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Authors: Jane Ashford

Tags: #Romance, #Regency, #General, #Historical, #Fiction

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BOOK: Once Again a Bride
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***

With a quick knock on the drawing room door, Ethan came in. He presented a silver tray holding a visiting card. Frances picked it up. “Edward?”

“Mr. Danforth is below, Madame.”

“Oh. Well… I don’t… I suppose he should come up.”

What was it about the Danforths, Charlotte wondered? Frances didn’t seem to dislike them; it was more as if they confused her so much that she didn’t know what to do.

Alec’s cousin strolled into the room looking more handsome than ever in a many-caped driving coat—the essence of a fashionable man about town. “Afternoon, ladies.” He smiled at Charlotte. “We finally got a warmer day in this blasted icy spring, and I dared pull out my curricle.” He made it sound like an adventure. “Care to take a drive… Aunt?” His blue eyes glinted with humor at the ridiculous title.

“Now?” said Charlotte, then berated herself for sounding childish.

“Well, if you are not particularly occupied.” Edward looked at the vast piece of embroidery as if he pitied her.

“I don’t know whether…” Frances began. At an amused glance from Edward, she trailed off into silence.

She didn’t need anyone’s permission, Charlotte thought. A burst of excitement went through her at the idea, and at the prospect of glimpsing some of London society at last. She had dreamed of it on leaving home, and been so bitterly disappointed. She slipped from under the embroidery canvas. “I’ll get my things.”

In her bedchamber, however, she nearly balked. All she had to wear was the cloak she’d gotten when she attained her full height at sixteen. It was dark green, not black, and utterly utilitarian. Her bonnet was black, but hopelessly outmoded; even her gloves were unfashionable. Edward Danforth would take one look at her and withdraw his invitation, ashamed to be seen with such a dowd. Charlotte peered into the mirror in despair, and then, with an effort, threw it off. He would not dare to be so rude. She would grasp her chance at a real outing, think what he would.

In fact, he did not show by the flicker of an eyelid any condemnation of her dreadful ensemble. He handed her into the kind of shining equipage she’d only seen from afar, laid a rug over her knees, and raised a finger to his groom, who left the horses’ heads and swung up behind. “A turn through the park?” he said, and Charlotte smiled up at him.

It wasn’t far. She admired Edward’s driving skill as they negotiated some narrow turns on the way. Their swift passage in the open carriage, feet above the street, was thrilling. Everything seemed different from up here.

The lanes of Hyde Park were sparsely populated; Charlotte put it down to the chilly temperatures until she remembered that morning was the fashionable time for riding. Had Edward planned it this way? He nodded to a few passersby but didn’t stop. “Not much going on in town as yet, though people are trickling back.”

By “people,” he meant the
ton
, Charlotte understood. There were, of course, hordes of unfashionable people all over the streets of London. “The Season hasn’t started,” she replied, trying to sound knowledgeable. He smiled at her, and Charlotte felt as if her ignorance was perfectly transparent, and yet somehow charming. She flushed.

“No. But the bad weather has spoiled the hunting, which will bring everyone back in short order. Do you hunt?”

Charlotte merely shook her head.

“What
do
you do, auntie?”

The glimmer in his eyes made it a joke, but she still smarted at this reminder of her lamentable history. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Your wish is my command, Mrs.…”

“Not that either!”

Edward laughed. “What am I to call you then?” Her flush deepened; she could not ask a young man she barely knew—and such a very attractive one—to use her first name. “How about ‘ma’am’?” he suggested. “Bit of a regal touch, dash of deference. That’s the ticket.”

“You’re making fun, but…”

“Not at all, ma’am. Perfectly serious.”

She couldn’t resist his smile, the glint in his blue eyes—and the fact that she had no alternative. She didn’t want to hear anyone call her “Mrs. Wylde” ever again. “Oh, very well.”

“Yes, ma’am; thank you, ma’am.” Before the jest could turn annoying, he added, “They say this art exhibit ’round the corner will be all the rage once the Season gets under way. Care to take a peek?”

Charlotte gathered the scraps of her dignity. “That sounds pleasant.”

With the good sense not to repeat the word “ma’am,” Edward turned his team toward the park gates. Their destination was not quite around the corner, but it was nearby. He pulled up before an imposing redbrick building and handed the reins to his groom. “Walk them, Sam,” he said as he jumped down and offered Charlotte a hand.

