Carola Dunn by My Dearest Valentine Page B

started to struggle his way out of Robin Mayhew’s smock.
    “Leave be, young gentleman, afore you does yourself an injury.” The servant set the tray on the corner of the table and helped Toby take off the all-enveloping garment. “Biscuits, eh? No, there ain’t no biscuits, more’s the pity.”
    “Thank you, Bodiham,” Mr Mayhew said again. “We shall do very well without.”
    “Biscuits!” There was a gleam in Bodiham’s eye. “Won’t be no trouble at all, sir. Flour an’ sugar an’ butter,” he muttered as he headed for the kitchen. “Eggs, now, do we want eggs in biscuits? Have to do a bit of ‘sperimenting.” The door closed behind him.
    Philo heard a distinct groan from her host. She thought of offering a receipt for a particularly delicious Viennese biscuit, but she did not want to offend. “Shall I pour?” she enquired. Cousin Sarah had always had a kind word for the elegant way she served tea, though the service before her was like nothing she had ever seen.
    For a start, there was neither milk nor sugar. She picked up the pot. It was an earthenware monstrosity, an odd contrast with the fine china cups and much heavier than she expected. Despite her care, it dribbled as she poured, leaving a puddle on the tray.
    “Good gracious!” Philo failed to restrain a startled exclamation at the pale muddy colour of the liquid in the cups. “Your servant seems to have put milk in the pot with the tea.”
    Mr Mayhew flushed. “Sugar too, I fear. He says it saves unnecessary washing up.”
    “I like lots of milk and sugar in my tea,” Toby assured him. “This is good.”
    Philo sipped at the syrupy stuff, trying not to show her distaste. In this she was unsuccessful.
    “Pray do not feel obliged to drink it, Miss Philomena. Bodiham will not take offence. I frequently leave the greater part of what he cooks.”
    “It is rather horrid,” she admitted, looking at him worriedly. He was thin, to be sure, but not excessively so, and he did not look unhealthy. Still, he had been at Marsh Cottage only a short time, so perhaps he had not been subjected to the servant’s cookery for very long.
    It would be an act of charity to keep an eye on the situation, to make sure Robin Mayhew did not fade away. Frequent visits to the cottage were obviously called for.
    * * * *
    Afraid of wearing out her welcome, Philomena resolved to stay away from Marsh Cottage for two days. Torrential rain helped her abide by this resolution. She occupied herself in transferring the information on her breeding charts to individual notes for each canary, taking pride in the small, neat handwriting Mr Mayhew had praised.
    As the downpour continued, she became concerned that the hollow by the stream might flood. She wandered restlessly about the house, irritating Aquila to the point of snapping.
    Though Aquila had cultivated a languid air even in the brilliant society of Vienna, the double confinement of their half-mourning and country living introduced her to true tedium. Even in the best weather she could not ride, as Cressida kept no horses. Practising half-heartedly on the spinet in the drawing room, she complained that she could not hear herself because of the canaries’ warbling, though she played only because it was expected of a young lady. Philo, deeply grateful for her sister’s insistence on removing from her aunt’s household, understood her crotchets and forgave them. Nonetheless, it was a relief when a watery sun broke through the clouds on Saturday morning and she could escape from the house.
    Toby was occupied with his mother, and Philo had no intention of telling Aquila about her wizard, so she set off alone. The grassy field path was easy going, but the lane was deep in mud. Undaunted, she squelched down the hill, only to find that the stream had risen and was washing the underside of the footbridge. She eyed it uneasily.
    If she had been superstitious, she might have thought it was a warning that to call alone upon