The fire on the grate was all but out, though Jack left it for Pamela to decide when fresh coals were needed. The older children were off with their father, and she was likely conserving heat until they returned.

“You and Ellie were never close,” Pamela said. “She was infatuated and you were an idiot. That was a lifetime ago.”

“We were young and in love.” Saying that sounded sweet, though Ellie would probably smack him for uttering the words. Jack had ended things with Ellie precisely because she hadn’t even been infatuated. She’d been weary, lonely, scared, and willing to settle for the devil she knew and sometimes regarded with affection.

She had deserved better, even though to hear her tell it, she’d achieved a dream come true in her musty old bank.

“If Ellie feels anything toward you,” Pamela said, “it’s exasperation and maybe some misplaced shame. Leave her alone.”

Jack rose, moving closer to the feeble heat of the hearth. “I got sacked, Pammie. Damned sodding squire is off to the family seat until the first of the year. Thanked me kindly for my service, passed me a three-sentence character and a few coins, and heigh-ho, Jack Naylor is out of work again. He wished me luck, which means I’m not to expect my job back if he ever returns to London.”

“He didn’t even warn you?”

“His kind don’t. They just pike off, like you were a dog they no longer fancied. I’m supposed to slink back to the agencies and hope another position opens up, though half of London is leaving for the countryside, just when the coal man wants his tithe.”

“Mick left us a bit of the ready. I’ll say something to Clyde.”

This was the worst of it. Not the loss of the job, but the worry and pity from the family. “Don’t you dare. I’ll manage. I always do.” Though lately, the managing was harder. Jack had left Mick’s little scheme alone, because honest work and schemes didn’t mix well.

Neither did honest work and regular meals.

“You know what I think?” Pamela said, taking a loaf of bread from the window box and producing a knife from the dry sink. “I think you should nip up to York. Look in on the elders. They miss you, and you’ve been gone long enough.”

Even with the baby perched on her hip, she managed to slice the bread with the efficient movements of a woman inured to motherhood.

“The elders haven’t invited me, Pammie. I’d be another mouth to feed, and I refuse to burden them like that. They looked after the lot of us, good times and bad. I should be looking after them.”

The loaf went back into the window box. Pamela fetched butter and jam in separate trips and liberally slathered three slices with both.