Chapter Eleven

‘Who’s going to be sitting here?’ Emma asked. ‘There are three chairs and only two of us.’

‘Mr Smythe said he’d join us later. If he has a spare moment.’

‘Why?’

‘Questions, questions, Emma. Why so many questions? Now – the menu.’ Matthew handed her an ornately decorated card.

‘Oh, this is so wonderful!’ She put the menu down on the table and clapped her hands together. Twice.

‘Sssh. Keep your voice down a bit.’ Matthew smiled at her. ‘What with the gash on your head – disguised as it is, slightly, with the contents of the flour bin mixed with rouge – you’re getting enough attention as it is.’

Emma giggled. What fun she’d had making up the mixture to hide her bruises and the beginnings of a scab.

She glanced around the dining-room, but no one seemed to be looking her way at the moment. Two waiters, in black trousers and stiffly starched white shirts, were busily polishing glasses before putting them in their places on the only table still vacant. A table for six. It had a Reserved card on it.

Everyone was dressed in their finery. Some of the women had ornaments in their hair – feathers and jewels and pieces of organza. Emma had to pinch herself to believe she was really here and not dreaming. And she was so grateful to Matthew for suggesting she buy something special to wear.

‘That and my beauty,’ Emma laughed back. ‘Or so you’re always telling me.’

When Emma had walked down the stairs towards Matthew dressed in her new clothes and with her hair piled on top of her head secured with pins bought at Gladwyn’s on a whim when she’d bought the blouse and skirt, he’d breathed in deeply, as though in shock. But when he’d recovered he’d still only been able to say one word – beautiful. And that over and over and over.

‘Compliments could go to your head, my lady. Much as that drink is.’

‘I’ve only had a few sips. But it is nice, sort of bubbly.’

‘Champagne usually does have bubbles, Emma.’

‘Well, I know that. I’ve just never had it before, that’s all.’

‘Then have some more and then maybe you’ll have recovered your memory a bit and you’ll be able to tell me what’s so wonderful about the menu.’

‘It’s in French.’ Emma turned the menu over. ‘Oh, and in English on the other side.’

Matthew laughed. ‘That’s taken the wind out of your sails. You don’t think there’s many local residents who can speak French, do you? Although visitors from London probably can. All those people sitting over there in their fancy finery, for instance.’

‘I know,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve already seen them. But they probably don’t speak French as well as I do.’

‘Don’t brag,’ Matthew laughed.

‘I’m not. I’m just saying.’

Being able to understand the French side of the menu had given Emma’s spirits a lift – made her forget all about Carter and what he’d tried to do to her for a moment. She picked up the menu and read it again, in her head. In the doing of it she could almost hear her papa correcting her pronunciation. How close she felt to him, still, in that moment.

‘Penny for them,’ Matthew said. He tapped his forehead.

‘Worth a lot more than that,’ Emma told him, a lump in her throat. ‘I expect Mr Smythe has his own reasons for having the menu in the two languages.’

‘I expect he does,’ Matthew said.

Emma clasped her hands together. A table by the window was being served. Small plates with … with slices of her crab tart on them. How exciting that felt.

‘They’re eating my tart,’ Emma whispered, clutching at Matthew’s sleeve.

Gently he prised her hand away. ‘And why wouldn’t they be? Ah, here’s the waiter. Time to choose something from that menu. In whichever language you choose to do it.’

The waiter hovered beside Emma, a pad and a pencil in his hand. She ordered in French.

‘Sorry, Miss,’ the waiter said. ‘I didn’t understand a word of that.’

‘Well, you should. If the menu is in French then you ought to expect people to ask for things in French.’

‘Emma, for goodness’ sake,’ Matthew said.

‘Sorry. It’s the champagne, I think it is going to my head.’

Emma turned to the waiter and ordered – in English – the crab tart. Matthew said he’d have the same. For the main course Emma chose the roast lamb – how long it had been since she’d tasted lamb. Matthew elected to have jugged hare. They’d already agreed to order tarte tatin for dessert.

‘I wonder who’s going to be eating there.’

Emma pointed to the vacant table. There was a branch of candles in the centre, not lit yet. And there were two low bowls of flowers – the palest of pale pink carnations – at either end of the table. Crisp linen cloths stood like mini mountains at each place-setting.

