nose.
‘It’s too big,’ she said sadly, taking it off and offering it back to him, her face full of disappointment.
‘So it is.’ It was a small disappointment in the grand scheme of things, yet the sad face pulled at a cord in his chest. Painfully. He stilled in shock. What was happening here? Why did he care? The child wasn’t his. She was well fed, beloved by her mother, yet still he hated to see her unhappy. He lifted the hat high and gazed at it from all angles. ‘You know, the same thing happened to me once.’
‘What did you do?’
He went to another drawer and pulled out one of the large needles he used for stitching fowl. ‘I used a hat pin.’
‘That’s not a hat pin,’ the child said disdainfully. ‘My mother has a hat pin. It has a pearl on top.’
‘I suppose we could go and ask to borrow it,’ he said with a smile, and raised a brow.
‘Oh, no. She’s busy.’
And besides, she would probably tell the child to go back to the school room, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. André wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘Or we can see if this will work.’
The little girl nodded.
André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.
‘Better, non ?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’
She nodded. ‘What can I do?’
‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’
It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.
Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’
André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’
The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.
The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.
‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’
Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.
Chapter Five
‘I ’m making leaves for Uncle’s pie,’ Jane said without looking up.
Her mother’s expression shifted from worried to nonplussed in a heartbeat. Her gaze rose to meet André’s. ‘I am sorry if she has been troubling you, Monsieur André.’
‘Not at all, madame . Mademoiselle Jane has been most helpful. Regardez .’
Madame Holte took in the pile of mangle and grubby bits of pastry and the flour on the table, the floor and her child, and she smiled.
The kitchen became a bright and cheery place.
His heart lifted and he recognised an awful truth. It was the mother’s smile he wanted every bit as much as the child’s. Clearly, he was on a very slippery slope and heading downhill at a rapid rate.
‘Monsieur André,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘You might have let me know Miss Jane was here. We have been searching the house from top to bottom.’
The housekeeper looked frazzled, which was very unusual. Still there was an understanding twinkle in her eyes, so it seemed now the child was found, everything was fine. ‘I beg your pardon. Next time I will indeed send word.’
The madame ’s smile faded. ‘I really don’t think—’ She bit off her words. ‘Jane, are you finished? You know, I did ask you not to wander off.’ She gave André a quick smile. ‘Jane is rather adventurous.’
Jane looked at her mother and down at the pile of bits of pastry and then up at him. Something clenched in his stomach. A desire to give the child a hug.
‘I think I have all the decorations I need for
‘It’s too big,’ she said sadly, taking it off and offering it back to him, her face full of disappointment.
‘So it is.’ It was a small disappointment in the grand scheme of things, yet the sad face pulled at a cord in his chest. Painfully. He stilled in shock. What was happening here? Why did he care? The child wasn’t his. She was well fed, beloved by her mother, yet still he hated to see her unhappy. He lifted the hat high and gazed at it from all angles. ‘You know, the same thing happened to me once.’
‘What did you do?’
He went to another drawer and pulled out one of the large needles he used for stitching fowl. ‘I used a hat pin.’
‘That’s not a hat pin,’ the child said disdainfully. ‘My mother has a hat pin. It has a pearl on top.’
‘I suppose we could go and ask to borrow it,’ he said with a smile, and raised a brow.
‘Oh, no. She’s busy.’
And besides, she would probably tell the child to go back to the school room, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. André wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘Or we can see if this will work.’
The little girl nodded.
André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.
‘Better, non ?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’
She nodded. ‘What can I do?’
‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’
It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.
Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’
André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’
The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.
The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.
‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’
Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.
Chapter Five
‘I ’m making leaves for Uncle’s pie,’ Jane said without looking up.
Her mother’s expression shifted from worried to nonplussed in a heartbeat. Her gaze rose to meet André’s. ‘I am sorry if she has been troubling you, Monsieur André.’
‘Not at all, madame . Mademoiselle Jane has been most helpful. Regardez .’
Madame Holte took in the pile of mangle and grubby bits of pastry and the flour on the table, the floor and her child, and she smiled.
The kitchen became a bright and cheery place.
His heart lifted and he recognised an awful truth. It was the mother’s smile he wanted every bit as much as the child’s. Clearly, he was on a very slippery slope and heading downhill at a rapid rate.
‘Monsieur André,’ Mrs Stratton said. ‘You might have let me know Miss Jane was here. We have been searching the house from top to bottom.’
The housekeeper looked frazzled, which was very unusual. Still there was an understanding twinkle in her eyes, so it seemed now the child was found, everything was fine. ‘I beg your pardon. Next time I will indeed send word.’
The madame ’s smile faded. ‘I really don’t think—’ She bit off her words. ‘Jane, are you finished? You know, I did ask you not to wander off.’ She gave André a quick smile. ‘Jane is rather adventurous.’
Jane looked at her mother and down at the pile of bits of pastry and then up at him. Something clenched in his stomach. A desire to give the child a hug.
‘I think I have all the decorations I need for
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