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Miz Rosebank’s laughter was infectious. Cook could feel her wet skirt clinging against her legs and her hair, when she’d fallen, had come all unloosed from its band and was standing out all about her head, she was sure. Miz Rosebank had the wriggling little demon rolled tight in her apron and tucked firmly beneath one arm. She was splashed from head to foot and looked a sight herself.
And there was Wren, in the midst of all, protesting with great vehemence the capture of the cat.
Cook tried to put on an authoritative look, which was all but gainsaid by the muffled giggles that began to explode in little bursts from her. Rose and Buttercup looked at one another, recalling the only other time they’d seen her in this state was at one of the big weddings held at the Inn . . . after which at the party, Miz Bunce had enjoyed a wee bit too much of the exquisite pear liqueur one of the old gran’s had made.
After a few moments of hysterical laughter followed by a number of deep breaths, Cook pushed back the hair from her face and asked for Buttercup to bring her an empty flour sack. The hissing little beast, still wrapped in the apron was soon deposited in the sack and the open end tied shut with a generous looping of twine. Cook motioned for Wren to step near, and handed the bagged kitty over to her.
‘Here . . . take him out of the Inn and set him free. At the end of the grounds would be preferable. Just so long as he’s out of my kitchen. She motioned for Ruby to hand over the chicken. ‘Can’t really be serving guests food that a cat’s had his mouth on, now, can I?’ She handed the slightly mauled chicken to Wren, too. ‘Go on now, you and the little culprit. Feed him somewheres far away and send the little blighter on his way.’
As Wren now had her little hands quite full, Ruby opened wide the back door of the kitchen for her . . .
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