Inside, the walls of large rooms were crowded with pictures right up to the ceiling. Here and there, people wandered; most seemed more interested in each other than in the artworks. Charlotte examined a portrait of a fat man in full court dress and wondered what in the world to say about it. It seemed very ugly to her.

“My dears, hello, hello!” trilled a voice, and she turned to find Edward’s mother bearing down on them. “How lovely to see you again.” Lady Isabella enveloped Charlotte in a quick embrace, scented by violets, then took her arm. Her fur-trimmed cloak, with matching hat and muff, made Charlotte’s look like a candidate for the ragbag. “I couldn’t induce Edward to come to this exhibit. Now I see what is required—more attractive company than his mother.” She laughed and pulled Charlotte along. Arm in arm they strolled through the rooms, Edward trailing behind.

“That landscape is pretty,” Charlotte ventured, feeling that she must express some opinion if this exhibit was so important.

“There’s Cecily Harcourt,” was Lady Isabella’s reply. “She still looks rather plump, doesn’t she? She delivered Seton’s child only a month ago. They say her husband hasn’t the least idea that the boy isn’t his. I suppose Cecily is quite adroit with her… timing.”

Charlotte glanced at the woman in question, then away. She tried not to look shocked. It was the first time anyone had treated her as a married woman, not a girl who must be sheltered from scandalous gossip.

“Isn’t that Helen Trent?” Lady Isabella went on. “I’m surprised she dares show her face in town with all those gambling debts unpaid. Three thousand pounds or more, I heard. I know she can’t be blackballed from the clubs the way a gentleman can, but you’d think she’d be ashamed.”

“She’s barred from all the decent gaming houses,” Edward put in.

“Really?” Lady Isabella relished the tidbit. “What will she do, I wonder? They say she cannot live without cards or dice.”

“Find another ‘patron,’ I expect,” answered Edward carelessly.

His mother’s laugh trilled out. “She’s hardly the beauty she once was, darling. I don’t think any rich man will be lured in to cover her sort of losses.” Seeing Charlotte’s expression, she added, “Poor Helen generally loses.”

“No head for it at all,” Edward agreed. “If she can’t get anyone to frank her, it’ll have to be the moneylenders.”

“Edward, shame on you! What a shocking idea.” In fact, his mother appeared to find it delicious. “Let’s sit. Looking at art is so tiring.”

She hadn’t actually looked at any, Charlotte thought. But she was happy to sit on one of the cushioned benches. This glance under the shiny surface of society had left her a bit dazed.

“Dear Charlotte.” Lady Isabella’s gloved hand patted one of hers. “I am so glad to have this opportunity. Ever since we met I’ve wanted to talk to you about Henry’s will. It is just so very unfair to you.”

Charlotte had to nod. Whenever she focused on her true situation—which she did as little as possible—she was stung by the injustice of it all. It was much more pleasant not to think about it.

“I feel for you because the same thing happened to me.”

“Really?”

Edward had drifted away. He stood, hands behind his back, gazing at a huge historical painting of Lot’s wife turning to a pillar of salt.

“When my father died,” Lady Isabella explained. “He left me next to nothing. Henry as well. Everything went to James.” Seeing Charlotte’s frown, she took it to be confusion. “Our elder brother; Alec’s father, you know. It was outrageous. I took the matter to court.”

Charlotte remembered a vague mention of something like this. “To challenge the will?”

“Yes, indeed. I was the one who stayed at home to care for Mama, you know. It always falls to the daughter, does it not? James and Henry were off to school, town, wherever they liked. Do you know I was thirty-one before I broke away to marry? Can you imagine?” Her laugh was less musical this time.

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Lady Isabella seemed to expect a response. “Your suit in court was successful?”

Lady Isabella looked away, her thin shoulders stiff. “Well… no. Except, I made my point, you see. I told them all exactly what I thought.”

Which accounted for her reception at Sir Alexander’s house, Charlotte concluded. “I’m told that Henry’s will is quite legal. He was free to do as he pleased with the house and estate; I have no grounds to dispute it.”

