Spiral Path (Night Calls Series Book 3) (38 page)

“When you think of the cost of outfitting a sailing ship,
the danger . . . trust men to ruin trade with war,” I muttered, heading to the
farthest table. Several sacks of large green lentils lay on the counter. “Good,
Jan brought them up for us. We need to put these to soak. How many servings of
lentil soup for supper?” It would be our last meal of the day, and needed the
most preparation. I poured a large amount of the tiny seeds into a copper pot, grabbed
a bucket and dipped water out of the big kettle set aside for cooking.

“One hundred sixty bowls,” she said firmly.

I turned around and stared, the dripping bucket still in my
grip.

So. Margaret did not lack for courage.

My stomach fluttered and I suddenly felt too warm.

If we made twice the amount allowed and no one came, we
might be in trouble.

“Then we need that entire sack and more than one pot,” I
said, and dumped the water into the first tall stock pot. I was pleased that my
voice did not tremble. As I moved on to the next pot, Margaret bent over the
raw lentils.

“Oh, Miss Sorensson, there are twigs in here!”

I pulled a ladling spoon off a rack and leaned to show her
how to skim off the top of a soaking pot.

o0o

“We usually cut up vegetables over there, because it’s the
shortest table.” Daniel pointed.

“Then we’ll put our vegetables over there. This way,
gentlemen!” I gestured, and the boys dropped their bushels of carrots and
onions on the block of wood.

“I know how to set a table!” one boy shouted in the dining
room.

“They are already set, we’re not supposed to touch them!”
came a girl’s response.

In the midst of swirling children, the yelling made me feel
right at home. I grabbed two chalk tablets hanging on the wall and hurried into
the dining room.

“Who can draw?” I shouted over their argument. The short,
solid girl’s hand shot up into the air. She had a determined chin, and I
noticed the boys did not contradict her. “Here. Choose one place setting and
draw where each piece of silverware and china is placed, so we can set up for
the staff tomorrow.” I waved the other tablet around. “Can you two count
everything so we know what we’ll need to set up each meal?”

“Even napkins?” the absurdly thin boy with dark hair and
eyes asked.

The other boy, dressed in Sunday farmer best, reached for
the tablet. “
Everything.
Start counting
plates, Johnson.”

A job. They all needed a job. I was used to trained people
sliding into kitchen work . . .

I rushed back to the kitchen and found the oldest of the
young men. Tall, dark-haired and brown-eyed, still smooth-faced, he was old
enough to eye me thoughtfully. Apparently someone had told him that I was also
teaching, because he waited for me to speak.

“I understand that you know how to cut up a side of beef,” I
said.

“Yes, Miss. My uncle is a butcher. Runs a fine shop in—”

“I need at least a hundred pounds of stew meat. No pork. I
don’t want the fancy, tender cuts. Dice the meat small, about this size.” I
showed him the length of my nail joint on my thumb. He held up his own hand,
and his first joint was about as long.

“I can do it.”

I eyed his fine trousers and jacket. “Do you want to wear
those clothes to do it in?”

He startled, his body jerking. “You want the meat cut up
tonight?”

“Yes. I want to soak it in wine.”

Nodding briskly, he said: “I have some clothes I wear . . .
out. I’ll go change.”

“Out” being the tavern
you were caught in.

“Miss Sorensson,” Margaret murmured, and I jumped at the
sound of her voice. “I don’t think the children will be able to keep up the pace
that the older boys will attempt.”

“No,” I agreed. “They can go rest between cleanups. Are we
going to have enough help?”

Margaret actually smiled. “I have heard that we will get a
few extras tomorrow. Little Moira purposely sauced off to a maid so she could
come learn how to make biscuits.”

I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. “She probably thinks
they will be roaring ones.”

Margaret looked thoughtful. “I wonder if Professor
Livingston would give us permission to teach a class in roaring biscuits?”

“Perhaps once you have worked out the exact spell,” came my
cousin’s voice behind us.

We both jumped, which I was certain was her plan. Cousin
Esme liked surprising people. Considering how often life surprises you, I
imagine she considered it good training for us.

