With that, Miss Evans turned her back and walked swiftly away. Bertie opened her mouth to call after her, then closed it again. Andrew and Cat were clinging tightly to Bertie’s hands, Andrew swaying against her grip.

“Are you our new governess then?” he asked, widening his gray eyes at her. “I like you better than Miss Evans.” He leaned into Bertie’s coat and sniffed. “You don’t smell of cod-liver oil.”

“Is that what that was?” Bertie asked, watching Miss Evans’s long coat swirl as she strode down the street, dodging past carts and carriages. She could certainly set a brisk pace. “Bit rank, wasn’t she?”

The closest tea shop was on Mount Street. The delicate interior had tables with white cloths, fine porcelain china, and heavy silver. The waiter who let them in looked askance at Bertie, but recognized the two children who lived nearby. He put them at a table in the back and brought them teapots and cups, along with a bowl of sugar and a wide-mouthed pot of cream. Bertie asked for cakes and buns, and the man disappeared to fetch them.

Bertie knew the proper way to serve tea. One of the many women who’d come and gone in her father’s life after her mum had died had been somewhat refined. This lady—Sophie—had shown Bertie how to wear hats, walk into rooms, shake hands properly, choose her clothes, and pour tea and hand it around. A little deportment never hurt anyone, Sophie had said. Bertie had always wondered where Sophie had learned her good manners, but the woman had never spoken of her past.

Bertie had been fond of her, but inevitably, Sophie had grown tired of her father’s bullying and had gone, like all the others.

Bertie blessed Sophie now, wherever she was, because Bertie could now pour tea competently into cups, correctly take up the sugar tongs, and ask in a false posh voice whether they wanted one lump or two. Andrew laughed at her, and even Cat looked fascinated.

As they sipped the first scalding taste of creamy, sugary tea, the waiter returned with a two-tiered serving plate full of cakes, scones, and plump buns. A pot of clotted cream rested in the middle of this bounty.

Bertie stopped herself from squealing in delight, remembering to be dignified. When she had money, she usually went straight to the bakery. Hats, coats, and new boots were necessities, but a scone piled with clotted cream was a luxury. Other women could bleat about necklaces and rings, but give Bertie a fat tea cake, and she was in heaven.

She dipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out her pouch of coins. “How much?”

The waiter blinked once in surprise then gave her a cool look. “I will put it on Mr. McBride’s account,” he said stiffly and walked away.

“Well, I never,” Bertie said when he’d vanished. “I suppose I put my foot in it. An account. How lovely.”

“My dad’s got them all over,” Andrew informed her. “He asks for what he wants, and Macaulay goes round every so often and pays up.”

Bertie reached for a cake and slid it onto a plate, which she gave to Cat. She was pleased that Andrew didn’t simply snatch the sweets, but waited for Bertie to hand them out. When all had plenty of cakes, with cream smeared over everything, Bertie lifted her fork.

“Macaulay,” she said. “What did you call him? A ghillie? What is that?”

Caitriona answered. “A ghillie is like a gamekeeper, but Macaulay isn’t just a ghillie. He looks after Papa. Minds the house, and the house in Scotland. More like a steward.”

“Macaulay does everything,” Andrew said. “He’s Papa’s nanny. At least, that’s what I call him.”

Bertie thought of the big Scotsman and his growls as he loaded Mr. McBride into the carriage. “I shouldn’t like to call him a nanny to his face.”

“He doesn’t mind,” Andrew said. “He thinks it’s funny.”

Bertie couldn’t imagine Macaulay laughing, but maybe he had a soft spot for Andrew. It would be easy to form a soft spot for the boy, Bertie thought as she ate. Andrew had a warm spirit in spite of his antics, an open friendliness. Even the waiter gave him an indulgent look.

Caitriona, on the other hand, ate primly, with minimal movements. After her initial explanation about Macaulay, she remained silent. She did say please and thank you, but so faintly Bertie barely heard the words.

It wasn’t shyness, Bertie thought. It was more not wanting to put the effort into talking. Not that Cat could have gotten a word in edgewise with Andrew’s chatter, so maybe she’d learned to remain quiet while her brother rattled on.

In all the time they’d been on the scaffolding and here in the shop, Cat had never once let go of the doll. She didn’t give the doll its own chair, nor did she pretend to feed it cake and tea as other girls might. Cat kept her arm firmly around the doll but didn’t even look at it as she downed every bite of cake on her plate and sip of tea in her cup.

“She’s pretty,” Bertie said at one point, nodding at the doll. “What’s her name?”

Caitriona laid down her fork and put both arms around the doll. “She’s Daisy. My mother gave her to me.”

The mother who had died, leaving the misery Bertie had seen in Mr. McBride’s eyes. Bertie wiped crumbs from her fingers and pulled a locket on a chain from behind her collar.

“My mum gave me this,” she said. The silver was slightly tarnished, as much as Bertie strove to keep it clean, and the chain was worn. She opened the locket to show Cat the tiny picture of her mother as a pretty young woman on one side of it, and a thin braid of dark hair on the other. “My mum passed too, so this is very special to me, like your doll is to you.”