“Of course they tell you that.” Lady Isabella leaned forward. “Those who benefit will always discourage…”

“The thing is… I beg your pardon, Lady Isabella, but it seems to me that
no
one
benefits from Henry’s will. Unless you count being allowed to live in that house…” Which she did not. In her mind, the will was a mirror of Henry Wylde’s character—slyly spiteful. She didn’t want to think of him, still less spend months grappling with legalities. “I don’t wish to go to court.”

The older woman leaned tensely toward her for another moment, then sat back. “Well, of course it’s your choice, my dear.” She rose. “Shall we see some other paintings?”

They walked into a further room and found Edward there. He looked bored. Lady Isabella barely glanced at the pictures before moving on. It was impossible to take in so much at one time, Charlotte thought. There must be at least fifty paintings in every room. By the time they had made the circuit of the building, colors and images were blurred together in her mind.

“Very striking,” Lady Isabella said as they returned to the entrance. “Don’t you think, Charlotte?”

“Uh, yes. It was lovely to have an outing.” That was certainly true. She smiled at both the Danforths.

“Poor dear. I should be delighted to take you about London this Season, but… please don’t be offended…”

Charlotte had no doubt what was coming. “I need some decent clothes!”

Lady Isabella cocked her head in agreement. “Of course, with blacks… your wedding clothes are much smarter, I imagine?”

Charlotte hesitated, then decided to throw herself on Lady Isabella’s mercy. Wardrobe was clearly her area of expertise. “I… my father thought I should have my trousseau made in London. The marriage… came about rather quickly, and… my seamstress in Hampshire…” Charlotte fingered the folds of her old-fashioned cloak. “Then, when I got here, Henry would not allow me to spend…”

“My dear, say no more. Men have no notion of these things.”

Henry had known very well, Charlotte thought. He’d wanted every penny for his own purchases.

“My own dressmaker is a genius with the needle and very quick as well. I would be happy to recommend you to her.”

A sternly suppressed longing surged up in Charlotte and crashed. “I don’t want a wardrobe full of black gowns.” It was excruciating, not to mention hypocritical, that she had to appear to mourn Henry.

“Well, yes. Hmm. Such a brief marriage, and really unknown, after all. There can scarcely be gossip… Henry was not exactly a member of society. No, I don’t think black is necessary. You cannot wear bright colors, of course.” Lady Isabella surveyed her. “That dark green becomes you, and perhaps a bronze—yes, that would be very striking for evening.”

Charlotte knew that some people expected mourning dress for months and months. The idea was hateful. Rebellion rose in her. She would
not
wear widow’s weeds for Henry Wylde; she did not care who objected. “I should like to see a bit of society.”

“Of course you would, dear.”

“I hate black!”

Lady Isabella considered her. “It is very becoming on some, but with your coloring…”

“I won’t buy it!”

“Very wise.”

“But you think I could attend… that is, you would be willing to…”

“Evening parties would be acceptable. Not balls, I’m afraid.”

It was more than she’d dared hope for. Charlotte determined to write Wycliffe immediately and ask about drawing funds from the estate. Surely something could be spared.

And so, a surprisingly few days later, she stood before the mirror in her bedchamber in the first truly modish gown she’d ever owned. Lady Isabella’s dressmaker had been a marvel. She’d altered two gowns she had on hand to fit Charlotte, in particular a midnight blue—nearly black—velvet evening dress more beautiful than any garment she’d ever worn. And two more were being sewn especially for her. The woman had given her a special price as a friend of a longtime customer.

“Ooh, Miss Charlotte,” said Lucy, adjusting a flounce of the lavender morning gown trimmed with bunches of purple ribbon. “That’s gorgeous, that is!”

Charlotte was almost tearful at the vision in the mirror. She hoped she wasn’t vain or frivolous. It had just been so long since she had anything so pretty.

“I was thinking, miss.” Lucy hesitated.

“What?” Charlotte turned to admire the fall of the skirt in back.

“Jennings, Miss Cole’s dresser, has ever so much experience. She’s up on everything to do with fashion. I was thinking I might ask her to do your hair once, to show me, like.” As if afraid of objections, Lucy rushed on. “She’s been very kind to me, says I have a dab hand with an iron. If I saw her doing it, then I’d get the knack.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Lucy. If you think she really would.”

“I do, miss. She’s offered to help me learn.”

“Then please ask her.”