Emma considered just how much her meal was going to cost. The prices weren’t on the menu she’d been given. Perhaps in a place like this it was assumed one could afford anything and everything that was on the menu?

‘I wonder,’ Matthew said, just as the waiter arrived with their first course.

Emma and Matthew ate without talking, Emma listening hard to try and hear what diners at tables nearby were saying. Something about the train being late, one woman was saying, but the room she was stopping in making up for it because it was so well-appointed.

Emma wondered what it would be like to stay in a place like this. Own something like this. Maybe Mr Smythe would take her on in some capacity if she couldn’t rent the shed down on the quay and sell her tarts further afield. When Matthew left she’d have to find some work. Which she knew in her heart he would be doing soon – she could tell. He’d begun packing things in boxes – things he said he didn’t need much now autumn was coming; his thin cotton shirts and singlets. Autumn? It wouldn’t be August until three days’ time. And everyone knew August could be hot and sultry. Yes, he was preparing to leave, and Emma knew it.

‘Tuppence for them this time?’ Matthew said.

‘Oh, they’re going to be worth far more than that some day. I’d love to own a hotel like this, never mind work in one.’

Matthew raised his eyebrows.

‘You’re surprised? Don’t you think I can do it?’ Emma asked.

‘I know you can, and I sincerely hope you do. We all have to have a dream.’

‘And that’s mine,’ Emma said. There was a loud bang then as a champagne bottle was opened and Emma looked towards the noise. ‘Oh!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Her lovely dream was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

Reuben Jago had entered the dining-room as though he owned it. A young woman, young enough to be his daughter, if not his granddaughter, was hanging onto his arm, gazing up adoringly at him.

And round her neck was Emma’s mama’s amethyst necklace.

‘Matthew …’

But Matthew stopped her, putting a hand on her arm, and raising a finger to his lips.

‘I’ve seen. I’ll deal with it later. Here’s our main course.’

‘I’m not hungry any more.’

‘I thought you had more spirit than that. More backbone. You can’t let the likes of him,’ and at that Matthew jerked his head towards Reuben Jago who hadn’t noticed them yet, ‘manipulate your feelings or your life.’

‘Easy for you to say. It’s not your necklace.’

‘Food, Emma,’ Matthew said.

Emma thanked the waiter as he placed her plate in front of her. She cut off a tiny corner of lamb and popped it in her mouth. Eating was the only way to stop her talking, stop her saying what she wanted to say. Stop her going right over to Reuben Jago to ask what he thought he was doing letting that trollop wear her mama’s necklace.

‘Don’t look up and don’t react, Emma,’ Matthew said. He placed a hand on her arm. ‘Carter Jago and his brother Miles have just joined their father. Complete with floosies of their own.’

Emma struggled to comply with Matthew’s order, but couldn’t resist peeping out from lowered lashes. Carter was walking towards her, but not looking at her. She could see the pink vertical marks on his cheeks where she’d caught him with her nails. Obviously she hadn’t scratched him nearly hard enough. She wondered what lie he might have told the woman he was with as to how he came by the scratches.

‘Seth’s not with them,’ Emma whispered. And thank heaven for that, she thought.

‘I didn’t expect him to be for one moment,’ Matthew whispered back.

It was on the tip of Emma’s tongue to ask if Matthew had been expecting Reuben Jago and Carter and Miles, but she was learning wisdom, wasn’t she? Slowly, but surely, she was learning it.

‘I feel like I want to go and scratch Carter Jago’s eyes out for what he did to me,’ Emma whispered, a hand over her mouth to silence her words further.

‘Sssh, don’t court trouble.’

‘Me?’ Emma cried, and the second the word was out of her mouth she knew it had come out too loud because practically the whole dining-room looked her way. And Carter Jago in particular.

He excused himself from his companion, leaving his brother to show her to her seat and came striding over to their table. He had a false smile on his face as he did so.

Completely ignoring Emma, Carter dropped onto the spare chair at their table and glared at Matthew.

The hubbub of conversation of the other diners resumed, and Emma was thankful for that.

‘Who said the likes of you can eat in a place like this, Caunter?’

Emma gasped, but Matthew shot her a look that told her she was to keep quiet – already she’d said too much though, hadn’t she?

