’as?’
There was a brief silence and then everyone laughed. ‘No, no,’ Miles said. ‘They work for us, yes, just like the men on the estate do too, but we don’t call them servants. They’re our friends’ – he chuckled – ‘at least, I hope they are.’
‘What’s a ’state?’
‘The Ravensfleet Estate is most of the land around here. We have three tenant farmers and then there’s Home Farm, which I run. Well, Ben does now. And then there’s Buckthorn Farm on the flat land between Ravensfleet and the sea. But that’s not part of my estate. Mr Crawford, Charlotte’s father, owns that.’
‘Who’s Ben?’
‘My son. My middle son. I’ve got three. Philip – he’s the eldest. He’s a lawyer in London. Then there’s Ben, and Georgie’s the youngest.’
‘Will Georgie play wiv me?’
Miles laughed. ‘He might, but he’s a bit older than you.’
‘How old?’
‘He’s nineteen.’
Jenny wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Oh, that’s old. He won’t want to play with the likes of me.’
‘He might,’ Charlotte said softly. ‘You’ll like Georgie, Jenny. He’s—’
Jenny glanced up at her. Charlotte had a catch in her voice and though she couldn’t understand it, couldn’t have rationalized it and put it into words, even the young child understood that there was something very special about this woman’s youngest son. ‘He’s very kind and great fun.’
She saw the man and the woman exchange a glance and wondered at the concern that showed plainly in both their faces.
‘Kitty’ll serve lunch in the dining room,’ the cook was saying. ‘It’s all ready.’
‘No, no, we’ll have it in here, if that’s all right with you, Mrs Beddows.’
Mrs Beddows’s face showed her surprise, but she merely nodded and began to clear the kitchen table.
‘I’ll set it, Mrs Beddows,’ Charlotte said, going to a dresser at the side of the kitchen and pulling out a white tablecloth. The three women, Charlotte, Mrs Beddows and Kitty, bustled about the kitchen setting the table and dishing up the food. But in only a few minutes they were all sitting around the table. Miles carved the joint of meat and Mrs Beddows served the vegetables, pouring rich, thick gravy over it all before setting a plateful in front of Jenny.
‘I haven’t given you too much, lovey, until we find out what your appetite’s like,’ she said. ‘But you can always ask for seconds in this house.’
Jenny blinked and gazed up at the woman. ‘What we ’avin’ Sunday dinner today for? It’s Tuesday.’
‘Well,’ the cook explained as she sat down in her own chair and picked up her knife and fork, ‘we usually have a light lunch. But today – when Mrs Thornton told me you were coming – well, I thought I’d do a nice hot meal for you. Make you feel welcome. Usually, we have dinner in the evening. And that’s a cooked meal like this.’
Jenny picked up her knife and fork and stabbed at the piece of meat and then sawed at it with her knife, expecting it to be tough to cut through. But her knife slid easily through the thin slice of beef and when she chewed it, it seemed almost to melt in her mouth.
‘Actually, don’t Lincolnshire folk call their midday meal dinner, and it’s tea in the late afternoon, isn’t it?’ Miles said.
‘That’s right, sir,’ Kitty, who was Lincolnshire born and bred, agreed. ‘And then it’s supper if you want a snack just ’afore bedtime.’
‘You don’t arf talk funny,’ Jenny said.
‘So do you,’ Kitty countered, but she was smiling as she said it.
Jenny giggled and said in her cockney accent, ‘You’re ’avin’ a giraffe.’
‘A what?’
‘A giraffe. A laugh.’
Kitty laughed too and answered in broad Lincolnshire dialect. ‘Aye, an’ I reckon you’m as wakken as a rat, young ’un.’
Jenny’s smile disappeared. ‘You callin’ me a rat?’ she accused.
‘No, no.’ Kitty flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’d never do that, duck. No,
There was a brief silence and then everyone laughed. ‘No, no,’ Miles said. ‘They work for us, yes, just like the men on the estate do too, but we don’t call them servants. They’re our friends’ – he chuckled – ‘at least, I hope they are.’
‘What’s a ’state?’
‘The Ravensfleet Estate is most of the land around here. We have three tenant farmers and then there’s Home Farm, which I run. Well, Ben does now. And then there’s Buckthorn Farm on the flat land between Ravensfleet and the sea. But that’s not part of my estate. Mr Crawford, Charlotte’s father, owns that.’
‘Who’s Ben?’
‘My son. My middle son. I’ve got three. Philip – he’s the eldest. He’s a lawyer in London. Then there’s Ben, and Georgie’s the youngest.’
‘Will Georgie play wiv me?’
Miles laughed. ‘He might, but he’s a bit older than you.’
‘How old?’
‘He’s nineteen.’
Jenny wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Oh, that’s old. He won’t want to play with the likes of me.’
‘He might,’ Charlotte said softly. ‘You’ll like Georgie, Jenny. He’s—’
Jenny glanced up at her. Charlotte had a catch in her voice and though she couldn’t understand it, couldn’t have rationalized it and put it into words, even the young child understood that there was something very special about this woman’s youngest son. ‘He’s very kind and great fun.’
She saw the man and the woman exchange a glance and wondered at the concern that showed plainly in both their faces.
‘Kitty’ll serve lunch in the dining room,’ the cook was saying. ‘It’s all ready.’
‘No, no, we’ll have it in here, if that’s all right with you, Mrs Beddows.’
Mrs Beddows’s face showed her surprise, but she merely nodded and began to clear the kitchen table.
‘I’ll set it, Mrs Beddows,’ Charlotte said, going to a dresser at the side of the kitchen and pulling out a white tablecloth. The three women, Charlotte, Mrs Beddows and Kitty, bustled about the kitchen setting the table and dishing up the food. But in only a few minutes they were all sitting around the table. Miles carved the joint of meat and Mrs Beddows served the vegetables, pouring rich, thick gravy over it all before setting a plateful in front of Jenny.
‘I haven’t given you too much, lovey, until we find out what your appetite’s like,’ she said. ‘But you can always ask for seconds in this house.’
Jenny blinked and gazed up at the woman. ‘What we ’avin’ Sunday dinner today for? It’s Tuesday.’
‘Well,’ the cook explained as she sat down in her own chair and picked up her knife and fork, ‘we usually have a light lunch. But today – when Mrs Thornton told me you were coming – well, I thought I’d do a nice hot meal for you. Make you feel welcome. Usually, we have dinner in the evening. And that’s a cooked meal like this.’
Jenny picked up her knife and fork and stabbed at the piece of meat and then sawed at it with her knife, expecting it to be tough to cut through. But her knife slid easily through the thin slice of beef and when she chewed it, it seemed almost to melt in her mouth.
‘Actually, don’t Lincolnshire folk call their midday meal dinner, and it’s tea in the late afternoon, isn’t it?’ Miles said.
‘That’s right, sir,’ Kitty, who was Lincolnshire born and bred, agreed. ‘And then it’s supper if you want a snack just ’afore bedtime.’
‘You don’t arf talk funny,’ Jenny said.
‘So do you,’ Kitty countered, but she was smiling as she said it.
Jenny giggled and said in her cockney accent, ‘You’re ’avin’ a giraffe.’
‘A what?’
‘A giraffe. A laugh.’
Kitty laughed too and answered in broad Lincolnshire dialect. ‘Aye, an’ I reckon you’m as wakken as a rat, young ’un.’
Jenny’s smile disappeared. ‘You callin’ me a rat?’ she accused.
‘No, no.’ Kitty flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’d never do that, duck. No,
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