Macintosh served potted chicken stuffed with herbs, and I realized that Mrs. Macintosh had sacrificed one of her hens to the necessity of feeding a man the size of the Earl of Savile. There was a fragrant potato casserole to go along with the chicken and a large loaf of delicious crusty bread. I gave a big helping of chicken to Savile, a smaller one to Nicky, and served myself just the potato casserole. Nicky was very quiet as he ate his chicken. I kept shooting worried glances in his direction as I made halfhearted conversation with the earl. “Do you know, Nicky, I suspect that your mama is worried about leaving you here with the Macintoshes,” Savile surprised me by saying suddenly. “I have tried to reassure her that an eight-year-old boy can survive for a few days without his mother, but I do not think she is convinced.” The earl’s tone was humorous and colored with just the sort of odious “we males together” condescension that a young boy was guaranteed to find flattering.
