Plots and Pans (4 page)

If quiet could creep through a room to knock a person sideways, Desta figured she wouldn’t still be standing. Wiping damp palms against her apron, she pressed her ear tight against the doorjamb.

Nothin’
.

She didn’t know what was worse—the two men sitting in there, not finding a single thing to say, or her bone-deep conviction that anything they might’ve said would’ve weighed on her mind even worse. With time running out, Desta dug deep and decided to be grateful that her nephew and the foreman weren’t the sort to flap their gums and whip up a tornado of troubles.

Desta shifted, resting her forehead against the wood, and sent up a small prayer.
Lord, You know I’ve got doubts, but You haven’t brought me this far to forsake me now. Please give me patience, wisdom, and skin thick enough to weather the difficulties waiting ahead. Amen
.

There was nothing for it but to grab an extra bowl for their guest and brave her way into the dining room. She slid it in front of the foreman how Mammy taught her, from the left, before lifting the lid off the large tureen and ladling him a healthy portion of stew. Then she sidled around the table to spoon out a much smaller portion for herself. No point in wasting food, and she didn’t see how she’d manage to swallow so much as a bite.

Which was a cryin’ shame, considering how even she couldn’t mess up stew too badly.

Desta busied herself with placing the napkin in her lap, nudged her water glass a smidge farther from her plate, and tried to talk herself out of being so nervous. True, she and the foreman had gone six years without wasting more than a hundred words on each other. But as a woman with eyes to see and ears to hear, Desta knew enough about the man to like and respect him.

So she hitched a smile on her face and looked up to find Mr. Carmichael giving her a grin in return. Not a penetrating stare, as though he were trying to see her brother in her features, or determine how much white or black blood she might have, or questioning why she and Simon had decided to keep their relationship a secret—just a regular old friendly smile. Desta started to relax.

“Thank you, Miss Desta.” He scooped a spoonful of stew to his mouth and started to chew. And chew … and chew … then he chewed some more before giving a mighty swallow.

Oh no
. Desta looked down at her own unassuming bowl.
What went wrong
this
time?

She’d gone a clear four months since the last time she’d made a busted batch of stew. That’s what made it her best dish. Sticking everything in a pot of boiling water and leaving it alone made for practically foolproof cooking. Best part was if you changed what vegetables and meat you added in, you came out with something different every time. Last night she’d used fish and carrots, and it hadn’t been half-bad. Yes, the fish flaked and carrots made the whole thing sweeter than she’d reckoned, but a healthy sprinkling of salt sorted it out well enough.

So what could’ve gone wrong tonight? She’d aimed for something hearty and chosen rabbit with beans. The pot had been on the fire since this morning, long enough that the meat should’ve been melting in the man’s mouth.
So why all the chewing?

She looked at Ed, who looked from his own bowl back to her. He picked up his spoon, flourished it in her direction in a wordless “you try it first!” sort of gesture, and put it back down.

Desta gave a small huff at this ingratitude, shrugged her shoulders, and tried a tiny bite. The gamey flavor of the rabbit didn’t bother her, the meat was soft, the stew heartily thick. All things considered, it ranked as one of her better efforts! She swallowed easily and shot Ed a there’s-nothing-wrong-with-this-here-stew look before spooning up a larger bite to prove it.

Again, the meat and thick broth satisfied. But the first taste hadn’t held any beans… .

“I forgot to soak the beans last night,” she croaked out after she finally choked them down. Guilt and humiliation burned her cheeks, and Desta just knew her face was turning darker.

“Grief makes a powerful distraction,” Mr. Carmichael observed, his voice kind.

Desta nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. Luckily, she didn’t need to. He kept on.

“Loss and change are two of the hardest things life throws at us. It’s easy to let something small slip when your hands are full. Why don’t we just eat around the beans for tonight?”

“For tonight?” Disbelief echoed in Ed’s words, and she shot him a glare so he’d hush up.

“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael.” Desta pushed her chair back and grabbed the handles of the tureen. “I’ll just take this into the kitchen and bring out plates of rabbit. Won’t take but a minute.”

