Claire commenced a thorough search of her rooms. “Why, oh, why did I only send sweets to the guests’ chambers and not the family’s?” she asked Kippers, who was observing her efforts with interest. “Because Rachael always did it that way. Hang Rachael. And hang the maids for cleaning so attentively. Could they not have overlooked so much as a crust of bread?”
She gave up her fruitless search and tried other remedies. She walked up and down the room, cooled herself by the window, warmed herself by the hearth, and splashed water on her face—all to no avail.
“There’s nothing for it,” she told Kippers. “I’ll have to venture down to the kitchen.”
With another approving mew, he hopped off the bed to accompany her. She scooped up her candle and slipped out into the dark and drafty corridor. Lightning streaked across its small, high windows as her feet, shod in her warmest slippers over two pairs of wool stockings, found their unerring way to the kitchen.
But upon entering, she was startled to find the chamber already occupied. By the dim light of another candle, Claire could see a figure hunkered over the worktable. Surely the poor scullery maid wasn’t still washing up?
No. The figure was a man’s, garbed in a loosely tied dressing gown and nightcap. With dismay Claire recognized him by the thick, chestnut lock that escaped his cap to fall into his eyes. And with stupefaction she watched him continually sweeping it back, though the same hunk of hair would inevitably fall again a moment later due to the violence with which he was shoveling food into his mouth.
A half-forgotten urge came over her: the desire to touch that unruly lock.
Which was absurd. It was attached to the head of a man she despised, who was currently appearing in a most unappealing tableau. Before him lay a ripped burlap parcel, the contents of which littered the table: spare bits of pie, picked-over joints of meat, open jars and canisters of stewed fish and vegetables.
Why, Jonathan had purloined the remains of their dinner!
She might have burst out laughing were she not transfixed by the horrifying sight. None of his fastidious table manners were in evidence. He was eating with his hands, licking his fingers, making hideous noises of satisfaction. Behaving like a man driven half-mad by starvation.
Which, Claire supposed, he was.
Hadn’t she and Elizabeth made sure of that?
Claire decided to attempt a quiet retreat. She might have got away unseen, too, were it not for the traitorous Kippers. No doubt smelling fish, he leapt onto the table. When Jonathan glanced up, Claire panicked and tripped over a step stool. She threw out a hand to catch herself, and caught instead a rack of copper pots, knocking several to the floor with a thunderous clamor that sent Kippers scampering away.
Jonathan leapt to his feet, brandishing an eating knife. “Who’s there?”
Claire stood blinking in the dark—and realized she’d dropped her candle during the commotion. Now she had to speak before she was gutted with a dull blade.
“You know,” she said in her haughtiest tone, “that food parcel was intended for the poor.”
Though his face was hidden in shadow, his body let slip a little start of recognition. He set down the knife and reached into his dressing gown pocket, pulling out his money-book. He removed several banknotes and placed them beside the knife. “Shall this make amends to the poor?”
Claire raised a brow at the generous denomination. “That will do.” Having nothing else to say, she turned to go.
“Claire, wait. Won’t you join me?”
Incredulity brought her up short. “Join you?” Aside from the impertinence… She looked pointedly at the table littered with crumbs, empty vessels, and used silverware. “Join you for what?”
He began rooting in the burlap. “Ah! There’s still some bread, and”—unearthing a jar—“I saved you the prawns.” He presented them with an air of great chivalry.
Claire rolled her eyes. “A noble sacrifice.” Though she adored prawns, she knew Jonathan had never cared for them.
While she continued to hang back, he bent to restart the banked fire in the kitchen’s big cast iron stove, then left the stove’s door open to add welcome heat and light. “I’ve something else for you, as well.”
“A fork?”
“No—well, yes.” He selected one and began polishing it with a fresh napkin. “But that’s not what I meant.” When the fork sparkled, he arranged it beside the bread and prawns. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to speak with you alone, because I owe you an apology.”
Now he’d piqued her interest. Not that any sort of apology could induce her to forgive him. But it would be nice to watch him grovel, all the same.
She looked down at her night clothes regretfully. “If I were decently attired…”
Though he snorted, Jonathan tactfully chose not to remind her that he’d seen her far less decent before. Instead he countered with: “You—the strange creature shivering in worsted wool last summer while we humans roasted in linen—not decent? You must be wearing four layers at least.”
Five, actually. She wore two shifts and a flannel dressing gown beneath her plush velvet one, plus a shawl wrapped round the whole. And she was still cold.
However, she wasn’t about to admit as much aloud. Jonathan didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he knew her so well.
