned for the servants’ hall and scanned the busy staff, looking for the jet-black hair and pale green eyes that belonged to her lady’s maid.
Spotting Payne in the corner with a needle and thread to the tear in Mabel’s forest green riding habit—the one she had chosen because it intensified her eyes—she crossed the threshold, effectively ceasing all work as every seated employee rose and every moving employee halted and turned to attention. She briefly wondered if this was how Papa felt aboard his ships, having complete authority over the men that made up his crew. Although unlike her, Papa loved the control of being in charge—something that Mabel was talented at, but not entirely content with, yet.