My cousin looked elegant in a dress of flowing cranberry
silk with a brocade jacket, her hair tumbled high and dressed with feathers and
holly leaves and berries. “I am impressed. For some reason, none of the kitchen
groups have ever gotten together to start the night before, even to set out
their tools and root cellar vegetables.”

“We felt our results would have a better chance at being
edible with some advanced preparation,” Margaret said carefully.

Cousin Esme’s appearance saved me from having to ask something
of Kymric, who might rebuff me. “Professor Livingston, Mrs. Gardener mentioned
that the wine shop delivered a barrel Kymric was not pleased with. It is dryer
than you care for. May we have some of it to soak the beef cubes?”

“Yes, but only if Miss Rutledge flashes the wine afterward
before you add it to your stew. Did you intend to do that?” my cousin asked,
her eyebrows lifting slightly.

I was confused—we always boiled when we soaked—but Margaret
said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

“I was going to put some parsley and thyme in the soup, and
bay leaves,” I added.

“It sounds very flavorful. You may add herbs to your wine
and oil, but the leaves will be crisped by the flash, after you remove the
meat. Do not use those soaked herbs in the soup. You may tell Kymric I have
approved wine for your beef marinade.” With a wave of her hand, she said: “Please,
continue,” and walked off.

“She’ll be back,” I muttered to Margaret. There I was,
muttering again. “Oil? What kind of oil? Beef suet? Butter? Olive oil?”

“It will get cold quickly in the kitchen. We need something
that won’t become solid right away.”

“Want to try a bit of olive oil with the wine? I wish we
could ask my cousin M—Mrs. Donaltsson if we need some cider in here.” I knew
you needed some acid against the fat, when you soaked meat, and sometimes salt,
but this didn’t need brining, not with long cooking. Wine was acid, wasn’t it?

“We could mix it and taste a bit. If it doesn’t taste good
to us, then we don’t make a bunch for the food,” Margaret said.

“We’ll need fat for the beef soup, too.” I heard raised
voices, and wondered if we were going to get more children than I’d planned on.
“I’m going to mix the dough for the apple bread now. I don’t want to trust to
our time tomorrow. Watching them is going to take a lot of effort.”

“You’re staying up?” Margaret asked.

“The bread is best if it sits a bit before eating.”

“Then I might as well make the pound cake now. We should stay
up together.” She gave me a knowing look, and I felt very junior in the
partnership. I had thought one of us sleeping and one working was a better use
of our time. “I’ll find an apron.”

That look . . . .

Chaperones for each other.

I completely forgot the need for a chaperone in the cities. Marta
had warned me about that.
Have to pay
attention to that, blast it . . . .

It was as if, deep inside me, my power always knew it could
bloom to save me.

Daniel and James appeared as if I’d conjured them.

“We thought you could use more help?”

“We can, indeed. Let’s see how good you are with cutting
apples.”

o0o

As I finished separating balls of dough into piles on the
bread board and covered them for rising, I heard a soft whooshing, like the
sound of grain pouring into a chute. A cloud of fine pale flour billowed like
mist around me from behind. In my solitary candlelight it looked like fog.

The giggling sounded like James and Daniel. I walked through
the wave of flour into the mixing nook where a huge stoneware bowl rested on a
pedestal; the boys were easing a medium-sized bowl down on a neighboring table.
Everything was covered in a thin film of ground wheat. They were trying to
muffle their laughter.

“Do you gentlemen need help?” I asked.

They jumped.

I began to understand why Cousin Esme enjoyed doing that.

Both boys straightened. They had just dumped flour on top of
what looked like creamed butter—soft butter and sugar completely mixed together—in
the huge bowl. “So you are going to mix this for Miss Rutledge?”

“Yes, Miss Sorensson,” Daniel said quickly. “She made a
batch, and we are making another. She measured the ingredients.”

“No shells,” I said, and they both shook their heads
violently, flour poofing off their hair.

“She already cracked four pounds of eggs for us,” James said
quickly.

“Very well. Don’t forget to sweep.” I left.

