by Joann Simon
Shaking her head slowly, she longed for Christopher's guidance. This was his era; he could have told her what to expect, what to do. Not that he'd ever had to work in a servant's capacity, but as a man who'd once had many servants, he could give her enough clues to carry on. She tried to remember now all that he'd told her of his life in England—the day-to-day details, what he'd expected of his servants, the little inconveniences that she'd never had to consider in her twentieth century world. Of course, when they'd talked, neither of them had dreamed that Jessica would one day face such rigors. There'd only been the fear that Christopher would return to his own time.
It was with an effort that she kept the tears from flooding her eyes; from breaking down and giving in to the miserable ache inside. She felt so terribly alone . . . so terribly lost and frightened! Where was he? Would they ever find each other again?
She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath. There were things to be thankful for, too, and she forced herself to think of them. She had a place to stay, a source of income; Amelia Beard had accepted her fabricated story, and she was sure that she didn't suspect Jessica to be anything but a contemporary of hers; Jessica's modern speech blended in well enough with the working-class New En-gland accent that no one would ever question it.
Before leaving the room, she paused in front of the small mirror over the washstand and examined her reflection. It was the same face that had stared back at her from her Twentieth century bathroom mirror the night before: the high-cheekboned face, the straight nose, the full mouth; dark lashes framing green-flecked hazel eyes. There was nothing in that reflection to tell what had transpired in the last few hours yet she knew that in one instant, her whole life had changed drastically, and perhaps tragically. She sighed heavily, then moved determinedly toward the door.
CHAPTER 2
The kitchen was a scene of bustling activity as she stepped inside. Both Rachel and Cook were busy, Cook removing fresh baked tins of bread from the brick ovens built into the fireplace, Rachel chopping onions and carrots at the table.
These scents, mingled with that of roasting goose, were enough to make Jessica's mouth water.
Cook glanced up to see Jessica. "Ah, you're back. Good as an angel he's been. Not a peep."
"I'm glad to hear that." Jessica smiled. "You're busy enough as it is."
"That I will not argue," Molly chuckled.
"Can I help?"
"Let's see. The bread's done. Why don't you fetch the pie fillings from the pantry and start filling the shells? Pantry's over there beside the back door."
Jessica found the three brown pottery bowls with no trouble and carried them in to the sideboard. It took only a few minutes to fill the shells. By the time she'd finished, Cook was already at the table rolling out the top crusts and covering the pies. She slipped them into the ovens and wiped her hands on her apron. "Well. That's done."
Cook then went to check the goose in the tin roaster set on the hearth directly before the fire. Jessica had seen examples of these open-front, closed-back roasters in restorations of old homes she'd visited, but she'd never seen one in use before. Apparently it was efficient, for she could hear and smell the juices of the skewered roasting goose dripping and sizzling on the hot metal.
"Bird's doing just fine," Molly said, rising. "Got most of the cooking done this past week, so there's not too much to be done today. Have a cold baked ham down in the buttery for our meal, and plenty of tarts and pastries and a plum pudding. The master and mistress don't care for it but they're happy enough to let me make one for our Christmas celebration. Wouldn't have been Christmas at my home without a pudding. . .
Ah, here's Rachel with the potatoes." She motioned to the girl to leave the sack by the table. "Jessica and I will take care of those. You'd best go in and clear away the breakfast dishes. We still have to set the table for dinner. What time are Mary and her husband arriving?"
" 'Bout twelve, I thought I heard the missus say."
"Fires all going?"
"Jeb helped, and brought in extra wood."
"Good. Just a matter of finishing the cooking, serving dinner and clearing away, and the day will be ours."
Jessica was bending to move the sack of potatoes closer to one of the chairs at the table when she heard Kit's whimper. She looked over to see his tiny face frowning.
"Best go to him," Cook said calmly. "Certainly has been a good child with all the confusion."
As Jessica drew back the covers and lifted her son from the cradle, he immediately quieted, soothed by her soft voice. "What a good boy you've been, sweetheart. Yes, mommy's here." Cuddling him, she kissed his soft brow. "I'll be back in a few minutes," she said to Molly. "I just want to run up to my room to feed and change him."
