Sculthorpe Abbey

Thursday - 6 o'clock in the morning...

Anyone who had ever shared a bed or even a bedchamber with Emilia Finch quickly learned two things: the first was that she was never still in sleep — whether she was flopping herself over or kicking or even, Charity once swore, launching her bedmate across the room and nearly out the window — and the second was that, once Emilia had finally stilled, waking her was near impossible.

"See, that's because you wore yourself clean out in the night," her father would say. "Any sound that comes after that may well be a lullaby."

Emilia supposed he must be right. Sounds did very little. Neither roosters nor church bells, far or even directly near, came close to rousing her. Even village knocker-ups, no matter how harshly they tapped on the window, routinely failed to make her stir.

Emilia's "useless layabout tendencies" had earned her more than a few wake-up slaps from the housekeeper at Hartley Hall in her first year, since the scullery maid was meant to be the first to rise. Luckily, the old harridan eventually got tired of the task and, as the other maids shaking her awake only worked on occasion, the tried-and-true method became the downstairs maids wringing a wet rag over her face at various levels of cleanliness — mostly not so — until she woke gasping and spluttering.

As in all things, it had been better at Crewe House. Neither Cook nor Mrs. Douglass had ever slapped her, and both had been quite horrified when Emilia suggested it as a way to wake her if all else failed. No dirty rags were wrung over her head either. If her night's exertions were too much, when shaking her or pulling off the covers did no good, she more often than not woke to Cook gently wafting a plate of bacon or that morning's baking under her nose. Scent often worked best, and Emilia preferred when it was something sweet like a nutty bun and not something sharp like spirits of ammonia — saved for only the most dire bouts of sleeping in. That one was nearly worse than a slap, but when needs must...

This morning's wake-up scent, however, was uniquely disgusting. It wasn't that caustic, smelling salt aroma, but something she couldn't quite place. In her early haze, she imagined Cook was standing in front of her bed at Crewe House, wafting a boiling pot of house slop, adding to the rude awakening by running a smelly rag up and down her cheek. Emilia pulled the blankets over her head to stop the onslaught, while Cook let out a series of little whines.

It was then that Emilia opened her eyes to find the covers in question were far too fine to be her own comfortably worn set at Crewe House. And the thing now nuzzling its way underneath was certainly not Cook.

"That explains the whining," she huffed as Mopsy poked his cold snout into her nose before licking it, "and the wetness," she added, holding her breath until she got out from under the counterpane, "and the smell," she choked out. "I wonder how I might go about cleaning your teeth."

Mopsy made no protest as he was too busy failing to get himself out from under the heavy fabric. She swept it off him with a laugh, actually surprised to find all the blankets weren't on the floor or twisted around her legs. She woke that way more often than not. Then again, she did remember waking in the night, possibly trying and failing to roll over, only to find a soft, furry head and a warm paw on her belly. She must have decided not to disturb him.

Still, she felt refreshed. More so than she had since she could remember. After the events of last evening, she'd thought she'd be tossing the night away. Mary Hartley's presence brought with it memories of all the pain and degradation of those years. By all rights, she should be feeling miserable. The only answer she could find as to why she was not was Mopsy. "Perhaps that's the secret to a good night's sleep," she sighed, looping an arm around his fuzzy neck, "a proper cuddle."

But Mopsy didn't seem to be in the mood for cuddling, twisting himself from under her arm to place his paws on her chest, staring down at her hard.

"My, you look quite serious and it's too early for that," she mumbled, feeling languid. "It's barely even dawn. We should go back to sleep."

He let out a whine that was part growl and bounded off the bed, jumping up to place a paw on the window sill, turning back to her, again with that dire look about him. She wasn't sure what could be so urgent outside that...

"Oh, Goodness. You poor thing!" She hopped out of bed, only stopping to put on her dratted glasses before taking up the curtain tie she'd dropped the night before and rushing with him down the stairs. She understood his pain. She'd been made to wait to relieve herself as well, so often that she'd got quite good at stemming the tide until she was inching toward the chamber pot with crossed legs after her work was done.

She was quite grateful this poor little mite had the presence of mind not to let loose where he wished, after how long he'd run wild, and she also noted that he was clever enough to tell her of his need. It was yet another point in favor of his having been someone's special boy before all this.

