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Will strolled into the billiards room as the oldest Fletcher scattered balls all across the table. “I had a shot lined up,” the lad grumbled. “You startled me.”
“My apologies, then. I only wanted to mention that we’ve evidently had neighbor children or squirrels in the house; some of Emmeline’s jewelry has gone missing. If you’ve come up missing anything yourself, let me know. Hopefully it won’t occur again, but I will keep an eye out.”
James leaned on the cue stick, smugness radiating from every inch of him. “I’ll be sure to tell you if I see any squirrels wearing gemstones, or young lads in pearls.”
Mentioning pearls wasn’t a confession, but gaining one hadn’t been Will’s intention. Not today. Young Mr. Fletcher had been made aware that the Pershings knew things had been taken. If he had any sense, he would stop stealing—or stop encouraging it. He might even realize he could be considered a suspect. At best, this little chat would frighten him away, and he would vanish into the night without his siblings.
As he left the room, Will rolled his shoulders. The moment he heard back from his friends in London, the moment he could be certain that James Fletcher had no right to make off with George and Rose, he would remove the proverbial gloves holding him back from direct accusations and a visit to the constabulary. That was, of course, if the news was what he hoped for. If James could indeed claim his siblings, that would mean an entirely different set of problems—both for him and Emmeline, and for George and Rose. The idea of having to watch them slip back into a life of poverty and crime with nothing he could do to prevent it, with no opportunity to find something better for them… “No,” he muttered, heading for the stairs to see if the day’s mail had yet been delivered. “No.”
Hannah Redcliffe let out a sigh, then set aside young Rose’s bonnet. With the ribbon reattached, it looked fresh and pink and good as new, as long as the girl didn’t return to running through the garden and towing the hat behind her like a kite.
“You’ve had a sight more work to do, these last days,” Mrs. Brubbins observed, giving the bonnet an approving nod as she made her way from the larder to the cutting board, an armful of carrots held against her bosom.
“I suppose I have, but I’m enjoying it,” Hannah said, moving on to sew a loose hem in one of the girl’s pink gowns. “I’m frightfully busy when we’re in London, but the year slows down so much when we’re at Winnover. The children have… livened thing up, haven’t they?”
The cook chuckled. “I’d agree with that. They’re still eating like no one’s ever fed them before, poor things. I’ve had to send Molly down to the village again today for an extra five pounds of sugar just for all the sweets I’m baking.”
“I’ve been enjoying those treats of yours far too much myself,” Hannah said, grinning. “I may have to let out my own dresses if this continues much longer.”
Mrs. Brubbins’s smile faded. “Less than four weeks till they ride off to Cumberland, isn’t it? A shame, really. Even with all the tomfoolery, there’s been so much smiling and laughter here, it’ll seem quiet as a mausoleum after they’re gone.”
The small clock in the hallway chimed ten times, and Hannah set her sewing back in her basket. “Yes, it will, but we haven’t arrived to that point yet. And I’ve been invited by the little ones to go apple picking.”
“Bring me a dozen, will you? I’ll bake up a pie or two for tonight.”
Nodding, Hannah left the kitchen and trotted up the short hallway, through the door, and into the main part of the house. Hannah liked Mrs. Brubbins, just as she liked Powell and Davis and Edward and Donald and Sally and Lizzy and Tom Billet and the other staff here and at Pershing House in London.
The Pershings expected a well-run, efficient, and effective household, and the servants had long ago learned that performing as a unit made things go much more smoothly. They relied on each other, everyone did their duty and carried their weight, and as a result, the Pershing household was universally praised and admired. She couldn’t count the number of barely disguised invitations she’d received to serve in other London households. She’d never even been tempted.
“There you are, Hannah,” Rose said, and immediately handed over an enormous basket nearly half the girl’s size. “Powell said we could use whichever baskets we wanted, but I’ve never picked apples, so I think we should be ready for anything,” she went on by way of explanation.
“That’s very sensible,” Hannah returned. “I have a request from Mrs. Brubbins for a dozen apples. Is it to be just the three of us?”
George, another giant basket draped over one of his skinny elbows, nodded. “The Pershings are going to Birdlip again. I don’t know why, because they didn’t tell us.”
“Ah.” They hadn’t told her, either. She wished they had; the shawl Mrs. Pershing had with her this morning was probably too heavy for a walk in the sun.
“Let’s go. I heard that worms get in apples in the morning, and I don’t want any worms in mine.” Rose wrinkled her nose.
“If you do find any worms, let me know,” George put in. “It’ll save me from having to dig ’em up and learn more things about soil from Mr. P.”
“If you’re going to be living in the country, it’s important to learn about soil.” Hannah smiled. “Though, honestly, I don’t know much about it myself.”
Powell pulled open the front door, practically waving them outside. “Have fun, sir, miss, Hannah,” he said, and closed them out of the house.
“I don’t think Powell likes us,” Rose observed, skipping down the drive.
“I think he has a broomstick stuck up his arse,” George contributed.
“He likes order,” Hannah offered. “This has been an unusual autumn for him.”
“Because of us. I know.” The girl veered around the side of the house toward the stable.
“Miss Rose, the orchard is on the other side of the house, past the pond,” Hannah pointed out.
“Oh yes. But I need to know how many apples Billet needs for the horses.”
At the mention of the groom’s name, and before she’d realized what she was doing, Hannah put her hand up to check her hair. Immediately she lowered it again. Since she didn’t have hooves and her hair didn’t look like a mane, Tom Billet wouldn’t even look in her direction. She knew that for a fact, because she’d been looking in his for the past three years. Stupid, thickheaded man.