"Up to that drafty attic? You didn't light a fire, did you?"
"Well, no . . ."
"Then pull up a chair here in the warmth. No one will intrude. Jeb's busy seeing to the livestock." Molly was already moving a chair around so that it faced toward the fire.
Jessica could make no protest without seeming foolish, but she'd never nursed Kit in front of anyone but Christopher before, and was embarrassed. Trying to hide the blush she felt warming her cheeks, she went to the chair and loosened her bodice. Cook and Rachel went about their work paying no attention to her. As discreetly as possible, Jessica put Kit to her breast to nurse, listening to the quiet conversation of the other two as the baby fed. When he was satisfied, she burped him and rebuttoned her dress. But now he was wet.
"Rachel." Jessica rose and approached the young woman. "Mrs. Beard said you would tell me where I could find some linens for the baby, and some blankets too, for the upstairs bed."
"Soon as I finish cutting this bread." "No, I don't mean for you to go. Just point me in the right direction."
"Up the back stairs, in the hall outside the second floor landing. You'll see cupboard doors to the left. In the first cupboard, bottom shelf, there's some old linen towels. Blankets are in the next cupboard." "I'll be back in a moment."
"No hurry," Molly called. "We're about finished. Pretty yourself up a bit for the party. Some of the neighbor folk will be coming in."
"So Mrs. Beard told me."
"Twill be a time, and the babe can stay here in his cradle."
Jessica found the second floor cupboard without any trouble. As she searched for the linens and blankets, she heard the sound of voices drifting up from the front entrance hall, calls of greetings and Christmas wishes; the Beards' eldest daughter and her husband must have arrived. The realization spurred Jessica to hurry her task. She selected about a dozen of the old linens and three blankets, closed the doors, and slipped up the remaining flight of stairs and into her room. Now, with Kit so wet in her arms, she especially noticed the chill. Placing him on the bed between two pillows, she went to the fireplace and lit the kindling and leaves already set on the grate. The wood was dry, and the fire sprang up quickly. She placed two small logs on the flames, then went to her son, changed Kit and replaced his wet gown with one of the fine hand-sewn ones lent to her by Amelia Beard. Wrapping him in the quilt she placed him on the cot, at the outside edge of which she laid two rolled blankets to form a barrier. Now for herself; but she suddenly realized there was no water for washing. Checking Kit to be sure he was secure, she hurried back down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. In a few minutes she climbing back up again, a copper water bucket dragging on her arm. It took awhile to navi-gate the stairs with her burden, and she pitied Rachel, who had to lift these buckets up twice a day, every day. Kit was still quiet when she returned to the bedroom. She carefully filled the washbowl on the stand with warm water. In the only drawer of the stand, she found a hand towel and a small bar of soap. Stripping to the nightgown she'd worn all morning under her dress, she dunked the cloth in the water, lathered it generously, and washed hastily, rinsing and drying before the still chill air brought too many goose bumps to her skin. Taking the end of the rough towel and dipping it in clean wat
er, she rubbed it over her teeth. The effect was far inferior to that of a toothbrush, but her mouth felt a little fresher.
After changing hurriedly into the fresh undergarments Amelia Beard had given her, she looked toward the dresses hanging on the wall pegs. Which to wear? The green dress seemed the obvious choice. Not only was it more becoming, but the color was in keeping with the holiday season. Undoing the buttons, she slipped it over her head. The wool was soft, perhaps with a touch of cashmere in its weave and not the least itchy against her skin. She was delighted to find the dress fit well; a shade too tight in the bodice, but overall it flattered her figure.
There was no brush, but she found a ribbon that could be pulled from the lacings of one of the nightgowns, and used it to tie her long hair up on top of her head. It wasn't a very stationary arrangement, but it would hold for the time. She took one last look in the small mirror. Her face was paler than usual, but overall she made an attractive appearance.
Banking the fire and gathering her son in her arms, she went downstairs.
