Tilby, Lincolnshire, 1811. Miss Sophia Landon is the daughter of an impoverished clergyman. Her father's health is failing fast, but who wants to marry a woman without birth, beauty or wealth? Her prospects are limited indeed - until her friendship...
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'Are you Mr. Tut-Gut?' Sophy said, offering a hasty curtsey.
'Who else am I like to be?' he said grumpily. 'When ye've been bandyin' me name about like it was a toy or some such.'
Sophy blushed and hastened to apologise. 'I am sorry, only your name was given to me by someone who thought you may be able to help me, and I am in a terrible situation and I was quite, quite desperate.'
Tut-Gut raised shaggy black brows at her, still knitting furiously. 'Oh? An' who is it as advised the likes o' ye to bother me?'
This was not the welcome Sophy had been hoping for; but nor had he made any move to harm her. Her confidence growing a little, she said: 'Her name is Hidenory.'
Tut-Gut's face darkened and he muttered something.
'I beg your pardon?' Sophy said politely.
'Witch-woman!' he said loudly. 'Owes me a favour, and instead o' repayin' me like any person of honour she sends me a beggar! An old croaky! A hag!' He threw his knitting aside, jumped out of his chair and began to pace in circles, tugging at handfuls of his wild black hair and pounding himself on the forehead with his fists. 'It's a slight, that's what it is! An offence! An insult of the very lowest kind! I have a good mind to put this old croaky in my dinner, that I do.' This last was directed at Sophy, delivered in a dark voice as he glowered at her from beneath thunderously lowered brows.
Sophy did not like being referred to as an old croaky, and she certainly did not enjoy the suggestion that she might be turned into dinner. 'A moment,' she said hastily. 'I had no idea that Hidenory was in your debt, but perhaps I may be able to repay it somehow.'
That brought him up short. He stared at her, and his anger turned to calculation. 'Oh?' he said slowly. 'Have ye any idea what the witch-lady owes me?'
'None whatsoever.'
'Tis a dangerous offer to make, then, old croaky! Could be years you'd be slavin' away in the home o' good old Tut-Gut. Years!'
Sophy's heart sank. Slaving away in Tut-Gut's house for years was a better prospect than being made into stew, but not very much better. Careful to keep her dismay from showing on her face, she said calmly: 'Very well, if so.'
Tut-Gut's glee abruptly faded and his shoulders slumped. 'Twas not so great a favour as all that,' he admitted. 'A mere triflin' business, if I must tell the truth.' He glared at Sophy again, as if it was her fault that he felt compelled to be honest. 'Can you cook?' he demanded.
Sophy shook her head. 'I always burn the food.'
'Can you clean?'
Sophy shook her head again. 'I am certain to break something.' He did not appear to possess many breakable objects, but still she was hesitant to risk it.
'Hmph. Useless old croaky. It will have to be dinner.' He gave a firm, decisive nod, and patted his stomach. 'Same old stew, day in, day out!' he said cheerfully. 'Not today, no, not today!'
