few trees clustered near the house, but beyond those, nothing whatever relieved the wind-blasted furze and heather-blanketed rock. A peach-veined marble fireplace held a cheery crackling fire which dispelled the morning chill. Due to the laggard winter light, candles in brass wall brackets and on'the table had been lit.
As the dishes were uncovered, Catherine developed the attention of a starved dog. Crisp bacon wafted a heavenly odor to her nostrils. Poached eggs with lovely yellow yolks peeped from their deep dish. Kippers, golden cottage potatoes. And luxury of luxuries, black Jamaican coffee.
"Now, ye're to serve each gentleman yer dish from the left," Peg told her after dismissing the rest of the servant girls except Moora. "If he wants a bit, you spoon him out a bit. If he keeps lookin' at ye, give him more. Don't trip over yer skirts, and tomorrow, tie yer hair back. Begin with the big chair at either end, dependin' on whether Moora or meseif an't already there. I know it an't usual, but that's the way we do it at Shelan."
Shelan. Up until now, no one had mentioned names of anything or anyone.
"When ye're done, come back to this spot. If anybody wants extra helpin's, he'll crook his finger; you go runnin' and see what he wants."
You mean they don't whistle and expect me to wag my tail? Catherine thought irritably. I was so looking forward to relieving myself on some Irish gentleman's foot.
Thankfully, Peg and Moora headed for the far chair, the one where he must rest his villainous posterior. Catherine avoided looking in that direction and turned her attention to the choirboy. She doled bacon onto Liam's plate with precise plops. His neck was rosy, his embarrassment tangible as he muttered, "Thank you."
Catherine bobbed abruptly and whined in perfect Cockney only he could hear, "Ow, don't think nothin' of it, ducks!" Ignoring his choke, she went on to the next man.
Then she heard the Green-Eyed Beast's hateful, melodic lilt in the same strange language from the previous night and stole a look at him under her lashes. Insufferably at ease, he was sitting back, long legs stretched out under the table, a bleached linen shirt open at his tanned throat, his eyes on Flannery. Critically assessing the clean-cut profile etched against the window's hard, gray light, she reluctantly had to admit he was a man any woman would look at. Like her father, he used no gestures as he spoke. She noted with satisfaction the scratches on his cheek.
Of the two men conversing with Green Eyes, one was in his fifties, with narrow, crinkling blue eyes and a thick shock of gray hair. He was the only man with a proper coat at the table, and the oldest. Green Eyes' attentiveness to his comments suggested respect. The other was a red- haired, blunt-featured youth completely out of place in a polished room. Except for a coarse mouth, he resembled Flannery, but lacked Flannery's air of ironic humor. He seemed to be making some argument and growing irritated with the others' tolerant disagreement. The rest of the men listened as they finished their food.
"Fetch the plates," Peg quietly directed at last. "Make sure the silver's laid slantwise across the plate so it don't fall off. Rouge, the young redhead there, don't bother with proper manners, so watch his plate . . . and his hands, too. Pick up from the right and be quick. Moora's gone for cobbler we've still to serve."
Catherine gave a silent groan. Oh, her godforsaken stomach. But at least she did not have to go near Green Eyes as she cleared. Moora brought the cobbler and, with Peg, served the upper and middle part of the table. Catherine's mouth watered as cream-drenched apple cobbler was placed in front of the men. Green Eyes waved the last course aside, but wanted coffee. To her dismay, Peg motioned her to take it. "From the left, remember," she said, handing her a cup and saucer with the silver coffeepot.
Praying the cup would.not rattle, Catherine crossed the room with the heavy
As the dishes were uncovered, Catherine developed the attention of a starved dog. Crisp bacon wafted a heavenly odor to her nostrils. Poached eggs with lovely yellow yolks peeped from their deep dish. Kippers, golden cottage potatoes. And luxury of luxuries, black Jamaican coffee.
"Now, ye're to serve each gentleman yer dish from the left," Peg told her after dismissing the rest of the servant girls except Moora. "If he wants a bit, you spoon him out a bit. If he keeps lookin' at ye, give him more. Don't trip over yer skirts, and tomorrow, tie yer hair back. Begin with the big chair at either end, dependin' on whether Moora or meseif an't already there. I know it an't usual, but that's the way we do it at Shelan."
Shelan. Up until now, no one had mentioned names of anything or anyone.
"When ye're done, come back to this spot. If anybody wants extra helpin's, he'll crook his finger; you go runnin' and see what he wants."
You mean they don't whistle and expect me to wag my tail? Catherine thought irritably. I was so looking forward to relieving myself on some Irish gentleman's foot.
Thankfully, Peg and Moora headed for the far chair, the one where he must rest his villainous posterior. Catherine avoided looking in that direction and turned her attention to the choirboy. She doled bacon onto Liam's plate with precise plops. His neck was rosy, his embarrassment tangible as he muttered, "Thank you."
Catherine bobbed abruptly and whined in perfect Cockney only he could hear, "Ow, don't think nothin' of it, ducks!" Ignoring his choke, she went on to the next man.
Then she heard the Green-Eyed Beast's hateful, melodic lilt in the same strange language from the previous night and stole a look at him under her lashes. Insufferably at ease, he was sitting back, long legs stretched out under the table, a bleached linen shirt open at his tanned throat, his eyes on Flannery. Critically assessing the clean-cut profile etched against the window's hard, gray light, she reluctantly had to admit he was a man any woman would look at. Like her father, he used no gestures as he spoke. She noted with satisfaction the scratches on his cheek.
Of the two men conversing with Green Eyes, one was in his fifties, with narrow, crinkling blue eyes and a thick shock of gray hair. He was the only man with a proper coat at the table, and the oldest. Green Eyes' attentiveness to his comments suggested respect. The other was a red- haired, blunt-featured youth completely out of place in a polished room. Except for a coarse mouth, he resembled Flannery, but lacked Flannery's air of ironic humor. He seemed to be making some argument and growing irritated with the others' tolerant disagreement. The rest of the men listened as they finished their food.
"Fetch the plates," Peg quietly directed at last. "Make sure the silver's laid slantwise across the plate so it don't fall off. Rouge, the young redhead there, don't bother with proper manners, so watch his plate . . . and his hands, too. Pick up from the right and be quick. Moora's gone for cobbler we've still to serve."
Catherine gave a silent groan. Oh, her godforsaken stomach. But at least she did not have to go near Green Eyes as she cleared. Moora brought the cobbler and, with Peg, served the upper and middle part of the table. Catherine's mouth watered as cream-drenched apple cobbler was placed in front of the men. Green Eyes waved the last course aside, but wanted coffee. To her dismay, Peg motioned her to take it. "From the left, remember," she said, handing her a cup and saucer with the silver coffeepot.
Praying the cup would.not rattle, Catherine crossed the room with the heavy
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