Whiskey Island (33 page)

“Don’t do this, Lena. Find another house to work in if you must, but not the Simeon house.”

“If there are other positions, I’ve not heard of them. Talk doesn’t fill the stomach, Terry. I have to take what’s offered or we might well starve together, and everyone we love along with us.”

She swept out of the doorway, and moments later he heard her leaving the house. Outside, snow began pouring from the sky with the ferocity of a summer thunderstorm. He imagined the hellish trip ahead of her, pulling the cart over snow-covered paths, setting up on the hill as more snow filled the cart and cooled her steaming kettles and loaves. She would stand outside in this blizzard, and the men would scurry out of the ships only long enough to buy their dinner, swallow it hurriedly and return to their work.

Then she would leave her cart in a safe place and find her way to Euclid Avenue.

He had asked her not to trade this wretched life for the relative ease of a position in the Simeon mansion.

Despite everything, he knew, deep in the farthest corner of his heart, where he still loved Lena and even life itself, that she should have listened to him.

“You’re half-frozen, child, and dripping on my carpet!”

Lena shivered, her eyes lowered, her hands tucked into her arms to warm them. “It’s sorry I am, truly. But I’ve been out in the snow all morn-morning. And there was no way of avoid-avoiding it.”

The cook, a large woman who obviously tasted everything she prepared, harrumphed. Her name was Esther Bloomfield, but Lena knew from Nani that the staff simply called her Bloomy. “Stand up straight and let me take a look at you.”

Lena couldn’t seem to stop her teeth from chattering. She remembered the day just before the accident, that one perfect, golden day, when she and Terence had stayed out on the Avenue for hours and never felt the cold. But today the sun did not shine, the temperature was punishing and a cutting wind blew directly off the lake. She was lucky, she supposed, to have survived the trip without freezing off her fingers and toes.

She straightened and dropped her arms, but she spread her cloak first so that Bloomy could look her over carefully.

“Nani assures me you can cook?”

“That I can.” Lena knew better than to say too much.

“And you’ve had experience?”

In as few words as possible, Lena told her about the business she’d started. “There’s never so much as a crumb or a lick left over,” she finished with pride. “I’m known for my bread, my soups and stews.”

“Mr. Simeon does like a good stew now and then. If there’s no one here to see him eat it,” she added in a lowered voice.

Lena didn’t smile. What an odd world it was when a poor man’s greatest pleasure was a rich man’s shame.

Bloomy peered at Lena through wire-rimmed spectacles. She was gray haired and, despite her ample hips and bosom, thin faced. She moved slowly, as if her joints were glued in place. “Tell me how you would prepare a hen, if you had one to prepare?”

Only rarely had Lena been offered that opportunity, but she detailed what she would do, given the chance. They moved on to other topics. Vegetables, breads, puddings. Lena answered when she could and shamelessly admitted ignorance when necessary.

“But I can learn how to make anything,” she ended, when Bloomy seemed to be done with questions. “I know this sounds odd, truly I do, but food speaks to me. It tells me what it will go well with and what it won’t. If it smells a certain way, I know to add a sprinkling of chives. If it smells another, to add thyme. I know how to try new ideas with small portions, so as not to waste more than a bite or two. I—”

“That will do,” Bloomy said, not unkindly. “If Mrs. Simeon agrees, I’ve already decided the job is yours. But you’d do well to remember you work for me. I tell you what to do, and you obey. Do you understand?”

“I’ll depend on you for instructions, and you can depend on me to do my best following them.”

Bloomy smiled. “I think we’ll rub on well together, dear. I don’t approve of the Irish, you know, but I’ll admit the girls we’ve had are hardworking and trustworthy. I trust you to be the same.”

Too much depended on working here for Lena to take offense. “I promise you’ll be glad you took me on, Mrs. Bloomfield.”

“Bloomy, dear. Just Bloomy.” She motioned Lena toward the fire, a more than desirable spot at the moment. “Warm and dry yourself now. I’ll go see if Mrs. Simeon is free, and I don’t want you dripping if we move about the house.”