Unfortunately, she found the front door locked, with it being so early, but she did hear mild stirring downstairs when she approached the servants' steps. At the very least, the scullery maid should be up, unless she was a "useless layabout" like Emilia.

She crept down the stairs, shushing Mopsy when he tried to let out another whine. She glanced around the wall quickly. The kitchen door was open, so that was a bit of luck, but she could also hear a voice humming in the kitchen itself. It didn't matter. Mopsy had urgent business to attend to.

She gave Mopsy a scratch at her side, leaning down as she approached the bottom step. "We'll have to make a run for it," she whispered. "Now!"

She made for the door, only letting out a breath when they got past the garden. No one had called out in alarm, so they must be safe.

"We've done it," she gasped, tilting her head to the sky in triumph. It was a lovely morning. Though a bit chilly and damp, dawn had scraped its fingers through the clouds. She didn't doubt the clouds would close in again soon. Hadn't Mr. Byrne said it looked to rain for days? He seemed like the kind of man who was always right and... and she really should keep her thoughts on Mopsy.

She thought he might be finished, but he was still sniffing around, as if looking for the perfect place. "Really, Mopsy, now is not the time to be particular."

Mopsy seemed to consider the matter with a whine.

"Very well. Sniff away." She untied his lead. "But do be quick. It's quite chilly out here and we must get you back to your bed before anyone—"

"Pardon me, but are you lost, miss?"

She straightened and turned, then glanced up, quite a ways up, at the older man before her. He looked quite regal and disapproving. He may as well be a vicar... or a bishop.

"Lost? I... I'm not sure what you... See, I'm a guest here and..."

"Yes, a lost guest. You must be, as most young ladies wouldn't be wandering about the kitchen gardens in such a state, Miss..."

If the neckcloths over his arm didn't give him way, his supercilious tone certainly did — he must be a valet. Half the valets she'd ever met were so imperious they might as well be lords themselves. The other half were not much better as they often felt very free about pinching a maid's bottom. This one didn't seem to be that kind, at least, averting his eyes from her nightgown in annoyance.

"I know precisely where I am." She stood tall and lifted her chin, even though she knew she was in the wrong. The Crewe girls always felt very free to roam the kitchens in their own house or even those of Lady Dartmore, but they'd never do it in the home of a host. But here she was, and in her nightgown and bare feet, with no choice but to brazen it out. "I have come to... fetch my maid."

"In the garden?" he scoffed.

"Well... I wasn't sure where the servants' quarters were, but it's very important."

"And is your bell pull not working, miss?"

"Er... It was just a trifle I needed. I didn't want to wake anyone else this early."

He raised a brow. "A very important trifle?"

So valets treated simply everyone this way, not just maids. How very annoying. If she were a maid right now, she'd give him what-for. A lady's maid was just as high up in the house as a valet, in her eyes, even if he was the one serving the lord and master and making twice her wages. But unfortunately, she was meant to be a guest and nice young ladies don't scold servants that aren't their own, so she bit her tongue. "Aye, it's... important to me and not worth waking the whole house," she said through her teeth.

"Does it involve this... thing?" he finished, gesturing to the dog relieving himself a few yards away.

"Oh, my! A dog!" She feigned surprise.

"Hmm. Undoubtedly he's been roaming the house. I shall have to inform—"

"Oh, no! He wasn't roaming anywhere. We only met as I... as I came outside," she said, while Mopsy made a liar of her by rubbing against her gown. "Goodness me! How friendly he is!" She cleared her throat. "Er... to guests, that is. I'm sure, outside of that, he was doin' his guard duty. Please inform Sir Anthony how well-guarded I feel."

"Indeed." He stared at the curtain tie in her hand, but didn't argue the point, instead turning to the kitchen doorway. "Evie!"

A tall, freckled girl peeked out, probably the one who'd been humming as Emilia couldn't imagine this man doing anything so frivolous. The name sounded familiar. She might be the one Miss Prudence kept mentioning. "Steady on, Mr. Fletcher. You can't make the kettle boil any faster by— Oh!" She stilled as she caught sight of Emilia, dropping a curtsy. "Good morning. Are ye lost, Miss... er..."

