Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Another wall had a sink and scullery counter. The fourth side of the room held the massive stove and roasting oven where Isabelle toiled her hours away.

  Isabelle directed Gretchen to pull fresh loaves from the brick oven with the long bread paddle, while she cubed a cut of beef for another pot of stew. A boy came in carrying dirty plates. The omnipresent rumble of talking and laughter was momentarily bright and clear until the door swung shut again, dampening the noise.

  “Sammy,” Isabelle said to the boy, “run to the larder and fetch me some suet.” The boy dropped the dishes to the counter with a clatter and scampered out the door.

  Isabelle dumped the beef cubes into a hot skillet to brown. She washed her hands, wiped them on her apron, and checked the stew again. Perfect.

  “Gretchen,” she called, “stew’s ready.” She glanced over to where the girl had set the steaming, fresh loaves on the bread counter and was struggling to get an unbaked loaf into the oven.

  “Bollocks! I forgot to flour the paddle,” Gretchen exclaimed.

  “Do you need help?” Isabelle ladled up a bowl of stew, set it on the counter, and reached for another empty dish.

  “I can manage.” The serving girl gave up trying to shake the dough free of the paddle and moved right to the oven, where she attempted to force the loaf off with her hand.

  She shouldn’t do that, Isabelle thought with trepidation. “Careful,” she called. “Pull the whole thing back out and I’ll — ”

  Too late.

  “Yeouch!” Gretchen snatched her hand back and grabbed it with the other. The paddle clattered to the floor and the stubborn loaf of dough rolled traitorously onto the stones.

  Isabelle hurried to the girl. Three of Gretchen’s fingers were red and one was already blistering. The serving girl kept up a steady stream of cries and curses. Isabelle dragged her to the washing station and plunged her hand into the basin of rinse water.

  Gretchen yowled.

  Isabelle made a shushing sound. “The water will cool the skin.”

  “What is going on in here?”

  Isabelle looked up. Mr. Davies, her employer and the proprietor of the George, cast a look of wide-eyed alarm over the chaotic disarray in his usually orderly kitchen. His balding pate glistened with sweat. He grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and ran it over his head and mutton-chopped cheeks.

  “Gretchen burned her hand,” Isabelle explained.

  He huffed in annoyance, pressing his massive fists to his hips. Mr. Davies was a large man, but Isabelle would never have called him fat. He gave one the impression of a rock-filled sack. “Well, get it out of the basin and get that food to the customers!” Mr. Davies ordered.

  Isabelle shot her employer a disapproving look, but released Gretchen. The girl gingerly patted her burned hand dry, lifted a bowl of stew, and set it down again, howling with pain.

  “Would you shut it?” Mr. Davies hissed. “We’ve got gents out there. You want them to think there’s a murder going on?”

  Isabelle drew the weeping Gretchen back to the basin and once again plunged her hand into the water. Mr. Davies was usually a jovial man and was not an unkind master of his establishment. There was a larger-than-usual crowd out there tonight, though, so Isabelle tried to ignore his insensitivity to Gretchen’s predicament. “She can’t work anymore tonight,” Isabelle said in a reasonable tone.

  “Who’s going to do the serving, then?” the man asked. His dark blue eyes were wide and his gray brows shot up into his forehead. “I’m already short-handed. Gretchen’s the only girl in tonight, as is. We’ve got honest-to-God blue bloods in the private dining room who need seeing to, and half the common room’s going to die of barrel fever on me if we don’t get food into their bellies to sop up the ale.”

  “My sister would come help!” Sammy, the dish boy, piped up. “She needs a few shillings for a bit o’ ribbon she’s got her eye on.”

  “Go get her, then,” Mr. Davies instructed. The boy dashed out. “In the meantime,” he said, turning to Isabelle, “you do the serving.”

  Nerves grabbed at Isabelle’s middle. She was happy in the kitchen, working with only a few other employees. She did not relish the idea of plunging into the morass in the common room. “Who’s going to mind the kitchen, then?” she asked.

