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“She says chicken makes her melancholy.”

Judith paused. “Fish?”

“Only trout is palatable.”

“Do we have any trout?”

“Not today, miss.”

“Then we must endure her melancholy. Perhaps you could prepare her favourite pudding?”

Cook gave a firm nod, plainly gratified to have the matter settled.

Judith turned her attention to the supplies arranged on the long, scrubbed table near the pantry door. She had ordered flour, oats, potatoes, salt, tea, candles, and two sacks of coal to be sent to the Bell family and several neighbouring cottages, but the quantity appeared pitiful once she saw it assembled.

“Is that all?”

Mrs. Talbot looked up from the list she carried. “For the Bells, yes, miss. There is another sack of flour for the Nixons, and Cook added some bacon for Mrs. Perry.”

Judith looked at the provisions again.

Mrs. Bell had five children. The Nixons had seven. Mr. Perry had been laid up since Christmas after an accident at the quarry, and his wife took in sewing whenever any could be found.

That was only three families. There must be dozens more enduring much the same hardship, and beyond Blackthorn’s immediate tenants there were hundreds, perhaps thousands. There were men with no work; women making a loaf over several meals; and children outgrowing shoes their parents could not replace.

Judith’s irritation sharpened into anger. It was one thing to discuss privation in numbers. It was another to have Annie Bell put crushed primroses into one’s hand while her mother quietly admitted there was not enough coal to warm the cottage at night.

“What else have we in the stores?”

Mrs. Talbot frowned. “For the household?”

“For anyone.”

Cook stopped rolling pastry. “Miss?”

“What food have we that can be spared without inconveniencing the guests?”

Cook gave a short laugh. “We could lose half the dining room and still feed France.”

Judith almost smiled. “I meant supplies.”

“Well, there are oats enough, and several more sacks of flour. Potatoes, certainly. Salt pork. We have preserved apples from the autumn.”

“Excellent. Make an inventory, if you please.”

Mrs. Talbot looked uneasy. “Sir Lionel will want to know, if we are giving away household stores.”

“I am aware of that.”

“That was not what I meant, miss.”

Judith knew very well what she meant. Blackthorn’s accounts were not presently so comfortable that generosity might be indulged without consideration. Sir Lionel spent as though every year promised an inheritance from some unknown relation, whilst Judith spent much of her time ensuring his optimism did not result in creditors dining with the family.

“I shall speak with him.”

Cook returned to her pastry. “It will be better coming from you, miss.”

“That is frequently the case.”