Love's Sweet Beginning

by Ann Shorey

“No . . . no, thank you.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “I know this isn’t what you’re used to, but it’s all I can do for now.” Cassie wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulders and hugged her close. “Please, try to make the best of things.”

  “It’s not you. I can see how hard you’ve worked.” She drew a trembling breath. “I feel like I’ve failed. This isn’t what I wanted. I dreamed of you with a fine husband, children, a home like your father and I had. I did everything I could to prepare you for such a life. And now look.” She waved her hand at their surroundings, tears running unchecked down her cheeks. “You . . . you’re kitchen help. Spending your meager wages to put a roof over our heads.”

  “Mother—Mama—you know this isn’t your fault. I’m glad I have my job. We’re blessed to have a place of our own, however small.”

  “My dreams are ashes.” She rose and turned toward the bedroom. “You may feel blessed. I don’t.”

  Cassie crumpled onto a chair, her mother’s pain tearing at her heart. Nothing she could do would return their lives to what they were before the war. Lord, I’m powerless to help my mother. The apostle Paul says in your Word that he has learned, in whatsoever state, to be content. Please, let this be true for her as well.

  Cassie rose early on Monday and dressed for work as quietly as possible to avoid waking her mother. Tiptoeing around the main room, she set a plate and knife next to a covered pan of cornbread. A jar of honey and a bowl of butter waited on the shelf. She would have breakfast at the restaurant, but Mother would need to prepare her own meal. Thanks to both Faith and Rosemary, they were supplied for the next few days.

  She took one last glance at her mother’s sleeping form, then slipped out the door. Her shoes crunched on the gravel path that led around Mr. Slocum’s house and out to Third Street. The morning she’d been dreading had arrived. Mr. West expected her to make pies, and beyond preparing crust she had no idea how. Thankfully, Mrs. Fielder would be there to offer direction. Even more pressing, she needed to determine whether the chairs in her cabin had come from the restaurant. Mr. Slocum said they weren’t his. Neither Faith nor Rosemary claimed ownership. That left Mr. West as the likely donor.

  She clasped her hands together and rested her fingers against her lips. He’d granted her a favor by giving her time off, sent Wash to carry her purchases, then provided furniture. The poor man would soon realize helping her decreased his profits. A headache pecked at her temples. What if he decided she’d become a liability and discharged her?

  Drawing a deep breath, she crossed the empty street and entered the kitchen. Her headache burrowed deeper when she saw a row of pie pans spread out on one of the worktables. Jars of dried apples sat to one side.

  She swallowed. First she’d set the tables in the dining room, then speak to Mr. West about her chairs. The pies could wait a bit.

  Mrs. Fielder pushed open the door, eyes bright with curiosity. “Did your mother like the cabin?”

  “She’s . . . adjusting. I don’t believe she’s ever lived so humbly.”

  “Humbly? There’s folks would be glad to have a snug roof over their heads.”

  Cassie held up her hand. “I know. I’m thankful to Mr. Slocum. Mother seems to be having a difficult time right now, and I don’t know how to help her.”

  “Humph. She doesn’t realize how lucky she is to have a daughter like you.”

  The balm of Mrs. Fielder’s kind words spread over Cassie, smoothing the edges of her worries. She moved close to the older woman and squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fielder. You’re very kind.”

  “Call me Jenny.”

  “Thank you—Jenny.” She walked to a shelf, taking down a stack of plates. “I’ll have the tables ready in a few minutes.”

  “Good. I’ll make the biscuits and be out of your way so you can start on the pies.”

  “About the pies—”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have the kitchen to yourself after breakfast. I promised one of my daughters I’d watch her babies while she renders up some lard. She worries about them underfoot with the hot fat bubbling.”

  “But I need you to—”

  “Now, don’t worry. I’ll be back in time to cook the noon meal. You won’t have to do a thing but make a few pies while I’m gone.”