‘I don’t need anyone’s permission to eat anywhere, Mr Jago,’ Matthew said. He reached for Emma’s hand, touched it briefly. ‘With whomsoever I choose.’ Carter cleared his throat ready to speak, but Matthew held up a hand to silence him. ‘And if ever you lay a hand on Miss Le Goff again you’ll have me to answer to.’

‘You’re welcome to the little bitch.’

Emma gasped again as Carter made to stand, but Matthew put a hand to his shoulder to restrain him. ‘You’ll take that back,’ he said, his voice low, controlled, but Emma could tell there was anger in his eyes.

‘Or what? I told Seth he was wasting his money having headstones made for her. Pity he’s not here to see how she’s dolled herself up for someone else.’

‘I’m dressed for me, thank you very much,’ Emma said. Although she was angry with Carter she was heartened that it had been Seth who’d had the headstones made for her parents and Johnnie.

‘Hush, Emma,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll deal with this. As for you, Carter, I think you owe Miss Le Goff an apology.’

‘I owe her nothing!’ Carter said.

‘Keep your voice down, man. We’re in a public place. If you won’t apologise now, then I’ll expect one later. Outside.’

‘You’ll have to catch me first,’ Carter said. ‘And you can count your days as numbered working for the Jagos. I’ll be having a word with my father.’

‘Then don’t let me keep you from him. Or your, er, companion.’

Carter Jago made a snorting sound, stood up, and walked back to his table.

‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, Emma,’ Matthew said. ‘I have a phone call to make. I won’t be long. The Jagos won’t make trouble for you, don’t worry. Look at them swigging the wine back – they’ve forgotten we exist already.’

‘I hope so,’ Emma said.

But a phone call? Why now in the middle of a meal? Emma wondered. And to whom?

But Emma was learning wisdom.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Take as long as you like.’

The dining-room emptied table by table, until there were only Emma and Matthew seated at their corner table, and the Jagos sitting around the table in the bay window left – and everyone on the Jago table red-faced from too much wine and champagne.

Mr Smythe had joined Emma and Matthew for dessert, saying very complimentary things about Emma’s tarte tatin and asking if it was possible to make it with other fruits. Emma said she should think so although she’d never tried.

‘Then try,’ Mr Smythe had said.

Matthew had joked that he would tie Emma’s ankle to the leg of the table in the kitchen to make sure she did. He had a fancy to taste it made with blackberries, he said.

But now both men were talking, heads together, so quietly Emma couldn’t catch all of what they were saying. But she did hear Mr Smythe say that his wife’s time was almost due and that she would be joining him from London as soon as she was able. He regretted having to leave her behind but business matters had come to a head forcing the issue of his move to Devon.

As the two men continued talking, Emma sat as still as she could, dreamily thinking about her future, making grandiose plans in her head. Who was to know if she might not achieve them? Sitting and thinking was easier than looking across the room to Reuben Jago’s dining companion and seeing her wearing the amethyst necklace that should be around Emma’s neck. She wondered when she might get back to Shingle Cottage.

And then Reuben Jago left his table, knocking his chair onto the floor as he got up.

‘Wait there, boys,’ he shouted to his sons. ‘Don’t move until I tell you.’

Carter and Miles Jago laughed, and returned to nuzzling the necks of their companions.

‘I want a word with you,’ Reuben Jago said, coming to loom over Matthew.

‘I dare say you do. But not in present company,’ Matthew replied. He turned to Mr Smythe. ‘Is there a room available?’

Mr Smythe nodded.

‘What’s this about?’ Reuben Jago snapped, although Emma couldn’t help noticing he had a wary look in his eye. ‘We talk here or we don’t talk at all. Understand?’

‘And I’ll thank you to remember you’re on my property,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘And we have a minor here.’ He touched Emma lightly on the shoulder.

‘Slut, more like. More trouble than she’s worth, that one. I should never have agreed she could stop on at Shingle Cottage, Caunter.’

‘You’ll take that slur back, Mr Jago,’ Matthew said. His voice was low and deep, but Emma could see he wouldn’t take no for an answer. ‘Even though I’ll concede it’s the alcohol talking here as well as yourself.’

‘It is not and I will not. Have you seen what she did to Carter?’

