by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
“I do, I’m afraid. It was a curse in my younger years. Now that I’m older, I’ve learned to keep a lid on it. For the most part, anyway.”
Faith was glad to hear it. A man of Patrick O’Shannessy’s stature would be intimidating in a temper. His hands were large and calloused from hard work and every inch of his lofty frame looked to be roped with muscle.
“I threw together some corn bread, too. Nothing fancy, but at least it’ll fill your hollow spots.”
“Words cannot express my gratitude for your kind generosity, Mr. O’Shannessy.”
“No need to say thank you. As of tomorrow, it looks as if you’ll be taking over as housekeeper. I talked to the preacher and everyone else I could think of. There are no other positions available.”
Faith wasn’t surprised to hear that. She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Are you certain that you wish to hire me? In the beginning, you didn’t seem to think that I would suit.”
As he came to the table with filled bowls for her and Charity, he said, “Like I said this morning, we’ll iron out the wrinkles somehow.” When he returned a moment later with a dish for himself and a pan of bread piping hot from the oven, he added, “I’ll just be needing to know how many wrinkles we’re likely to encounter.”
Faith met his gaze. “Pardon me?”
He propped his elbows on the table, tented his forearms over his bowl, and rested his chin on his folded hands. His regard was searching and steady. “I get the impression that you and Charity come from pretty wealthy folks. That being the case, I can’t help but wonder about your experience. You wouldn’t be the first person to stretch the truth a little in order to land a job.”
Faith raised her chin. “Are you accusing me of lying, Mr. O’Shannessy?”
He arched his burnished brows. “I’m asking if you have, no insult intended. If you don’t know how to do something, you’d best tell me now.”
Faith had every confidence that she could sweep floors, polish furniture, and change bed linen. “Keeping a house isn’t that difficult. If you’ll leave me a list of the tasks you wish done tomorrow, I shall endeavor to complete them to your satisfaction.”
He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded and began eating his meal. Faith had just taken her first bite of stew and was about to compliment him on its fine flavor when he said, “It’s glad I’ll be to have you take over. I’m damned tired of eating stew and fried chicken. I can make a few other things, but overall, those are my two specialties.” Catching Faith’s appalled expression, he paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “You do know how to cook? That’s one of the main reasons I need a housekeeper. During fair weather, I work from dawn ’til dark. Any time I waste in here, trying to rustle up grub, is time I should spend outdoors.”
Faith struggled to gulp down the bit of meat and potato in her mouth. She felt her daughter’s startled gaze fixed on her face. Cheeks burning, she searched for something to say.
In Brooklyn, there had been a clear delineation between the duties of the cook, who reigned in the kitchen, and the housekeeper, who reigned over the rest of the household. “I’m rather surprised, Mr. O’-Shannessy. In my experience, a housekeeper need not be well versed in the culinary arts.”
He smiled slightly. “What kind of arts?” “Cooking, Mr. O’Shannessy. Housekeepers in Brooklyn are not expected to cook.”
“You’re having me on, right?”
“I am completely serious. When I applied for this position, I did so with the understanding that someone else would do the cooking.”
“Does that mean you don’t know how to cook?”
Faith’s stomach felt as if it had dropped to the region of her ankles. She desperately needed this job. If Patrick O’Shannessy sent them packing, Charity would soon be eating from trash barrels again.
Surely, Faith reasoned, she could learn her way around a kitchen. At home, Cook had kept books filled with recipes in a cupboard. Patrick O’Shannessy must as well. Had he not said that the stew recipe was his Irish grandmother’s? That had to mean that the ingredients and instructions for preparing the stew were recorded somewhere.
“Of course I can cook.” Even to Faith’s ears, her voice sounded strained and high-pitched. “It’s a fairly simple thing. Is it not?”
“My sister, Caitlin, makes it look simple.” He buttered a square of bread. “She can toss any old thing in a skillet, and it comes out tasting good.”