  Cassie’d never seen anyone render lard. When their cook needed fat for cooking, she’d taken a jar full from the root cellar—a jar like those waiting near the pie plates in West & Riley’s kitchen. She drew in a long breath.

  Piecrust, apples. As Mr. West had said, how hard could it be?

  She dropped knives and forks on top of the plates she held and then hastened into the dining room. Mentally, she counted chairs as she arranged place settings. When she reached the table nearest the grocery entrance, she saw four chairs, not six.

  Her stomach tightened. The chairs in her cabin came from the restaurant.

  Mr. West stood behind the counter inside the grocery, talking with a customer. Nervous perspiration popped out on Cassie’s forehead. She had to say something to him. It wasn’t seemly for him to help her set up housekeeping. If her mother found out . . .

  As soon as the customer left, she stepped through the entrance. “Mr. West.”

  He turned, his expression welcoming. “Good morning. I trust you and your mother are comfortable in your little cabin.”

  “Yes. But those two chairs—” She bit her lip. “They’re missing from the dining room. You brought them over, didn’t you?”

  “You needed them.” He studied her face. “Don’t look so worried. I can easily buy more.”

  “How much do they cost?”

  “Miss Haddon. They’re a gift.”

  “Truly, I appreciate your intentions. Sending Wash to the mercantile was a generous act. But if anyone found out you helped furnish the cabin, talk would fly around town about my morals. I can’t have that—neither can you.” She hid her trembling hands beneath her apron. “Please, take the price from my salary.”

  “I never intended to cause harm.” Pain settled over his features. “Forgive me.”

  He looked so distraught that she reached out and grasped his arm. His solid, muscled arm. She jerked her hand away as if she’d touched hot coals. “I know you didn’t.” She softened her voice. “If you’ll let me pay for the chairs, I’d love to keep them. And I thank you.”

  His dark eyes burned into hers. “You’re welcome. Since you insist, I’ll deduct a small amount each week, so as not to cause hardship. And Miss Haddon . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m looking forward to apple pie with my dinner.”

  Her heart drummed as she returned to the kitchen. She’d never met anyone as kind as Mr. West. She prayed he’d be pleased with her efforts.

  11

  Jenny Fielder paused at the door leading to the alley and tossed Cassie a wave. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  The screen door banged behind her.

  Cassie plunged her hands back into the greasy dishwater and scrubbed the last bits of egg from a cast-iron skillet. She wished there’d been time to ask Jenny more about baking an apple pie, but the woman had been so busy hurrying through her breakfast chores that she bit her responses off in abbreviated sentences. “Hot oven.” “Don’t crowd.” “Mind the time.”

  After placing the skillet on the stovetop to dry, Cassie marched to the worktable and stared at the ingredients for her pies. At least she knew how to make the crust. She sifted, measured, and cut chunks of lard into flour. As she sprinkled water over the mixture, her confidence increased. She was worrying over nothing. Line the pans with crust, fill with apples, and bake. The customers would be pleased, and so would Mr. West.

  In the next half hour, she lined six pie pans and covered the remaining crust with a damp towel to keep the dough from drying while she added the apples. After opening the first jar of apples, she shook a quantity of the dried fruit into a crust
and distributed the pieces evenly inside the pan. Moving down the row, she repeated the process with the five remaining pie plates.

  Cinnamon. She remembered their cook always flavored apple pie with cinnamon, so she went to a narrow shelf near the range and found Jenny’s supply of spices. A narrow jar labeled “Cinnamon” contained fragrant sticks of the sweet spice. She shook out one curled stick for each pie. They probably softened as they cooked, like carrots.

  She held her hand at the open oven door to check the temperature as she’d seen Jenny do. Not hot enough. She arranged three pies on the oven shelf, careful not to crowd them together, then added more wood to the firebox.

  The tension that clamped her shoulders receded. She poured a glass of sweet cider from a crock on the table and gathered the bowls she needed to wash. Now that her task was nearly complete, she felt foolish for her worries. How hard could pie-making be, indeed.

