Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter. Cathy’s First Letter.

15 March 1024, L’Isle du Grand-Blaireau

Amelia,

I cannot say that Eloise has not made herself useful, for the bar parlor has become her domain, and she its queen. I have not needed to give a thought to it this past week.

And yet I have given it a thought; I have given it a great many thoughts, many of which I shared with His Napes yesterday eve.

I was sitting in my usual spot, in the straight chair by his desk. “She knows the trade,” I said. “She attends to the guests, she’s quick with a mug of ale, the mugs are clean, the bar is spotless. But I worry.”

He said nothing, but gave me a questioning look over his dram. 

“There have been a few problems with the slate. Just this evening she had M. Poisson down for three mugs of ale, and he’d only had two.”

“That’s not right,” he said, frowning. “I suppose he came and told you. What did she say?”

I shook my head. “This was just before you took the caravan down to town for the last time today, and I was helping clear the slate. I asked M. Poisson to pay for the three drinks on the slate, and both he and Eloise corrected me.”

“Yes?”

“And then Eloise pointed out that M. Poirson had had three drinks, but by them I’d let him go after having him pay me for two.”

“Ah! Bad handwriting, is it?”

“Atrocious, truly.”

“And what did you do then, darlin’? Did you chase after M. Poirson?”

I shook my head. “I’d gone round all those returning to town first, naturally, and M. Poisson is staying here tonight. By the time I got to him and found out the mistake it was too late, you’d already gone with the caravan.”

“Just as well. Though I’d wondered why Poirson was in such high spirits on the trip back.” He nodded, mystery solved, and took a thoughtful sip of his dram. “Well, so, Eloise is no clerk, and you misread the slate. Yes?”

I sighed and had a sip of my own. “Yes, Jack, it was my mistake.”

“Bit of a nuisance, I’ll agree, but not much of a worry. Unless Eloise can’t read her own writing?”

“She can, I expect,” I said, “but there’s nothing wrong with her memory. When I spoke to her, she knew perfectly well that M. Poisson had had two and Mr. Poirson three without looking at the slate.”

“So if she’d been handling the reckoning, there’d have been no trouble.”

“None, I expect.”

“So. I’ll speak to M. Poirson on his next visit. I expect he’ll pay up with a smile. Any other worries?”

“She—” I began, then blushed. 

“Yes, darlin?”

I looked away, at the pot-bellied stove in the corner. “She flirts so,” I said. “With the guests.” My cheeks started to feel as hot as the stove. “This is a proper inn,” I said, “not a, a, bawdy house!”

Your brother laughed at me. He laughed! “And what would you know about bawdy houses, darlin’?” 

“Not a thing, as you should know very well,” I said, in my starchiest tones.

“Oh, I do, I do! Now, if you’d been a soldier in His Majesty’s army….” He laughed again, but when I looked his way he was smiling warmly. “And have there been any complaints? From the guests, I mean to say.”

“Well…no.” I shrugged. “M. Gagnon looked disapproving at some of her banter, but she was much less free with him, so far as I saw.”

“It takes all kinds, darlin’. Receipts down?”

“No. Up, if anything.”

“So there you are. She’ll keep to the right side of the line, I think. She said herself she was tired of the soldiers pawing at her. Anything else?”

“No, Jack,” I said, and we passed on to other matters.

I suppose he’s right, Amelia. But her manner is so outlandish, so unlike anything I ever met in Nexinghamshire—not that I knew any barmaids in Nexinghamshire. I suppose that makes me the outlandish one, having come right out of my own land as I have. And then, I’m not the lady of a country house, not any longer—not that I was ever the lady of a proper country house, Brother John being what he is. I’m just His Nape’s good right arm, helping to run a country inn.

I’ve come down in the world, I suppose. And so has His Napes; neither of us could be doing anything like this back in Cumbria, not without scandal. One might say that we are from the gentry now rather than of the gentry. That’s rather a lowering thought.

Well. I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.

Cathy

Next letter

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