by Ann Moore
He looked up, surprised. “Absolutely not. Would you?”
“No,” she said firmly.
Relief showed in his eyes. “Well, that’s fine, then. Why don’t you come with me, Missus Donnelly, and I’ll introduce you to Hopkins. She’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Grace called to Jack, telling him to stay put until she came for him, then went into the kitchen, where she was introduced to a woman much older than herself.
“Welcome to Wakefield Heights.” The woman’s accent still held a trace of northern England, or Scotland, perhaps, though Grace could not quite tell.
“For want of a name,” Wakefield explained sheepishly, then rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, I leave you in capable hands.” He backed out of the room. “Let Hopkins know if there’s anything you need in the way of your rooms, Missus Donnelly, and I will have it seen to right away. Oh, by the way!” His face was suddenly boyish. “We have a cow! Litton has made a place for her next to the stable.”
Hopkins shook her head and made a little whooshing noise as if to say the whole thing was nonsense, but Wakefield ignored her.
“Whatever you need,” he repeated expansively.
“Thank you. Sir,” Grace added, though with difficulty.
She’d told herself that it meant nothing to be the servant of another, that it was simply a position and one she was enormously fortunate to have been offered, but now she realized she’d been fooling herself; it did mean something. Grace had grown up in a time of masters and servants, in a class society she’d thought was well behind her; indeed, hadn’t she once been mistress of a manor house with servants of her own? Though she had never thought of the Sullivans as servants—not Bridget, who’d helped deliver her twin babies, Mary Kate and Michael Brian, and then had helped her bury the infant boy; and certainly not young Nolan, who’d saved Grace’s life on that terrible winter’s night, only to lose his own at the hand of the squire. No, not servants—more like family, inexorably woven into the drama of daily living. Is that what she would become here? Grace wondered. She hoped not. She did not want to be subsumed into the life of another family, only to create and sustain a family life that was wholly her own, one that gave her children a sense of who they were in the world.
“Missus Donnelly? Did you hear me?”
Grace returned instantly to the present, realizing that Hopkins had been opening and closing cupboard doors the entire time and explaining their contents.
“Yes. Thank you. It’s a good kitchen.”
“It should be. I have arranged it myself.” Hopkins led Grace through a door that opened into a small passageway. “Here are your quarters, then.” She pushed open a second door, revealing a large, sunny room with a smaller area attached. “Furnished, as you can see.”
The bed in its simple wooden frame was easily big enough for Grace and Mary Kate; there would be room to put a cot for Jack next to it. In the larger area, there was a cupboard for personal crockery, a table and chairs, plus a bench under the window that afforded a pretty view out the back to the garden. Grace could already see Mary Kate sitting there, wrapped in her shawl, watching the day until she was well enough to be out in it herself. A small hearth would keep them all plenty warm.
“Aye, that’ll do.” Grace was pleased.
Hopkins sniffed. “I should certainly think so. All this room to yourself and no need to share it with your cow.”
Grace bit her tongue. She would strive to put one good meal on the table for the doctor before she put this woman in her place.
“The children and I will be very comfortable,” she said evenly.
Hopkins frowned. “Children?”
“My son is just there, playing with the doctor’s dog.” Grace waved to him out the window. “And my daughter’s still in hospital, though she’ll be coming any day, now the fever’s left her.”
“Two children? In this house? And one of them sick?” Hopkins seemed so incredulous that Grace half expected her to put a hand over her heart and go into a swoon. “Is Doctor Wakefield aware of this?”
“Oh, aye. ’Twas all his idea.”
Hopkins shook her head. “No, this will never do.”
“I know your mistress is unwell, but she won’t even know we’re here, aside from the fine meals coming her way.”
“Miss Abigail requires absolute peace and quiet,” Hopkins stated proprietarily. “Not even the doctor knows how she suffers, or he’d never have allowed this. Children are dirty and noisy, and ill-mannered, especially those of …” She eyed the old, patched dress and worn boots Grace had put on in place of the trousers and moccasins.
“Those of what?” Grace pulled herself up to her full height so that she stood nose to nose with the housekeeper.