She cleared the table in two blinks and retreated to the quiet of the kitchen. Putting down the tureen, she started picking hunks of rabbit out and placing them on a platter. Desta tried to keep her mind on the task, but she knew trouble when she found herself in it. She was a housekeeper who couldn’t cook, for a half brother who’d gone on to his reward. For tonight, putting rabbit on a platter would do. But without Simon to look after, what she was going to do every other night?

T
hings hadn’t looked any better in the cool light of morning—possibly because her new cell of a room didn’t have any windows. Miss Pennyworth made sure of that. No light came in, and no students could shimmy their way out. For good measure, she locked the door at night and during naptime.

Naturally an early riser, Jessalyn awoke just after dawn every day. BC—Before Capture—she used the extra time to slip out to the stables. Morning Glory matched her name, and they both adored the precious hours before the rest of the world awoke and the demands of the day set in.

But for the past two weeks, since Cecily snitched on her, there’d been no illicit visits to the stables. Perhaps fearing Jess would try and make a run for it, Miss Pennyworth barred her from even the standard, scheduled riding instruction. She didn’t so much as glimpse Morning Glory, though the headmistress had grudgingly promised not to send the horse away. Then again, she probably would have tried if Jess’s father didn’t pay the stables directly for Morning Glory’s boarding.

Jess could do nothing but wait until Miss Pennyworth’s report of her many misdeeds reached her father and he handed down a decision. Her stomach churned in an uneasy mix of hope and dread. Despite seven years away from home, she couldn’t help hoping that he’d come for her and take her back to Texas. Because of those same seven years, she dreaded what might come next. She turned nineteen in a couple of days—at this point she’d outgrown boarding academies.

She was the right age for marriage, and weren’t these sorts of schools nothing more or less than training grounds for well-behaved wives? Her grandparents were well placed to introduce her to society and pawn her off on an unsuspecting groom. Panic threatened at the possibility.

Steps tapped down the hallway, and Jess watched the sudden depression of the door handle. The door flung wide so fast it knocked into the wall.

Miss Pennyworth burst into the room, large nostrils quivering as though scenting misbehavior. Given nearly twice the normal amount of nose—the better to stick it into other people’s business—but rather sparse eyebrows, she perpetually looked somewhat shocked by whatever she discovered. Today she seemed surprised to find Jess sitting up in the straight-backed chair. She probably hoped to startle Jess awake, leaving her groggy and at a disadvantage.

The woman evidently hadn’t learned from her past mistakes, so Jess turned the tables.

“Miss Pennyworth, such a surprise to see you! Shouldn’t the entire school be resting for another …”—Jess picked up the clock on her desk and eyed it in disbelief—“twenty minutes?”

“My schedule is not that of the students I teach.” She sniffed in derision and fixed Jess with a beady gaze. “I’m a very busy woman and don’t have the luxury of such leisure time as you enjoy.”

Somehow Jess managed not to question what luxuries she enjoyed while locked in a windowless room. Antagonizing the headmistress could wait until after Jess knew where she was going, for how long, and whether or not Miss Pennyworth would join her.

“Very good, Miss Culpepper,” the headmistress praised. “You’re learning to hold your tongue. It’s good to see that your time with us has not been entirely wasted after all.”

Abandoning all pretense of pleasantness, Jess gave a surprised echo. “You’re sure?”

“No, Miss Culpepper, it has not,” Miss Pennyworth snapped back. “In spite of your deplorable habits, there are certain aspects of your behavior which we’ve managed to refine.”

“You misunderstand. I did not question the worthiness of my time here.”
I wouldn’t waste my breath
. “I questioned your implication that our time together has reached its end.”

The headmistress clicked bony fingers, and a maid edged into the room, carrying a familiar, half-packed valise. “We will discuss your departure in the salon while your bags are packed.” She sailed from the room, obviously assuming Jess would trail at her heels like some eager pup.