‘Do you see what your son did to me?’ Emma spat on her fingers and rubbed at the flour and rouge mixture covering her cut and the bruises. Matthew gripped her wrist.

‘Keep out of this, Emma.’

‘No! It’s me he’s talking about.’

‘Yes, and like mother, like daughter,’ Reuben Jago snarled. ‘Tight-arsed madam your mother was, too. She’d probably still be alive today if only she’d been a bit more accommodating.’

Was she hearing right? Was Mr Jago saying it was he who’d pushed her mama and Johnnie off the cliff because she’d refused his advances? Was he?

‘I know she’d never have jumped – that someone must have pushed her. Was it you? Mrs Phipps told me you came calling, but I know my mama wouldn’t have done the things with you Mrs Phipps said she did.’

‘I’m admitting to nothing. What I said was pure speculation,’ Reuben Jago said. ‘You can’t pin anything on me, now or any time.’

‘Enough!’ Matthew grabbed Reuben Jago by the arm. ‘And that’s where you’re wrong.’ With his free hand, Matthew drew some papers from the inside of his jacket. ‘His Majesty’s Customs.’

Reuben Jago struggled to free himself, but Matthew was younger and stronger, and not pickled with drink.

‘Boys!’ Reuben yelled.

But neither Carter nor Miles moved – it was as though they were transfixed with shock. Or fear.

Four men Emma had never seen in her life came rushing in then – she guessed they were colleagues of Matthew’s.

‘He’s all yours,’ Matthew said, releasing his hold on Reuben Jago, pushing him towards the newcomers. Within seconds Reuben Jago had been apprehended.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to witness this, Emma. But Mr Smythe has a room you can go to,’ Matthew said. ‘I’d like you to go there and stay there. Understand? If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go anywhere near Shingle Cottage. Or Hilltop House. There could be reprisals once any of the crew who are implicated in all this find out, and they might want to take revenge, I …’

‘But my clothes. My book. My family papers. I’ve had things of mine burned once. I couldn’t bear for it to happen again. I …’

‘It won’t.’

‘And Seth. I’m worried about him. He …’

‘Seth isn’t going to be accused of anything I know he’s completely innocent of, Emma. Trust me on that.’

‘Come, Emma,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘Matthew has things to do.’

‘Yes. I have to go now. And I won’t be around for a while, Emma. Things to do, as Mr Smythe says,’ Matthew said. ‘I’ll be in touch when I can. But …’

One of the men – who’d been joined now by Sergeant Emms – yelled Matthew’s name and he sped across the room to confer wth them.

Emma was escorted upstairs by Mr Smythe, a hand under her elbow. How bony and hard that hand was. But she knew it would be rude to extricate herself from his grasp. Besides, where else would she go?

Mr Smythe took her to a tower room at the top of the house. A very small room with little floor space although there were windows on three sides looking out to sea. A telescope on a stand pointed towards a window. There were lots of papers on the table with writing on – Matthew’s hand. A narrow bed, made up, against the only wall that didn’t have a window in it. A cheval glass stood in a corner.

‘Matthew’s been spying from here, hasn’t he?’ Emma said.

‘Best if I don’t answer that, Emma, and best if you don’t mention what you think has been going on here to anyone. Anyone at all,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘Thank you. Thank you for letting me stay.’

‘Pleased to be of help. Now I must go. You should be comfortable enough here for the moment.’

Yes, she’d be comfortable – more than. She’d dreamed of being at Nase Head House one day, but by her own endeavours – not like this.

‘Seth?’

Mrs Drew was sitting on a chair in the hall as he let himself in. A candle guttered in its holder on the side table. No matter how many times he told Mrs Drew she could leave the lights on, she didn’t – she said she was afraid the new-fangled electricity would leak out if no one was around to keep an eye on it.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Seth said. He wondered why she was.

‘And don’t I know it. But Cook took to her bed this afternoon with a migraine, so I stayed on in case Mr Reuben or your brothers needed anything when they came back home.’

‘Thank you,’ Seth said. ‘But I’m sure they can all rise to cutting a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese if they want it.’

Seth stifled a yawn. He’d only had a couple of pints with Olly, but the alcohol seemed to have gone straight to his head. The sooner he could get to bed the better. He ought to escort Mrs Drew home safely before he did, though.

