By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

“H-How long have you suffered from your malady?” she asked, tempering her voice as she squashed another conflicting rush of…need.

  “Long time now. Some good days. Some not so-good days. But poor Jubal, he goes right on lovin’ me, and doin’ what he can.” She leaned her head against the pillow. “So, like I says, ma’am…You sure is an angel sent. We’s grateful from da very bottoms of our hearts for you ‘n Mista Brennen’s kindness.”

  Annabelle set aside her mug. “T-Thank you for your sweet words, Ruby.” She slipped from the side of the bed. “While you rest and enjoy the remainder of your coffee, I’m going to fetch some fresh water from the well. After I return, we’ll discuss making something in this house for dinner. As good a nurse as you deem me to be, my dearest, I unfortunately fail as a cook.”

  Sweeping up the pitcher from the washbowl, she headed out the bedroom door.

  A few minutes later, having stomped a path to the well, Annabelle lifted the bucket of fresh water and dipped her pitcher inside. The first rays of morning laid a streak of golden sunlight across her hands. Overhead, in the tree boughs, birds twittered as they greeted the new day. A rattling noise down the entry lane had her glancing toward the uneven bricked drive where a wagon filled with people pitched and lumbered toward her.

  Surprised, she shaded her eyes with an open palm. Several women were dressed in serviceable clothing, white-bibbed aprons fronting their garments. Even white dust caps covered their hair. No doubt, they were workers, of sorts. Beside them sat several men garbed in dark shirts and denims.

  Her gaze slid to the wagon’s front bench.

  Clothed in similar outfits sat another couple, and the older man guided his team of mules toward her.

  Annabelle lowered the bucket to the ground.

  What in the world?

  With the filled pitcher propped against her hip, she walked around the corner of the manor house and met them near the front steps. “Looks like you folks’ve taken a wrong turn on this fine summer morn.”

  The driver slammed home the brake and straightened. He looped the reins around the weathered brace. “Ain’t this the old Chiswell place?”

  “Yes.” Pulse racing, she again scanned the group. “And who might you all be?”

  “We’re your cleanin’ crew, ma’am.”

  Annabelle lowered the pitcher, incredulity taking her breath. “My…what?”

  His companion’s gaze skimmed the house. “Nice abode, missy. Sure do like the curved, two-story portico. Porch looks invitin’, too, though in desperate need of a good scrubbing.”

  Annabelle forced a smile toward the woman, but her mind still reeled from the man’s startling statement. “I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, “I didn’t hire anybody t-to…what I mean is, I can’t pay—”

  “No worries there, ma’am,” the man quipped. “We’ve done been paid by a charmin’ bloke named Brennen Benedict. He gave us top dollar to ride over here’n put the insides o’ this fine place back into order.”

  The woman leaned forward, adding, “And he also added a big bonus if’n we finished our chores in one day.” A smile brightened her features. “Which, of course, we intend to do.”

  From amid the vast collection of mops, buckets, and brooms in the back of the wagon, a rotund woman, day cap askew atop faded, copper-colored curls, chimed in, “And I’m Ellie O’Day, the cook he’s hired. Mister Brennen said he’s got a passel o’ mouths to feed, and I’m just the gal to fill those rumblin’ holes. So, I’m stayin’ here a bit longer than these folks.”

  Cleaners?

  And a cook?

  Elation rushed through Annabelle just as the thrum of galloping hooves drew her attention.

  Her eyes widened in astonishment.

  Brennen!

  The kissing scoundrel hadn’t left them after all. Excitement melded with relief when he reined his gelding to a halt before the front steps. His gaze locked on hers. Ever-so-slowly the side of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile. “Mornin’, Annabelle. Thought I’d bring us back some help.”

  A breeze rustled the tree limbs above them and draped shadows across his handsome face. “Y-Yes,” she stammered, quashing the bewildering pleasure that coursed through her veins. “I can see that. Cleaners…and a cook.”

  He straightened in the saddle, leather creaking as he shifted his weight. “I, um…can’t have you scuttling about on your hands and knees anymore, now can I?”

  Her lips compressed as she remembered every detail of the previous scuttling she’d done in his company. On an inhale, Annabelle nodded. “Thank you. I…couldn’t agree more.”

