Starling. Virginia Taylor

help them. They needed a child dug out of a well. Although Mr. Seymour had shoulders like a blacksmith and a tall, strong frame, he had white elegant fingers that did nothing more strenuous all day but ink his pen.

      She hoped they could use a man who could issue high-handed orders, for that would be Mr. Seymour’s only true skill.

      Chapter 4

      Being an idle wife wasn’t as easy as it sounded. After her scare, Starling wasn’t brave enough to touch another book and so, straightening her shoulders, she followed the aroma of roasting meat to the kitchen.

      “May I help?” she asked Mrs. Trelevan, who was possibly five feet tall and five feet wide. She had gray-streaked hair and round red cheeks.

      “Bless you,” Mrs. Trelevan answered, aiming twinkling pale eyes at Starling. She rinsed her knives in the reticulated water piped to the sink. No luxury had been overlooked in this house.

      “I could wash those dishes.”

      Mrs. Trelevan glanced at Starling’s hands. “I’ll give you a job, right enough. Freda!”

      “I’m getting the flowers ready for tonight,” a voice answered from an arched alcove.

      “Run upstairs and get Mrs. Seymour’s gloves.”

      “My things haven’t arrived yet.” Starling reddened with discomfort.

      “No gloves? Well, then, we’ll make do. See this-here ointment.” Mrs. Trelevan lifted a jar from a shelf above the sink. “I use it every day. Comes from sheep’s wool. Smells like it, too.” She opened the jar and dug her fingers in, and before Starling realized what she meant to do, she dabbed an unpleasant-smelling cream on Starling’s hands, back and front. “Rub it in,” she said with an encouraging smile. “You need to keep those hands of yours protected while you work.”

      The cream was sticky at first but melted when smoothed on, leaving a shiny glaze on Starling’s skin. “Bless you,” she said in wonder to Mrs. Trelevan. She glanced at the bowl of peas that Mrs. Trelevan had begun to shell. “There’s enough here to feed the starving hordes. Let me help.”

      Mrs. Trelevan laughed. “You’ll be wanting to dress for dinner.”

      Starling glanced at her bodice. “I’m already dressed.”

      “The other ladies will be changin’ into evening gowns.”

      “I don’t have an evening gown. My things haven’t been collected yet.”

      “Freda, come in here. What do you think, girl? Can you spare the time to do a little fancyin’ up of one of Mrs. Seymour’s day gowns?”

      “No offense,” said the kitchen maid, who had a smiling mouth and wide eyes like her sister. “But there’s not much I can do with the one she has on. Do you have anything a little...plainer, Mrs. Seymour?”

      “Plainer than this?” Starling raised her eyebrows. “Only a gray gown. I don’t think it could be fancied up, though. It is, um, very like your uniform, except for the color.”

      Mrs. Trelevan grinned. “Freda is a wonder with the needle. You shoulda seen what she done with my Sunday best. A very elegant creation now, it is.”

      “I’ll need to see what you’ve got.” Freda washed her hands in the sink. “There’s a roll of patterned silk in the store room, water-stained along the length. Mr. Seymour brought it home from the emporium, thinking Mrs. Brighton could make use of it. Might be, I can use it for you...if you can arrange the flowers while I sew.”

      “Thought she might manage,” Mrs. Trelevan said smugly. “Do anythin’ to get out of arrangin’ flowers, Freda would.”

      Starling would do almost anything to be allowed to arrange flowers, and along with idling, Mr. Seymour had told her to do that task. However, she doubted he would like Freda being taken from her job to sew for one of his shopgirls. He’d definitely ordered Starling to have no gaudy gowns. “I’m not sure Mr. Seymour would approve.”

      “We’d ask him, wouldn’t we, Mrs. Trelevan, but he’s outside helping the Burdons.” Freda chewed at her lip.

      “Oh, he’d approve.” Mrs. Trelevan nodded confidently. “He wouldn’t’ve thought of Mrs. Seymour bein’ embarrassed without her trunk. He’d want us to help where we can.”

      “I’d need to get the alterations done quick because I’ll have to run out food to the rescue team.”

      Mrs. Trelevan tutted. “Bless you for thinkin’ of that. I don’t know where my head is. Mrs. Burdon will be too worried to feed the men.”

      Starling cleared her throat. “Mrs. Burdon is the child’s mother?”

      Mrs. Trelevan nodded. “Miss Tammy’s the sweetest little six year old you’ve ever seen, but such a one for gettin’ into things. No point in bein’ negative. If anyone can get her out of that well, Mr. Seymour can.”

      “Course he can.” Freda nodded for emphasis. “Never gives in once he’s set his mind to helping.”

      “So, they will dig the child out?” Starling reached for the pea bowl and began, mechanically, to split and open the pods.

      “The well’s too narrow for anyone to get down, and Tammy’s wedged. They’re just afraid that...”

      “Go on.”

      “Looks like rain. If that happens...there’s a seepage problem. They think the well might fill before they can get her out.”

      “Shouldn’t we help?” Starling’s fingers stilled.

      “Four men there already. We’d only be in the way. Best if we take out drinks and food. They want us to do anything else, they’ll soon tell us.”

      “I want to help if there’s anything for me to do.”

      “Bless you,” Mrs. Trelevan said. “Mr. Seymour made a fine choice of a wife. Indeed he did.”

      * * * *

      Starling stood by the window in Mr. Seymour’s splendid blue and gold bedroom and stared out. The expected rain sheeted down. She could barely see the gathering of people down by the river. Umbrellas sheltered some. The trees along the banks threshed in the wind.

      At the polished table, Freda sat squinting at her sewing. Starling wasn’t sure what the maid meant to do with the gray uniform, but the gown had been buttoned and unbuttoned and pinned. The roll of silk, patterned with pink and purple flowers on a blue background, had been partly unwound and cut into.

      “I have to go out and see how...how my husband is.” Starling walked to the door.

      Freda glanced up. “We keep the waterproofs by the back door. And the umbrellas. Follow the path to the back gate.”

      After she’d donned the suggested coat, she headed outside. Rain sliced down, making visibility low. Starling came upon the huddled men near the wind-whipped trees some distance from the back gate. She stared at the flow of the river, but the depth was summer low. The water ran fast and dirty.

      She glanced at an area covered by a makeshift canvas roof. Only a few stones edged a hole. Apparently, the well had been unused for years and was not easy to spot, which might explain how the child had fallen in. The diggers ignored Starling, which gave her the opportunity to assess the situation. A pale-faced young woman covered by a black cloak stood just under the canvas calling the child’s name. No answer came. Starling’s throat thickened.

      “I’m Starling, from...” She indicated Mr. Seymour’s house. “You must be Mrs. Burdon.”

      “Yes,” the woman answered distractedly. “Jane Burdon.” She covered her quivering mouth with one gloved hand. “Do you think Mr. Seymour will get her out? He’s over there.”

      Starling narrowed her eyes at