as he started out the door.
"Caitlyn," she said abruptly. "Me ma called me Caitlyn."
He sent a quick glimmering look over his shoulder at her. There was laughter in the aqua eyes, but they were also kind.
"Ah, Caitlyn," he said as if weighing the name. "Yes, that will do. Come down to the kitchen when you're dressed, Caitlyn."
And then he took himself off, leaving Caitlyn to glare at the closed door. It was some five minutes later before she reluctantly turned her attention to the bath.
X
Three weeks later, Caitlyn was rebelliously peeling potatoes under the disapproving eye of Mrs. McFee. In attire she was a miniature copy of that good lady, clad in a sleeveless linen dress of green and yellow stripes that left the long white sleeves of her shift on view. It had been inexpertly cut down from an old one of Mrs. McFee's. While it was cooler than the other dress she now possessed—long-sleeved, solid blue kerseymere, courtesy of the same source—it still seemed hellishly hot in the sweatshop atmosphere of the kitchen, where mutton roasted on a turnspit in the immense stone fireplace and various vegetables and fruits for a pie bubbled in iron pots suspended over the fire. The too-large white mobcap she wore kept slipping down over one eye, driving Caitlyn mad as she had to swipe it back with one hand. Her apron, which was so large she had it wrapped twice about her middle, had started out white but now bore numerous multicolored splotches from all the things she had spdled on herself that afternoon alone. (She had changed the one she had worn during the morning; Mrs. McFee was a stickler for cleanliness.)
Despite the sweat that beaded her brow and upper lip as she worked, Caitlyn herself was cleaner than she had ever been in her life. She feared that her skin would rub clear off her bones if she scoured herself any more. Her hair had been scrubbed by Mrs. McFee personally (who made no secret of the fact that she feared finding lice) until her scalp was raw. Clean, it was soft, shiny, and inky black. Caitlyn wore it gathered into a skimpy, straggly bun at her nape, with the mobcap over the whole as Mrs. McFee informed her was proper. From her hairline to her toes inside the sturdy leather shoes she had been allowed to keep, since they were not much different from women's footgear and anyway there were no shoes at Donoughmore to fit her small feet, her skin was as white as the belly of a whale. Straight, inky-black brows and lashes framing kerry blue eyes and the faint pink of her mouth were the only touches of color in her face. Small nicks from the knife she was using covered her hands, and her blood was mixed liberally into the bowl of misshapen peeled potatoes at her left hand. Piles of potato peelings covered the scrubbed tabletop and littered the flagstone floor. The most disheartening thing about it was that, after she had finished the monumental job of peeling enough potatoes to feed five hungry men (Mickeen joined the d'Arcys at supper), herself, and Mrs. McFee, she would then have to clean up the mess she had made. Just thinking about it made her exhausted.
It was near suppertime. Caitlyn had been working in the kitchen most of the afternoon, learning with a complete absence of enthusiasm how to cook. The truth was, she was inept, just as she was at all the women's work Mrs. McFee had set her to. She hated being a female, she did, and all that went with it!
"All done," she announced finally with an awful sigh. Mrs. McFee looked around from kneading dough to frown at her.
"Aye, and it looks like you've left more on the floor than you've got in the bowl! Ah, well, if his lordship says you're to help me, then I guess you will. Bring the bowl over here, then, lass, and get on with cleaning up the mess."
Making a face at Mrs. McFee's broad back, Caitlyn picked up the bowl and awkwardly carried it to the work table against the far wall where the woman labored. Holding her skirt carefully clear of her feet with one
"Caitlyn," she said abruptly. "Me ma called me Caitlyn."
He sent a quick glimmering look over his shoulder at her. There was laughter in the aqua eyes, but they were also kind.
"Ah, Caitlyn," he said as if weighing the name. "Yes, that will do. Come down to the kitchen when you're dressed, Caitlyn."
And then he took himself off, leaving Caitlyn to glare at the closed door. It was some five minutes later before she reluctantly turned her attention to the bath.
X
Three weeks later, Caitlyn was rebelliously peeling potatoes under the disapproving eye of Mrs. McFee. In attire she was a miniature copy of that good lady, clad in a sleeveless linen dress of green and yellow stripes that left the long white sleeves of her shift on view. It had been inexpertly cut down from an old one of Mrs. McFee's. While it was cooler than the other dress she now possessed—long-sleeved, solid blue kerseymere, courtesy of the same source—it still seemed hellishly hot in the sweatshop atmosphere of the kitchen, where mutton roasted on a turnspit in the immense stone fireplace and various vegetables and fruits for a pie bubbled in iron pots suspended over the fire. The too-large white mobcap she wore kept slipping down over one eye, driving Caitlyn mad as she had to swipe it back with one hand. Her apron, which was so large she had it wrapped twice about her middle, had started out white but now bore numerous multicolored splotches from all the things she had spdled on herself that afternoon alone. (She had changed the one she had worn during the morning; Mrs. McFee was a stickler for cleanliness.)
Despite the sweat that beaded her brow and upper lip as she worked, Caitlyn herself was cleaner than she had ever been in her life. She feared that her skin would rub clear off her bones if she scoured herself any more. Her hair had been scrubbed by Mrs. McFee personally (who made no secret of the fact that she feared finding lice) until her scalp was raw. Clean, it was soft, shiny, and inky black. Caitlyn wore it gathered into a skimpy, straggly bun at her nape, with the mobcap over the whole as Mrs. McFee informed her was proper. From her hairline to her toes inside the sturdy leather shoes she had been allowed to keep, since they were not much different from women's footgear and anyway there were no shoes at Donoughmore to fit her small feet, her skin was as white as the belly of a whale. Straight, inky-black brows and lashes framing kerry blue eyes and the faint pink of her mouth were the only touches of color in her face. Small nicks from the knife she was using covered her hands, and her blood was mixed liberally into the bowl of misshapen peeled potatoes at her left hand. Piles of potato peelings covered the scrubbed tabletop and littered the flagstone floor. The most disheartening thing about it was that, after she had finished the monumental job of peeling enough potatoes to feed five hungry men (Mickeen joined the d'Arcys at supper), herself, and Mrs. McFee, she would then have to clean up the mess she had made. Just thinking about it made her exhausted.
It was near suppertime. Caitlyn had been working in the kitchen most of the afternoon, learning with a complete absence of enthusiasm how to cook. The truth was, she was inept, just as she was at all the women's work Mrs. McFee had set her to. She hated being a female, she did, and all that went with it!
"All done," she announced finally with an awful sigh. Mrs. McFee looked around from kneading dough to frown at her.
"Aye, and it looks like you've left more on the floor than you've got in the bowl! Ah, well, if his lordship says you're to help me, then I guess you will. Bring the bowl over here, then, lass, and get on with cleaning up the mess."
Making a face at Mrs. McFee's broad back, Caitlyn picked up the bowl and awkwardly carried it to the work table against the far wall where the woman labored. Holding her skirt carefully clear of her feet with one
Similar Books
