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Authors: Christine Monson
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been taught to sell her erstwhile virtue for a solid price."
"Isn't it possible that your hatred of Enderly has twisted your judgment?"
The younger man smiled mirthlessly. "I'm a veritable corkscrew, doctor."
Flynn knew that smile. With a sharp twinge of pity for the Enderly girl, he took his leave.
Catherine wolfed breakfast. At last she sat back with a small, gluttonous smile of satisfaction at Peg, who sat in the opposite windowsill, watching her. They were ak>ne in the kitchen. She stretched, eyes narrowed against the morning light. "You're a good cook, Peg! That was splendid."
"Oh, I do well enough," Peg replied, not mentioning her cookery was acknowledged the best in the country. "Of course, famine is a fine appetizer."
Catherine cocked her head, still squinting. "Did Liam Culhane order his brother to let me have all this?"
Peg snorted. "Liam orders Sean to do nothin'!"
"But he is lord here, isn't he?"
Peg gave her a sharp look. "Doctor Flynn told ye that, I'm supposin'. . . . Well, it's true enough in a sense, but every soul on the place takes orders from Sean. Liam's a fine lad, and he paints pretty pictures, but he can't manage a flock of sheep. I wouldn't be tellin' ye this, but ye'd better know it. The only way ye'll go home is if Sean Culhane gives the word."
"Hmmm. I suppose it's hopeless then." Catherine stretched in the warm sunlight and locked her hands behind her head. She heard another snort from the sill and opened one eye.
"Hmph. Ye don't fool me. I know that purr when I hear it; it always bides trouble for a man. If it's beguilin' Sean ye're thinkin' of, he's a hard, bitter man, not a lamb chop. . He'd have been beat near to death with battin' eyelashes by now if he gave a tinker's damn about a woman in the world."
Catherine grinned impudently. "Thank you for the advice, but I'd rather persuade him with a bullwhip."
Peg sniffed. "Dare say ye would, but it wouldn't mend yer maidenhead . . . oh, I know. I saw the sheets." Catherine did not move but a flush tinged her cheeks. "I don't suppose ye'll like me sayin' this, but ye're a lot alike, you and him. Aye, it's true. Like now, with that slitty-eyed grin and yer stretchin', ye remind me of a pair of cats: him a torn and you a half-growed she. Ye move alike, and I'll wager ye've even the same spittin' tempers!"
Catherine's flush grew hotter, though her voice was even. "You imagine it all, Peg. We're different people who come from different worlds. I cannot wait to return to my own."
A thoughtful look came into Peg's blue eyes, then faded as quickly as it came, and she slid her bulk out of the sill. "Well, for the moment ye'll have to manage in this one. Help me clear these dishes and I'll show ye what ye're to do."
The duties seemed endless. Catherine was to make morning porridge and help Moora with baking. She was not to assist with service at Culhane's table until future notice; neither was she to serve the tables for the hundred or so roughhewn men who took breakfast in shifts in the kitchen. While they ate, with a good many stares, belches, and rattles of cutlery, Catherine worked dough at the pastry table. When they left, she was allowed to eat. None of the women except Peg would sit near her; they made it clear being at the same table with an Englishwoman spoiled their appetites.
After breakfast, she and two other women scrubbed a mountain of dishes. Then she was assigned housework, always where someone could watch her. She was allowed to return to the kitchen for lunch after the men had finished, leaving yet another mountain of dishes. After that, back to housekeeping. She had always known the maintenance of a large household was endless; doing the work herself gave her a sour appreciation of its true magnitude.
Dinner was served, first to the Culhanes and a small group in the family dining room, then to the mass of the men in a hall that ran the length of the central house. Although she was never in either room at mealtime, she
"Isn't it possible that your hatred of Enderly has twisted your judgment?"
The younger man smiled mirthlessly. "I'm a veritable corkscrew, doctor."
Flynn knew that smile. With a sharp twinge of pity for the Enderly girl, he took his leave.
Catherine wolfed breakfast. At last she sat back with a small, gluttonous smile of satisfaction at Peg, who sat in the opposite windowsill, watching her. They were ak>ne in the kitchen. She stretched, eyes narrowed against the morning light. "You're a good cook, Peg! That was splendid."
"Oh, I do well enough," Peg replied, not mentioning her cookery was acknowledged the best in the country. "Of course, famine is a fine appetizer."
Catherine cocked her head, still squinting. "Did Liam Culhane order his brother to let me have all this?"
Peg snorted. "Liam orders Sean to do nothin'!"
"But he is lord here, isn't he?"
Peg gave her a sharp look. "Doctor Flynn told ye that, I'm supposin'. . . . Well, it's true enough in a sense, but every soul on the place takes orders from Sean. Liam's a fine lad, and he paints pretty pictures, but he can't manage a flock of sheep. I wouldn't be tellin' ye this, but ye'd better know it. The only way ye'll go home is if Sean Culhane gives the word."
"Hmmm. I suppose it's hopeless then." Catherine stretched in the warm sunlight and locked her hands behind her head. She heard another snort from the sill and opened one eye.
"Hmph. Ye don't fool me. I know that purr when I hear it; it always bides trouble for a man. If it's beguilin' Sean ye're thinkin' of, he's a hard, bitter man, not a lamb chop. . He'd have been beat near to death with battin' eyelashes by now if he gave a tinker's damn about a woman in the world."
Catherine grinned impudently. "Thank you for the advice, but I'd rather persuade him with a bullwhip."
Peg sniffed. "Dare say ye would, but it wouldn't mend yer maidenhead . . . oh, I know. I saw the sheets." Catherine did not move but a flush tinged her cheeks. "I don't suppose ye'll like me sayin' this, but ye're a lot alike, you and him. Aye, it's true. Like now, with that slitty-eyed grin and yer stretchin', ye remind me of a pair of cats: him a torn and you a half-growed she. Ye move alike, and I'll wager ye've even the same spittin' tempers!"
Catherine's flush grew hotter, though her voice was even. "You imagine it all, Peg. We're different people who come from different worlds. I cannot wait to return to my own."
A thoughtful look came into Peg's blue eyes, then faded as quickly as it came, and she slid her bulk out of the sill. "Well, for the moment ye'll have to manage in this one. Help me clear these dishes and I'll show ye what ye're to do."
The duties seemed endless. Catherine was to make morning porridge and help Moora with baking. She was not to assist with service at Culhane's table until future notice; neither was she to serve the tables for the hundred or so roughhewn men who took breakfast in shifts in the kitchen. While they ate, with a good many stares, belches, and rattles of cutlery, Catherine worked dough at the pastry table. When they left, she was allowed to eat. None of the women except Peg would sit near her; they made it clear being at the same table with an Englishwoman spoiled their appetites.
After breakfast, she and two other women scrubbed a mountain of dishes. Then she was assigned housework, always where someone could watch her. She was allowed to return to the kitchen for lunch after the men had finished, leaving yet another mountain of dishes. After that, back to housekeeping. She had always known the maintenance of a large household was endless; doing the work herself gave her a sour appreciation of its true magnitude.
Dinner was served, first to the Culhanes and a small group in the family dining room, then to the mass of the men in a hall that ran the length of the central house. Although she was never in either room at mealtime, she
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