  Jenny paused at the entrance to the dining room. “Please divide each one into six pieces while I take the coffee in.”

  Cassie nodded and scraped blackened crust from the edges of the pies. Except for the burned parts, her efforts looked perfect. Next time, she’d pay more attention to how long they stayed in the oven. She took a knife and cut through crust and filling. As soon as the pies were sliced, Jenny whisked the pans out to the waiting customers.

  Wishing she could watch the men taste her baking, Cassie paced between the closed door and the worktable. The third time she passed the table, Jenny patted a chair beside her. “You might as well sit down and rest for a moment.”

  “Is Mr. West eating with the other men?”

  “Yes. He’s sitting near the grocery, guess so he can get up if a customer comes in.”

  Cassie hoped he had one of the slices without a burned edge.

  After a couple of minutes, the door swung open and Mr. West entered carrying a plate containing a wedge of pie with one bite missing. Behind him, men’s voices rose and chairs scraped against the floor.

  Prickles ran up Cassie’s arms. Something was wrong.

  He walked to the table and folded the top crust back over withered apple pieces. A cinnamon stick lay crosswise over the filling like a minus sign.

  Her breath stopped. She cast a frantic glance between Mr. West and Jenny. “What did I do wrong?”

  Mr. West cleared his throat. “Mrs. Fielder will have to answer that question. I’m not a cook. Near as I can tell, you’ve wasted a lot of expensive apples. From now on, go back to your other chores. Let Mrs. Fielder handle the baking.” He set the plate on the table with a thunk, then turned and strode from the room.

  She tried to stop the tears that rolled over her cheeks. She’d wasted food, disappointed Mr. West, and probably jeopardized her job. She dropped onto a chair and stared at the offending pie. Learn from your mistakes, her father had often told her. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and turned to Jenny.

  “Why . . . what . . . do you know how this happened?”

  Jenny poked a fork into one of the apple slices and bit off a corner. She chewed and chewed, then swallowed. “How long did you soak the apples in that cider Mr. West bought?”

  “Soak the apples?”

  “They need to sit in hot cider for an hour or so. Puffs them up.” She lifted the cinnamon stick, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “See that brown powder on the shelf over there?” She pointed to a stubby bottle sealed with a cork.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s ground cinnamon. Mix a spoonful into the sugar for each pie.”

  Cassie burned with embarrassment. She’d done none of those things. Lowering her gaze, she stared at her hands clenched together in her lap. “You must think I’m hopeless.” Her voice trembled.

  “No.” Jenny squeezed Cassie’s shoulder. “You should’ve seen the first pie I tried to make. At least you can do crust. Mine come out like hardtack. I’ll write you a recipe so you know better next time.”

  “Mr. West said there won’t be a next time. From the look on his face, he’s not likely to change his mind.”

  She stood and dumped the pie into a slop bucket. Failure weighted her movements.

  Jacob’s steps dragged when he left the store on Monday evening. The expression on Miss Haddon’s face when he showed her the ruined pie was etched in his memory. She couldn’t have looked more shocked if he’d slapped her. Then what did he do? Complained about wasted food and slammed the plate down on the table. He’d tried so hard to show her kindness. Now she was afraid of him again.

  He kicked at a pebble in the alley on his way to fetch Jackson, his stabled horse. A letter from Colin Riley crackled in his pocket. Perhaps if the message from his partner had contained better news, he wouldn’t have been so short with Miss Haddon. He shook his head. The damage was done.

  The horse nickered when Jacob approached. Water from the trough in front of him ran down the animal’s lips and dripped on the ground.

  “Ready to go home?” Jacob rubbed Jackson’s neck, then brushed dirt and dust from his hide before dropping the saddle onto his back. Once they left the stable, he turned west along the darkened streets. After months of traveling this route, his mount knew the way as well as he did.

  As they passed lighted windows at the edge of town, Jacob felt a pang of sorrow. Men returning after a day’s work were welcomed into warm houses with lamps burning to dispel the gloom. When he reached his own home, he’d be groping in the dark for matches to light his lamps. No one would greet him at the door with a smile and a kiss.

