Madelyn rolled her sleeves up, scrubbing the scullery pot. Her hands were red and aching from hot water and lye. The bottom was blackened beyond decency, and even her ferocious scrubbing did not help. It would not come clean. She hissed angrily and added more lye.
"Damn Guy," John muttered from the stove where he stood stirring a pot of porridge with very little dedication. "Swore he'd be here this morning. Swore it. Said he would not favour the galley, then vanished the moment there was work to be done."
Madelyn said nothing at first. She scrubbed harder.
He glanced over his shoulder. "You'll ruin your hands like that, Miss Stanhope."
"They were not made for idleness," she replied. At Widhalm Mount she had done more than scrubbed blackened pots.
He huffed, tasting of the food. "They are fine and slender and should work better things than pots."
She smiled faintly, "Things like holding wine glasses and petting fancy lapdogs?"
"Yes, I suppose," he chuckled.
