With the housekeeper’s hand on her shoulder, Cora drops mutinously back into her chair. Mrs. Donnelly tucks in a stray strand of hair just before Helena bursts into the room.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cooke,” Mam says in a pleasant tone the lady of the house ignores.
“You!” Helena comes to an abrupt stop at the sight of Cora. She’s in her robe, her pale hair loose and hanging around her shoulders. Her eyes, lovely and wide when her husband is around, narrow to slits.
Cora drops her head, not from shame, but to hide the smile creeping onto her face. She’s unsuccessful, and the sight of her smirk enrages her stepmother.
“You little wretch,” Helena snarls, her pretty mouth spitting the words.
From just outside the door that leads into the garden, the others have stopped to listen. Deirdre takes hold of Peter as he attempts to barge back into the kitchen and leap to his sister’s defense, and the door swings slightly wider. With her head still bowed, Cora glances up and spots their faces filling the doorway. She winks, then holds a finger to her lips as Deirdre wraps her arms around Peter. Deirdre hugs the boy tightly, willing him to be silent and stay clear of Helena’s furor as she pulls them all back and out of sight again. The second Mrs. Cooke won’t hesitate to turn her anger on whichever child blunders into her path, even little Peter.
Children in general don’t fit with Helena’s vision of an ideal life, especially three undisciplined stepchildren. Cora takes a particular sort of pleasure in shattering Helena’s expectations. But Cora’s campaign of terror against her stepmother has perhaps gone too far this time.
“Mrs. Cooke, would you like a cup of tea?” Mam asks soothingly.
“Tea?” Helena shrieks, pulling her gaze from Cora to glare at the housekeeper. “No, I do not want tea! There are . . . There are . . .”
She makes an unladylike noise deep in her throat, and her face twists as she forces the words past her lips.
“There are toads in my closet! Toads in my dresser drawers. There are toads covering my bedroom floor and all my things! Hundreds of them, and this horrid, hateful child put them there!”
“Cora,” Mam says on an exhale of breath. “Is this true?” Her voice is heavy with disappointment, knowing already how pointless the question is.
“It was a joke,” Cora says, feigning an innocence that neither woman believes. “Toads are harmless.”
Helena nearly chokes on her indignation. “Harmless? Harmless? Their disgusting bodies are crawling through my shoes! In my bed! They’re wriggling in my undergarments!”
From their hiding place behind the door, the other children can hear Cora’s snort of laughter.
“Cora Eugenia Cooke.” Mam’s voice is strong now, incensed. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You march up there this instant and clear those toads out of Mrs. Cooke’s room, child.”
“But—”
“Don’t but me. Don’t you dare. You will catch every last one of those creatures and put them right back in the pond where you got them. Immediately!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cora’s reply is subdued. Saoirse Donnelly rarely raises her voice, but when she does, none of them dare contradict her.
Helena sputters, “I hardly think the fate of the toads is the most pressing issue, Mrs. Donnelly. What about my things? What about my underwear?”
“Cora, once those toads are back where they belong, you will come straight back here. You’re going to spend your day washing, ironing, and folding your new mother’s clothing and bedding.”
“But—Ow!”
Mam has a way of gripping an ear that makes you think it might pull right off your head.
“Every stitch! Right after you bathe yourself, and I don’t want to hear another word spoken from your lips. Toads, bath, laundry, in that order. Now, go!”
Cora is on her feet, running from the room before it occurs to Helena that, with all the efficiency of a drill sergeant, Mrs. Donnelly has dealt with the problem and sent the offender scurrying off to do her bidding.
Helena is left with a still-seething anger and no outlet at hand.
“Your father will hear about this, you mark my words!” Helena shrieks after the girl, stomping her foot like a petulant child.
“Aye,” Mam agrees, though her tone is markedly calmer than that of her mistress. “Mr. Cooke will be livid over such disrespect.”
This brings Helena’s attention back to her as Mam sets a cup and saucer on the table and pours. “Have some tea, Mrs. Cooke, won’t you?”
“I told you I don’t want—”
“I’d wager a shopping trip to the city might be in order, if he’s in a mood. A nice apology for his daughter’s behavior.”
Helena’s head tilts, and some of the anger banks in her eyes. “The girl still needs a strap taken to her backside. The devil is in that one.”
As harsh as the words are, they’ve lost their earlier edge.
“Aye, Cora’s a handful. Always has been, but she’ll settle down. You wait and see. Poor child. Without a mother since she was just a wee lass. She’s having trouble adjusting, that’s all.”
Helena stiffens, but Mam continues before she can launch a rebuttal.
“Your own babes won’t ever have to face such hardship, God willing. Being motherless takes such a toll on a child.”
Helena sputters into her teacup. “My own?” she says.
“Well, I just assumed. Forgive me if I’ve overstepped, Mrs. Cooke. It’s just you being so young . . .”
Helena’s brows draw together, but Mam goes on, pulling the conversation farther from Cora and the toads, inch by inch.
“My own mam was a midwife back in Ireland, you see, and sometimes I forget such matters aren’t considered polite conversation, being raised as I was surrounded by women’s business. My apologies.”
But Helena is studying Mam intently. “And did your mother pass on what she knew, Mrs. Donnelly? About . . . women’s business?”
“Oh aye. I was at her side from the time I was a lass. No older than Cora, in fact.”
There’s a pause, then Helena speaks again.
“Mrs. Donnelly, may I ask you a question in confidence?”
“A question about babes and birthing? Of course. My mam taught me the importance of discretion.”
Deirdre squirms in discomfort. They’re old enough to know this isn’t conversation meant for children’s ears, but that won’t stop the girls from discussing and dissecting every stolen word among themselves over the coming days. For now, though, everyone remains still and quiet for fear of drawing attention to themselves.
“Not about birth. Not exactly.” Helena hesitates. “The opposite, in fact.”
“I see,” Mam says, sounding remarkably unperturbed. “Well, I suppose that depends on your present state, Mrs. Cooke. Are you currently . . . expecting?”
The words are free of judgment, but Helena recoils in alarm. “No! Thank heavens, I’m not. And I’d like to make sure it stays that way.” Her gaze travels upward, perhaps envisioning another child with Cora’s temperament. “Can you help me, Mrs. Donnelly?”
Understanding brings a more genuine relaxation to Mam’s shoulders.