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bit as good as being Queen of the May or Carnival Queen.
    ‘We’ll make a bigger one of these,’ he nodded towards the doll she held gently in the palm of her hand, ‘from a whole sheaf of the last corn we cut. It’ll ride with
you on the final load to the barn.’
    Kitty’s eyes shone. ‘Oh thank you, Jack, thank you. I’d love to be your Harvest Nell.’

Five
    ‘Mrs Grundy tells me that your mother was personal maid to my husband’s mother.’
    Kitty was standing once more on the turkey red and blue carpet in Mrs Franklin’s sitting room facing her employer. The fire crackled in the grate, the clock ticked in the corner and all
around were Mrs Franklin’s personal pieces of furniture. This room, more than any other in the whole house, seemed to reflect the mistress’s personality. It was a tranquil room and
tastefully furnished. A small, leather-topped writing desk stood against one wall and beside it was a beautiful chiffonier, black with hand-painted pictures on its doors and drawer fronts. Delicate
porcelain figurines stood on top. In the far corner stood a piano which, Kitty knew, Mrs Franklin played sometimes, but only for her own amusement and never in front of anyone else. Pictures lined
the walls. A likeness of the old Queen Victoria hung among oil paintings of the Manor House and there was a companion landscape of Nunsthorpe Hall.
    But at this precise moment Kitty was seeing none of these things for her full attention was on her mistress.
    ‘Yes, madam,’ she said huskily.
    ‘I knew, of course,’ Mrs Franklin went on, ‘that your mother had worked for the family before I came – my husband made that perfectly clear when he wanted you engaged as
kitchen maid here – but I hadn’t realized that she . . .’ There was the slightest of pauses. ‘ . . . had been employed in that capacity.’
    Kitty was silent though her quick mind was tumbling over itself with surprise, scarcely hearing now what Mrs Franklin was saying. The master? Why had he concerned himself with the engaging of a
lowly kitchen maid? That sort of thing was always handled by the mistress. So why . . .? She could tell nothing from Mrs Franklin’s tone of voice or from her expression. Today she was sitting
on the wide window seat, her back to the light, her face in shadow and she had the advantage of the young girl standing in the full light from the window.
    To Kitty’s surprise, Mrs Franklin suddenly patted the cushion beside her. ‘Come and sit down, Kitty, and we’ll have a little chat.’
    ‘Madam?’
    There was surprise in her voice, but then she heard Mrs Franklin laugh softly. ‘Come along, my dear, it’s quite all right.’
    Still Kitty hesitated. It was not that she was a timid girl – far from it. ‘Bold as brass and cheeky with it,’ was often Mrs Grundy’s view of her kitchen maid. But Kitty
knew her place within this household, had had it instilled in her by her mother long before she ever came into service and that place was not sitting beside her mistress on the soft cushions of the
window seat in her private sitting room.
    Nervously, Kitty perched on the edge of the seat.
    ‘Why did you not tell me about your mother having served as a lady’s maid? She must have been good because my late mother-in-law . . .’ a smile twitched her mouth, ‘was
not an easy lady to please.’
    The woman’s kindness brought a rush of words from Kitty’s lips. ‘I thought you might think I was trying to use that. I thought it wasn’t – well – quite
honest. And besides . . .’ She faltered.
    ‘And?’ Mrs Franklin prompted.
    Kitty felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘I – I’m not sure why me mother left here. I mean . . .’
    Mrs Franklin’s hazel eyes were regarding her gently, almost with a look of pity. ‘No, my dear, I don’t suppose you do.’ Softly, she added, ‘I suppose there are many
things children don’t know about their parents’ lives.’
    Again there was silence while Kitty waited.