  With the water pitcher anchored on her hip, she climbed the steps, then turned. Her heart rattled against her ribs as her gaze leveled with his much-too-striking eyes. “And, by the way, Monsieur Benedict,” she snapped, her chin lifting, “the next time you even think of departing without so much as a word of your whereabouts to Jubal, or Ruby, well…” She crossed the veranda, and gripped the doorknob. “I’ll hunt you down myself and remind you of your thoughtless behavior, you vous païens irréfléchieand.”

  Her gaze narrowed.

  There.

  Thoughtless heathen, indeed!

  His brow arched as he pinned her beneath an amused stare. “You will?”

  The cad. “Count on it. For however long this lasts, there are now others in your life to consider – not just your own pigheaded self.” Cheeks ablaze, she pushed open the front door. “And you’ll find your foreman at the Knoblick…working…as you should be, Monsieur.” That should set him straight. Yet, as she slammed the panel shut to underscore her justified rebuke, the reprehensible scoundrel had the audacity to laugh.

  Worse, the delight at seeing him again shimmied all the way down to her toes.

  Chapter Twelve

  That evening, the hired crew had waved their magic wand and left the inside of the manor house spotless. Indeed, Brennen’s money had bought the best. With a grateful smile, Annabelle waved goodbye until the wagonload of miracle workers faded from view.

  Now she could bring Ruby downstairs tomorrow.

  But first, her patient needed her evening meal.

  Ahh yes…dinner.

  She turned, and opened the door. The delicious aromas of baking pastry, fried onions, and seared succulent meat greeted Annabelle. Before her, not only did a clean house await, but so did the magnificence of Ellie O’Day’s minced beef and vegetable pie. And not just one or two pies, but at least eight scrumptious beauties. Or so said the cook who’d earlier hollered up the stairs to her about the suggested menu plan for this evening.

  Annabelle sighed. The thought of pushing a fork into the flaky crust, spearing a chunk of meat, or swirling a wedge of crusty bread into the gravy seeped through her.

  Gluttony is a most grievous sin.

  How often had dearest Sister François Clare shared those very words? Plump or not, ‘tis true. Of course, she’d been grateful for any food the good sisters had offered her. Yet, months of sparse meals shared at their table had her stomach rumbling in protest of the unbearable wait for the men to return from the Knoblick.

  An image from her childhood of the pie man who’d sold his wares on the street corner near the Philadelphia mansion rolled into recall. Slight of build and with sloping shoulders, the old baker’s hawkish words filled the air: “Ere’s all hot, m’lady, ‘n straight from the ovens for ye. Come toss or buy me pies.” And every Thursday afternoon she’d done just that, happily lobbing her coin upward. If her liberty large cent landed face up, she won the meal for free. But, if her penny smacked the earth face down, the baker pocketed the congressman’s easy-earned money. Regardless the outcome, she and that tasty meat pie would always go home to Bernice.

  Oh, how she’d loved sharing those simple meals with her half-sister.

  Annabelle stepped inside and glanced at the stairway on her right. Not one speck of dust lingered on the wooden tiers. In fact, she could almost see a reflection in the polished sheen.

  Sh
e peeked inside the parlor, then the library, the rooms opposite one another off the center hallway. Rococo sofas and chairs with their serpentine scrolls, curves, and lavish carvings peered back. Even the large, oval medallion framed in wood in the center of the well-cushioned parlor sofa spoke of classic elegance. A giddy joy swirled through Annabelle as every piece of décor reminded her of her childhood in Paris.

  Earlier, everything had been carried outside for a much-needed airing. Now, the furniture rearrangements allowed for better air circulation. She glanced down and smiled. Under a thorough cleaning, even the bright woolen colors of the Aubusson carpets had leaped into life.

  Annabelle leaned against the mahogany pilaster that soared up the side of the parlor entrance. In this home she sensed a welcoming warmth. The exact opposite of the much larger mansion in Philadelphia that smothered its opulence beneath Edward’s vulgar, haughty ways.

  She shook off the sadness on the hope that she’d soon hear from her lawyer regarding her innocence. In the meantime, she would cope the best she could. Straightening, she again inhaled the mouthwatering aroma ebbing from the back of the manor. Only this time, the scent melded around the Buffalo ammonia the crew had used to darken the quartersawn oak in the library.

