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Rowan could feel a rather hysterical wave of laughter bubbling up inside her at the lady’s question. She tried to fight it down . . . without success. She started giggling and hiccuping as she tried to answer Miz Puddifoot.
‘My stars, indeed,’ she gasped, pulling out one of the heavy oak chairs at the kitchen’s table. Rowan plopped herself down rather ungracefully and gulped in a few deep breaths. ‘Oh how I wish I could just call for cook and you could speak with her, Mistress Puddifoot.’
With a corner of her apron she dabbed at her teary eyes. ‘You can’t speak with her . . . you see . . . she’s gone missing. And for a long time now.’ Rowan glanced woefully around the kitchen. ‘It’s just me and Prim, now, to do the cooking and the serving and the cleaning up and see to the wants of the guests, too.’ She heaved a long sigh. ‘We do our best . . . we do . . . but it’s just getting to be too much . . .’
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