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A footman passed by, returning for another trunk to haul downstairs. “What the deuce are you doing, Betty Fancher?” he said.
“Just checking boxes, Ned. As ordered.”
“Dressing up ain’t checking.” Ned glared at Tom. “Being led astray by a vagabond, more like.”
“Don’t be daft,” answered Betty. “He’s just a lad.”
“He’s big enough to help carry, instead of larking around with you.Ifhe wants to help, that is.” The footman’s tone suggested deep doubt.
“I don’t mind,” said Tom amiably. He moved to join Ned.
“I can’t get this off,” cried Kitty. “Somethin’s stuck.”
Betty set her hat back in its box and went to assist. She tugged at Kitty’s hat.
“Ow! Ow! Ye’re tearing my hair out by the roots.”
Tom and Ned stepped closer. “It shouldn’t ought to stick,” said Ned. He grasped the brim and yanked.
Kitty shrieked.
Ned let go as if the hat had burned him and jumped back.
“Lemme see,” said Tom.
“As if you’d know anything,” said Ned.
“Sit down,” Tom told Kitty.
“I can’tsee,” she moaned.
“Here.” Betty guided her over to a trunk and eased her down.
“Now then.” Tom bent over the offending hat. He ran nimble fingers over the surface, peering beneath silk flower petals and lengths of ribbon and the feathers of the bird. “Ah.” He reached, pulled, and withdrew a hatpin from the crown—eight inches of steel with a small golden ball at one end and a lethal point at the other. “Wait,” he said. Further probing turned up another pin, just the same. “Try now,” he said.
Kitty raised her arms and gently pulled. The hat came off, revealing her red and tearful face. A folded sheet of paper fell onto the floor.
“That was clever,” said Ned. He gazed at Tom with new respect.
Kitty shoved the hat at Betty, who set it back in its box. Tom showed Kitty the pins before handing them to Betty so she could replace those as well, and then he picked up the fallen page.
“All papers to go downstairs,” said Ned. He took the paper and dropped it into a nearby box waiting to be carried down.
“That was worse than a panther,” said Kitty, smoothing down her hair.
Seven
In the kitchen of Rose Cottage, Kitty held up a small, brown oval. “What’s nutmeg?” she asked. Her pointed face creased in a grin. “Could be a lass selling roast chestnuts. Getcher nuts from Meg in Market Square.”
Penelope smiled. “It’s a spice,” she replied. “To flavor food.”
“And that one needs to be grated,” added Mrs. Hart. She handed Kitty the proper utensil.
Kitty held the nutmeg in one hand and the bit of perforated metal in the other, looking back and forth.
“Rub it across,” said Mrs. Hart. “Here. I’ll show you.” She demonstrated the grating process. “All of it, mind. We don’t want any waste.”
The small, sturdy lady who came in half days to cook at Rose Cottage was a fanatic on this point. Penelope admired her iron frugality, particularly because it never compromised the luscious taste of her dishes.