  Si gentil…everything is so nice inside.

  Another smile touched her mouth. She skimmed her hand over the wallpaper’s green and ivory pattern of entwining magnolia blossoms earlier buried beneath years of accumulated soot from the many fireplaces. She straightened the frame of the nearest oil painting. A meadow filled with sheep. Had the Chiswell’s once owned this drove?

  With all the pasture land around us, probably.

  Annabelle enjoyed the simple stylishness of the entry hall. Even the overhead chandelier now sparkled. In fact, the more she saw, the more her contentment multiplied, confident the upstairs was just as clean.

  She continued down the center passageway toward the back of the house. Perhaps this assignment wasn’t so bad, after all…that is, if she steered clear of a certain rogue whose kiss had complicated her world.

  Stop thinking about him and just be grateful you aren’t still compiling notes about the brawny blackguard.

  A breeze brushed her heated cheeks, and she glanced to the windows. Summer curtains billowed inward, lifting her spirits further. The crew had replaced the filthy blue-velvet draperies with swaths of linen woven in green and cream plaid.

  Simple elegance…and clean.

  She chuckled and moved on into the dining room. The scrolled lines of an oak table matched the contours of the six side chairs. She smoothed her palm over the carving of roses that graced the top curve of the closest one. Two matching armchairs flanked both ends, and all had comfortable seating upholstered in the finest of emerald brocade. In the center of the table sat a ceramic vase.

  Gold leaf designs accentuated violet, emerald, indigo and scarlet swirls.

  She slowly lifted her gaze upward. All eight arms of the brass chandelier gleamed, new tapers awaiting the flickering flame of a lucifer to illuminate the room’s modest, yet supreme grace.

  The cellarette at the end of the sideboard caught her eye. Made of mahogany with intricate rosewood inserts on the front panels, the sarcophagus-styled cabinet complete with lions heads carved into each corner and elegant animal paws feet at the bottom of all four legs, was crafted to hold bottles of whiskey and other spirits. She eased open the twin doors and peered inside. All manner of drinking paraphernalia dominated the shelves. Bottles of whiskey, wine-filled decanters, different sized glasses, pitchers, funnels, even elegant crystal goblets. She’d never seen a finer cellarette, not even in her brother-in-law’s home in Pennsylvania.

  Magnifique.

  Her heart beat faster as she closed the panels, then stared around the room. Who knew such beauty lurked beneath all the filth of so many forgotten years?

  More so, that Brennen had the insight to unveil such elegance?

  The joy within her dimmed. He would have no problem selling this small estate. Especially if a woman accompanied the male buyer. And yet why did she feel such remorse at the thought? After all, she was here to assist Ruby through a recurring sickness.

  Nothing more.

  The clog in her throat deepened. Refusing to cry, to allow any further appreciation for the gambler or his place to continue, to matter, Annabelle hurried on toward the winter kitchen, and pushed open the door. Though the cleaners had assured her they’d also scrubbed the smaller summer galley out back, even the ceiling in this room no longer appeared blackened from years of accumulated smoke.

  Heat slammed against her face as Annabelle stepped into the room. She scanned the area, then spotted the cook to her right. An honest appreciation for this woman and her plenteousness swelled inside her. “Everything smells so wonderful, Mrs. O’Day.”

  The woman at the wood stove straightened, and then mopped at her flushed face with a towel. “Do call me Ellie, me pet. I don’t answer to O’Day ever since me mister went arseways and got hisself killed in that damndable war.”

  She cooks, I’ll overlook her cursing. “Ellie it is, then,” Annabelle said, suppressing a laugh. She took another step toward the row of meat pies settled across the table. “I’m Annabelle. Ruby’s nurse. I’m not much of a cook, myself, so I must say these do look delicious.”

  “I love to prepare food. Done it all me life.” She swabbed once more at her brow. “But it’s fierce warm in here, so I’ve made me decision to move everythin’ to the outside kitchen come tomorrow. I’ll be sleeping in that upstairs loft, too, ‘stead o’ here in the house.” She angled her thumb toward the door. “But, I’ll still be servin’ me meals inside that nice dining spot behind you.”