Lucy beamed.

Nine

Exactly how, Alec wondered, had he ended up at the theater in this box full of females, about to be subjected to an evening of Edmund Kean? He vastly preferred comedies; he despised Kean and the set who raved over his stage frenzies. A year ago, or the year before that, he would have been engaged in some wholly different, much more… palatable form of amusement. With a very different sort of female.

Had it been Lizzy, dying to see a play? No, it was Anne, he remembered. He’d overheard her wistful comment about reading dramas but never actually seeing one performed. It was simply assumed, when he mentioned purchasing tickets, that Lizzy and Frances, and Charlotte, would come. Lizzy had been so excited; impossible to disappoint her. Even Frances had been pleased, and Charlotte… He’d been avoiding Charlotte, yet here she was beside him, stunning in a dark velvet gown. She’d undergone a transformation since he’d last looked, moving from winsomely pretty to riveting. Whenever he turned his head, he was mesmerized by the coppery golden glimmer of her hair, her sparkling eyes, smooth white arms, the curves under the soft folds of…

As if reading his mind, Lizzy said, “Doesn’t Charlotte look splendid? Have you even noticed her new gown? Jennings did her hair specially.”

It took Alec a moment to find his voice. “Very nice.”

“Very nice,” Lizzy mocked. “What a sourpuss you’ve been lately, Alec. Always gone off somewhere, never taking the time to…”

“It’s quite a good crowd for so early in the year, isn’t it?” interrupted Anne, ever the peacemaker. She leaned over the rail of the box, taking in the scene; there were roses in her cheeks again, for which Alec felt a surge of gratitude. It would be good for her to get a taste of London society, with her come-out just a year away. He hadn’t thought of that before. There was so much that he’d never expected to think about.

“The lady in that box across the way seems to know you, Alec,” said his youngest sister with a giggle.

“Lizzy,” Frances admonished.

“Well, it can’t be any of the rest of us. And she keeps looking over here and smiling and playing with her fan.”

Alec followed her gaze, and recognized the sophisticated young matron who had considerably enlivened his last stay in London. The depth of her décolletage brought back steamy memories. Her dazzling smile when he nodded politely signaled a clear willingness to add to them whenever he chose.

“Is she on your list?” Lizzy asked.

“Be quiet, Lizzy.” How had he failed to consider that this outing would bring together two unrelated parts of his life? Which were definitely to remain unrelated.

“Alec intends to make an arranged marriage,” Lizzy proceeded to tell Charlotte. “He is very cynical and does not believe in love matches.”

“How could anyone, after watching our grandparents continually rip at each other? Father knew what he was doing, choosing a partner on a rational basis.”

His entire party stared at him, openmouthed. Anne seemed about to speak, then said nothing. Frances looked deeply shocked, but she could scarcely be more shocked than Alec himself. He couldn’t believe the words that had escaped his mouth. He was well accustomed to his sisters’ teasing; he’d never lost control in such… to expose his family’s most private… in front of… His face burned with humiliation. Why couldn’t Lizzy curb her tongue? Why could she not learn some discipline? “If you cannot behave with more propriety, Lizzy, I shall take you home immediately.”

“But all I…”

“Did was make spectacle of us for all to see.”

“How did I do that? That’s not fair!”

Lizzy gazed at him with huge, hurt eyes. Anne looked distressed, Frances uneasy. In his awareness that Lizzy had a point, he didn’t dare glance at Charlotte. Blessedly, before the silence grew unbearable, the curtain rose, and the performance began.

Kean ranged across the boards as Hamlet. Some poet had said that his acting was like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning. And why would you want to do that, Alec wondered? He ignored the play and struggled to recover his equilibrium. What was wrong with him? He did not lose his temper. He did not criticize his family. He did not, and he would not, and that was the end of it. So… why…?

Not even looking at the stage, he told himself he was tired and worried. The times were so bad that the country was a tinderbox awaiting a spark. Not his own tenants, perhaps, but he’d heard from some of them about others—unspecified others—who were threatening violence. If they carried their grievances into action, the government would crush them, and what would become of his own people in that case? Might he rush home to find a line of gibbets across his green fields? What could he do—what more could he do—to make certain that never happened?