Hopkins took a step back, then glanced again at Jack out in the yard. “Of such a young age,” she amended with a tight smile. “Most difficult to keep in hand.”
“You leave my children to me,” Grace warned quietly. “And I’ll keep them well away from your mistress. And from you. Count on that.”
“Fine.” Hopkins pursed her lips. “Now”—she led the way back into the kitchen—“you’ll want to see the rest of the house. Oh, good, Enid, there you are. This is Missus Donnelly, the new cook. Missus Donnelly, my daughter, Enid.”
Grace smiled at the young woman, who bobbed her head shyly. Enid looked a great deal like her mother, even to hair and dress, but beneath the stern exterior her manner was more gentle; Grace could see that immediately.
“How do you do, Enid?” Grace put out her hand. “I believe the doctor told me you were maid to his sister?”
Enid blushed. “I help mother with Miss Abigail and see to the rest of the house. As well, I’ve been doing the cooking.”
“’Tis a big job of work, that. And you’ve kept the kitchen in fine shape,” Grace commended.
“It’s yours now, and welcome to it.” Enid gave a great sigh of relief. “I’ve plenty of other work needs catching up.”
“Missus Donnelly brings two children into the house with her,” Hopkins reported. “Two.”
“Oh!” Enid’s face lit up, but she immediately corrected the show of emotion. “Oh,” she repeated, more soberly now. “Does Miss Wakefield know?”
“She may. If not, I’ll have to tell her.” Hopkins glanced at the timepiece pinned to her shirtwaist. “She’ll want her morning drink now, Enid. Go and ask her—tea or coffee.”
Enid hesitated, then jumped when a bell began to ring.
“Go on, now,” her mother shooed. “Don’t make her wait! Not that way,” she ordered as Enid started for the door. “The back hall.”
Enid turned on her heel and headed toward Grace’s new quarters but then made a sharp left in the narrow hallway.
“There’s a stair, leads to the chambers above,” Hopkins informed Grace. “She’s a flighty girl, Enid, tends to forget these things. Servants are to be invisible, to use the back stair.”
“Are you from England, then, Missus Hopkins?” Grace asked. “Were you in service there?”
Hopkins drew herself up proudly. “I was. At a fine country house in the North. Started in the kitchen, but moved up—under maid, then upper. Would’ve held the keys had I stayed, but I married the Reverend Mister Hopkins and that ended my career.”
“Is he living, your husband?”
“He brought us all out here with a mind to ministering to the godless Chinese.” Hopkins’ eyes darkened briefly, and a muscle at her jawline twitched. “It did him in, in the end.”
“I’m sorry. I’m widowed, as well.”
“Are you?” Hopkins replied coolly. “Surprising how many come off the boats calling themselves ‘Widow This’ or ‘Missus That’—prostitutes, most of them, but who can tell in a city like this?”
Grace felt her blood begin to boil; she was about to speak when Enid rushed in from the back hall and dashed to the cupboard.
“Tea,” the girl announced, lifting down a china pot.
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nbsp; “That is Missus Donnelly’s job now,” Hopkins directed.
Enid paused, hand midair, and looked from her mother to Grace and back again.
“But she’s only just come. Still got her coat on! She don’t even know where everything is yet.”
“I have shown her.” Hopkins removed the pot from her daughter’s hand and held it out to Grace while still talking to Enid. “I would like you to finish dusting the doctor’s study now he’s gone out, and then come back for the tray.”
“Yes, Mother.” Enid shot Grace a look of apology.
“It’ll be ready in a quarter of an hour.” Grace smiled at the girl, unruffled. “Thank you, Enid.”
Enid blushed and backed out of the room.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Perhaps this afternoon will be a better time to see the rest of the house, though certainly there’s no need as your duties are confined to the kitchen,” Hopkins pointed out.
“Don’t worry about me,” Grace said breezily, taking off her coat and reaching for an apron. “I’ll see it on my own whenever I like.”
The housekeeper sniffed her disapproval and stood for a moment, then left the kitchen in a decided huff.
