Those few words, uttered as an afterthought helped her relax. He wasn’t worried about her buying a cookbook; he was more worried about what went into his belly.
With a swing in her step, she made her way back to the store and chose her extra ingredients, as well as an apron.
She would go home and spring into action.
Home… It wasn’t the home she’d lived in for most of her life, and it wasn’t where she wanted to be. But it was now her home and she needed to get used to it.
She shook herself. These depressing thoughts would bring her down.
As she walked past him, Samuel took the box from her and carried it into the kitchen.
“There you are, darlin’,” he said as they entered, then left.
After he’d gone, Amelia noticed the state of the kitchen.
The table needed a good scrub along with the benches. She opened the oven. It wasn’t quite so bad – it probably didn’t get much use.
Opening the cupboards she found some soap and brushes to clean the place up.
But first she needed to put on the soup. According to the cookbook, it took some hours.
She scrubbed the chopping board before she dared put food on it, then diced the vegetables as instructed.
Then she began work on sanitizing the kitchen. Even the pantry needed cleaning.
She sighed. This was not the life she had envisioned, but it was the life she’d been forced into. She would make the most of it.
As she scrubbed her way around the room, she realized this kitchen was ill-equipped. In fact it was almost bare.
It comprised of a wood stove, a pantry cupboard, and two big storage boxes under the window.
Apart from that, there was a small table and another cupboard with an enamel bowl where she would wash the soiled dishes. In the corner was a small ice chest, where she’d placed the milk and butter.
It was a far cry from the well-equipped kitchen cook had to work with in her family home.
She sniffed the air. Something was burning. Her soup!
She grabbed the saucepan handle and lifted it from the wood stove. Scraping the only wooden spoon in the drawer, she stirred it gently.
It had just begun to stick, and wasn’t truly burned. Thank goodness for small miracles.
She forced herself to stay strong. It’s only soup! Stay focused.
She returned to the cookbook. What did it say to do in this situation? She scanned the pages carefully.
Add more water and stir gently.
She felt relieved when the food came away from the base of the saucepan when the additional water was added.
Then she went back to scrubbing the table. She couldn’t believe the disgusting mess Samuel had left in his kitchen.
She stopped and thought for a moment. It was her kitchen now. And she would never allow it to get this grimy again.
She looked down at her aching hands. They were red raw from all the scrubbing and washing. But it would be worth it in the end.
Would her husband even notice the difference? She thought not. Someone who worked in all that filth day after day, wouldn’t notice a dirty kitchen.
That was obviously true because look at the state of it now.
She finished the table and it was like new, it was so clean.
She would scrub out the pantry next, then add the left over supplies she’d bought.
Amelia would need to thoroughly check out the kitchen. No doubt there was little for her to work with, especially when it came to equipment.
She’d need to talk with Samuel, and ensure he was happy for her to purchase the additional equipment needed to provide him with a variety of meals. She couldn’t do that with what was available right now.
She put the kettle on the wood stove and prepared to make her husband a cup of coffee. But she had no idea how he liked it.
Her head hurt – there was too much she had to learn. Did Phoebe feel this way when she first arrived?
Amelia decided she must have. The woman had already admitted she was unable to cook then.
She felt a little better knowing she was not as stupid as she appeared.
She stirred the soup again, not willing to let it stick again, then poured her husband a coffee. She made it black, like her father had it, and headed out to the blacksmith’s shop.
Like earlier, the pungent odor made her gag. She supposed she’d eventually get used to it, but right now it was appalling to her delicate senses.
The heat was also overwhelming, and she wondered what he did that made it so hot.
As she got closer, the hammering permeated her ears. The noise was tremendous.
“Samuel,” she said meekly, not certain she was allowed to call him by his first name.
He totally ignored her. With the level of noise, she wasn’t certain he’d even heard her.
She stepped a little closer and touched his shoulder. He startled.
He turned his head to stare at her. “Amelia,” he said blandly. Was he unhappy to see her?
“I brought you some coffee.” She reached out to hand it to him.
“Just put it over there,” he said abruptly. “I don’t really have time to drink it.”
She swallowed back a sob. Her new husband hated her. She did something nice for him, and he didn’t even appreciate it.
She placed the coffee on a nearby bench, then turned and ran back into the residence.
“Amelia,” she heard him call after her, but she wasn’t hanging around for him to tell her off again.
Besides, she had to check on the soup, and begin work on the biscuits.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Amelia stared down into her cup of tea.
Less than a day as a married woman and her husband was already disappointed in her.
She knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but she didn’t expect to be treated this way. Like nothing she did was right.
She’d tried to be a good wife, but she had no role model to emulate. Her mother had not cooked in all the years Amelia could remember.
Her father had always been very well-to-do, and they’d had a cook and several servants most of her life.