Servitors entered the box with lemonade and ices, and Alec came back to himself to discover it was already the first interval. He had ordered refreshments to be served here, to avoid the crush in the lobby. Lizzy greeted them with vociferous delight. “What I don’t understand is,” she said as she dug in to an ice, “why isn’t Hamlet king? His father was the king.”

“His uncle took over,” replied Charlotte.

“But what reason did he give? Wouldn’t all the people in…?”

“Denmark,” Anne prompted.

“Yes. Wouldn’t they expect Hamlet to become the king? Everyone knows the Prince Regent will become king, and he has lots of uncles. Doesn’t he?”

“He certainly does,” replied Alec drily. And a bigger set of gamblers and lechers and incompetents could hardly be imagined.

“Claudius usurped the throne,” said Anne, savoring the verb.

“But how? With an army?” Lizzy wondered.

“With… um… persuasion and intrigue,” Charlotte offered, with admirable ingenuity, Alec thought.

Lizzy contemplated this as she finished her ice and reached for another. “Why didn’t he kill Hamlet then? In the history books people are always trying to make me read, they do that when they u… usurp.” She wrinkled her nose at their surprised expressions. “I
have
read some of them!”

“I expect he thought Hamlet’s mother wouldn’t like it,” Frances put in.

“Oh, yes. He wanted to get on her good side, because he wanted to marry her.” Lizzy nodded wisely.

Alec found he was smiling.

“She seems rather stupid, doesn’t she?” Lizzy looked from face to face. “I mean, she can’t understand why Hamlet is upset. But he didn’t get to be king. Why wouldn’t he be upset?”

“Very true,” said Alec. Lizzy shot him a glance, saw his smile, and returned it. Alec felt his chest lighten with relief. He didn’t enjoy being at odds with his sister.

“So, Hamlet thinks that his uncle killed his father. He knows his uncle married his mother and took away his kingdom?”

The rest of the party nodded, enjoyment of Lizzy’s commentary evident in all their faces.

“But he isn’t doing anything about it?”

“He’s thinking about what he should do,” said Anne.

Lizzy cocked her head. “He seems a bit damp, doesn’t he? Compared to King Arthur and his knights, or the princes in fairy tales? They’re always righting wrongs and fighting injustice. Hamlet just keeps
talking.

“Well done, Lizzy. You’ve hit on the characteristic he is most famous for,” Alec told her.

There was general laughter. Seeing Frances throw back her head and indulge in a hearty laugh, Alec was abruptly struck by the memory of a picnic, ten years or more ago. He’d been home from school, so it must have been during the summer holidays. Frances, his father, his brother, and sisters had all been there, around a bright blanket on the shore of the stream that ran through the estate. The picture was vivid in his mind—green grass and paler willows, splashes of wildflowers, the sound of water in the background and his family’s laughter close by. But mostly he remembered the feeling of contentment that had enveloped him that afternoon, for the first time in a long while, perhaps since his mother’s death. And he had known somehow, even at fourteen, that it came as a gift from Frances Cole. She didn’t laugh enough these days. He needed to see about that.

“What do
you
think Hamlet should do?” Charlotte was asking Lizzy when he came back to himself.

Lizzy’s dark blue eyes narrowed. She scraped the last of her second ice from the dish. “Challenge his uncle to a duel. They could fight each other for the kingdom.”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” Alec said. He would have preferred it over what was to come.

Lizzy looked around. “Is that what he does?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Anne told her.

Lizzy wrinkled her nose at her sister. “Well, next time I would rather see a comedy.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Alec told her. “What do you think of the play, Anne? Is seeing better than reading?”

“Of course. Although Mr. Kean is…”

Alec waited.

“He seems awfully…” Anne searched for a word, “…excitable.”

Alec burst out laughing again, wholly in sympathy with his sisters. Charlotte was laughing, too. Their eyes caught and held, and Alec found he couldn’t look away from the warmth of those coppery depths. He wanted to… rise and… or reach out a hand. Anne leaned over to speak to her; Charlotte turned away. Alec kept gazing at her until the curtain rose, and Edmund Kean came railing and frothing onto the stage.

***

Ethan looked around the servants’ hall of Sir Alexander Wylde’s town house, at a circle of lamp-lit faces. With the family out for the evening, all the staff were present except Thomas, the coachman, and Jennings. As usual, she’d claimed she had tasks to do in her room. She put herself above the rest of them, Ethan thought, even the housekeeper, which was laying it on a bit thick.

