“They’re rose hips.”
“So? You’re not allowed to cut flowers and things from the garden.”
“They’re for Clarissa. And the gardeners know she’s doing it. Besides, it’s not your garden; it belongs to all the residents.”
“Yes, but you’re not one of us.”
“Residents means people who live in these houses”—Zoë gestured—“and since I’m now living here with Lady Scattergood, I am, therefore, a resident.”
Nettled, Milly just glared at her. Zoë went on snipping rose hips. “I see you’re happy to talk English now. And not the sort of English you did however many years ago. You sound almost like a lady.” She smirked. “Almost.”
“Would you prefer me to speak to you in French?”
Milly snorted. “It’s not very patriotic, so no, I don’t.”
Zoë hid a smile. Milly’s French was almost nonexistent. She glanced at Milly’s ringless hands. “And you, Miss Harrington—it is still Miss, isn’t it?—what has it been, three seasons, and yet you still don’t have a husband? My commiserations.”
Milly stiffened. “I’ll have you know, Zoë Ben-whahhhh, that I’ve hadseveraloffers of marriage from eligible gentlemen.”
“What happened? Cried off once they got to know you better, did they?”
Milly’s color heightened. “Not at all. They were each devastated when I had to refuse them. Dev-a-stat-ed.”
“Had to refuse them because?”
“Because Mama did not consider them sufficiently…” She paused, groping for the right word.
“Sufficiently handsome? Sufficiently rich? Or were they lacking a title?”
“Not all of them.” Milly tossed her head. “I refused a baronanda baronet, actually.”
“So what was wrong with them?”
“Mama has her position to consider. She is second cousin to a duke, you know.”
“I should think anyone who has ever met her must know that. I’m surprised she doesn’t hand out cards announcing it. So Mama wants you to marry a duke, does she? You’re not getting anxious about being left on the shelf, are you?”
Milly shrugged airily. “Mama knows what she’s doing. Anyway, I don’t see any rings on your finger.”
“Perhaps because I’m wearing gloves. But you’re right, rings would get in the way of my work.”
“Work? What work?” She glanced at the basket of hips. “Is that it? Are you a servant now?”
“No.”
“Then why are you picking those things?”
“They’re very good for the complexion. You know how perfect Clarissa’s skin is. Well…”
“You mean youeatthem?” Milly screwed up her nose.
Zoë was getting fed up with all the questions. “Well, what else?” It wasn’t true—not raw, anyway. Clarissa made syrup and rose-hip jelly and tea from them.
Milly watched her busily picking, and when Zoë moved away to another rosebush she followed. Milly watched in silence for a few moments, then reached out and, with her nose screwed up, cautiously plucked several rose hips.
She wiped them on a handkerchief, stared at them a moment, then shrugged and popped them in her mouth.
She chewed, clearly finding the taste and texture disgusting. Then she spat them out. “Eurgh!” she exclaimed, spitting again. “They taste horrid.” She scrubbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.