"Finch," Emilia supplied absently before catching herself. "I mean Miss Crewe," she corrected with a nervous laugh. "My maid is Miss Finch. And I'm not lost. You see, I've come in search of her."

The man — Mr. Fletcher, apparently, which sounded vaguely familiar — frowned at that, intoning dully, "Oh, yes. Miss Finch," which made Emilia fearful of what Prudence had gone and done to her reputation.

"Oh, Miss Finch," the girl said eagerly, obviously not as put off. "I'll fetch her straight away!"

"No, no. First, take care of this... beast," Mr. Fletcher said. "He should be tied in the garden, perhaps with something stronger than the rope he obviously escaped. The lads in the stables must have a chain or a muzzle to keep him out here and—"

"A chain! A muzzle!" Emilia repeated hotly, no longer able to hold her tongue. "Surely that would be crueler than—"

"Come, Mr. Fletcher," Evie broke in gently. She had a lilt to her voice, a bit like Mr. Byrne's on occasion, but much more pronounced. "No need for nothin' like that. I can just get him back to the kitchens on his li'l blanket." The girl approached Mopsy as if he were a fearsome creature, which was silly since he was practically grinning with his tongue lolling out. She drew back when he jumped toward her. "Oh, I can't!"

"Don't be afraid," Emilia assured her. "It's just his charming way of greeting you."

"Quite a lot to assume about a dog one has just met," Mr. Fletcher droned.

"Aye, charming," Evie muttered just as suspiciously, "I'd wager the cú sídhe might charm you, before it drags your soul off to the fairies!"

Emilia recalled it now. Prudence had said this one was convinced it was some sort of legendary Irish dog with a howl of doom. "Don't be silly. Mopsy would never do such a thing."

"But Sean told me—"

"It has another name now?" the man groaned.

Emilia ignored him, leaning toward Evie. "He's only charming in exchange for cuddles." Emilia leaned down to scratch him on the belly and he dutifully rolled over. "See? He's just a little love."

"He's a destructive menace," Mr. Fletcher snorted. "And I, for one, won't stand for—"

"What's all this hullabaloo?" A booming voice called from inside. "Evie, the oven ain't even hot and you're out here— Oh!" The slight woman stopped storming into the yard upon seeing Emilia, obviously taken aback. "Beg pardon, Miss."

Emilia was also surprised, that such a loud voice could come from such a tiny thing.

"Are ye lost?" The woman asked, much like everyone else, also with an Irish lilt.

"No, Miss Crewe is not lost," Fletcher said drolly. "She has come in search of her maid and, apparently, met this beast by happenstance. Never saw it before this moment, according to her. Which is strange..." He paused, as if for effect. Valets truly were insufferable! "...because I've barely heard this vile creature mentioned without Miss Crewe's name in the same breath."

"Vile?" Emilia was quite ready to argue that, but the tiny woman stepped in.

"What's the harm in 'im?" the small woman demanded, poking Mr. Fletcher in the chest. "What's he even done?"

"He needs to be chained up in the stable. Dogs chew things," Mr. Fletcher said, unperturbed. "Things like boots. And I'll not have my work sullied by—"

"I told ye already, ye great big dandy, I've got enough bones he can chew so he never touches your precious heshings or anything else in—"

"They're Hessians, imported from Germany, and he's already nearly ruined them with mud, but if I see one tooth mark, I swear by all that's holy, I—"

"Are the two of you snapping at each other again? Two upper servants? What kind of example do you think that sets?" A tall, slender woman stepped out. She was rather striking, black-haired, with a shock of white running from her temple. She must be the housekeeper with that firm tone. And with the way everyone backed away and stared at their feet, even Mr. high-and-mighty Fletcher. Her accent was not Irish like the rest, apart from Fletcher. Emilia couldn't quite place it. Then again, she'd not traveled much outside Yorkshire and London. Emilia could only stare at the woman as she looked her up and down. This should be Mrs. Stern, according to Prudence. She looked much more intimidating than Mrs. Douglass and Emilia braced herself for whatever she might say. Mrs. Douglass wouldn't tolerate such tomfoolery as house-guests running about in their nightclothes with bare feet.