Mrs. Wright knitted and kept a benign eye on the younger staff. Cook and Agnes were hulling chestnuts, some of which they’d roast in the fire later on. Ethan hefted his mug of mulled cider and let his gaze linger on Lucy. She was smiling; she looked happy. It was the first time Ethan had seen her so at ease. He liked seeing it; she’d been that anxious when she first arrived. Tonight, she was the picture of contentment, and a lovely picture it was.

“Oh, Ethan was crazed about animals when he was a lad,” said Susan. “You’d only to tell him of a downed bird or a wounded hedgehog, and there he’d be. Eight years old, and he had a little kit with bandages and all.”

Ethan gave her a lazy grin. The young lady’s maid was practically a sister to him. They’d played together as toddlers and grown up on the estate side by side.

“Most of ’em died, o’ course,” Susan added. “And what a to-do we had then. You stopped doing the funerals after a while, though, Ethan. Why was that?”

“I started to wonder if I’d done them a service, keeping them hanging on, like. I figured out that some of them died ’cause they could never live in a cage.” It had taught him a lot about the way nature worked.

“Our Ethan’s quite the fee-losopher,” James said.

Ethan poked his fellow footman in the ribs, and they tussled briefly. He didn’t really mind the teasing. He knew the others liked him, as he did them.

“Let him be now,” said Mrs. Wright. “Our Ethan’s an easygoing lad, but there are limits.”

And there it was. They didn’t go too far, and next they’d be twitting James about his finicky ways with boot polish, or Agnes about her weakness for sweets and the lengths she’d go for a bit of cake. Nobody was mean with it.

Ethan caught a flash of black in the corner of his eye. If it was a rat, Cook would… but, no. It was Callie edging along the wall. Was the cat trying to escape the house where she was increasingly confined? A creature like her was used to wandering of a night. However, she was probably used to kicks and thrown stones, too. Not likely to be missing those. Callie settled by the fire with her paws tucked underneath her; she noticed Ethan’s gaze and looked away. Maybe she was just lonely, upstairs on her own.

Ethan thought no more about it until a few minutes later, when a lightning paw flashed over the edge of the table, snagged the bit of cheese remaining on James’s plate, and disappeared. Talking, James groped about the plate, then looked down, puzzled, at the empty dish.

Ethan bit back a laugh and an urge to peek under the table. Callie was a slick little thief, and no mistake. And why shouldn’t she be? Her skills had kept her alive out there in the street. He looked up and caught Lucy’s blue eyes dancing. She’d seen it, too. He raised his brows. Should they turn the cat in? Lucy smiled at him, a free and easy smile that hit him amidships and just about stopped his heart. What was it about this particular lass? He’d known prettier; he’d known livelier. But somehow Lucy Bowman made every other girl he’d met fade from his mind. For the gift of that smile, Callie would go free, Ethan thought.

James decided he’d eaten the cheese after all. “I don’t know what’s going to come of it,” he said. “Folk I know are near to starving. No joke, their young ones are hungry more days than not.”

Mrs. Wright shook her head. “The hardship’s something terrible in the country.”

“And I’ve heard from my brother that there’s some want to take steps,” James added. “They’re sick of waiting for help that don’t arrive and a government that don’t listen. Right back home, this is.”

“You should tell Sir Alexander if there’s talk of violence,” admonished Mrs. Wright.

James’s jaw hardened. Ethan knew he’d never risk getting his friends in trouble.

“He’s doing his best to make things right,” the housekeeper went on. “He has a fund for those in need, and all.” But James was clearly not convinced.

“Everybody said things would be better when the Frenchies were beat,” put in Agnes. “We’d been fighting those devils since ’afore I was born. Why en’t it better with the war over?”

Nobody knew. Though James faithfully read the newspapers that came into the house, and Mrs. Wright corresponded with a number of people in Derbyshire, the problem was too knotty even for their collective wisdom.

A pan rattled, then fell with a great clatter in the scullery. A streak of black hurtled across the kitchen and out toward the stairs. “Drat that animal,” said Cook. “She can’t be hungry. I sent up a pile of scraps not two hours ago.”

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