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‘I declare, Miz Bunce,’ said Otho Bracegirdle, grinning at his dance partner, ‘you are as light on your feet as a down feather in a spring breeze.’ He twirled her about as they sashayed together and then stepped away in the pattern of the dance. Back together again, their arms linked they stepped forward three steps and then back again two.
Cook’s eyes twinkled. The meals all done, the rest of the day off, and a suitable partner to dance with. She glanced from the corner of her eye at Otho. She’d always found him a welcome visitor when he’d bring his wares through Bywater. How delightful to find him such an agreeable dance partner, too. She’d have to keep an eye on him, though, she thought. She’d caught him looking at her in a way that . . . well . . . she found a bit too overfond. A diversion was needed.
She saw Derufin and Zimzi making a beeline for the cake table. ‘Oh, I say, my dear Mister Bracegirdle, it looks as if the happy couple is going to cut the cake. Wouldn’t want to miss out on it, now would we? Especially since I made it.’ She motioned for him to follow.
Otho stood for a moment with a pleased look on his face at her departing form. He straightened his vest, grinning, and followed after . . .
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