Before she could say anything, several young men and women stepped curiously out the door and Emilia wondered if every servant in the house would end up in this yard.

"He was talkin' of torturin' the poor little mite with chains," the tiny woman said.

"Oh, honestly!" Mr. Fletcher scoffed. "I suggested nothing of the sort!"

"Oh, yes, he did," one maid said tartly, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I heard him from the kitchen. Poor little dove ain't done a thing to deserve it."

"He's a dove now?" Fletcher said with a roll of his eyes. "He's a destructive menace and chaining him is nothing like torture."

"Aye, it's putting him in his proper place," one of the young men, wearing a rough shirt and breeches, grunted. "And he can't chew no more bridles if he can't get to 'em."

"But it ain't good for 'im." The polite footman who'd held her chair before spoke up now. He looked much younger without his wig, probably no more than sixteen. "It'll break his little spirit."

"Better that than him breakin' everything else in the house," one of the maids humphed.

"It ain't even our—"

"Be silent!" Fletcher said, with what looked like a significant glare at the nice footman. "There's a guest here, lest we forget."

At that, all eyes turned to Emilia and she dearly wished Mopsy was big enough to hide her.

Fletcher turned to the others. "I suggest we chain him for now and get on with our mornings. He can be discussed when the time—"

"Oh, no we won't!" the tiny woman growled.

After that, it was hard to mark who was saying what, with everyone shouting at once. Emilia should be grateful they'd stopped noticing her and thought she should make her escape, except she couldn't leave Mopsy with his future so uncertain. 

"Will all of you stop this infernal noise!" It was another voice now, not quite as imposing as the valet's or the housekeeper's, but it seemed to do the trick. A portly gentleman — older than Mrs. Stern, but younger than Mr. Fletcher — stepped out, tucking a ring of keys into his waistcoat. "I'll be astonished if every guest in the house hasn't been rudely awakened by this racket!"

This could only be the butler who thought Prudence was a revolutionary, while Prudence thought he was a stodgy old thing. Emilia didn't quite agree. She had seen him here and there, though she hadn't spoken to him directly. He was always rushing about, instructing the other servants. And with much more of a spring in his step than poor old Dawes at Crewe House, though she suspected the Crewes didn't care about that and would likely keep Dawes on until he no longer woke from his many naps.

Mr. Fletcher spoke first, of course. "I was simply suggesting this thing be properly contained," he said, gesturing to Mopsy, "and certain people have decided I'm the very devil because of it."

The butler narrowed his eyes at Mopsy. "Then I don't see what the trouble is. That little hellion should be..." He trailed off, finally noticing Emilia, who decided she quite agreed with Prudence's assessment of him now. "Why, Miss Crewe! Whatever brings you out here? I'm certain you would be more comfortable inside."

"I would be more comfortable knowing this dear dog was treated kindly." She tossed her shoulders back. If she could use her status to help him, she damned well would. "Mr. Fletcher neglects to mention that he thought this little darling should be shackled and chained outside, which would surely hurt his poor little neck."

The butler looked conflicted now, glancing between the dog and Emilia. "Well, yes. I could see that, but—"

"This dog has treated everyone he meets with nothing but love and kindness."

"And destruction," she heard Mr. Fletcher mutter.

Emilia ignored him, going on, "Even if he has been... enthusiastic at times, surely Mopsy deserves kindness in return. Hasn't Sir Anthony taken him in? It couldn't be to see him treated so harshly." She looked around, thinking that would seal it, but it didn't seem to carry the weight it should, as the arguments seemed to start softly again.

"It's his house, innit?" one said.

"But it's us stuck with 'im," said another.

"Some of us like him!"

They seemed to gaining in volume again — Mopsy even joined in with a few obliviously joyful barks — when Mrs. Stern clapped her hands quite loudly.

"Miss Crewe is absolutely right," Mrs. Stern said, stepping toward Emilia and Mopsy. "And with the rain and wind coming, this poor creature would suffer greatly chained out here." She turned to one of the young men who'd been against Mopsy. "Donal, how would you like if we forced you to work outside in such weather?"

Donal stared at the ground. "I suppose he can't dig up the roses from inside."

"So he gets to roam unfettered?" Mr. Fletcher was harder to mollify, of course.