Grace was determined to pay her no mind. She checked out the window and saw that Jack was now wrestling around in the grass with the delighted dog, and then she got to work. First, she poured hot water into the pot to take the chill off, swirling it around before emptying it; next, she measured out the tea leaves, then added the boiling water; last, she covered the pot with a quilted cozy to keep it warm. While it steeped, she lay out a tray with linen cloth, cup and saucer, tea strainer, milk pitcher, and sugar bowl, beside which she set a tiny silver spoon.
Rummaging around the food safe and then the cupboard, she came up with a fruited loaf of some kind and a crock of butter that still smelled relatively sweet. She cut two slices off the loaf and buttered them generously, then cut each slice in half and arranged the pieces on a plate. The china was lovely and the silver delicately scrolled—it had been a long time since Grace had handled such fine things, and she remembered the pleasure of it.
Since this was to be a calling card of sorts to Abigail Wakefield, Grace took down a small cut-crystal vase and added it to the tray, then went out to the yard to look for any late flowers. There were a few hardy daisies blooming in a patch by the stable, so she snipped three of them and carried them back to the house. I guess that sums me up pretty well, she decided, taking one last look at her handiwork—tough but friendly. She was laughing at herself when Enid returned to the kitchen and was rewarded with the girl’s wide-eyed expression of surprise and pleasure.
“That’s very pretty, Missus Donnelly. Very pretty, indeed!”
“Thank you, but won’t you please call me ‘Grace’? There aren’t so many of us here as to stand on formality, are there?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I never could.” Enid shook her head vigorously. “My mother wouldn’t stand for it. No, absolutely not. There is to be no”—she paused, searching for the word—“impropriety,” she sounded out slowly. “For it reflects badly on master and servant alike.” Pleased that she’d recalled the edict so accurately, Enid smiled.
“Am I to call you Miss Hopkins, then?”
“No, ma’am, as I’m below—Enid’ll do.” She looked down at the toes of her boots. “Head cook and housekeeper are the same station,” she added. “Though I heard the doctor call you Missus Donnelly, while my mother is ‘Hopkins’ to them above.”
“I lived in a manor house once,” Grace said, seeing in her mind’s eye the grand house of her first husband, the house that would one day be her daughter’s to sell or keep, if it still stood.
“Were you cook there, as well, missus?”
“I was a bit of everything there.” Grace smiled wryly. “But that was a long time ago. Call me what you like, Enid, but in my book no man or woman is higher than another, all honest work being the same in the eyes of God.”
Enid glanced toward the kitchen door. “I wouldn’t go sharing that with my mother, Missus Donnelly. You’ll not eat a peaceful dinner otherwise. She’s set in her ways about things like God and work.”
“That’s good advice. Though ’tis my table she’ll be attending now.” Grace grinned. “Best get that up to your mistress before the tea cools.”
“Yes, ma’am. Will I meet the bairns later?” Enid asked, a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“Jack’s outside there, just there. Mary Kate’s still in hospital, but the doctor says she’ll soon be well.”
“It’ll be a nice bit of company with the young ones about the place, though I expect they’ll have to keep themselves quiet and out of sight, or we’ll be on to looking out another cook in this kitchen. It’s always something, you know.” Enid lifted the heavy tray. “I’ll bring this back down when she’s finished with it.”
“That’ll be fine, Enid; thank you.”
Done with the first chore of the new job, Grace went out into the yard and called Jack to her. Together they explored the neatly fenced-in garden, which had already given up its best effort and now harbored mainly gourds of various shapes and sizes—green or yellow squash and orange pumpkin—cabbages, and some root vegetables that would have to be cellared before the first frost. It was a fine garden, Grace thought; Mister Litton was to be commended for coaxing such a thing out of this place.
Taking Jack into the stable was a mistake that took the better part of half an hour to correct, but at last she got him into the kitchen for a meal of the fruited bread and butter and a pared apple from the basket that had appeared mysteriously beside the kitchen door. Promising him another romp with the dog after (if it could be found), she got him to lie down upon the big bed in their new room. Thankfully, miraculously, he fell instantly to sleep. Grace covered him with a blanket and left the door open so he could hear her in the kitchen when he awoke.
