I’d never actually used a shovel before, but fortunately the motion seemed instinctive. What I did lack was a pail of some sort to put the excrement in. Instead, I was forced to carry it throughout the house at the end of the shovel and wait for Lock to lift the curtain so I could fling it outside. The process was repeated no less than three times because Fenella was nothing if not prolific.
Eventually, the pain of my humiliation overtook the pain in my foot and my task was finished. I flopped on the front step, finally pulling my—horribly scuffed—boot off. Godfrey was going to have a fit at the sight.
I wasn’t able to pull off my stocking without taking off my breeches, but beneath the white silk, a purplish bruise was forming. The swelling, however, seemed minimal and after poking it a few times, I was fairly certain the damage was superficial.
“Ye all right, lad?” Lock asked
“No, but unfortunately, the injury seems unlikely to kill me.”
“Cheer up.”
“Oh, of course, how could I forget to be cheerful? Fenella left me such lovely welcome gifts.”
“Ye got a letter from home at least. I set it on the table—the one Fenella left untouched. Why dinnae ye see aboot supper after ye finish yer letter and the lass and I will see aboot a tether for Miss Fenella.”
“Ye want me to what?” Miss McAllen asked, her tone full of incredulity.
“Help me with a tether for the sheep,” he repeated, slowly.
“That is a wild animal. And I’m with child—I couldnae possibly risk it.”
“Yer with child? My felicitations!”
“What did ye ken?”
“I didnae ken, too many cakes?”
A hint of laughter bubbled up in my chest.
“Ugh!” Her grumble was accompanied by a petulant stomp of her foot—so perfectly Davina that the laughter did break free, delirious and giddy. I slumped against the doorframe, tears streaming down my face in between giggles.
“I think he’s off his head…” Lock mumbled, grabbing Miss McAllen by the arm and dragging her away. I couldn’t exactly disagree with him.
Gently, I pulled my boot back on, wincing as I did so. Bracing against the doorframe, I pushed myself up and limped down the hall toward the kitchen. It was a slow, painful trek, but blessedly free of feces.
In the kitchen, I found Godfrey, sat cross-legged in front of one of the box stoves whispering words of desperate encouragement to the pathetic flickering flame inside.
“Godfrey?”
“Your Grace, forgive me. I’m not overly familiar with this sort of thing.”
“You wouldn’t be, besides you’re doing a damn sight better than I would.”
“I think the wood is damp,” he explained, tipping his head toward the pile in the near corner. The kitchen itself was spacious, with a scullery just off one side, and a separate larder off the north wall. The walls might have once been a pleasant goldenrod, but between fading, grease, and peeling paint, it was only a guess.
“What can I help with?” I added.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly?—”
“I’ve damaged my boots again. Consider my assistance payment for the inevitable fretting.”
He turned to shoot me a glare. “Again, Your Grace?”
“Yes, but if it will make you feel better, I’ve already decided to replace them entirely. So you need not fuss at all.”
“I suppose that is some small measure of comfort.”
The small fire in the stove wavered ominously, drawing his gaze back as he fed it more twigs. “You can chop the vegetables, they’re on the table.”