"He will be tied in the kitchen, warm and safe, and that's an end to it."

"For now," the Butler added, but Mrs. Stern waved him off.

"I'm certain he will be no trouble, Mr. Higgins. And thank you, Miss Crewe," she said, nodding at Emilia, "for bringing this near-injustice to our attention," she leaned closer, adding softly, "even in such a state as to endanger your own health."

"I only came in search of my maid," Emilia mumbled as the other servants started in, some still hissing arguments. She supposed this wasn't settled yet.

"In the future, I'd suggest ringing rather than rushing about in full dishabille. You'll surely catch your death."

Emilia let out a sigh of relief at being admonished so lightly. "I won't do it again."

"This will be discussed further," Mr. Fletcher huffed before disappearing behind the rest, leaving only Evie, hastily gathering the clothes off the line as the thunder rumbled its warning.

Emilia sighed. "I am sorry, Mrs. Stern. I didn't think poor Mopsy would start such a fuss."

She drew back slightly. "You know my name?"

"Er... Miss Finch told me."

"Oh, yes. Miss Finch." She sounded as enthusiastic as Mr. Fletcher had.

She'd best tell Prudence to curtail... whatever she was doing. Emilia suspected Prudence was just being Prudence. Girls who spoke their mind might sometimes be humored amongst The Beau Monde, or perhaps just in the Crewe family, but it was never likely to go well amongst Emilia's set.

"Mopsy, is it?" Mrs. Stern leaned down to scratch Mopsy under the chin. Emilia smiled, glad that the head of the house was on his side. Butlers might play at being the top, but most houses would crumble in a week without their housekeeper. "Some of us had been debating either Otis or Hector, but I think Mopsy suits him better, sweet floppy little thing. Though he's quite handsome now. I wonder how that happened. Rumors abound."

Emilia felt a frisson of fear at the word rumor, worried that everyone knew of Mr. Byrne's role in the illicit bath. He seemed to laugh at the idea of it being scandalous at all, but she'd seen the way such rumors could grow, especially among the staff. "You know, it was really nothing so—"

"I'd wondered about your maid's little collection yesterday," Mrs. Stern went on, "but now I see the feat the two of you accomplished."

"Yes, thank you," she said in a rush. "Miss Finch and I certainly... did a feat." Now that she thought about it, Mr. Byrne had made his distaste for Mopsy so clear that people wouldn't have believed he'd had a hand in it anyhow. "I don't regret it, but I am truly sorry he's caused such a feud."

"I wouldn't trouble yourself. We're an argumentative lot anyhow. If not for Mopsy, we'd find other things to bicker about." She straightened. "But if you're going to steal him every night, try to put him back a bit earlier than this," she said with a slight smile. "Evie, come take him in. I'd do it myself, but I think I'd better go to the stables and hide all the chains."

Emilia let out a slight burst of laughter.

"Yes, Ma'am," Evie said quickly, but there was no quickness in her step.

"Don't tell me you're still afraid of this silly boy," the older woman chided.

"O' course not," Evie said unconvincingly.

"I can help," Emilia offered eagerly, taking Mopsy's lead and following Evie into the kitchen. The tiny woman, who must be the cook, and her kitchen maid bent to fuss over Mopsy while others walked away with huffs of annoyance.

"Thanks ever so much for taking up for 'im, Miss. I don't think the rest of them could say 'boo' after that. Mopsy, is it?" the cook chuckled. "I'd voted for Hector, but I suppose it'll do for him. As for you, if you want anything special for breakfast, you just send the word."

"Oh, it's all quite impressive already," Emilia said sincerely. "I'd never seen such a breakfast laid out for so many people. Then again, I'd never been to a house party. It must be a great deal of work to do every day, Mrs..."

"Doyle," the woman supplied, preening a little. "And I could shrug it off as pure talent, but it's nice to see one's suffering be properly appreciated."

"And I'm Kitty," the maid said, standing a foot taller than the cook. "I helped. And I liked Otis, but now I can't imagine another name for this little mop."

"I found his rope," Evie said, the tallest of them all, holding the very-obviously-gnawed ends.

"Oh, goodness me. It must have been very frayed to slip off him so easily," Emilia said quickly, moving to the corner with a little pile of blankets. She leaned down to undo her curtain tie. "We must tie this one more securely."

