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It was probably an hour or so before sunset, and I was tempted to leave her there, confident she could make her way in the world, but another part of my mind was eager to bed her and enjoy her since obviously some of her talents lay in that fleshy direction. My evil mind pictured her dancing on the end of my throbbing pole. "Where's your home?" I asked.She exhaled. "New York, I suppose," she said. "Much as anywhere." No folks?"She shook her head. "I came over indentured, five years ago." You don't sound English?" I said, remembering that very few women came that way in the last decade or so."Irish, I was," she said with a smile. "Now I'm American." You have friends in the city?" I do," she said, smiling. "Mostly men." Well," I allowed, "let's do a few more miles before dark." It seemed like a good suggestion at the time, and I looked forward to wrapping her in my blanket roll and having her entertain my hardening ram, but fate, a cruel fate, intervened."Lookee here," said the. Until she started explaining the protocol involved I had no idea of how complicated it all was. You had to be on the right side of the person you were serving; there was a right and wrong way to hold the tray; a right and a wrong order in which to do things.Brian said something to the effect that he thought Miss Carson was making it all up, a foolish move that ended up with him being grabbed by the ear, dragged to the front of the class and asked to read out the appropriate passage from a dusty old book that turned out to be a 19th century manual for household servants. The rest of us, all busily pursuing a “let’s keep quiet so we don’t get ourselves into trouble” approach, just tried to remember it all.Then came the practical. It was a bizarre set up. Seated at a table that stood by a bay window in the lounge were our “guests” for tea; two elegantly dressed, shop-window dummies. “You are all far too inexperienced to practice on any of us,” Miss Carson announced, seeing our looks of.
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