muttered at the floor. “You’re a …”
“Of course I am!” Mrs Crawley brandished the wooden spoon she was holding. Blobs of porridge fell at Lucy’s feet. “Lord Grave’s a traditional man in many ways. The cook must always be known as ‘Mrs’, married or no, she or—”
“He?” said Lucy, finally looking up.
“Correct!”
Lucy wondered if it would also be rude to mention the fact that Mrs Crawley happened to be wearing a dress and a frilly white apron.
“Ah, you’re puzzled by the frock. I prefer them, you see. Better airflow. It gets hot around the nether regions in this kitchen. And look at yourself, with your nice breeches. Very smart. We should wear what makes us feel comfortable. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Lucy smiled for the first time in hours. She had never liked dresses herself, preferring the practicality of breeches. But she could see why Mrs Crawley might feel the opposite way. And it was refreshing to meet someone else whose clothing choices were somewhat unusual.
“Sit yourself down here. It’s almost six and time for the servants’ breakfast.”
Lucy settled herself at the long table. It had benches at each side and a chair at either end. Mrs Crawley put a heavy silver teapot on the table and Lucy helped herself to a cup with milk and three sugars. She gulped it down, almost burning her tongue, and then poured another. While she was drinking it, the first of the servants arrived – a fair-haired girl, a year or two older than Lucy, carrying a ginger cat with a blue ribbon tied round its neck. The ends of the ribbon were damp and chewed-looking.
“Who are you?” the girl asked, peering sleepily at Lucy.
“Lucy, this is Becky Bone. Becky, this is Lucy Goodly. She’s our new boot girl. You be good to her now. She’ll be sharing your room.”
Becky stuck out her bottom lip. “Why does she have to share with me?”
“Becky, don’t you be so rude. You know all the other attic rooms are full of animal feed.”
“Your cat’s very sweet-looking,” Lucy said, in an effort to be friendly. She wasn’t entirely being truthful. The cat was scrawny. Its single eye was round, bulgy and bright orange. It had one and a half ears and the tip of its tail was missing. “What’s its name?”
“He’s called Smell,” said Mrs Crawley.
Lucy laughed. “What a funny name. I’ve got a cat at home called Phoebe. But she’s a bit younger than your Smell I think?”
“He’s not called Smell!” snapped Becky. “He’s called Aloysius.”
“But Smell’s so much more fitting,” chortled Mrs Crawley.
Smell wriggled out of Becky’s arms and trotted over to Lucy. As he stood there, blinking up at her with his single orange eye, he made a very small tooting noise, like the world’s tiniest trumpet.
“Oh,” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose. Now she understood why Smell was called Smell.
“It means he likes you!” said Mrs Crawley brightly. Becky scowled even harder at Lucy.
Another girl came into the kitchen, singing quietly to herself.
“This is Violet, she’s our scullery maid. She comes in from Grave Village to help me with the cooking,” said Mrs Crawley. “Violet, this is Lucy, the new boot girl.”
Violet smiled shyly at Lucy as she sat down. She was much younger than Becky, perhaps eight or nine. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from her white cotton cap. She began fiddling with her spoon, still singing softly.
“Oh, shut that noise up, Violet,” Becky said, when Mrs Crawley’s back was turned. “This one’s a right milksop. She’s scared of everything, you know. Cries if you look at her wrong.”
Lucy didn’t reply, but suspected Becky probably did a lot worse to Violet than “look at her wrong”.
A very short, curly-haired man was the last servant to arrive for breakfast. He wore a white shirt and a black waistcoat and trousers.
“Ah, you’re the new boot girl. I’m Jacob Vonk, the butler.”
Violet piped up, “And the gardener. And the beekeeper and—”
“That’s right, thank you, Violet. It’s true, I wear lots of different hats, as they say.”
“He’s got a whole cupboard of them!” Violet added.
“Everyone calls me Vonk,” said Vonk. He smiled broadly and shook Lucy’s hand warmly before settling himself into the chair at the head of the table. His feet in their very shiny shoes didn’t quite reach the floor and Lucy guessed he was smaller than she was.
“Some of your porridge would do very well now, Mrs C.”
“Pleasure, Vonk.” Mrs Crawley ladled porridge into bowls. It looked pale and creamy, but there were funny black specks in it. Lucy fished one of them out with her spoon, trying to work out if it was burnt porridge.
“Mrs Crawley,” said Vonk in a stern voice.
“What is it?” said Mrs Crawley in a light, airy what-on-earth-are-you-talking-about? voice.
“The garnish. You know what we agreed. No experimental porridge.”
“It’s extra nourishment, Vonk. There’s lots of hungry people in the world and not enough food to go round. Now insects, they—”
Vonk raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, very well!” Mrs Crawley snatched the bowls of porridge away and replaced them with insect-free portions. She heaped her own porridge with the tiny black corpses. “I toasted them especially for Lucy,” she said, crunching sadly on a mouthful.
“Well I could try one, maybe,” said Lucy, feeling rather sorry for Mrs Crawley.
“Oh, marvellous.” Mrs Crawley sprinkled a couple of the black specks into Lucy’s palm.
Lucy closed her eyes and licked the insects up, swallowing them quickly. “They taste a bit … er … lemony,” she said, coughing.
“Yes, that’s exactly it. They’re ants, you know. More?”
“Um. No, I think I’ve had enough. They’re very filling.”
Once everyone had finished eating, Mrs Crawley began telling Becky and Violet their tasks for the day. Lucy only half listened as she was thinking about her parents again. They’d probably be getting ready for bed now at the Charm Inn where they always stayed when in town. Would they remember to put their money and valuables under their pillows and lock the door while they slept? The Charm Inn was full of terrible thieves who would steal the breath from your lungs, but her parents always insisted on staying there. In fact, half the terrible thieves were her parents’ best friends. They really were hopeless!
Small, warm fingers touched Lucy’s wrist.
