“Nanny,” cried Sally Rose, putting out her hand to the girl eagerly, as if there was no one in the world she would be gladder to see than Ipswich Nan. “Nanny, we’re o’ertaken with darkness, and we need a bed for the night, my cousin and I.” She drew Kitty forward, and they stood together at the bar. “We’ll need supper, too, Nanny,” she said.
Nanny curtsied. “Yes, Miss Sally Rose,” she answered, beaming adoringly at the pretty, smiling face turned toward her. “The bed in the east chamber is aired and ready. Should I serve you there, or....” She glanced about the taproom.
Sally Rose began to pull off her embroidered gloves, put up a hand to pat her golden hair. “Oh—at that table by the fire, please. It was chilly, coming the last mile through the swamp willows, and with all the fog about.”
Nanny lighted a candle in a pewter holder and carried it to the table by the fire. “I’ll bring you supper right off, Miss Sally Rose. We got dandelion greens and a ham bone—”
Sally Rose made up a face. “Oh Nanny,” she pleaded, “you know my stomach’s delicate.”
Kitty clapped her hand over her mouth so that she would not giggle. Sally Rose had never been sick in her life, and could probably digest brass nails if she had to.
“Couldn’t you find a bit of chicken, Nanny?”
“Chicken I’ve not got,” answered Nanny. “But there’s a piece of spring lamb I just been a-roasting for the minister’s wife. She’s got Salem company coming tomorrow.”
“The lamb will do nicely,” said Sally Rose, sitting down at table.
“About our horses,” asked Kitty, taking the chair across from her cousin.