‘I’ll see you to your cottage, Mrs Drew.’

‘Not yet. You haven’t heard, have you?’

‘Heard what?’

‘Police and Customs and God knows who else – and He won’t tell – have been here. Cook got out of bed fast enough when ’er heard the commotion, didn’t ’er? Nearly fainted and all. ’Er ran off down the road to get that useless lump of a gardener your pa employs, Tom, out of bed and they came back here. By that time, the maid came down wanting to know what the din was about. After the Customs people, or whoever they were, had gone they began bellowing for their money. Well, I didn’t know anything about that, did I? So they took some silver apiece in lieu of wages they don’t think they’re going to get and buggered off. Excuse my French, but I didn’t want you to think we’d all left …’

Seth stopped listening, went on through to the drawing-room, flicked on the light and saw that indeed some silver was missing from the dresser. Drawers had been opened and papers rifled through. What hadn’t been taken away was lying on the floor or on chairs and tables. Mrs Drew came scurrying in.

‘They’ve been down the cellar and up the attic, too, poking their noses into everything. There weren’t nothing there they was after, though. I tried to stop them, Seth, honest I did.’ Mrs Drew sniffed back tears.

‘I’m sure you did.’

‘They said they had authority. Waved a bit of paper at me. I couldn’t argue with that. I had to stand by and watch ’em. I didn’t make them no tea, though.’

Seth couldn’t stop a smile from coming. Mrs Drew was fighting his corner, as always. He put an arm around her – she’d tried, in her way, to take the place of his ma and he loved her for that.

‘And none of them’s come back yet – your Pa, nor your brothers, I mean. I expect they’ve been arrested or summat.’

‘Seems like it,’ Seth said. Thank God he’d refused to sign the accounts.

‘Will they come for you, Seth?’ Mrs Drew said.

Seth saw real fear in her eyes that they might.

‘No doubt I’ll be asked a lot of questions but I would think if they wanted me then someone would have been posted outside to wait for my return.’

‘That’s a mercy, then. ’Ere, I’ve had a thought. D’you think Emma’s had a hand in this? I know Carter tried, you know, to kiss her and that. Or worse …’

‘Can you forget you know that, Mrs Drew?’

He didn’t think Emma would have reported the attack – and if she had, who would have believed her? – but he didn’t want her name said in the same sentence as his pa’s and his brothers’.

‘Forgotten already, ain’t I? Now, we could both be doing with a mug of hot chocolate, I’d say. With a tot of brandy in it, seeing as there won’t be any more coming in, looks like.’ Mrs Drew smiled warily at Seth. ‘I suppose we’re all guilty if we’ve ate things and drunk things if they’m dishonestly come by?’

‘But we don’t know they were,’ Seth said, smiling. ‘So make that two tots of brandy apiece in the chocolate. We’re going to need it.’

Where was Emma at this moment? Seth knew in his gut that Matthew Caunter had a hand in whatever had been going on up at Nase Head House. He was far too sure of himself, and obviously better educated than any of the other fishermen his father had ever employed. And if what Carter had said was true, Emma would be up there with him. His brothers could turn nasty in a fight. Miles had a gun. A pistol. Seth had come across him cleaning it outside the back door.

‘I think I ought to go up to Nase Head House and see what’s going on. Make sure Emma’s not in danger.’

‘No. Don’t, Seth. You won’t help the cause. I might only be a cleaner what left school at twelve years old but I’m bright enough to know that the more you’re out of whatever it is your pa and brothers have been up to, the better it’ll be for you. And Emma, I’d say.’

‘Yes,’ Seth said. ‘And Emma.’

Emma? Would she ever be his now? After this.

Emma woke groggily after a deep and amazingly untroubled sleep, given what had happened the night before. The sun, low and dazzling, streamed in through un-curtained windows. She’d slept in the tower room, warm and comfortable enough because Mr Smythe had given her an eiderdown to put on top of the blankets – the softest thing Emma had ever seen, ever touched. And the pillows. Well …

Someone knocked at the door.

‘Come in,’ Emma said, pulling the eiderdown up tight around her neck.

