A whole flock of Bickerton Greys, and this woman had been serving them up as meals? It hardly mattered that their flavor was part of why they’d been bred in the first place. It was an appalling waste.
Lydia swiftly found her voice again. “Do you know what kind of birds these are, Mrs. Boyne?”
“No,” the woman said, all amusement gone from those grey eyes. She looked as cold as winter itself in her dark coat.
“They’re all that’s left of a unique village breed,” Lydia went on. Surely once she explained, the woman would see reason. “Every ten years or so, a wild storm comes through the village; the last one knocked down every chicken coop in town. Most birds were recovered over the next few days—and everyone now builds their coops like fortresses, to prevent another such disaster—but the Bickerton Greys were better at eluding capture than most other fowl. They escaped into the woods, every last one of them. Most people believe they’ve died out.” She waved at the hens, who were flanking Walter as though ready to follow their general into battle. “These six may be all that are left. I raise chickens, you see, not for meat but to show—and I’m begging you, let me take these and try and restore the lineage. I’ll compensate you in any way you think fair.” She stopped, and swallowed hard.
Mrs. Boyne did not appear to be listening. She was staring with narrowed eyes at the Bickerton Greys, who were staring back with equal suspicion. One of the hens even had a head cocked at the same angle; Lydia bit her lip to stifle a poorly timed anxious giggle.
“I assume you know easier ways of catching live chickens than simply chasing them?” Mrs. Boyne said at last. “Or more dignified ways, at least.”
Lydia nearly collapsed with relief. “I do,” she said. “The best way is to wait until dark, when they’re sleeping. You use a covered lantern, with just enough light to make out the shape of the bird, and you simply pick them up, holding their wings tight to the body.” She mimed the gesture, mittens held about a chicken-width apart.
Mrs. Boyne’s wintry expression froze further. “You cannot be serious.”
Lydia smiled sunnily. “You could always try running after them. In broad daylight. Where everyone can see.”
Mrs. Boyne frowned and took one step toward the hens.
Instantly the Greys started a clamor, clucking over one another and ruffling feathers to seem as large as possible. Walter, in the middle of so much anger, caught some of the hens’ fear and began echoing their alarm.
Mrs. Boyne stepped back again, and the Greys subsided into a mutter.
Lydia could feel smug words curling on the tip of her tongue, and bit down hard to keep them back.
At last the other woman sighed. “If you come back tonight to help us capture the hens, I’ll send you home with half the flock. In addition to your lost rooster, of course.”
“Of course,” Lydia said. “With your permission, I’ll just wait here until then.”
Mrs. Boyne blinked at her several times. “Until nightfall? Alone?”
“I’m not going to leave Walter on his own out here,” Lydia said. “He’s never been out of the yard before. He doesn’t know how to protect himself.”
Mrs. Boyne looked from Walter, in a cozy nest surrounded by defenders, to Lydia, standing on bare snow and rock. “If you’re sure,” she said doubtfully.
“The sky looks clear, there’s no wind to speak of, and I have some bread and cheese with me and a book in my coat pocket,” Lydia replied. “I’ve had worse days than this, I assure you.”
Something haunted passed over Mrs. Boyne’s face, so stark that Lydia herself felt the chill of it even through all her layers of wool and warmth. “Suit yourself, Mrs. Wraxhall.”
“It’s Miss,” Lydia returned, and that berry-hued mouth quirked acknowledgement as Mrs. Boyne turned away. With easy grace she passed back through the arch, mounted her horse, and vanished over the snowy fields and fences beyond.
Somehow, though Mrs. Boyne’s grey gaze had been cold the entire time, the world felt a little icier with her gone. Lydia turned her coat collar up against the back of her neck, and settled in for a long day’s wait.
2
Harriet rode down one hill and around another and there was Thornycroft Hall, smoking from every chimney in defiance of the cold. She took Patience to the stable and gave her the rubdown the mare deserved, then ducked in through the kitchen because that was the quickest way of getting warm.
Fires crackled, stovetops hissed, and great iron ovens poured out heat as the kitchen maids and the undercook worked. The sounds of soap and water echoed softly from the scullery, as a third maid washed the last of the breakfast things. Harriet stripped off her gloves and hat and breathed in the smell of roasting meat and baking bread, hot enough to almost singe the back of her throat.
It still didn’t touch the little ball of ice where her heart used to be, but it helped some.
At a long scarred table to the side, Lizzie Crangle was poring over her cookbooks, planning the Hall’s future meals. At other homes this would have been the duty of the sole mistress of the house: here there were more than enough mistresses to go around: Mrs. Goodfellow had the blue parlor for all her sewing supplies, Mr. Dixit the library for his charity work, Mrs. Marwood her sitting room, and Harriet the grounds and gardens. All their little habits, relics of the war, like scars over unseen wounds.
Mrs. Crangle’s domain was the kitchens, because she now refused to let anyone go hungry. She raised her head, all ruddy cheeks and soft eyes. “Sauce is about to burn, Mary,” she called out, and the undercook hurried to remove a pan from the heat.
“Morning, Crangle,” Harriet said.
“Morning, Boyne,” the cook replied, with a flash of a grin.
