Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

herself up straight. ‘I’m seven and I am tall for my age.’

      André kept his face straight. ‘So you are. I thought you were much older than seven. Still, your mother might not like to find you here.’

      ‘She’s busy with the seamstress and doesn’t have time for lessons. I was fitted already.’ She sounded disconsolate. Lonely.

      ‘Surely you are happy to have pretty new dresses.’

      She made a face. ‘I’d sooner have a hat like that.’ She pointed to his head.

      ‘A chef’s toque? Would you indeed?’ He reached into the drawer where he kept several clean and freshly starched hats. He pulled one out and opened it with a snap. He popped it on her head.

      It immediately fell down over her eyes and nose.

      ‘It’s too big,’ she said sadly, taking it off and offering it back to him, her face full of disappointment.

      ‘So it is.’ It was a small disappointment in the grand scheme of things, yet the sad face pulled at a cord in his chest. Painfully. He stilled in shock. What was happening here? Why did he care? The child wasn’t his. She was well fed, beloved by her mother, yet still he hated to see her unhappy. He lifted the hat high and gazed at it from all angles. ‘You know, the same thing happened to me once.’

      ‘What did you do?’

      He went to another drawer and pulled out one of the large needles he used for stitching fowl. ‘I used a hat pin.’

      ‘That’s not a hat pin,’ the child said disdainfully. ‘My mother has a hat pin. It has a pearl on top.’

      ‘I suppose we could go and ask to borrow it,’ he said with a smile, and raised a brow.

      ‘Oh, no. She’s busy.’

      And besides, she would probably tell the child to go back to the school room, or wherever it was she was supposed to be. André wasn’t fooled for a moment. ‘Or we can see if this will work.’

      The little girl nodded.

      André folded the hat along its length and then pinned it. This time it fitted her small head perfectly.

      ‘Better, non?’ He pulled up a stool to the table and stood her on it. ‘I am going to make a chicken pie for your uncle. Would you like to help?’

      She nodded. ‘What can I do?’

      ‘You can make the decorations for the top of the pastry.’

      It didn’t take him long to prepare the dough, and soon she was rolling and cutting and generally making oddly shaped little bits covered in flour. She had flour on her hands, on her cheek and some on the tip of her nose. But she seemed perfectly happy.

      Becca popped her head around the door, her eyes streaming. ‘Onions are done, monsewer.’

      André nodded. ‘Go outside and get some air. It will help with the tears, then there are carrots to scrub.’

      The girl scampered off and he heard the scullery door bang shut behind her. He wished there was some way to stop the misery caused by peeling onions, but he’d peeled his share in the past and it was part of her job.

      The door into the hallway opened to reveal Madame Holte, who looked terribly anxious, and she had Mrs Stratton right behind her.

      ‘There you are, Jane,’ the mother said. ‘I’ve been searching everywhere.’

      Guilt hit André hard when he saw the panic fading from her eyes.