Prologue
Brighton, England, 1802
When Harriet Frenchwas eleven years old, she said a naughty word in Italian.
Followed by one in French.
And a third in German.
The fourth thing she said was not so much a curse as a crass self-rebuke, in a language she only thought of as “Fishmonger Talk,” due to only ever hearing it down at the wharfs on the days they bought fish for the kitchens. It was still coarse enough that, had anyone understood it as it had come out of the mouth of an eleven-year-old girl, it would have caused gasps.
In Harriet’s defense, she had just burned her hand touching a hot pan, sent the pan flying, and then knocked several more dishes onto her little body as she’d toppled to the floor, bruised and scalding.
Unfortunately, the hot pan had contained part of the day’s main course.
Worse, the day’s main course was dinner for the master of the house’s funeral.
And perhaps most unfortunate at all was that Harriet’s flurry of vulgarity happened to explode from her mouth as the widow herself was walking past the open door of the kitchens, with the late baron’s sister-in-law and his nephew in tow.
Even at eleven, and clutching a hand that still sang like fire, Harriet was not certain it could have been timed any worse.
They had all turned to stare at her, with her skirt up over her tatty stockings, her bruised knees on display, and her hand turning pinker and angrier by the second.
“Was that Norwegian?” the baron’s sister-in-law asked, her narrow, brown eyes sweeping over Hattie’s disheveled appearance.
“Danish, I think,” the dowager baroness had replied, turning and stepping into the kitchen with a curious little click of her black heel, her auburn chignon glinting in rows of contained curls as she moved. “Like the fishermen from whom we buy our catch. Was that what it was, little maid?”
Harriet stared, awestruck and horrified. “It’s the Fish Tongue,” she blurted out, blinking away the sounds of the rest of the kitchen staff exploding in a panic around her. “I don’t know its real name.”
“Remarkable,” said the baroness, her dark eyes flicking up once, impatiently, at the staff. “Is no one going to get this child a poultice?”
The cook huffed, her cheeks pink. “She can dip it in cold water once she gets off her wagon, my lady. ’Twas just a scald.”
“Scalding would require water,” Harriet said, a little dazed from the pain. “There was no water. The pan was dry. No steam. No water.”
The cook’s beady eyes had narrowed and her thick neck was turning pink. Harriet knew it, even without looking at her. “My mistake, little madam. I didn’t know they spoke so proper at the foundlings’ home. Get up. You’ve distressed the mourners on a somber day!”
“I am not distressed.” The baroness turned over her shoulder to the young boy who was watching from just beyond the door. “Elias, are you distressed?”
He blinked his dark-blue eyes, hugging his arms around his plump body, and shook his head.
“See? We’re all in fine form,” the dowager baroness declared, ignoring her sister-in-law’s pinched lips at not having her own potential distress acknowledged. “Except for this little scullery maid here, who is blistering. If you aren’t going to help her, then I will.”
“Oh, we’ll help her,” the cook muttered.
Harriet knew what that meant.
Tonight she’d have to tell the mistress at the foundling home that she’d lost her job. She liked this job. She had enjoyed her many months here, listening to the fancy people who came in and out of the Rest, even if they did not look at or speak to her. She had liked the baron too and was sad that he had died.
“Come along with me, girl,” the baroness said suddenly, snapping her fingers toward Harriet’s face. “What is your name?”
“Hattie,” she said without thinking. “Harriet. I mean Harriet. It meanshead of household. But I’m not. I’m not one.”
The baroness’s lips twitched. “Let’s get that hand wrapped up. Lucky for you, a surgeon cared enough about my late husband to be sad that he died. He’s just in the drawing room. Come now.”
Hattie hesitated, glancing at the cook, who actually appeared to be steaming well enough now to cause a scald in the proper sense of the word.
“Don’t mind anyone else,” the baroness instructed. “I am in charge here and I say come with me. You will not be punished for obeying your mistress.”