Margaret sent me a look of mute entreaty as I approached the
table where she worked. Neat rows of small bread tins full of batter lined up
before her.

We could do this. “It will be all right,” I told her.

Her expression stiffened. She gazed beyond me, and I turned.

In the gloom beyond our candlelight, something large and
white moved majestically toward us.

I took a step closer to Margaret.

It fluttered, rippling like curtains in a breeze.

Was this some sort of ghost?

Closer . . . closer . . . .

The mass shrank and resolved into a small figure swathed in a
bed sheet, a pillowcase wrapped like a turban around its head.

I pressed my lips together.

I will not laugh.

Moira’s chin was lifted, her lips pressed tightly in a line.
“This time we will make something good. They won’t have anything to laugh at.”

There are many kinds of punishment. The scorn of your peers
was one of them.

“Yes, we will make something good,” I told her.

“Let’s get you an apron so you may move freely,” Margaret
said, gesturing toward the cloak room.

o0o

Two meals down, one
left to serve.

Goddess, I was so tired. I had respected Mrs. Gardener, but
standing in her shoes for a night and day was an experience I did not want to
repeat. Her endurance was astounding.

“Is this right, Miss Sorensson?” James asked, pausing with
the block scraper in the air.

“That looks good,” I answered. “The kitchen staff will sand
again next week.” I leaned against the pillar in the kitchen and savored the
meaty scent of lentils in the supper stew.

The crashing of pans no longer made me wince. Mr. Jones, our
meat cutter, had taken on the washing of pans, and was directing his crew of
three as they finished up the biscuit trays. We were half-successful with the
bread—it was so cold I couldn’t get the sourdough to rise, so biscuits loomed
for dinner, but the class in biscuit making was a success.

My only concern was that the younger students seemed to feel
that learning how to make biscuits and macaroons was a reward for Saturday
crew.

I did not think Professor Livingston wanted that response to
rules breaking.

But who knew? Cousin Esme always had more than one reason
for doing anything,
that
I was
convinced of . . . .

“Miss Sorensson! I could not stop those boys from taking the
last of the biscuits!” came Moira’s voice. She appeared in a warm wool dress of
dark green, a real apron tied around her waist, not quite as large as her sheet
of last night. Carefully she balanced two nested bread baskets with a butter
bell set inside them.

“Your cheese biscuits were just too good,” I told her,
taking the basket and plate from her and setting the butter bell over on the
marble countertop used for making pastry.

It was time to send them all off to rest. If I was
exhausted, they were stumbling. I had to avoid even a hint that they were not
tough enough to keep going. A group of tired, quarreling children would not
make supper go smoothly.

Margaret appeared around the corner, elegant in an
old-fashioned apron across her chest and dress front. “There is a first time for
everything,” she told us, the right side of her mouth crooked in satisfaction. “I
could not have imagined the pleasure of escorting Miss Bradford from the dining
room before she was pleased to leave.”

“She will punish us for it later,” whispered Moira, her eyes
growing wider as she realized I had heard her.

Margaret’s eyes burned holes in her face, but she stepped up
to the stew stove, glancing beneath the simmering stock pots to gauge whether
more wood was needed.

As she had only learned the level of heat needed a few hours
ago, I was quite proud of her. I wasn’t sure if the children would retain their
kitchen lessons, but Margaret surely would.

“Moira, if you would help dry the last of the dishes, we can
go rest our weary feet.”

Sighing dramatically, Moira nodded and headed toward the
sinks.

The noise level increased behind us.

I did not even turn around.

I raised my voice: “No hitting with the towels!”

The noise dropped. Margaret’s smile grew wider.

“Brothers,” I explained to her.

“I clearly missed a great deal, never having to work in the
kitchen,” she replied, coming to me. She lowered her voice. “Professor
Livingston is in her sitting room. She’d like to speak with you.”

I hung my apron on a nail and smoothed back the escaped
threads of my hair. I was wearing the nicest of what I considered my working
dresses, a pale gray, high-necked garment with sleeves tighter from the elbow
to wrist, and therefore less likely to drag into food. With luck, anything that
had splashed was on that apron.