“Hello,” the little girl said, staring at her. “Who are you?”
“I am...”Who am I?Margaret’s brain was a fog. She remembered Joan saying she ought not give her real name. Probably wise. If Sterling came here to question Joan’s sister, Peg might say Joan had been there with someone, but not that a Margaret had been there.
“I am a... friend... of Joan’s.”
“Is Aunt Joan here, too?”
“Yes. In your mamma’s room, I believe.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with the child.
The little girl tilted her head to one side. “What’s wrong with your hair?”
Margaret reached up and realized her wig was askew. She righted the wig and muttered lamely, “Always a mess in the morning. You, on the other hand, have very pretty hair.” She said it hoping to distract the girl. She did not want her reporting to Sterling or a runner that a blond lady wearing a wig had been there. That would give away her disguise and make Sterling’s search all the easier.
She eyed the girl’s stringy hair again. “Or you could have. When was the last time you combed it?”
The little girl shrugged.
Margaret looked away from the girl to survey her surroundings. One end of the room housed a small stove, cupboards, and table and chairs. The other end held a pallet bed complete with sleeping boy and baskets heaped with fabric. Apparently Joan’s sister was a seamstress of sorts. Margaret spied a piece of broken mirror hanging on the wall by a ribbon and walked over to it, checking her wig and cap and wiping a smear of kohl from between her eyes.
“I want breakfast,” the little girl pouted.
“And I want to be a thousand miles from here,” Margaret whispered to the stranger in the mirror.
Peg stepped out of the bedchamber, tying on an apron and stifling a yawn. She said, “Light the fire, will you?”
Margaret looked at the little girl. She seemed awfully young to be trusted with fire. It took Margaret a few seconds to realize Peg had askedher.
Margaret had poked at many a drawing room fire but had never actually laid one. She eyed the small stove. A bucket with a few pieces of coal sat at the ready.
Joan came out of the room, a toddler on her hip. She glanced at Margaret, then smiled down at the boy. “This is little Henry.”
“Named for his father, he is.” Peg pulled a sack of oats from the cupboard.
“Papa is gone to sea,” a boy of seven or eight piped up. Margaret had not seen him rise from the pallet bed. “I am going to sea one day too.”
“Not for a few more years, Michael. Don’t be in a hurry,” Joan said, an indulgent dimple in her cheek.
Margaret caught Joan’s eye, and nodded her head toward the stove. Joan frowned at her, uncomprehending.
“Haven’t you got that fire lit yet?” Peg asked, not looking up as she pulled a pot from the cupboard.
“Um.... no. I am not certain...”
“I’ll do it,” Joan said in a long-suffering manner, placing the child in Margaret’s arms.
At least this was something Margaret could do. Having two siblings many years younger than herself, she knew how to hold a child.
Margaret settled the child against her and soon felt dampness seep into her gown.Ugh.She wondered if she could manage to change him. At Lime Tree Lodge, they had employed a nursery maid to deal with soiled nappies.
“What’s your name?” the older boy asked her.
“My name?” Margaret echoed stupidly. “Ah...” Her mind whirled. “Elinor,” she said, choosing her middle name.
“But she goes by Nora,” Joan added, perhaps finding the name too grand—or too close to her real name.
“Make the porridge, will you, Nora?” Peg said. “I’ve got six orders of piecework to finish today.” Peg glanced up. “You do know how to make porridge, I trust?”
“’Course she does,” Joan said. “You go about your work, Peg, and we’ll manage breakfast.”
