“p*****s, lots and lots of p*****s,” he said, as Carina stooped down to stroke the mother cat.
There was a bowl of milk beside the basket and Carina knew that someone must be looking after the cat, the same person, she guessed, who kept the house dusted so that it looked like a Sleeping Beauty’s Palace, ready for reoccupation at any moment.
The copper saucepans on the chimney-shelf and hanging from the wall were bright, the heavy table had been scrubbed white and the stove black-leaded by careful hands.
And yet, it was all so quiet and empty. Carina longed to see it filled with the bustle and noise of cooks and scullery maids, the oven doors opening to show the newly rising bread, the trays waiting with delicious food to be carried through to the dining room.
And to think that Sir Perc