Evie let out a doubtful sigh as she knelt to cut the frayed bits off with a pair of scissors she'd pulled from her apron's bulging pockets. "Ye've got a fondness for 'im, so I suppose butter wouldn't dare melt in his mouth, but I still think he..."

"My, you've got an apron full of tricks," Emilia said, deftly changing the subject as she stroked Mopsy, though she was curious about it. She'd often shove the odd thing in her pockets, or an apron when she wore one, but never this much.

"I suppose I do," Evie laughed. "I must look like a peddler, lugging all this about. But it helps me switch between me jobs."

"Miss Finch told me you were the one looking after Lady Adele." Yet Evie had been the first one she saw in the kitchen when she came down. Emilia glanced up. "Are you the scullery maid as well?"

"That I am. It's a bit of work at the end o' the day, but..."

"A bit?" Emilia huffed as she secured the knot around Mopsy's neck. "That's enough to fill two days, maybe more. You can't be more than fourteen."

"Fifteen... and a half," Evie said proudly. "I'm glad for the work. The more I learn, the less time I spend in the scullery. I could be considered a maid-of-all-work soon enough. I've helped the housemaids sometimes, and Cook lets me aid her when things are too much, and now I've helped a real French lady and—"

Mopsy let out a whine at being tethered again.

"Hush, you," Emilia cooed.

"I'm sorry," Evie said quickly.

"Oh, I meant Mopsy. I've not tied it tight at all. He's just playacting like he's bein' tortured." She turned back to Evie as she scratched him. "You were saying?"

"I shouldn't be going on so," Evie said, blushing. "Everyone says I talk so much, but I can't seem to stop it once I start and then— Oh." She shut her mouth resolutely.

"Well, I think it's quite admirable." She remembered when she'd been eager to both prove and improve herself. "No girl wants to be a scullery maid for the rest of her life... I'd imagine. I'd wager you'll succeed," Emilia finished with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Evie smiled as well. "Your Miss Finch has been helping me so much."

"Oh, has she?" Emilia said dubiously.

"Well, she's yet to teach me the true ways of the lady's maid," she said with a note of reverence. "She says I must learn 'up here' first." Evie tapped her forehead with a very serious look. Mopsy nudged Evie, obviously wanting cuddles from a new source now. To Emilia's surprise, Evie began absentmindedly stroking his head. "So she's teaching me my letters so I can read the fashion pages. She says that's the most important part of it."

Evie would do better if she shadowed one of the other maids. Then she might be taught to put more effort into Lady Adele's hair. But the girl seemed excited, so she held her tongue. At least she'd have the fashion pages to show her the way... if Prudence didn't try to force Homer on the poor girl first.

"I must learn what I can, though I don't know how much call there'll be after this," she chattered on. "But I reckon if there's a lady guest, then I might be a help."

"Oh, yes. Lady guests. You will be invaluable," Emilia prodded, trying to keep her talking... and stroking. As the first awake and last to bed, Evie would make an ideal ally, if she could only put away her fear of Mopsy.

"Well, it don't happen much, but Mr. Byrne does have the odd lady about sometimes. Not so many as this, but—"

"Mr. Byrne?" Emilia felt an unwelcome flush at that. It felt a bit like anger, though it shouldn't. That would be silly.

Evie paled, her freckles standing out starkly against her skin. "Did I say Mr. Byrne? I meant Sir Anthony. Mr. Byrne just visits a lot. A very big lot," she added in a rush. "As for the ladies, he don't got scores of 'em. Just... respectable widows paying a call and the like. He's not a bad... er, guest. He's a fine one."

Emilia stared at her, knowing something didn't ring true, but also telling herself she didn't care if Mr. Byrne dallied with every blasted widow in England. And it must be close to that if even Sir Anthony's servants knew about it. But that's what wealthy men did, wasn't it? What had it to do with her? Because he'd flirted a bit? He was probably flirting with every girl he saw when he wasn't flirting with her. What a fool she'd been. "Aye, he's a fine one, indeed." She'd tried to keep her tone light, but it still came out a bit like a growl.

"Please don't tell anyone I said anything," Evie whispered.