  “You are!” Mr. Davies barked. “Do both until Sammy’s sainted sister gets here to save us.”

  Isabelle gritted her teeth, pulled Gretchen’s hand from the water, and wrapped it in a towel a little more roughly than she’d intended. Gretchen yelped. “All right,” Isabelle muttered. “Who’s first?”

  “Get that stew out there to the common room. Once they’ve got spoons in their mouths, they won’t be hollerin’, and we’ll all be able to hear ourselves think. The nobs down the hall want stew, too, and a chicken with the sides.”

  Isabelle nodded. Gretchen gave her a pained look and bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Isabelle said.

  She finished wrapping the girl’s hand and sent her on her way, with instructions to keep the burn clean and wrapped.

  Then Isabelle loaded a tray with bowls of stew and loaves of bread. Mr. Davies held the door for her, and she walked down a short hall that opened into the common room.

  Twenty tables stood in the spacious room, every one occupied. When the crowd spotted Isabelle and her tray, a cheer went up around the room. She smiled in spite of herself. Most of the patrons were good-natured villagers. There were a few ribald comments from men deep in their tankards, but she began enjoying herself as she served the hard-working folk their suppers. In turn, the men and women seemed to appreciate being able to personally thank the woman who so satisfactorily filled their stomachs.

  A shilling landed on her tray when Isabelle delivered food to the table where Mr. Barnaby, a village carpenter, and his wife were dining.

  “Excellent, as usual, Mrs. Smith!” the man boomed. His wife nodded her agreement.

  Isabelle’s heart swelled with pride and delight at the extra coin. “Thank you kindly, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy in her giddiness.

  As she returned to the kitchen to reload her tray, heat crept up her neck as she realized what she’d done. She was a gently born woman who had just curtsied to a carpenter.

  Never did Isabelle think she’d see the day where she’d make a cake of herself over a few pennies tossed in her direction, but that was before she was a ruined woman, before her brother had cast her aside. She might have been born to a softer life, but that life was long gone. She slammed open the kitchen door and filled more bowls.

  This was her life now. She cooked in the kitchen of a middle-of-nowhere inn to keep a roof over her head and food on her and Bessie’s plates. Fortunately, Mr. Davies didn’t mind if she took home some of the leftovers from her evening’s efforts. She’d eaten more beef stew and mutton than she cared to think about, but at least she could count on having one hearty meal at night and a bit of bread in the morning.

  With her tray once again laden, she made another round through the common room. Her smile was not as bright this time, but she still collected some coins from the jolly patrons.

  On her next return trip to the kitchen, Mr. Davies ran her to ground. “Get the food down the hall for the gentlemen now,” he said. His voice was still clipped, but his relaxed posture indicated that he felt better about the state of the common room. The grumbles had given way to convivial laughter as neighbors broke bread with one another.

  Isabelle loaded down a wheeled cart for the patrons in the private dining room. She felt not the least bit concerned about encountering someone who might know her. First of all, though Marshall had introduced her to a few of his friends, she had encountered only a tiny portion of the haut ton. Those she had not met would have known her only by name, not on sight, and
Isabelle used a false name here. Further, if by some remote chance there was someone she’d met before in that dining room, she understood the way the privileged class operated. A nobleman might pay attention to the servants in his own house, but he never took notice of the servants in someone else’s home, much less a simple serving girl in a country inn. Her position was the perfect disguise.

  She filled a covered serving dish with her beef stew and set a ladle alongside. A roasted chicken, along with an assortment of roasted vegetables, asparagus in crème sauce, two loaves of bread, fresh butter, and a slab of cheese also made their way to the tray, along with a bottle of Madeira, another of port, and a decanter of brandy. She then found room for the dishes, utensils, and glasses the meal required, and rolled the heavy cart down the hall.

