A Yuletide Treasure by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page A

felt like a child again, retreating to the kitchen where, provided you didn’t make too much noise, you’d be left in peace to read, to steal an apple or two, and to eavesdrop on fascinating servant gossip.
    Thinking of those carefree hours, Camilla laid her head back against the top of the chair, lassitude invading her every atom. Perhaps she slept a little, for she suddenly found herself listening to voices even while aware they’d been speaking unintelligibly in the background of her dreams for some time.
    “—that lost-lookin’, like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge and no more color to her face than you’d find on a sheet of paper.”
    Camilla recognized the grunt that followed. Merridew was in the kitchen. “Foolhardy courage,” he said. “The captain would know what to say to her, I reckon.”
    “Miss Tinarose would’ve done the same,” Mavis chirped. “If her mother’d let her go.”
    “Don’t say anything ‘gainst her la’ship,” the cook warned in a low growl.
    “I ain’t. Just... Miss Tinarose never seems to get her chance.”
    “Wants to be found facedown in a blizzard, does she?” Merridew scoffed. “Though’ she was a downed tree, at first. Or a drowned dog. She sure looked as good as dead when he brung her into the house.”
    It was a good thing, Camilla thought, that she had no exaggerated notion of her looks. Otherwise all these compliments would swell her head. She decided to make herself known, before their comments grew any more commendatory. Next they’d be congratulating her on being marginally less gargoyle-like than they remembered.
    She shifted in her chair, kicking a little water out of the basin before she remembered her feet were in it. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.
    “Mavis ...,” the cook said.
    “An right, all right.”
    The towel Camilla had used to dry her hair had fallen across her lap when she’d drifted off. Now, carefully lifting her feet from the water, she let Maws drag the basin aside and then reached down to start drying them. She felt a little dizzy and had to stop.
    “Mavis ...,” the cook said again.
    “Never you mind, miss,” Mavis said, running the mop over the spilled water. “I’ll dry ‘em for you.”
    “Thank you, Mavis, but I’ll take care of my own feet.” Feeling that she had been a little ungracious, she added, “Thank you for the loan of your boots. They kept me beautifully dry.”
    “Don’t mention it.”
    Camilla turned now to see the cook and Merridew watching her. They sat at the big kitchen table which had been scrubbed so often the wood was worn white. Yellowish bone dominoes splayed across the service, a great untidy pile. “Who’s winning?” she asked brightly.
    “I am,” the cook said, as if it were too commonplace an occurrence to discuss.
    “She always wins,” Merridew said, glancing at the woman across from him. For an instant, Camilla saw in his tired old eyes a flash of wonder, all mixed with pride. He seemed unable to believe that the marvelous creature across from him could spare him so much as a thought, let alone deign to play games with him. As soon as he saw Camilla looking at him, he frowned and cleared his throat shatteringly loud.
    She turned again to Mavis. “How is Nanny Mallow?”
    “They were quarreling like a new cat and an old dog,” the parlor maid said. “Never thought I’d live to see the day someone could outtalk Mum. But that Nanny Mallow never stops long enough to draw breath, let alone get her thoughts in order. The words just come spilling out, like water from a downspout.”
    “She looked so wan and drawn,” Camilla said. “She should have quiet.”
    “Oh, I reckon Mum’ll start using silence on her soon enough. But don’t worry none, miss. Mum’s a good nurse; she’ll see to it Nanny Mallow gets better. She’s got her pride, same as anybody.”
    “That’s right,” the cook said.
    Camilla put her hand to her head and found that her hair was all but