  “I understand,” Annabelle said, fanning her face with her hand. “This room would be cozy in winter, but with the cook stove and fireplace a ’blazing like they are, ‘tisn’t a bit comfortable.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page ‘bout that, lassie.” The woman retrieved a clean fork and leaned forward. “Anyways, looks like you could use a wee bit more meat on them pretty bones.” She pushed the closest tart toward her and then offered the silverware. “Here…taste this’n and tell me what you think?”

  “Oh no. I should probably wait-”

  “Nonsense. I need to know if me seasonings are spot on.”

  Annabelle nodded, took the fork, and then plunged the three-tined implement straight into the pie. The flaky crust cracked, releasing an aromatic plume of steam. She inhaled as her gaze met the cook’s.

  Ellie winked. “Well…go on, take a bite. I ain’t got all day.”

  “All right…j-just a small sample.” Annabelle forked a chunk of beef. “I’ve been staying with the nuns for a while and they prefer their meals on the meager side.”

  The succulent piece met her mouth, the taste spreading. “Merveilleux,” she whispered.

  “I’m suspectin’ that’s French for good?”

  Annabelle nodded.

  “Excellent. As long as you work here, m’dear, we’ll eat well. That’s what Mister Brennen wants. He mentioned that you, more than the others, needed to fatten-up a bit.”

  “H-He said that did he?” Annabelle asked, mumbling around the bite before swallowing. “How unchivalrous of him.”

  “No, no, pet, he was most polite when he said it. Me thinks he likes his women on the plumper side.” With a smile, she patted her own wide girth.

  Annabelle chuckled. “I’m beginning to think Monsieur Benedict is a man of many moods.” And the next time she saw him, perhaps she’d ask what he meant about her lack of…size. The libertine. She stifled another giggle, and then shifted to safer ground. “This is better than good, Ellie. It’s incredible.” She scooped up and sampled again, this time a tasty carrot.

  “‘Tis what I do best. Feed folks. And speakin’ o’ feedin’, what time do ye figure Mister Brennen be arrivin’ home for his meal?”

  Annabelle laid aside the fork, then dabbed at her lips with a nearby
towel. “The men return around dusk. They’re making bricks for the Sisters of Saint Joseph’s new church and orphanage.”

  Ellie bobbed her head. “He told me ‘bout his work. Said me job here wouldn’t last long, but he paid me an obscene fortune to make him all his favorites. Who could say no to that?”

  “He’s quite a wealthy gamester and tends to put his money where his mouth is.” The heat intensified across Annabelle’s face at the thought of where he’d put his mouth the day of the storm.

  Thankfully, at that moment the old Irish cook glanced away and reached for an apple from a bowl. “Sounds good to me either way. So…he returns at dusk? That’ll give me just enough time to bake him a pie, too.”

  Annabelle swallowed in an attempt to curtail her spiraling emotions. “A-Apple is his favored dessert? It’s mine, too.” She glanced at the fruit in Ellie’s hand.

  “Lord-a-mighty, gal,” the woman exclaimed. “From your salivatin’ look…I’d better be makin’ two, just to have enough.”

  “Two?” Annabelle’s gaze lifted skyward. “Goodness gracious, Ellie…the bounty! And this is just your first day.” With another laugh, she headed toward the beaufat and pulled out a tray. “I’m captivated by your cooking skills,” she proclaimed, turning back. “I’m sure Brennen will be, too.”

  The woman again swabbed her face. “Ah, me pet, don’t you know men are like bagpipes…no good sounds roll from ‘em ‘til they’re full.”

  Another laugh rolled from Annabelle. “So true.” She stepped toward the table, the friendliness of the cook luring her to linger. Except she needed to get back to what was expected of her, not ruminate about nonsensical things that held no merit in her life…especially since she’d never had a man, nor ever would. “I’ll just get out of your way and take my dinner up with Ruby’s now.” She gathered the silverware, then slid a couple of meat-filled pastries onto her tray before heading to the door. On a disconcerting impulse, she paused, then glanced back. “But, do save me some of that pie,” she whispered. Turning, she exited. And the cook’s engaging laughter followed her halfway through the dining room.