  The noise of the common room faded as she moved toward the dining room. She knocked on the door, waited for the perfunctory, “Enter,” opened the door, and pushed in the cart. Warm air rolled out. While the dining room afforded the upper class the privacy they demanded, there were drawbacks to the enclosed space — namely, its oppressive stuffiness. The dishes on the cart tinkled and rattled against each other, a sound that had been previously drowned out by the multitude of voices outside.

  Two men sat close together at the far end of the gleaming table, their heads bent over maps and other papers.

  One had a commanding air that captured her attention at once. Broad shoulders, straight back, black hair, a firm jaw, and strong nose. He did not so much as look in her direction, but Isabelle instantly recognized the chiseled profile.

  Marshall.

  Shock numbed her face and limbs, while her heart launched into a panicked gallop. Her fists tightened around the cart handle, white knuckles threatening to burst through her skin.

  What was he doing here? Stay calm, she ordered herself. She took in great gulps of air and concentrated on acting like a serving girl. Her position was her disguise, she reminded herself.

  Marshall’s companion, a ginger-haired fellow Isabelle did not recognize, groaned when she came in. “Finally! We’re famished. I thought we were being starved out.”

  “Apologies, m’lord,” Isabelle said. It was a wonder she could talk with her heart in her throat. “There’s a dreadful crush of people wanting supper tonight.” She forced her limbs into motion, lifting the dishes from the cart to set the near end of the table for two.

  “Still, it was bloody inconsiderate of you to leave us neglected.” The man’s lips pursed in a petulant, effeminate fashion.

  “Give over, Hornsby,” Marshall said in a flat tone. “Mr. Davies told us there would be a wait.”

  A flash of tenderness unexpectedly tugged at her heart at the sound of his voice. He was tired, she realized. She remembered that tone in his voice after he’d spent many hours in the greenhouse with his plants or working at his desk.

  As quickly as she detected the sensation, she fought to squash it out. He didn’t need or deserve her pity. It was idiotic to feel badly for the pampered duke, while she — thanks to his wrongful divorce — worked long hours in a hot, steamy kitchen to survive.

  Isabelle kept her face lowered and turned away from the men as much as possible. Still, she identified Marshall’s movements by sound. That Hornsby person flailed around. He sounded messy. By contrast, Marshall made careful, deliberate motions. She heard the tap of a stack of papers being made neat, followed by the light, smooth scrape of his chair moving back from the table. His even footsteps came her way. Her heart pounded, and she dropped the ladle onto the table. She winced at the clatter.

  “Something smells delicious,” Marshall said.

  Isabelle paused. Should she say anything? No, she decided. Probably not. Servants shouldn’t engage in conversation with their betters.

  “Is this the famous stew we heard so much about?” he asked. Marshall stood close beside her to examine the tureen’s contents. His imposing presence seemed to make the air heavier and more difficult to inhale.

  Isabelle noted with another pang that he even looked as though he’d been working for hours. His coat was slung over the back of a chair. The sleeves of his cream-colored shirt were rolled up his forearms. He did that when he wrote a lot. An image sprung to mind of an afternoon at Hamhurst, shortly after they were married. She’d spent most of the day alone while he took care of estate work, and when she went to find him in his study, he had been sitting at his desk, looking much the way he did just now.

  She also remembered what happened when she found him in the study, how she’d come to stand behind his chair and put her fingers into the soft hair at his nape, rubbing his neck, trying to distract him. And it had worked. Her cheeks burned at the brief memory.

  “Is this not the famous stew?” Marshall’s voice held a note of teasing. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at her.

  Isabelle sucked her breath and whirled away. “Ah, yes. Yes, my lord, it is,” she stammered. Stupid! She should have answered him right away. If she’d done that, he wouldn’t have paid her any attention whatsoever. Now she’d turned her back on a peer of the realm. She tried to cover the blunder by hastily setting out the rest of the food.

