Quantock Hills, Somersetshire, early November 1848
“I’m tired of discussing Hugh’s visit.”
“We needn’t speak of him, unless you want to, my lady.”
“I should be studying formulae.” Kate led Isabel deeper into the front garden. “I have an examination on Euclid and Mr. Bradley’s practical geometry this afternoon. Miss Nestor expects–” She stopped as a head of curly rust-coloured hair rapidly bounced by, beyond a stretch of bushes. “Pixie!”
The hair stopped and rotated in a slow circle.
“Pixie,” Kate said again, walking towards the girl. She rounded an empty flower bed and pushed though a gap in the shrubs.
“My lady.” The small scullery maid performed an awkward curtsey, encumbered by a large basket. Steam…