Exactly so, Faith assured herself. Mankind had been preparing food for centuries. If others could master the art, she certainly could. All she needed were some recipe books to guide her.
They finished the meal in silence. Then Faith’s new employer said, “I’ll tidy up the kitchen. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow. I normally eat breakfast at four thirty. You’ll have to be up before then to get the meal on the table. You should turn in early and rest.”
“I’m feeling much stronger tonight,” Faith protested.
“Probably because you rested all day.” He pushed to his feet, ruffled Charity’s hair, and said, “Upstairs with the both of you. There isn’t much of a mess. I’ll take care of it.”
Faith had been taking orders from men all her life. She rose and held out a hand to her daughter. “Will you make out a list of my duties for tomorrow, Mr. O’Shannessy?”
“No problem. I’ll leave it here on the table.”
Chapter Five
“Maman, why did you tell him you know how to cook?”
Faith tucked the faded quilt in around her daughter and sank onto the edge of the bed with an exhausted sigh. “You heard him, Charity. If he discovers I know nothing about cooking, he may send us away.”
The child pursed her bow-shaped mouth. “But, Maman, what will you fix him for breakfast?”
“Eggs and flapjacks,” Faith said brightly.
“Do you know how to make flapjacks?”
Faith bent to kiss the child’s forehead. “How difficult can they be? There are surely recipe books somewhere in the kitchen. I’m quite capable of reading instructions. I shall manage well enough.”
“He didn’t look in a book when he made flapjacks this morning. And I saw no books when he was opening the cupboards.”
A tingle of alarm raised goose bumps on Faith’s skin. “You didn’t?”
With a glum expression on her face, Charity shook her head. “Whatever shall you do, Maman?”
Faith thought for a moment. Then she drew a bracing breath, smoothed her daughter’s hair, and forced a smile. “It’s not for you to worry about. I shall manage, dear heart. Flapjacks are simple fare. I’m certain that I can throw some flour and milk together with a pleasing enough result.”
Charity shook her head. “No, Maman, he put in a lot of other stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“An egg.” Charity’s brows drew together in a frown. “And some drippy stuff in a tin that he keeps on top of the warmer. I think it was grease.”
“The warmer? Where, pray tell, is that?”
“The stove shelf above the burner plates. The heat from the oven keeps it warm up there. He heats his bread and stuff there.”
Faith filed that information away for later. “Can you recall what else he used to make flapjacks?”
“Sugar. And some white powdery stuff he called saleratus.”
“Saleratus?” Faith had never heard of it. “Oh, my. Flapjacks, it would seem, are going to be more difficult to make than I hoped.”
Charity sat up and hugged her knees. Her white gown, fashioned of fine lawn, boasted delicate embroidery around the ruched collar and across the bodice. In order to disguise their identities, Faith had been forced to leave all their outer clothing behind, but she had felt it was safe for them to keep their own undergarments and nightgowns.
“I shall help you in the morning, Maman. Perhaps I can remember how he made the flapjacks.”
As reluctant as Faith was to involve her daughter in this deception, she could see no al
ternative. Their survival hung in the balance. Patrick O’Shannessy was expecting a hearty breakfast the next day, and a hearty breakfast he would get. Once the first meal was behind her, she could search for his recipe books. They had to be somewhere. If not, she was in big trouble.
“We shall have to be up and about quite early,” Faith mused aloud.
Charity nodded. “I can’t imagine eating at four thirty. It’ll still be dark.”
Faith lifted her palms in a bewildered shrug. “It’s a puzzle to me as well. But he was very clear about the time.”
Faith slept fitfully and was fully awake at three o’clock in the morning. After she figured out how to light the infernal lantern in her bedchamber, she performed her morning ablutions, shivering in the chill air. Brooklyn summers could be unpleasantly warm at times, but there was seldom such a drastic drop in temperature at night. Here in Colorado, the sun baked the earth all afternoon, but the moment it dipped behind the Rockies, a frigid coldness took hold.