The long kitchen table had been cleared. Dishes were laid out on the sideboard, and Rachel was hurrying in and out of the kitchen, serving the family their Christmas dinner. From the sound of laughter and conversation drifting in from the dining room, Jessica judged they were enjoying themselves. Rachel nodded to Jessica as they passed in the kitchen doorway, her eyes and her suddenly pursed lips conveying that she had noted Jessica's change of hairdo and gown.
Molly Fletcher wasn't so silent, however. "My, aren't you a picture! But I'd thought you'd lost your luggage."
"Mrs. Beard lent this to me. She had promised to give it to charity."
"Always say charity should begin at home." Molly lowered her voice as Jessica went to the cradle and gently placed Kit within. "And don't you mind the other one—Rachel. I notice she's a bit cool to you, but I think her nose is out of joint. She was hoping to get the housemaid's position herself. 'Twould be a step up in the world for her, but no doubt the mistress thought her too young . . . only seventeen. Now fetch that apron hanging on the peg there, so you don't muss that lovely dress. I'm heating up the water for the dishes, but you can start setting out our table. Plates are in the cupboard there. Just stack them at the end of the table. Not sure how many are coming in. I'll just get the coffee and dessert tray ready to go into the dining room, then go and tidy up myself."
Rachel pushed through the door with a tray of dirty dinner plates and wineglasses, which she slid onto the wooden counter top beside the wash basin.
"Can I help you with that, Rachel?" Jessica offered, hoping to break through the girl's coolness.
Rachel's brows lifted in surprise. "Well, if you don't mind scraping the dishes and settin' them in the tub, that'd be a help."
As Jessica began scraping the leavings into a slop bucket that she learned would later be taken out to the hog, Rachel left the room again with the coffee tray and dessert dishes.
The water was hot, and Cook poured a quantity of it into the wash basin, mixing it with cold water from the hand pump. "I'll be back shortly," she said as she hung her dirty apron in the pantry. "Good of you to help Rachel. Not your responsibility, but I'm sure the girl will appreciate it."
"I don't mind," Jessica answered. "I'd rather be busy.
The activity did help to keep her worries to the back of her mind. She had half the dishes washed and on the drying board by the time Rachel returned from the dining room with the rest of the dirty dishes. The girl seemed amazed at Jessica's progress.
"You didn't have to wash."
"You have enough to do, and I'm sure you want to get ready for the party."
"I did want to change, but I can finish up."
"Then let me dry these, at least, and put them away."
The two worked silently together until the kitchen was tidy again, and Rachel left the room to change her dress. Cook returned, and she and Jessica began putting the food out on the table when the back door banged open and a wiry man entered, a cap covering his gray hair, his arms loaded with firewood. He gave Jessica a startled stare. "Party start already?"
"No. I'm Jessica Dunlap, the new housemaid."
"Pleased to meet ya. Jeb Latham, farmhand. Wanted to bring in this load of firewood. Gonna be needin' it this afternoon. S'posed to chill up."
"They'll be wanting some in the parlor," Molly commented.
"Yep. In the bedrooms, too. Be back shortly. Smells good, Molly."
"My cooking always does," she said, and winked at Jessica as Jeb departed.
Rachel slipped in wearing a far more flattering blue cotton dress with white collar, and moments later they heard voices outside the back door, feet stomping across the porch. The color on Rachel's plain cheeks showed her excitement. Jeb returned to the kitchen with a couple of dusty bottles under his arm. He grinned slyly at Jessica. "Makin's for the punch. Molly got the bowl out? Yep, I see it." He went to the sideboard as Molly greeted the first of the visitors, a man and two middle-aged women.
"Martha, Sarah, Rufus . . . Merry Christmas!"
Molly's greetings were echoed by the others as the three visitors shrugged out of their outer garments, but the noise had wakened Kit, and Jessica hurried over to take Mm from the cradle. Respectful of the bustle as the new arrivals stepped into the room, Jessica moved with Kit to one of the chairs behind the table, and sat down. Kit was quiet now, content to be held and take in the activity of the room. It was a moment before Molly made introductions.
