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a low bow. ‘I am odd man to the Beverley family, being recently engaged.’
    Of course the poor Beverleys could no longer afford footmen, thought Mrs Kennedy, leading Isabella towards the house. She turned to Barry on the doorstep. ‘If you go to the kitchens, my man, you will find a good jug of ale.’
    The viscount came down the stairs to meet them. For the first time Isabella really took in the fact that he was an extremely handsome man. It was such a pity he was Irish.
    In the drawing room, the viscount and his aunt confined their conversation to polite generalities about the weather, crops, and the general state of the nation.
    At last Mrs Kennedy asked how Isabella was settling down in her new home.
    Isabella, who had had a temporary setback in that her old pride had reasserted itself, remembered the purpose of her visit and that she could not afford pride any more.
    ‘We are experiencing certain difficulties,’ she said, ‘because of the speed with which we had to set up house at Brookfield. The servants, such as we have, are untrained, and the cook-housekeeper does not know how to cook. Neither my mother nor my sisters or I have the necessary training in housework to school them.’
    ‘I have,’ said Mrs Kennedy. She turned to her nephew. ‘Be so good as to order the carridge immediately.’
    ‘Please, ma’am,’ begged Isabella, startled at the speed with which help was being offered and not sure now that she wanted it, ‘I am sure we can manage.’
    ‘Poor lamb. I am sure you cannot. Don’t come with us, Guy. This is woman’s work, and men are sore out o’ place in the kitchen.’
    And ladies, thought Isabella haughtily, and then chided herself and wondered if she would ever come to terms with being the poor Miss Beverley.
    So when the carriage was brought round, she meekly went out with Mrs Kennedy, whose eyes were flashing with an almost religious zeal.
    ‘And what is the name of this cratur who is holding sway in your kitchen?’ she asked.
    ‘A Mrs Pearce.’
    ‘Right you are, m’dear. You leave her to me.’
    Isabella kept glancing sideways at the bulk of Mrs Kennedy as they were driven to Brookfield House. What a quiz of a bonnet! How her sisters would giggle. Thank goodness her parents were too cast down to be chilly.
    By the time they reached home, she was heartily wishing she had never gone to appeal to Mrs Kennedy for help. Barry, who had travelled on the backstrap, helped them from the carriage.
    ‘Some tea or a glass of wine, perhaps?’
    ‘No, no, m’dear,’ said Mrs Kennedy, following her into the house. ‘Civilities later. Work first. Lead the way to the kitchen.’
    Isabella reluctantly led the way through to the back quarters and pushed open the kitchen door. A small boy was washing dishes in the scullery. Mrs Pearce was sitting at the table with a glass of gin and hot.
    ‘What’s this?’ demanded Mrs Pearce, staggering to her feet.
    ‘I am Mrs Kennedy of Perival and I am here to train you in your job.’
    ‘I don’t need no training,’ said the cook drunkenly.
    Mrs Kennedy put her hands on her hips and stared at the cook. ‘You are beyond training. Pack your traps and get out.’
    ‘You have no right . . .’ began Mrs Pearce, but Mrs Kennedy’s late husband had been an army officer and she had followed him on many a campaign and had adopted his military manner when necessary.
    ‘ OUT !’ she shouted. ‘And be damned to ye for a useless hussy.’
    When Mrs Pearce had cursed her way out, Isabella sat wearily down at the kitchen table. ‘What do we do now?’ she asked.
    ‘Who employed this Pearce cratur?’
    ‘Mr Ducket, Papa’s secretary. I saw his horse when we arrived.’
    The Beverleys and Mr Ducket felt that Mrs Kennedy had descended on them like a whirlwind. Mrs Kennedy drove off with Mr Ducket into the town, placed a board outside the inn asking for the services of a cook-housekeeper, and then dealt briskly with the applicants and then, to Mr