Laura had made Cornish pasties, with a big bowl of mashed potatoes and baked marrow. Moira and Sally helped her to put the dishes on the scrubbed wooden table, and everyone came and helped themselves to the different choices set out in front of them. There was gravy, other relishes and mustard, plus a bottle of brown sauce for the meat. And a junket for afters.

Everyone enjoyed the food, and there was a lot of conversation and laughter, although Blackie himself was not as voluble as usual. From time to time he joined in, but mostly he was a listener. And an observer. He tried not to study Moira, and managed to keep his eyes averted. But he knew she was not like them; she was fancy born, no doubt in his mind about that. And unexpectedly, and rather oddly tonight, she reminded him of somebody he couldn’t quite place.

Her outfit was plain, but well cut and handmade. A navy-blue slim-cut skirt skimmed her ankles, and her striped poplin blouse was trimmed with good lace. She wore a short navy jacket with a white collar and cuffs. Smart, as she usually was. She wore small pearl earclips and no other jewelry, and she did look lovely with her shining pale blond hair and perfect skin. “Quality” was the word that came into his mind.

It was her demeanor, her speech pattern, a sense of self-confidence she exuded that told him she had been brought up in an aristocratic household. And those chiseled, classical looks, of course, told their own tale. She was not his type, but other men obviously flocked around her and were apparently spellbound, according to Finn, and wanted to court her.

What Blackie also noticed as they sat around the table enjoying their supper was the way Laura and Sally behaved toward Moira. They liked her, were friendly, even admiring of her.

His small sigh was muffled as he stood up, and tapped Peter on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get a second helping,” he said, picking up his plate. “Laura made enough to feed an army.”

Peter and Finn both rose at the same time and headed for the table, where there was still plenty of food for them.

Blackie was addicted to mashed potatoes, especially the way Laura made them, and he took a spoonful, and returned to the table, still wondering who Moira reminded him of.

As the meal progressed, he tried to bury his dislike. When she suddenly spoke to him directly, he looked at her fully in the face, half smiled, wanting to be pleasant to her.

She said, “Mrs. Wilson told me you’re going to build a guesthouse for Lord Lassiter at Bolton Manor. That must be a most exciting project for you, Blackie.”

“Yes, it is,” he answered. “I will be doing the draftsman work—the design—as well.”