"I'd like you to meet our new housemaid, Jessica Dun-lap, and her babe, Kit. Jessica, this is Martha White and Sarah O'Neil, who work at the Lathrope farm across the river, and Rufus Butts, one of the hands at the Tyler mill."
Jessica smiled to them all. The women made the expected exclamations over Kit, coming closer to get a look at him, fuss over him. Kit responded, putting on a show with a loud gurgle.
"There'll be others dropping in," Molly said gaily, "but go ahead and start in . . . and Jeb's got the punch ready."
' Sure do!" Jeb smiled, ladling the concoction into small glasses. "Pass it around, Molly, and we'll toast the season."
Jessica found the warm, fruity drink very tasty, and guessed that it had been rum in the dusty bottles Jeb had :arried in. Plates were passed and filled. Jessica managed with no trouble to hold Kit in one arm and eat with the other. She gave him a sampling of pumpkin pie from the edge of her spoon, and he smacked his lips for more. "Just a little," she said softly. "Too much spice will upset your stomach."
By the time the first of the plates were scraped and stacked in the sink, other guests began arriving; some to join in the eating, others just to share a glass of Christmas punch. It became a very lively gathering, and Jessica, as long as Kit was content, was able to sit back and enjoy and listen. Among the women there was the usual neighborhood gossip. Since Jessica didn't know any of the local lanes, the talk meant little to her, but it was interesting enough anyway to hear that George Lathrope was courting one of the Lockwood girls in town; that the Berkleys were thinking of selling their farm and moving west to Ohio; that—hushed whispers here—Cora Greene, the eldest daughter of one of the poorer local families, was said to have gotten herself in the family way. From the men came snatches of conversation about the farm and mill, but predominant was talk of the war. Most of the men opposed it, angry at what the conflict was doing to coastal trade. Milled flour from their farms was a drug on the market, molding in barrels by the docks in Eastport, and sugar, coffee, tea, West Indian rum, and any other commodities not locally produced were scarce and carefully hoarded.
Eventually, as their gossip wore thin, several of the women wandered over to ask Jessica friendly questions about herself. Although Jessica was sure that some would go home to speculate about her story, there were no raised eyebrows as she told of a husband who was out to sea and not returned by the time Jessica had left for Eastport. The local women knew how hard life could be on a young female alone with her child.
After an
hour Kit began to fuss, and Jessica took him up to the privacy of her room to feed and change him. When she returned, there was a new addition to the crowd in the kitchen—a man of about her own age, blond and attractive. He stood talking to Molly as Jessica stepped through the door. His eyes quickly swept over her, widening.
Cook, vigilant as before, didn't miss his look. "Ah, Lucas, you've not met our new housemaid, arrived this morning no less from New York. Jessica Dunlap and her son, Kit. Jessica, this is Lucas St. John, who's foreman up at the sawmill."
Lucas gave her a warm smile, a flash of even white teeth; his blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
Jessica extended her free hand. "Good to meet you, Lucas."
"Pleasure's mine. Welcome to Silvercreek."
"Thank you."
"Very pleasant party," he said. "Molly always does a good job of making everyone feel at home."
"According to the look and sound of it, that I do," Molly chuckled. "And there's Mary and Peter Dodd just coming through the door. I'll leave you two to chat."
"So you arrived only this morning," Lucas continued easily.
"Yes. I was delayed on the trip up."
"Not the time of year to be traveling by coach from New York." He spoke in more cultured tones than many of the others in the room. Jessica wondered at the difference, but without her having to find a tactful way to ask, he explained more about himself.
"I settled here only a few years ago myself. Came down from New Bedford, on my way to New York to make my fortune in one of the counting houses or shipping offices in South Street. Had some cousins here in Silvercreek I thought I would stop and visit. When they offered me the job as foreman of the mill, I would have been a fool to refuse. So here I am, and it's not a bad place to be." He grinned, glanced over to where Kit was lying contentedly in Jessica's arms. "How old is your son?"