  Hornsby moved around the table to the other side and looked first at the spread and then at her. “There’s a tasty dish,” he said, dragging his eyes over her. Isabelle pretended not to notice. She could not imagine any man finding her attractive in her shapeless wool dress and stained apron. She’d been working for hours and probably smelled as much like beef stew as the food itself.

  Marshall caught his friend’s entendre. “That will do, miss,” he said softly. “We’ll take care of ourselves from here. Madeira, Hornsby?”

  How smoothly he redirected his friend’s attention, she thought, grateful for his intervention — and then annoyed at herself for feeling gratitude. The longer she stayed in his presence, the more eager she was to be away. Keeping her face ducked, she bobbed a curtsy. Just another moment and she’d be free. With shaking hands, she collected the cart and pushed.

  And crashed into the door. The cart handle drove into her middle, pushing her breath out audibly.

  Embarrassment washed over her. What an imbecilic blunder!

  “What the devil?” Hornsby said.

  She would not turn around and see how he reacted. “Apologies, my lords,” she said to the door. “I’m used to the swinging kitchen door. Terribly sorry.” Isabelle leaned across the cart to the doorknob, but couldn’t quite reach. She felt two pairs of aristocratic eyes on her, watching her make a buffoon of herself. She tried again, leaning farther. If she got up on her toes …

  “Allow me.” Marshall’s hand landed on the knob a split-second after hers, pinning hers underneath its warmth.

  A tingle coursed up her arm at his touch.

  His eyes flew to her face. Isabelle kept her own resolutely downcast. Her gaze fell on his middle. He wore a maroon waistcoat with gold buttons. She followed them down to where waistcoat ended and his close-fitting brown trousers began, and instantly wished she hadn’t allowed her gaze to wander. The sight of his well-muscled thighs did nothing to ease her discomfiture.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She shook her head, shame suffusing her entire being. She didn’t have to look at him. He knew, damn him. He knew. The least he could do was leave her with a scrap of her shredded pride and let her go without making a scene.

  “Isabelle,” he said in a low voice meant only for her ears.

  She took a steadying breath and shook her head again, but this time it was a quick gesture of resolve as she gathered her courage. Then she raised her eyes.

  The shock on his face at positively identifying her was most gratifying, she decided. His mouth fell open, but no words came out. A storm of emotion roiled in his dark eyes.

  She met his gaze boldly and raised her chin, daring him
to expose her.

  “I told you she was a tasty one,” Hornsby said.

  The interruption brought Marshall back to his senses. He blinked. His brown eyes went strangely flat as he stepped back and returned to the table without another word.

  Isabelle got the door open, wrestled the cart through, and closed the door behind her. She took several deep breaths, waiting for her heart to stop racing before returning to the kitchen.

  The cacophony of the common room was welcome after the debacle in the dining room. She wished the noise would envelop her so she could disappear into it. She suddenly felt very tired as she pushed into the kitchen.

  Mr. Davies was in the kitchen again, trying to calm Sammy, who stood in front of him, hopping from foot to foot.

  “Start over,” Mr. Davies said. “I couldn’t understand a word!”

  With visible effort, Sammy fought to still himself, though his feet in their scuffed, oversized shoes continued to tap anxiously.

  “I said,” he began, his huge eyes intent, “Sally can’t come. Pa just found out she’s got a belly full, and now he’s hollering and swearing to kill the man what did it. And me mam is hollering, trying to get Pa to be quiet. Sally’s crying, and says Pa had best not hurt a hair on her beau’s head, because she reckons she’s in love, and wants to marry him. So, Sally can’t come. She’s either planning a wedding or a funeral now. I don’t know which. I cut out of there.”

  Mr. Davies growled. “So much for your sainted sister.”

  For a moment, Isabelle forgot all about the insufferable man she used to be married to, who happened to be sitting in the dining room down the hall. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh at the precocious boy’s animated recitation. She let out an undignified snort, which drew Mr. Davies’ attention.

  “Just you tonight, then,” he said.

  Isabelle clucked her tongue and rolled the cart to its spot in the corner.