The Most Marvellous Summer. Betty Neels

answer she said loudly, ‘It’s rather warm—shall we go on to the balcony for a minute?’

      There was a small staircase at one end of the balcony and she led the way down it and round the house and in through a side-door.

      The short passage was rather dark and smelled vaguely damp. Roseanne opened the door at its end, revealing the kitchen.

      Matilda was standing at the kitchen table, carving slices off a roast duck. She wasn’t doing it very well and there was a large pan of rather mangled bones and bits beside her. She looked up and saw them as they went in. She was flushed and untidy and swathed in one of Mrs Chubb’s aprons, many sizes too large for her, and despite that she still contrived to look beautiful. When she saw them she smiled and said, ‘Oh, hello…’

      ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ asked Mr Scott-Thurlow with a good deal of force.

      She chose to misunderstand him. ‘Well, I never could carve—the bones will make splendid soup and there’s still plenty of meat…’

      His tone was measured. ‘That is not what I meant, and you know it. Why are you working in the kitchen when you should be in the drawing-room? That abominable woman…’ He stopped, mindful of good manners. ‘Do you mean to say that she asked you to cook dinner?’

      ‘No. I said that I would—to help Mrs Chubb; you know she was in such a state. They tell me that you did a splendid job on her fingers. Are you a consultant or something?’

      ‘Yes. Let us keep to the point, Matilda.’

      She looked meek, but her eyes sparkled because he had called her Matilda and not Miss ffinch. A tiny step forwards perhaps?

      She picked up the knife again and started on the other side of the duck and he stepped forwards, took the knife from her, carved the rest of the bird with a practised hand and laid the knife down on the table.

      ‘Is there no one to help you?’

      ‘They’re having their supper. I’ll stay down here until you’ve all gone home.’ She selected a slice of duck and popped it into her mouth.

      It was Roseanne who spoke. ‘Look,’ she sounded worried, ‘we must go back—they’ll wonder where we are.’

      ‘Very well. Have you had your dinner, Matilda?’

      He looked as cross as two sticks, she thought lovingly. ‘I shall take a tray up to my room. Goodnight, Mr Scott-Thurlow, or is it goodbye?’