Cook hated her being in the kitchen, so she never learned the art of preparing food, and it was totally forbidden that she clean anything. She wasn’t even permitted to clean her own bedroom.
She lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip. A slow tear trickled down her face. She brushed it away with her fingers.
“Amelia.” His voice was soft. Gentle.
Her head shot up.
He stood tall in the doorway. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He lifted the mug to his mouth with grubby hands. “I do appreciate it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound so rude.”
He sounded so sincere, and she burst into tears and sobbed. Had she read him completely wrong?
“Good grief woman,” he said roughly. “Don’t bawl. I can’t deal with that.”
She wiped at her face and took another sip of tea. “I’m completely fine,” she said sternly, then stood and stirred the soup again, effectively dismissing him from her kitchen.
But he stayed planted to the spot, then sniffed. “That smells mighty good.” He followed her over to the stove and looked over her shoulder. “It’s years since I had home made soup.”
“I hope I do it justice,” she said softly, enjoying the heat radiating from him.
“I can’t wait,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I have to get back to work,” he said, then turned to walk away.
He looked back over his shoulder as he reached the doorway. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to having a woman around. I’ll try to do better next time.”
She nodded.
“The coffee was good. A man could get used to that.”
And then he was gone.
Amelia sighed. Could this work after all? He seemed genuine in his apology. And he certainly appreciated that she’d made soup. She only hoped it tasted good.
She d
rained the cup then began work on the biscuits. It was still early, but if she messed them up, she would need time to make another batch.
Tonight’s supper would be her first. She didn’t want it to be her worst.
Chapter Seven
While the biscuits cooked in the wood oven, Amelia began heating water in every container she could find.
Samuel would need a bath before he sat at the table for supper.
The bathroom here was much smaller than what she was used to, but at least there was a decent sized bath, and a water closet.
Some families still endured an outside water closet. She shivered – she was so glad that wasn’t an option.
She’d been surprised at finding a porcelain bath. She thought it would be a tin one. Thankfully it wasn’t.
She’d turned on the faucets and allowed the cold water to run into the bath. She didn’t want Samuel stepping in and burning himself.
She poured in the first round of boiling water, then refilled the containers.
The biscuits must be just about ready now. She grabbed a kitchen towel and opened the oven door.
They were nicely browned and had risen.
She took a deep breath. She hoped they were good inside.
Only one way to find out.
She lifted the hot tray from the oven and placed it on the wooden board, then broke open one of the biscuits.
Her heart raced. Would they be edible, or would she need to start over?
To her surprise, they looked wonderful.
He stood in the doorway and stared, then kicked off his work boots. “What do you have there? It smells good.”
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” she said softly.
He stared at her momentarily. Did he know it would break her heart if all her surprises were revealed?
“I won’t look, I promise,” he said, then headed toward the bathroom to clean up.
“Samuel,” she shouted after him. “I have more water ready for you.”
She snatched up a clean kitchen towel and covered the biscuits, then carried the water to the bath.
He stared at her. “You did this for me?” The emotion in his voice got to her. “I usually just wash up.”
“Of course,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re my husband.” She poured the water into the bath, then checked the temperature.
She reached into the cupboard and pulled out a clean bath towel and face towel for him.
As she began to leave, he pulled his shirt up over his head, and she stared.
She’d never seen a man in any state of undress before. Her heart raced, and she stood mesmerized.
When she looked back at his face he was grinning. Did he think it funny?
She huffed, then scurried away to set the table for supper, pulling the door closed behind her.
“You could scrub my back,” he shouted through the door.
“Never,” she said quietly.
* * *
“You’ve done an amazing job,” he said, filling his mouth with more soup. “I’ve had beans for so long, I’d even forgotten other food existed.”
It was true. He appreciated every effort she’d made for him today.
The coffee was such a surprise, and he’d annoyed himself at the way he’d barked at her.
Poor Amelia. She must be feeling so confused. He didn’t know what happened that she’d had to rush here, but it was obvious she’d been desperate.
It would take both of them some time to get used to the new situation.
She was such a pretty thing, but sadness seem to overwhelm her.
Even when she smiled, there was a great sadness surrounding her. He hoped it would eventually disappear.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said softly, not looking at him. “But I bought a cookbook today.”
She continued to study the table.
“Amelia,” he said, reaching across and touching her chin, turning her face toward him. “I don’t mind, I promise. This meal is amazing. The best I’ve had for as long as I can remember.”
He watched as her face transformed from that ever-present sadness into joy.
She wriggled in her seat. “Really?” Her smile lit up her entire face, and he wished she would smile more.
He would make it his mission to make her happy.
He stopped in his tracks. Didn’t he decide to a marriage in name only? No love or emotion involved.
