A string of coarse language eminated from the nursery with such force as would have made any sailor cross himself and possibly utter a small prayer. Being more accustomed to it the maid staff rolled their eyes and waited for the nursemaid to attend to the situation.
After two rounds through on the rosary, Kathryn entered the child’s playroom to be greeted by the dark eyes and furrowed brow of her charge, the youngest Waithbridge, heiress to the largest estate in Cambourne.
“Where’s Boris?” the child demanded.
“Gone on holiday, my dear.”
“Only Boris cleans the dollies’ house properly.”
“I’ll get Maryanne…”
“Best you don’t,” the girl menaced, a growl that seemed to defy her tender age of ten.
Hands raised apologetically, the nursemaid offered, “Shall I…”
“No.” The girl paused, then asked, “Is that wretched Heather around?”
“She only comes by to visit Boris. You know that.”
“Phooey. Still, best to leave the dollies’ house until Boris returns. They do get ever so cross without their nicotine.”