Lena gratefully did as she was told, removing her cape and spreading her skirts before the fire as Bloomy left to find her mistress. Lena didn’t want to investigate the kitchen too closely, afraid that she might bring bad luck on her own chances if she openly admired the wide counters, the shining metal sink and ample painted cupboards. She kept her eyes on the flames, leaping brightly in a room already cozy from piped-in steam heat and an oven merrily baking cakes for supper.

She tried not to contrast this piece of heaven with her own home. The Simeon house smelled of lemons and beeswax, of fresh flowers and cakes in the oven. Her own home smelled of the river, of factory fumes, of sickness and poverty. No matter how she scrubbed it, no matter how she tried to brighten it, her little house would never feel this warm nor smell this wonderful. Were Terence lying in a room upstairs with doctors dancing attendance and cooks and maids fussing over him, he might even be on the road to recovery.

“What have we here?”

She had been so preoccupied with comparing her own life to this one, she had missed the sound of footsteps behind her.

She whirled and faced a tall, big-boned man with a luxurious, drooping black mustache and round black eyes. She had seen him only once, but she had no doubt whom she was facing.

“Mr. Simeon, sir.” She made something of a curtsy. This was America, and even a poor woman knew that here, all people were created equal. Unfortunately, she also knew that a rich man’s home was a land unto itself.

“And who are you?” He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look displeased to find her curtsying in his kitchen.

“Lena Tierney. I’ve come about the job as cook’s helper.”

“Oh? And where’s Bloomy?”

“Gone to check with the missus, sir. She’ll want to meet me before I’m hired, Bloomy says.”

“Julia doesn’t care who Bloomy hires. Just as long as she’s not called on to do anything herself. She has few…talents, my wife. But one of them is letting others look after her.”

Lena didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

He laid a fingertip against his cheek in contemplation. She noted that his fingernails were impeccably manicured and so clean he might never have gotten dirt under them. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”

Considering the circumstances, she decided it would be better to pretend otherwise. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“You’ve worked for other Avenue families?”

She shook her head. “No, sir.”

“You’ve worked before?”

“I’ve been cooking dinners and taking them to the terriers every workday.”

He frowned, as if trying to remember if that was where he’d seen her on one of his rare trips to the docks. “And now you’ve changed your mind? You intend to abandon them?”

“No, sir. I simply intend to stay warm.”

He laughed, showing huge white teeth. “Are you a good cook, Lena?”

“I am that.”

“And how are you at serving?”

She decided to be honest. “I’m good at taking direction, and I learn quickly. You won’t be ashamed to have me here.”

“You seem very sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure there’s no one else who’ll try harder. The position is important to me, sir. I’ll do anything I must to keep it.”

“Such dedication already, and not even hired.”

She had tried not to form an opinion of him. Opinions were for the wealthy, who had the time to cultivate and nurture them. If James Simeon paid her wages each month, what did she care if he was a man to admire or despise?

But now, despite herself, she felt a chill creeping over her skin that had nothing to do with the fact that she’d made her way through a blizzard. His face was fleshy, his eyes a size too large, as if they’d grown that way from peering into the private corners of other people’s lives. Nothing he’d said to her was unkind; nothing he’d done was suspicious. Yet she was certain, with nothing but intuition to base it on, that James Simeon was a man best avoided.

He smiled, not an unpleasant smile, but one that revealed little of the man himself. “We’ll be glad to have you here, Lena. I’ll look forward to seeing how well you perform.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope Mrs. Simeon agrees.”

He laughed, as if Lena had made a fine joke. “I’ll tell Julia you’re hired. Plan to start in the morning.”

She wanted to argue. How could he believe it was best to bypass his wife in this matter? Surely Julia Simeon would be upset, and forever after Lena would be a reminder of Simeon’s disregard for his wife’s opinion.

She wondered if this man was always such a champion at complicating the lives around him, at fanning the flames of resentment, of making everyone in his path uncomfortable.

She gave another short curtsy and lowered her eyes. James Simeon and all he was or wasn’t was of no consequence to her. She would do her job and go home to her husband each night. She would earn enough money to keep food on everyone’s table until Terence recovered. He would become the man she had married again, find a better, safer job. They would send for their families and begin their climb up the hill to a better life.

