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Mrs. Justice said, stopping just short of blatantly insisting. “Remember when all three of us got into trouble for eating the cookies that were left cooling on the windowsill at old Mrs. Kinnard’s house? I can still smell that wonderful aroma after all these years. Don’t you remember? We were all three riding on my brother’s decrepit old brindled mare. We got a whiff of those cookies and off through the spirea hedge we went. And we made the poor old nag go tree to tree and shrub to shrub until we got close enough to snap those cookies up—I don’t know what that horse must have thought. Now these cookies we won’t have to...um, borrow.”
Incredibly, Mrs. Russell smiled. “We did do that, didn’t we?”
“I don’t recall any such thing,” Mrs. Kinnard said. “The very idea. I certainly never took cookies from my mother-in-law’s windowsill.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Acacia,” Mrs. Russell said. “She wasn’t your mother-in-law then. We were only seven. You do remember being seven, I hope.”
“Six,” Mrs. Justice said. “And already well on our way to a highwayman’s life—just as soon as we got a better horse.”
Mrs. Justice and Mrs. Russell looked at each other, then burst out laughing, and Kate couldn’t keep from smiling. Mrs. Kinnard, however, remained unmoved.
There was a polite knock—kick—on the door, and Kate went to open it. A young soldier stood in the hallway, struggling to hold on to a large silver tea tray laden with a matching teapot and a mound of cookies and mismatched china cups and serving plates.
“Sergeant Major Perkins asks if you would like tea and cookies, Miss Woodard,” he said as if he’d rehearsed the line any number of times. Clearly, Perkins wasn’t taking any chances that Kate wouldn’t carry out his plans for fence mending.
“Do we?” Kate asked, looking over her shoulder at Mrs. Kinnard, giving her the final word.
“Wouldn’t it be rude not to accept Miss Woodard’s hospitality?” Mrs. Justice said behind her hand to Mrs. Kinnard—as if Kate couldn’t hear her. “I believe all three of our mothers taught us how to behave in someone else’s home, no matter what the circumstances might be.”
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Kinnard said, clearly exasperated. “Since it’s here. Bring in the tray,” she said to the soldier. “Put it there. Will you pour or shall I?” she asked, clearly startling him to the point that even she realized it.
“Good heavens! Not you, ” Mrs. Kinnard snapped—to the young soldier’s obvious relief. “Her.”
“I would much prefer that you poured, Mrs. Kinnard, if you would be so kind,” Kate said, assuming that she was the target of Mrs. Kinnard’s remark. “Unfortunately I haven’t had that much practice. My mother always chose to use the Woodard heirlooms rather than storing them, and she was always worried I would break something—with good reason.” She was telling the truth, but she was also trying to do as Perkins wanted and lay some groundwork before she made an attempt to soothe Mrs. Kinnard’s decidedly ruffled feathers. Besides that, she wanted to focus her attention on what was happening upstairs with Robert Markham.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Kinnard assured her. Believing that a catastrophe would be imminent if anything breakable found its way into Kate’s hands was clearly no hardship for her at all.
Mrs. Kinnard frowned at the mismatched cups and saucers on the tray, and for a moment Kate thought she was going to comment on it. But then she must have remembered what had likely happened to the set. “Maria went to such great trouble to hide her mother’s things when the house was looted,” she said. “We must do our best to preserve her tea service, after all.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Kate said, smiling. She understood perfectly that she was supposed to cringe at the insinuation that she had political and regional ties to the looters, and that as a hostess, she left much to be
Incredibly, Mrs. Russell smiled. “We did do that, didn’t we?”
“I don’t recall any such thing,” Mrs. Kinnard said. “The very idea. I certainly never took cookies from my mother-in-law’s windowsill.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Acacia,” Mrs. Russell said. “She wasn’t your mother-in-law then. We were only seven. You do remember being seven, I hope.”
“Six,” Mrs. Justice said. “And already well on our way to a highwayman’s life—just as soon as we got a better horse.”
Mrs. Justice and Mrs. Russell looked at each other, then burst out laughing, and Kate couldn’t keep from smiling. Mrs. Kinnard, however, remained unmoved.
There was a polite knock—kick—on the door, and Kate went to open it. A young soldier stood in the hallway, struggling to hold on to a large silver tea tray laden with a matching teapot and a mound of cookies and mismatched china cups and serving plates.
“Sergeant Major Perkins asks if you would like tea and cookies, Miss Woodard,” he said as if he’d rehearsed the line any number of times. Clearly, Perkins wasn’t taking any chances that Kate wouldn’t carry out his plans for fence mending.
“Do we?” Kate asked, looking over her shoulder at Mrs. Kinnard, giving her the final word.
“Wouldn’t it be rude not to accept Miss Woodard’s hospitality?” Mrs. Justice said behind her hand to Mrs. Kinnard—as if Kate couldn’t hear her. “I believe all three of our mothers taught us how to behave in someone else’s home, no matter what the circumstances might be.”
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Kinnard said, clearly exasperated. “Since it’s here. Bring in the tray,” she said to the soldier. “Put it there. Will you pour or shall I?” she asked, clearly startling him to the point that even she realized it.
“Good heavens! Not you, ” Mrs. Kinnard snapped—to the young soldier’s obvious relief. “Her.”
“I would much prefer that you poured, Mrs. Kinnard, if you would be so kind,” Kate said, assuming that she was the target of Mrs. Kinnard’s remark. “Unfortunately I haven’t had that much practice. My mother always chose to use the Woodard heirlooms rather than storing them, and she was always worried I would break something—with good reason.” She was telling the truth, but she was also trying to do as Perkins wanted and lay some groundwork before she made an attempt to soothe Mrs. Kinnard’s decidedly ruffled feathers. Besides that, she wanted to focus her attention on what was happening upstairs with Robert Markham.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Kinnard assured her. Believing that a catastrophe would be imminent if anything breakable found its way into Kate’s hands was clearly no hardship for her at all.
Mrs. Kinnard frowned at the mismatched cups and saucers on the tray, and for a moment Kate thought she was going to comment on it. But then she must have remembered what had likely happened to the set. “Maria went to such great trouble to hide her mother’s things when the house was looted,” she said. “We must do our best to preserve her tea service, after all.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Kate said, smiling. She understood perfectly that she was supposed to cringe at the insinuation that she had political and regional ties to the looters, and that as a hostess, she left much to be
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