She didn’t. Jess resisted, determined to prove herself more powerful than the pull of her own curiosity, hopes, and fears. Miss Pennyworth might dictate her future for a little while longer, but Jess remained in control of herself. Instead of chasing after the headmistress for answers, she calmly helped the maid finish packing her belongings. Then she took a few more moments—both to compose herself and further enrage a waiting Miss Pennyworth—to rinse her face and hands.

In a way she felt like she was washing away any remnants of this place. It relaxed her, giving her something tangible to do as preparation for moving on. Only then, when she felt good and ready, did she make her way down the stairs to the parlor. By now other students were stirring. She even spotted Cecily down the hall and drew encouragement from her smile. In the end, it didn’t matter where Miss Pennyworth chose to send her—eventually she’d make her way home.

“Close the door behind you,” the headmistress directed when she stepped into the salon. Once Jess obeyed, she gestured to the uncomfortable horse-hair stuffed settee across from her. “Go ahead and sit down. You should probably pour yourself a bracing cup of tea before we begin.”

She might have responded that there was no such thing as a “bracing” cup of tea—particularly when served lukewarm—but something in Miss Pennyworth’s expression stopped her.

Suspicion, frustration, judgment, and even resignation were regularly served up with the headmistress’s everlasting disapproval, but here was something different. Softer somehow.

Then she spotted the platter of cakes and tartlets beside the teapot. Miss Pennyworth never served sweets, and she never looked at Jess kindly. The changes completely flummoxed Jess, bringing back the anxious panic. She couldn’t even consider a tartlet, her thoughts too full of what horrors could move the headmistress to pity.

“No thank you.” Jess kept her spine straight and her chin up. She’d meet this head-on.

“Stubborn.” Miss Pennyworth shook an admonishing forefinger, and Jess took heart.

“I’ve no illusions that you’re sorry to see me go.” She tried to sound businesslike. “But I’d rather not spend my last moments being chided. Tell me where you’re sending me, and I’ll be off.”

“You’re going to your grandparents’ in Wiltshire.” The older woman rose to her feet and pinned her with a stare. “It is my fond hope that there you will cease secluding yourself and find that people hand out rules and advice not only to instruct, but to protect the people they care for.”

Already smarting from this latest proof that Papa still didn’t want her to come home, Jess bristled at Miss Pennyworth’s censure. “I doubt I’ll be secluded, considering I don’t go about locking
myself
in rooms. There’s a vast difference between protection and imprisonment.”

“And there are ways to isolate yourself without ever shutting a door.” The headmistress pursed her lips as though trying to hold something back. Then she sighed and held out a letter.

That’s not Papa’s writing
. Jess’s pulse picked up as she took the envelope. It pressed heavily against her hand, as though burdened by the weight of its words. Her brother’s spiky scrawl sent streaks of fear shooting up her spine. Ed didn’t write to her very often, and even then he enclosed his notes with Papa’s longer letters.
It’s been too long since I heard from Papa…
.

Jess jerked her gaze away from the envelope, glaring at Miss Pennyworth’s sympathetic expression. “You’ve been holding my letters as part of my punishment.” At least, she assumed so. Papa usually wrote every week, and she hadn’t received a letter since she switched rooms. She pushed back the panic clawing up her throat to demand, “Where are the others?”

“There are no others.” The headmistress’s hands fluttered, empty and helpless.

Turning away to give herself some privacy, Jess forced a few deep breaths. She slid her finger beneath the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in a single, rough motion. She delved inside and pulled out the letter. Either her brother’s penmanship had actually gotten worse, or he’d struggled to put down the words.

A tiny mewling sound escaped Jess, far too small to unload the sudden weight of grief. Her gaze locked on that line, blurring the script until it made no sense. She staggered backward, groping for the arm of a nearby chair and collapsing into it. Darkness edged her vision.

“Breathe, Miss Culpepper.” Miss Pennyworth’s voice sounded muted, as though coming from a long distance, even though Jess felt her hand bracing her back. “Breathe deeply now.”

The vile smell of ammonia burned its way through Jess’s stupor, making her gasp for air and splutter back to her senses. She waved the headmistress and her smelling salts away, heart racing.