The door opened and a young girl peeped around the edge of it. ‘Mr Smythe says to tell you breakfast finishes in half-an-hour, Miss Le Goff. Oh, and Mr Caunter has seen to it that yer things have been delivered. Jimmy Dunn will bring ’em up later.’

‘Oh,’ Emma said. ‘Who’s Jimmy Dunn?’

‘He’s a porter, Miss. Carries the guests’ cases to their rooms and that.’

‘Oh,’ Emma said again. ‘A porter.’

‘Yes, Miss. It’s why ’e’ll be bringing yer things up.’

Was she going to be staying here now? If her things were being brought to this room then it looked as though she would be, for the time being. It was a wonderful room even if it was small. She pinched herself so she’d know she wasn’t dreaming.

‘Ouch,’ she said, when the pinch was a bit too hard.

The girl came rushing over. ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’

‘No,’ Emma laughed. She let her gaze wander around the room, over wallpaper that was decorated with huge purple irises, and a chest of drawers that gleamed with polish against one wall. She glanced upwards as sunlight bounced off the glass bowl of a lampshade hanging from the ceiling – it seemed over-large in the small space but wonderful all the same. Oh, Mama, if you could see me now, she thought. ‘I pinched myself so I’d know I wasn’t dreaming, being here in this lovely room.’

The girl laughed. ‘That’s all right, then. But best you get out of that bed and go and get some breakfast down you. That was a right old ding-dong went on ’ere last night. You were involved in it, so I ’eard.’

‘I was,’ Emma said. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it. What time is it?’

‘’Alf-past nine, just gone.’

‘Oh, my Lord …’

Emma leapt from under the eiderdown.

‘I’ve brought you a jug of water. There’ll be a basin in ’ere someday soon I ’spect, like there is in all the other rooms, but it’s a jug for you today, Miss Le Goff. Mr Smythe’s given orders for curtains to be put up in ’ere this afternoon, and all. Not that there’s anyone to spy on you from outside this high up, Miss Le Goff.’

‘Call me Emma.’

‘Oh, I can’t, Miss. You’m a guest and I’m staff.’

‘I’m not a guest. So in this room you can call me Emma. What’s your name?’

‘I’m Ruby. Ruby Chubb.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Ruby Chubb.’ Emma extended her hand.

‘Oh, I’m not to shake hands with guests.’

‘I’ve told you – I’m not a guest,’ Emma told her.

‘Not what I heard,’ Ruby said. ‘If you need brushes and the like there’s some in the top drawer of that chest over there. Then you’d best get your clothes on or Stephen Bailey will die of a heart attack at the sight of your bosoms in that thin chemise at the breakfast table.’

‘Stephen Bailey?’ Emma laughed. ‘Who’s he?’

‘One of the waiters. The other one’s ’Arry Webber. Only ’e’s doing other duties now seeing as we’re a bit short-staffed here. Brought most of the staff from London, did Mr Smythe, but not many of ’em like it down here so they’ve scarpered back again.’

‘You’re not from London?’ Emma said.

‘With an accent like this?’ Ruby laughed. ‘Where’ve you been living, Miss? Under a stone?’

‘That’s what I meant.’ Emma giggled. ‘You’re local.’

‘From Galmpton. Just a couple of miles away. And proud of it.’

‘So, what do you do here, Ruby?’

‘Chambermaid. Well, that’s the official title. Eve Grainger’s the other chambermaid but ’er’s always off sick. Like today. So it means I clean the rooms and make the beds and make sure there’s towels and the likes by the basins in all twelve bedrooms today instead of just six of ’em. But seeing as the staff seem to be leaving faster than flies leave an abattoir when it stops trading, I do a bit of everything else as well. Laundry – eurgh, I hate doing laundry. All they dirty sheets from guests who’ve been doing goodness knows what. And talking of which, there’s a mountain of it waiting for me downstairs, so I’d better get on. You won’t tell old Frosty Drawers I’ve been up here yacking, will you?’

‘Frosty Drawers?’ Emma said.

‘Mr Bell. On the reception desk. Thinks he owns the place, especially when he’s in charge those times Mr Smythe goes back to London to see his wife. Never smiles.’

‘Hence Frosty Drawers?’

‘Yes. But don’t say I told you.’

Ruby grinned and ran from the room. And Emma knew if she was going to be stopping here then she’d like Ruby for a friend.