“Please forgive me, ma’am,” a voice said, heavily accented. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
The figure moved into the candlelight; a woman, small in stature and perhaps of middling years, clad in a muslinsariof rich indigo blue, edged with a pale blue trim. The cat hissed again, drawing the woman’s gaze. Scowling, she spoke to the animal, her tone sharp, the words foreign to Catherine. The cat backed away, flicked its tail, and vanished into the shadows.
Catherine, still shaken, drew her dressing gown tightly about her. “You startled me,” she said, her heart rattling against her ribs. “You should not sneak up on people like that. Who are you?” This latter was a superfluous question, since Catherine had already guessed the woman’s identity.
“I beg your forgiveness, ma’am. I did not mean to frighten you.” The woman moved closer, her features becoming clearer in the candlelight. She had a face that was neither young nor old, with a smooth complexion, quick, dark eyes, and a prominent nose and chin. Her hair was a rich black, draw up into a neat chignon, and pinned in place. “My name is Anjali and I am Miss Elliot’sAyah. And you are the sister to Mr. Northcott, are you not?”
Catherine ignored the question. “What are you doing here?”
“Miss Elliot is in need of a soothing drink, ma’am,” she replied, and nodded toward the milk jug. “As are you, it seems.”
Again, Catherine ignored the comment. “Why do you not carry a candle?”
“I have no need of one, ma’am. My eyes are well accustomed to the dark.”
“Is that so?” Catherine, now feeling more irritated than shocked, and perhaps a little foolish as well, filled her glass with milk.
“If you are finished, ma’am, may I also avail myself?” the woman asked. “I do not like to keep Miss Elliot waiting.”
Catherine drew a calming breath. “Yes,” she replied, and managed a smile. “Of course.”
The woman inclined her head, took a glass from the dresser, and set it on the table. Then she reached into a fold of fabric across her breast and drew out a small linen pouch.
“What is that?” Catherine asked.
“Just a few herbs, ma’am,” she replied, opening the pouch. “I add a pinch to Miss Elliot’s milk to help her sleep. Perhaps you would like to try some.”
“No, thank you.” Clutching her drink, Catherine moved toward the door. “I have what I came for. Please return the milk jug to the cold room when you’re finished.”
Anjali inclined her head. “I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
“Thank you. I hope Miss Elliot has a restful night.”
“I bid you the same, ma’am.”
Catherine gave a nod and began to turn away, but then paused and regarded the woman once more. “I’m curious,” she said. “What did you say to the cat?”
The woman smiled. “I told her to mind her manners, ma’am.”
Chapter Three
Myddleton House,
Derbyshire
Christmas Eve,
1827
Snow crunched beneathbooted feet, cheeks bore winter’s rosy glow, and the woods echoed with lively conversation and bouts of laughter. There were undoubtedly occasions when such a cacophony would have been considered quite improper. But not this occasion. The hunt was on for Christmas decorations, specifically holly, conifer, and mistletoe. In seeking their prey, the hunters—each and every one a resident or guest of Myddleton House—had spread out through the bare trees, putting space between them. Clear communication, then, had to take distance into account. The cold air helped, conveying sound with startling clarity.
“There’s some holly over here,” came a female cry.
“With berries?” a masculine voice responded.
“No.”
“Then look about you, my lady,” the same gentleman suggested. “There’ll probably be another tree with berries nearby.”