Emilia sighed and squeezed her hand. "What would I tell people? You didn't say a thing." Except confirming that Mr. Byrne was as much a rake as any other unmarried man — and quite a few of the married ones, too. It wouldn't even be gossip. He was so common among his set that it shouldn't even surprise her. "But perhaps you can help me with my little secret."

Evie's eyes widened as Emilia leaned in.

"I told a fib back there. This dog and I are not strangers. He slept in my bedroom last night."

"Oh, that?" Evie chuckled. "I'd reckoned so."

"Then couldn't you help me take him at night... and put him back straight away?" she added quickly. "He's just a scared little thing who doesn't like lightning and he wanted some company. And we have more rain coming. He'll be terrified in here on his own with those big banging noises in his poor little ears. Surely you like him enough not to make him suffer."

"Well, I don't know if I'd say I like him, but I suppose no creature—"

"Of course you like him. You've been petting him all this time." Emilia gestured downward triumphantly.

Evie drew her away with a slight gasp, at which Mopsy whined then licked her hand.

"He wants more, the little beggar."

The girl started to smile, then seemed to stop herself. "Sean said he's got the howl of the Cú Sidhe. And Mr. Fletcher says—"

"I'm sure this Sean was just teasing you and Mr. Fletcher doesn't have to know," Emilia said, popping her head up and glancing around to see if the old ghoul was lurking about. He wasn't, thankfully. "All I'm asking is that you let me know when everyone's asleep so I can take him, then wake me before the others so I can bring him back."

"I don't know if—"

"Surely it's all the same for him to be with me, rather than down here... all alone and afraid," she finished, hoping pity might work.

The girl still looked fretful. "I'd better help with the tea. Mrs. Doyle gets awfully cross when—"

So bribery it was. She gripped her hand. "I'll pay. Tuppence a day."

Evie's eyes widened even further. "But that's nearly my wages for—"

"Yes, I'm well aware," Emilia grumbled. Surely tuppence wasn't much to her these days, as she likely made thrice what Evie did per annum. Still, two weeks of that would do away with what paltry pocket money she had. She decided Mopsy was worth it. And it was a bit gratifying, seeing the girl's surprise and delight. It wasn't long ago that a tuppence might as well be a king's ransom to her. "Have we an agreement?"

"I'd be a Leathdhuine if we didn't!" Evie stood and held out her hand.

Emilia wasn't sure what that meant, but she took the girl's hand and pulled herself up.

Mopsy also stood, licking at their joined hands, at which Evie flinched a bit.

"Mopsy's just sayin' he agrees, too," Emilia said on a laugh. "Silly boy!"

Evie seemed to relax a little, giving him a hesitant stroke under the chin as he pawed at her apron. "I... I never did hear of the cú sídhe bein' so silly, nor so fluffy."

"I'd wager the two of you will be thick as thieves before the week is—"

"Evie, I'm glad to know you've stopped cowering before the dog," Mrs. Stern called out, closing the kitchen door against the growing patter of rain, "but shouldn't you let Miss Crewe get back upstairs?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Evie said, ducking her head and hurrying away.

Emilia nearly said, "Yes, Ma'am," as well, as the admonishment was surely just as much for her, but she was distracted by Prudence waltzing into the kitchen, still yawning, pinning her hair into a slipshod roll of braids. 

"What's this about me being needed at this ungodly— Oh!" She stopped as she caught sight of Emilia. "Miss Crewe."

"Miss Finch," Emilia said tightly, taking Prudence by the arm and steering her toward the stairs. "I must speak with you."

"What could be so urgent, miss?" Prudence said loudly before hissing in her ear. "And why are you down here?"

Emilia yanked her into the stairwell. "Is this how you present yourself among the servants? Wandering about yawning and half-dressed?"

Prudence glanced Emilia up and down. "Don't you think this might be the wrong time to chide me about that?"

Emilia blushed, stammering, "Th-that's... different. I didn't mean to—"

"Waltz about in your nightgown?" Prudence shook her head. "For shame."