Enid had already begun a stew early in the morning, so Grace needed only to ladle this into bowls for those who wanted it. The mistress would have none, she was told, having retreated into sleep, and Mister Litton did not come in, so it was only Enid and her mother who ate a bowl quickly at the table before getting back to their duties. Clearly, Grace had gotten off on the wrong foot with Missus Hopkins, though she sincerely doubted a right one existed; she decided to work on the situation by appealing to the woman’s apparent fondness for good food—Missus Hopkins was far more solid in figure than was her willowy daughter, and Grace suspected that a fruit pie here and there, a bit of cream cake now and then, warm puddings, and sweet sauces would make the housekeeper less cantankerous. For the sake of the children and the harmony of the household, Grace was prepared to make an effort.
She sat at the table now, making a list of the provisions she would get at tomorrow’s market. There was an account at the butcher’s, she’d been told, and Enid knew the best fishmonger stalls. Grace would not need the services of a bakery unless the doctor or his sister requested a particular delicacy, as she had mastered the art of fine baking and could turn out anything once she knew the ingredients. She’d had a look at the stores of flour and sugar, however, and these would need to be replenished. She was looking forward to visiting the market again, as there had been many pieces of produce unfamiliar to her; she assumed these were shipped up from the South—fragrant fruits and colorful vegetables, all exorbitantly priced, however—or perhaps they came from the valleys to the east.
Her list completed, Grace set about dinner. From the remains of yesterday’s dry chicken and potatoes she fashioned a pot pie to which she added carrots and onions from the garden, covering the lot with a rich gravy sealed beneath her own buttery pastry shell. She would serve that with biscuits and, for after, a bottled fruit compote she’d found on the pantry shelf, though who had bottled it and when, she had no idea, as they’d neglected to label it or leave a note. It would be simple food she prepared tonight, but hearty and nourishing, and after she’d learned more about their eating habits,
the meals could be more ambitious. The thought of an abundance of seafood again was enough to spark her memory for recipes she’d not been able to prepare in a very long time.
Thinking of it all made Grace recognize a growing enthusiasm for her new job. Cooking in Kansas had meant beef, beef, and more beef, along with buffalo meat, chickens and eggs, and whatever vegetables she could get from local farmers. She’d missed fresh fish, mussels and clams, grouse and pheasant, venison, crisp apples, juicy pears, wild berries; she hadn’t let herself think about it, but now that these things were again available to her, she realized her hunger for them and couldn’t wait to reintroduce them to the children.
When Jack arose in the late afternoon, he and Grace carried their carpetbags into the bedroom, then moved the trunk against the wall next to the head of the bed. In her anxiety over Mary Kate, Grace had thrown in only a change of clothing for each of them, medicines, and food for the journey. The one trunk she’d insisted upon bringing, that which she couldn’t bear to leave behind, held those things most precious to her, and she resisted the urge to open it right now, to check that everything was still there. She had thought to clean their clothes as soon as she could make time for a wash day, only to be told by Wakefield that she should include her things and the children’s with the household wash that went to the laundress every week.
Grace had barely been able to believe her good fortune in that: Wash day in Kansas had meant dragging the two heavy tubs into the yard, building a fire and setting one tub over it to heat the water that was brought up bucket by bucket from the river, filling the other tub with cold water, shaving a bar of lye soap into the hot tub, then adding the clothes in loads—heavy, dark trousers and skirts; blankets and bedding; white undergarments and stockings—to be stirred until they were clean, then rinsed in the cold water, after which they were scrub-rinsed one final time in the river, wrung out, and pegged to dry in the hot sun or freezing air. Backbreaking work, all of it, and that didn’t include pressing them with the flatiron. Mary Kate had helped, of course, but Grace had hated to see her little hands burned and reddened by the soap and the boiling water. Now, apparently, Enid would take the household laundry to Wah Lee’s Chinese Laundry; Sister Joseph had told Grace that previously the city’s laundry had all been sent to the Washerwoman’s Lagoon down near Black Point, where it had been pounded and scrubbed by Indian, Mexican, and Chilean laundresses, though now the operations were almost exclusively Chinese. Grace’s hands ached just thinking about those women washing clothes day in and day out, and she hoped they were well paid for such arduous work.