Once downstairs, Faith once again struggled to light a lantern. Then she set herself to the unfamiliar task of building a fire in the horrid old range. When she had finally nursed the flames to life, she was able to search the cupboards for recipe books. She found none.
Trepidation mounting, she advanced on the table to peruse the list of tasks that her employer had left for her. Milking headed the lot. Faith frowned. Surely he didn’t expect her to milk his cows. She smiled at the absurdity and read on. The second duty was almost as bewildering. Gather eggs. Hmm. Any fool knew that chickens laid eggs. But where, precisely, did his domestic fowl deposit their offerings? Undoubtedly in one of the ramshackle outbuildings, she decided. She could surely locate the eggs without much difficulty.
Smiling with renewed confidence, she read on. Breakfast. She had already anticipated that edict. The next task set her to frowning, however. Skim cream. What exactly did he mean by that? Make butter. In parentheses, he’d noted that he liked his butter salted. Slop hogs. Faith suddenly felt a bit breathless. The words began to swim, and her head started to hurt.
Feeling cold all over, she sat in stunned disbelief for a full minute. He actually expected her to consort with barnyard beasts. He was out of his mind, she decided. And in her desperation, she was even crazier, because she was actually contemplating the possibility.
“Good morning, Maman.”
Faith jumped so violently that she almost fell off the chair. “Charity!” She clamped a hand over her heart. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry, Maman. I heard you get up. I thought I’d come down to help.”
Faith had a bad feeling that she was going to need more help than her small daughter could provide.
“What’s wrong, Maman?”
As a rule, Faith tried never to burden Charity with adult concerns, but she’d been caught in a decidedly weak moment. “I’ve been going over Mr. O’Shannessy’s list. He expects me to milk the cows and feed the pigs.”
Charity’s eyes widened. “Surely not. Ladies don’t do such things.”
“It’s different here, I’m afraid. I’m beginning to realize that learning to cook is the least of my concerns.”
Charity stood at Faith’s elbow and stared at the list. “What else does it say, Maman?”
Faith swallowed, hard. “After I milk the cows, I must skim the cream and make butter.”
Charity’s eyes grew even rounder. “How does one make butter?”
Faith had only ever just spread the stuff on hot bread. “I believe it’s made in a churn.”
“Out of what?”
“Cream.” Which Patrick O’Shannessy expected her to collect from a cow.
“Perhaps we can find the churn.”
First, Faith had to catch the cows and convince the huge beasts to give over their milk. In that moment, she accepted that she didn’t have what it took to be Patrick O’Shannessy’s housekeeper.
“It’s no use, darling.” Faith struggled to keep her mouth and chin from trembling. “Your maman is hopelessly inept, I’m afraid. That being the case, we shall have to leave. We cannot expect Mr. O’Shannessy to feed and shelter us out of the goodness of his heart.”
“Where will we go, Maman?”
“Back to No Name. I shall apply for a job at the saloon.”
“What sort of work will you do there?”
“I shall be a dancing girl,” Faith replied shakily.
Charity beamed a smile. “That is perfect, Maman. You’ve always loved to dance.”
Patrick half expected to find his housekeeper still abed when he got up the next morning. He was pleasantly surprised when he heard sounds of activity downstairs. He smiled at himself in the shaving mirror as he sloshed water from the pitcher into the bowl. A housekeeper. He was going to enjoy having hot meals on the table again. Yet another luxury would be clean clothes.
When Patrick hit the bottom of the stairs, he sniffed the air, expecting to smell breakfast cooking. Nothing. Frowning, he entered the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks. Faith stood by the table. The two satchels that he’d fetched from town yesterday sat at her feet. Charity was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. O’Shannessy,” she said in that hoity-toity way of hers. In the space of twenty-four hours, her strange accent had started to grow on him. “I am tendering my resignation.”
Patrick closed the door and leaned against it. Most times, folks in Colorado just threw down their hats and said they were quitting. How like her to find a fancy way to say it.
“What brought this on? As of last night I thought we had agreed that you’d be staying.”