"Aye, if you've finished having your fun—"

"I haven't even started having fun. Let me see... I think I've heard this speech a time or two." Prudence turned about, blocking Emilia's way up the stairs, then cleared her throat. "Why, Miss Crewe! You've got mud on your hem and are those bare feet I see? Young ladies do not traipse about houses in which they are a guest in such a state. You give me no choice. I shall write to your mother immediately and—"

Emilia clapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm embarrassed enough. Now, go! I'll explain everything upstairs."

Prudence brushed her hand away. "I'm afraid I cannot do that, Miss Crewe." She shook her head, obviously very amused with herself. "This wild behavior of yours must be nipped before—"

"Is Miss Finch still here?" A muffled voice called out. "I've got more things for her."

Prudence's eyes widened. "Yes, let's talk upstairs," she said in a rush, gripping Emilia's hand.

They didn't get two steps up.

"Miss Finch?"

Emilia turned to find... someone, hidden under a pile of clothes. "Oh, there you are! I almost forgot to give you these."

"Meg!" Prudence feigned pleasant surprise, slowly descending the steps. "More clothes? I thought the pile you gave me last night was sufficient to amuse me."

"Oh, that was just the washing, silly. These need mending. Or at least Queen Mary says they do." The girl started piling clothes on Prudence. "She says the ribbons on all her stockings are frayed at the end, this petticoat's lace has a hole. Now, I couldn't find it, but perhaps you can. Also, when you do the washing, see that everything looks as if it were new. And if you can manage that, please tell the rest of us as I think even science might need to know... Oh! Miss Crewe," she said, noticing Emilia. "Whatever brings you down here?" She paled. "When I said 'Queen Mary'... Well, that was just a bit of—"

"No need," Emilia said, giving Miss Marbury's maid a sympathetic smile. "I know Miss Hartley quite well." She'd never attended to her personally, but she'd heard the moaning of all the lady's maids Mary had disposed of after they failed the impossible task of pleasing the wretched girl.

"Well, it's lovely to meet you again," she said happily, clearly relieved as she dumped the last of her work on Prudence, giving a curtsy and starting away.

"Wait!" Prudence adjusted the pile in her arms. "What's wrong with the rest of these?"

Meg turned back, a bounce in her step. "I can't even recall. I'm sure she'll tell you."

"I bet she will," Prudence grumbled. "Remind me why I agreed to be her lady's maid?" She turned to Emilia. "Oh, but wait. I'm mistaken. That was you."

Emilia had no better answer than, "It got her out of the room. Nothing else worked!"

"I still think we can negotiate better terms. I tried to get something on the little beast out of Meg, but all she gave me was a pile of Mary's blasted underthings." She shuddered. "And now this."

"I'll be the one doing the mending, not you," Emilia argued. "So I don't see why you're so—"

"That is entirely beside the point," Prudence argued back as they moved up the stairs. "You still haven't told me why you're wandering about in my nightclothes. Whenever I did such a thing, you wrote to my mother, which I thought was truly unfair as I was only at Aunt Muriel's and no one cares a whit what I do there."

"It's still not your house," Emilia said back. "But if you wish, I can write to your mother now—"

"Aye, very amusing. Now as to your presence barely dressed in the kitchens..."

"I was only down here because Mopsy—"

"Ah, yes. I'd suspected as much. Your strange fancy for that dog might ruin our entire..."

"Can you please stop bickering?" Emilia hissed. "If anyone hears..."

"You're the one who's bickering..."

TBC

Some say, on quiet nights, people from miles around can still hear them bickering...

While I have you, I have a very important rec! Stop what you're doing and go find A Royal Christmas in Space by KittyBeaver (linked in the dedication)! Also read it! You will not regret it!

I'd recommended it before, but that was when it was only half done and before it had been shortlisted for The Watty Awards. Now it has a part 2 and is being recognized and I hope it wins. I guarantee, among all the Watty nods, you're not going to find another story like this. If I had to sum it up... Imagine someone took all those Netflix and Hallmark Christmas movies, every trope and cliche, mixed it up with a dash of Star Wars, then sprinkled it with absolute hilarity and baked it into a loving parody that leaves you feeling warm and giggly. Seriously, every moment is either outright hilarious, or has cleverly layered jokes that you only catch if you're looking closely. And it still manages to be sincere and heartwarming. I cannot be prouder of one of my best writing buddies finally being recognized for the unique talent she is!