She told herself these things as she waited for Simeon to leave the kitchen. But only a tiny part of her believed them.

21

L
ena liked working at the Simeon house, although she made a point of avoiding James Simeon. Julia Simeon was a pale woman, not just in appearance but in spirit. Any identity she might have had before her marriage had disappeared into the strong personality of her industrialist husband. Both Nani and Bloomy confided that Julia absorbed his thoughts, his feelings, and complied with every spoken wish. If she’d ever believed in herself, she no longer did.

In comparison to preparing food to take to the docks, the job itself was surprisingly easy. Lena took orders from Bloomy, who had been employed by James Simeon for five years. Bloomy was the soul of patience, but little was needed, because Lena learned so quickly.

At the end of one week Lena was preparing dishes with no supervision. At the end of two she was planning meals. At the end of three Bloomy spent her own hours preparing delicate desserts and specialties to tempt Julia Simeon’s feeble appetite, and Lena prepared suppers for Mr. Simeon. She was out of her element at first, unsure exactly what James Simeon would expect from her, but as Bloomy relinquished control, she became more confident.

Simeon himself seemed satisfied. Although she knew he was aware of her presence, Lena was surprised that he didn’t visit the kitchen to instruct her. Then she discovered that many of her suppers were going uneaten. He expected food on the table, made an appearance as if to eat it, but often sat in the formal dining room by himself, drinking without taking so much as a bite. Bloomy said he was never drunk, that like a true gentleman he didn’t show his liquor. But he did drink, and he did it often and with great enjoyment. If he ate and what he ate were mysteries.

At the end of the third week, when Lena was looking forward to returning home after a long day that had included marketing and a thorough scrubbing of the butler’s pantry, James Simeon finally found his way into the kitchen.

“Bloomy tells me you cooked tonight’s supper.”

She whirled in surprise. Simeon walked without sound, like a ghost gliding just above the plank floor. She gathered her composure. “Yes, sir, I did. Was it to your liking?”

“What exactly did you do to the potatoes?”

She couldn’t tell whether he approved or not. She had tasted them herself and wished that Terence could enjoy them tonight. “I melted butter, sir, and stirred it into heavy cream. Then I whipped them smooth and sprinkled them with parsley and chives—”

“Ah. So it wasn’t grass, after all.”

“Grass, sir?”

“It resembled grass, Lena. Green as grass.”

The head gardener cultivated a special row of potted herbs in the conservatory at the back of the Simeon property. Lena had discovered them at the beginning of the week after a casual mention from Bloomy, and her culinary imagination had taken flight. She realized now that she should have consulted more closely with Bloomy before adding them.

“Begging your pardon, sir. I should have asked before trying anything so different. I hope it didn’t spoil your supper.”

“Quite the contrary. I liked it. And the roast, as well. I trust that wasn’t grass adorning it, either?”

She realized he was teasing her. She might have smiled if his purpose had been to put her at ease. Instead she felt trapped, like a kitten cornered by a playful puppy that might turn in an instant and snap its neck.

“Not grass, sir. I promise it will never be grass.”

“Do you like your job, Lena?”

She was surprised he had remembered and so casually used her name. The servants often gossiped about the way they were treated. There were few problems if they kept in the background and silently nodded at Mr. Simeon’s scathing tirades. But servants had been swiftly dismissed for emerging from the wallpaper.

“Yes, sir, I like it fine. I hope you’re happy with my work.”

“You have a husband who’s ill, don’t you, Lena?”

Terence wasn’t ill, except at heart. He was injured, and as hard as Lena tried, she couldn’t forget that those injuries had taken place on a boat filled with this man’s ore.

She struggled not to let her feelings show. “He was in an accident, sir.”

“And has he improved?”

The splint was off Terence’s leg now, but the leg still couldn’t bear his weight. They were waiting for the doctor to visit again for final word, but she was afraid to hear what he might say.

“He’s not well yet, sir. He was badly injured.”