The True Love Wedding Dress (34 page)

It seemed that Patrick had himself a new housekeeper. And wasn’t that a fine kettle of fish? Every time he looked at the woman, his mouth went to watering. She was a beautiful female, make no mistake—one of the prettiest that he’d ever seen. How in the hell was he going to rub elbows with her, day in and day out, and manage to keep his hands to himself?

In his thoughtless and drunken younger years, Patrick would have solved his dilemma with a Saturday-night visit to the upstairs rooms of the saloon, but now that he was older, his conscience bothered him if he even thought about it. That left him only one option: taking lots of midnight swims in the ice-cold creek near his house. Somehow that solution didn’t strike him as being very appealing.

 

“I hope you fine ladies like stew,” Patrick O’Shannessy said that evening as he ladled up servings from the cast-iron pot that Faith had watched over all afternoon. “It’s one of the few things I can leave unattended for long stretches.”

Faith was just relieved that the concoction wasn’t ruined. She’d stirred it several times over the course of the afternoon, but beyond that, she hadn’t known what to do. As a child, she’d always gotten a scolding when she ventured into the kitchen, and as an adult, she’d trespassed on Cook’s domain only to discuss the weekly menu. As a result, the goings-on in a kitchen were completely beyond her ken.

At her host’s insistence, Faith had taken a seat at the table with her daughter and was waiting to be served. She felt much stronger after resting for several hours. “We quite like Irish stew,” she told him. “At home we often had stew for lunch on cold winter days.”

He chuckled. “I can’t be sayin’ if it’s Irish or not.” With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he added, “Although I suppose that’s a good bet. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, and she was about as Irish as they come.” He sent them a twinkling glance. “Straight from the old country, with fiery red hair and a temper to match.”

“Ah,” Faith said with a smile, “now I know where you got your coloring, Mr. O’Shannessy. Have you her temper as well?”

“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.”

“M
aman, 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 alternative. 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.”