Bertie had been fond of her, but inevitably, Sophie had grown tired of her father’s bullying and had gone, like all the others.
Bertie blessed Sophie now, wherever she was, because Bertie could now pour tea competently into cups, correctly take up the sugar tongs, and ask in a false posh voice whether they wanted one lump or two. Andrew laughed at her, and even Cat looked fascinated.
As they sipped the first scalding taste of creamy, sugary tea, the waiter returned with a two-tiered serving plate full of cakes, scones, and plump buns. A pot of clotted cream rested in the middle of this bounty.
Bertie stopped herself from squealing in delight, remembering to be dignified. When she had money, she usually went straight to the bakery. Hats, coats, and new boots were necessities, but a scone piled with clotted cream was a luxury. Other women could bleat about necklaces and rings, but give Bertie a fat tea cake, and she was in heaven.
She dipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her pouch of coins. “How much?”
The waiter blinked once in surprise then gave her a cool look. “I will put it on Mr. McBride’s account,” he said stiffly and walked away.
“Well, I never,” Bertie said when he’d vanished. “I suppose I put my foot in it. An account. How lovely.”
“My dad’s got them all over,” Andrew informed her. “He asks for what he wants, and Macaulay goes round every so often and pays up.”
Bertie reached for a cake and slid it onto a plate, which she gave to Cat. She was pleased that Andrew didn’t simply snatch the sweets, but waited for Bertie to hand them out. When all had plenty of cakes, with cream smeared over everything, Bertie lifted her fork.
“Macaulay,” she said. “What did you call him? A ghillie? What is that?”
Caitriona answered. “A ghillie is like a gamekeeper, but Macaulay isn’t just a ghillie. He looks after Papa. Minds the house, and the house in Scotland. More like a steward.”
“Macaulay does everything,” Andrew said. “He’s Papa’s nanny. At least, that’s what I call him.”
Bertie thought of the big Scotsman and his growls as he loaded Mr. McBride into the carriage. “I shouldn’t like to call him a nanny to his face.”
“He doesn’t mind,” Andrew said. “He thinks it’s funny.”
Bertie couldn’t imagine Macaulay laughing, but maybe he had a soft spot for Andrew. It would be easy to form a soft spot for the boy, Bertie thought as she ate. Andrew had a warm spirit in spite of his antics, an open friendliness. Even the waiter gave him an indulgent look.
Caitriona, on the other hand, ate primly, with minimal movements. After her initial explanation about Macaulay, she remained silent. She did say please and thank you, but so faintly Bertie barely heard the words.
It wasn’t shyness, Bertie thought. It was more not wanting to put the effort into talking. Not that Cat could have gotten a word in edgewise with Andrew’s chatter, so maybe she’d learned to remain quiet while her brother rattled on.
In all the time they’d been on the scaffolding and here in the shop, Cat had never once let go of the doll. She didn’t give the doll its own chair, nor did she pretend to feed it cake and tea as other girls might. Cat kept her arm firmly around the doll but didn’t even look at it as she downed every bite of cake on her plate and sip of tea in her cup.
“She’s pretty,” Bertie said at one point, nodding at the doll. “What’s her name?”
Caitriona laid down her fork and put both arms around the doll. “She’s Daisy. My mother gave her to me.”
The mother who had died, leaving the misery Bertie had seen in Mr. McBride’s eyes. Bertie wiped crumbs from her fingers and pulled a locket on a chain from behind her collar.
“My mum gave me this,” she said. The silver was slightly tarnished, as much as Bertie strove to keep it clean, and the chain was worn. She opened the locket to show Cat the tiny picture of her mother as a pretty young woman on one side of it, and a thin braid of dark hair on the other. “My mum passed too, so this is very special to me, like your doll is to you.”
Caitriona stared at Bertie, then the necklace, then back at Bertie again. She looked stunned, as though it had never occurred to her that other people might have lost someone dear to them, and had keepsakes they hung on to.
Bertie closed the locket and tucked it away. “I wear it always, so it’s like she’s with me.”
Caitriona nodded, and Bertie feared for a moment that the girl would burst into tears. Cat’s brow furrowed the smallest bit, her eyes losing focus.
Then she drew a breath, blinked, and the moment passed. She held her cup out for more tea and, after Bertie poured, sipped it delicately, falling silent again.
Bertie didn’t pursue it. The poor lass was missing her mum, and that was something Bertie could understand.
Andrew ate most of the cakes. Bertie managed to eat her fill in spite of that, and she lingered over her last scone. This was like a wonderful dream—a warm shop, clotted cream, smooth tea, and no need for money. What a fine world Mr. McBride lived in.
At last the plates were clean, the cups empty, and Bertie knew it was time to go. She took Cat and Andrew by the hands and led them out of the shop and back through Mayfair to Upper Brook Street.
She was sorry the outing was over, but the children belonged at home, and Bertie in the East End. She needed to be back before her dad returned from his work with a house builder, so he wouldn’t be angry his supper wasn’t waiting for him.
Also, Bertie didn’t need Mr. McBride to catch her with his children. He’d wonder what the devil she was doing, and why she was following him about. Bertie wasn’t quite sure how she’d answer—she couldn’t even come up with an answer that satisfied her.
When they reached the house, the front door was flung open by none other than the large Macaulay. He stared out at the three, giving Bertie such a grim look she was ready to drop the children’s hands and flee as fast as she could.
Macaulay looked sharply at Caitriona’s hand in Bertie’s, his frown becoming even more formidable. Bertie tried to release the girl, but Cat wouldn’t let go of her.
Andrew, on the other hand, launched himself at Macaulay, wrapping his arms around the big man’s kilted knees. “Miss Evans ran away. Bertie gave us tea and brought us home. She’s our governess now.”
Macaulay’s eyes narrowed. He was no fool, and this close, he looked more like a frightening giant than ever.