Then that’s what he would do.
He thought for a moment. He could still make her happy without involving love. Couldn’t he?
Besides, they didn’t even know each other. How did you love someone you’d never met before?
He snatched up another biscuit and smothered it with butter. “These are really good,” he said between bites.
She grinned. “Thank you. I wanted to please you on our first night together.”
He felt warm all over, then shook himself mentally. That wasn’t part of the deal.
The arrangement was she would cook for him, do the laundry and look after the house. He would effectively give her room and board in exchange.
And that was the deal they would stick to. None of this lovey-dovey stuff. That’s not what he signed up for.
His decision made, he sat straighter against the chair and shoveled more food into his mouth.
Chapter Eight
Amelia tidied up the kitchen, and wiped down the table.
Samuel sat in an easy chair in the sitting room. She put her head around the door and saw he was snoozing.
She felt sorry for him – he worked really hard.
It must have been difficult for him before she arrived. Working all day, then having to prepare supper for himself.
No wonder he ate beans all the time. Poor man.
She’d felt completely overwhelmed when she’d arrived, but he’d put her at rest.
Succeeding at supper had helped too.
Samuel seemed to appreciate the efforts she’d gone to for him, and he certainly enjoyed the bath. He’d told her so.
Tomorrow she would have to clean the scum from the bath – make it white again.
But she didn’t mind. She was safe here. Uncle Cyrus would never find her, and that was the most important thing to her.
But if he did? Would Samuel protect her, or would he send her away? Perhaps she wasn’t worth the trouble.
She looked about. She was happy with the state of the kitchen, and vowed to never let it get in such terrible condition again.
When she stopped, she felt suddenly tired. No, not tired, but exhausted. Physically and emotionally.
The trip had tired her out, but since the wedding ceremony, she’d not stopped all day. She felt like she could drop right where she stood.
With no other option, she would have to retire to Samuel’s bed.
She quietly opened the bedroom door, not wanting to disturb his sleep in the other room.
She closed the door gently behind her, then began to undress. She’d had so little to bring with her, but did at least have a nightgown.
She managed to undo the fastenings, and pulled her gown up over her head, laying it on the bed. Next she removed her petticoats, and lay them down as well.
She stood in her drawers and camisole, and was about to remove them when the door quietly opened.
She gasped, and snatched up her petticoats, holding them in front of her.
“You can’t be in here,” she said urgently.
He stood there grinning at her, scanning her from head to toe. “It’s my bedroom,” he said. “I can come in. Besides, you’re my wife. I’m allowed to look,” he said, winking at her.
Oh my.
“I, I…” What did she say to that? What should she do?
She stood there shaking, and staring at him. She had no idea how to respond, and wasn’t sure if she should run.
He stepped toward her, and ran his hands down her arms.
It felt nice, and a tingle went through her. She should s
hake his hands off, but she was frozen to the spot.
His arms went up and around her body, and he held her in a hug, then he breathed in deep.
“You smell nice,” he said. She nodded, but words wouldn’t form on her lips.
Suddenly he stepped back, and gazed into her face. “I’ll let you get undressed. I’ll be back shortly.” Then he left the room.
She suddenly felt bereft. But she also felt relieved. She hadn’t been prepared to be a real wife.
What he’d wanted was something akin to a servant, not a proper wife. Not someone he could hold and love.
Just a housemaid.
She stared at the closed door for about a minute before returning to what she’d been doing before.
Once in her nightgown, she hung her gown up in the wardrobe. There was plenty of room – Samuel didn’t have many clothes.
His Sunday best was there, and a pair of tidy slacks and a button up shirt, and that was it.
Did that mean he didn’t go out except to church?
Amelia figured she’d eventually find out.
She climbed into bed and snuggled in. It wasn’t long before she was sound asleep.
She woke up sometime during the night when two arms wrapped around her and held her tight.
It was nice; it felt good. But she wouldn’t let herself get used to it.
This was a marriage of convenience, and nothing more.
Chapter Nine
As they strode toward the church, Amelia felt a little overwhelmed.
She didn’t know anyone here.
Samuel squeezed her hand. She didn’t think anyone could ever understand her so completely, but he did.
The preacher stood at the door greeting the parishioners as they entered. “Good morning Mrs Thomas,” he said cheerfully, in total contrast to the way he’d treated her on their wedding day.
“Good morning, Preacher,” she answered. Her husband squeezed her hand, then led her to a pew at the back of the little church where they’d married almost a week earlier.
A parishioner had relieved her of the biscuits she’d made for luncheon, as they entered.
As she sat, the organist began to play her most favorite song – Onward Christian Soldiers.
It was also her mother’s favorite, and it brought a lump to her throat.
The Blacksmith's Reluctant Bride Page 3