  For some reason, he thought of Miss Haddon’s bright smile. Her eagerness to please. He’d shut down that eagerness as surely as if he’d slammed a door in her face.

  He groaned. It wasn’t as if she’d be interested in him anyway. Once the younger men in town learned of her presence, one of them would win her heart and she’d be gone.

  He gripped the reins tighter as he continued on the road beyond Pioneer Lake and up the track toward his home. An occasional spark flew when Jackson’s hooves struck a rock. A stream gurgled in the darkness. When they reached the top of the rise, his house’s silhouette stood black among shadowed oaks and hickory trees. Two stories, with a veranda across the front. He’d had the home built the previous fall, its solid presence assuring him that he’d risen above his unfortunate beginnings.

  Now the letter from Colin Riley threatened all he’d accomplished.

  As soon as Jacob stabled his horse, he marched into the house, lighted a lamp, and flung himself into a chair in the parlor. Gritting his teeth, he removed Colin’s letter from his pocket. Maybe the news wouldn’t seem as bad this time.

  Jacob,

  Your report for the month of April has yet to arrive. Normally, I wouldn’t worry. You’ve proved yourself reliable over the years you’ve been in Missouri. But things have changed with me.

  My health is failing, and I’ve decided to sell the business to a younger man. Keegan Byrne has worked for me for the past year, and seems quite eager to carry on with Riley’s Grocery as it was when you were here.

  Which brings me to my point. Keegan will expect a draft from you within the first ten days of every month. I’ve explained our long history to him, but he’s full of modern ideas and thinks I’m too lax in enforcing payment.

  I wish I could give you this news in person. As far as I’m concerned, I have no doubt you will continue to prove as honest with Keegan as you have with me. It’s done my heart good to see your success.

  Sincerely,

  Colin

  Jacob heaved a long sigh. The news was no better with a second reading.

  He wondered how much Colin had told Keegan Byrne about their initial meeting. One thing for certain—he wouldn’t be so much as one day tardy sending his partner’s share to Boston. Having Colin come to Noble Springs would be hazardous enough. He couldn’t risk a visit from someone who knew him only as a name in a ledger.

  Over the years, he’d done all he could to keep his Boston past secret. As Colin
acknowledged, he’d proved himself honest. No good could come from his history reaching the ears of people in Noble Springs. Particularly Miss Haddon.

  The following morning, Cassie moved as silently as possible through her table-setting duties. After the way Mr. West spoke to her yesterday, she had no desire to call attention to herself. She planned to arrange tables, wash dishes, and stay away from him at all times. If he couldn’t find anything to complain about, he couldn’t dismiss her.

  When he walked through the dining room to unlock the street door, she fled into the kitchen and busied herself slicing bacon.

  Jenny stopped stirring pancake batter to watch. “Cut ’em a bit thinner. Get more out of a side of bacon that way.”

  Cassie nodded and made the next slices smaller.

  “You’re quiet today.” Jenny’s spoon scraped the side of the bowl, around and around.

  “I keep thinking about those dreadful pies. What if none of the men come back for breakfast?”

  Jenny snorted. “They’ll be back. Can’t keep a man away from food.” She fished in her pocket. “Here’s a recipe for dried apple pie. This afternoon, you make a crust and I’ll show you how to plump the apples. We’ll just do one little pie. Mr. West will never know.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Bless you. I’m determined to learn how to do it right, even if I never have another chance in the restaurant.” Jenny’s kindness lifted her heart.

  At the sound of footsteps coming toward the kitchen, they stopped talking and turned their full attention to their tasks. Mr. West paused in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  Cassie kept her head down.

  He took a couple of steps into the room. “Careful with that knife, Miss Haddon. Wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.”

  She lifted her head far enough to gaze at him through her lashes. Did he think she was that incompetent? “Yes, sir.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. “She knows how to cut bacon.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” Face flushed, he turned and strode out of the kitchen.