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a warm, motherly presence. “Try it,” the cook encouraged, and Tasia reached for a tart.
    Emma followed suit, choosing the largest one on the platter. She bit deeply into the pastry. “Splendid,” she said with her mouth full. She grinned at Tasia's reproving glance. “Oh, I know. It's not polite to talk while I'm eating. But I can do it so none of the food shows.” She shoved it to the side of her cheek. “See?”
    Tasia was about to explain why it still wasn't proper when she saw Emma wink at Mrs. Plunkett. She couldn't help laughing, in spite of her efforts to maintain an air of dignity. “Emma, I fear there may come a day when you accidentally spray crumbs over some important guest.”
    Emma's grin broadened. “That's it! I'll spit food all over Lady Harcourt the next time she comes to visit. Then we'll finally be rid of her. Can you imagine Papa's face?” Seeing Tasia's confusion, she explained. “Lady Harcourt is one of the women who want to marry Papa.”
    “One of them?” Tasia asked. “How many are there?”
    “Oh, practically everyone wants him. During our weekend parties, I eavesdrop on some of the ladies. You would scarcely believe the things they say! Usually I don't understand half of it, but—”
    “Thank the Lord for that,” Mrs. Plunkett said heartily. “You know you shouldn't eavesdrop, Emma.”
    “Well, he's my father. I have a right to know who's scheming to catch him. And Lady Harcourt is trying very hard. Before you know it they'll be married and I'll be on my way to boarding school.”
    Mrs. Plunkett chuckled. “If your father were going to marry anyone, he'd have done it by now. There was no one for him but your mother, and I don't believe there ever will be.”
    Emma frowned thoughtfully. “I wish I remembered more about her. Miss Billings, would you like to see my mother's portrait? It's in one of the upstairs parlors. She used to take her tea there.”
    “Yes, I would like that,” Tasia said, taking a bite of apple tart. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to eat.
    “You'll be very happy here,” the cook told her. “Lord Stokehurst provides a large housekeeping allowance, so nothing is rationed. We have all the butter we want, and ham every Sunday. And we've plenty of soap, eggs, and good tallow candles for our own use. When visitors come, we hear such stories from their servants. Some never have an egg in their lives! You're a lucky girl to be hired by Lord Stokehurst. But I expect you know that.”
    Tasia nodded automatically. She couldn't help wondering how her own servants in Russia had been treated. A wave of guilt came over her as she realized that she had never given a thought to the quality of their food or asked if they had enough to eat. Surely her mother was generous with them—but there was a possibility that Marie might be too self-absorbed to see to their needs. None of them would ever dare ask for anything.
    All at once she realized that Emma and Mrs. Plunkett were looking at her strangely.
    “Your hand is shaking,” Emma said frankly. “Aren't you feeling well, Miss Billings?”
    “You're very pale,” the cook added, her plump face concerned.
    Carefully Tasia set down her tart. “I am a little tired,” she admitted.
    “I'm sure your room is ready by now,” Emma said. “If you'd like, I'll take you there. We can finish our tour tomorrow.”
    The cook wrapped the tart in a napkin and pressed it in Tasia's hands. “Take this, poor lamb. Later we'll send up a supper tray for you.”
    “How kind you are.” Tasia smiled into her soft brown eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Plunkett.”
    The cook stared after the young woman as she left with Emma. There was silence in the kitchen until the doors closed. All the kitchen maids began to talk eagerly.
    “Did you see her eyes? They're just like a cat's.”
    “She's all bones. That dress was hanging off her.”
    “And the way she talks…some of the words are all fuzzy-like.”
    “I wish I talked like