“I’m afraid I’ve misrepresented myself.” She held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. “In my defense, I must say it was unintentional. In Brooklyn, housekeeping is a far different undertaking than it is here.”
“I see.” He had suspected as much. Faith had “fine lady” written all over her.
She pushed at her hair. Black soot streaked her delicate wrist. “I have never milked a cow or slopped hogs, I’ve never skimmed cream or made butter, and I don’t really know how to cook. With recipe books, I’m sure I could learn, but I searched your kitchen, high and low, without finding any.”
“I cook from memory, a little of this and a little of that.”
She nodded regally. Then with a lift of her hands, she said, “So there you have it. Charity and I must be on our way. I am ever so grateful for your kindness. I only wish I had the experience you require in a housekeeper.”
A strange, achy sensation filled Patrick’s throat. From the first instant he’d clapped eyes on Faith, he’d felt attracted to her. Now the feeling had intensified and become something more, something that he couldn’t readily define. He knew only that she was beautiful and that her sense of fair play touched him deeply.
“You can’t leave, Faith. Where will you go? What will you do?”
“That is not your concern, Mr. O’Shannessy. I shall manage somehow.”
It was sheer madness, but he couldn’t let her go. He knew where she would end up. Five years from now, she’d be old before her time, the innocence in her eyes shattered by one awful experience after another. Even worse, Charity would suffer as well.
“I can’t let you do this.”
She brushed at her cheek. “You’re very generous.” Her eyes luminous in the lantern light, she searched his gaze for a moment. “You frightened me when I first saw you. You have the air of a dock ruffian about you.”
“Do I, now?”
She smiled. “You do, Mr. O’Shannessy. Having met you and come to know you this little while, I shall never again judge a man’s character by the outward trappings.”
“Thank you. That’s a fine compliment.”
“Sincerely meant, I assure you.”
Patrick pushed away from the door. “So how’s about staying and letting this dock ruffian teach you how to cook and milk a cow?”
She shook her head. “I’ve far too much to learn. In orde
r to remain here, I need to feel that I’m earning our keep. It wouldn’t be fair to you otherwise.”
“So you’ll go back to No Name and end up at the Golden Slipper? You’ve no idea what awaits you there, Faith. Men will use you as if you’re nothing, and they’ll never look back. In exchange for a coin, you’ll sell your soul, not once but a dozen times a night. The next morning, the saloon owner will take half your wages. You’ll earn just enough to survive, but never enough to leave. And one day soon you’ll feel so used up and exhausted you’ll no longer care.”
Her face drained of color. “Nevertheless, I cannot in good conscience prevail upon your kindness when I’ve nothing to give in return.”
“You’ve everything to give. If you’re going to prostitute yourself, damn it, do it here.” Patrick had no idea where that had come from. He only knew that she was about to make the worst mistake of her life, and he couldn’t allow it to happen. “I’ll pay you a dollar a pop and take half your wages for your room and board. At least here, Charity will be safe.”
“Are you asking me to become your paramour, Mr. O’Shannessy?”
That was a fancy term for it, and Patrick had no such intention. But for the moment, it was the only reason he could come up with to keep her there. “In the meantime, I can be teaching you all that you need to know about keeping my house. In time, after you’ve learned everything, we can renegotiate.”
“So I’ll only be your paramour temporarily?”
“Trust me, it’s a better offer than you’ll get at the Golden Slipper. And no one need ever know, either. When it comes time for you to leave, your reputation won’t be in complete shreds, only a bit tarnished.”
She nodded slightly, which gave Patrick reason to hope. Then, her lovely eyes dark with shadows, she asked, “When you say no one need ever know, will that include Charity?” Her chin came up a notch. “I would very much like to maintain her high regard.”
In that moment, Patrick almost leveled with her. She held herself so rigidly that he fancied she might shatter like fragile glass if he touched her. “Of course it will include Charity. She’ll never know—or even guess that anything untoward is going on between us.”