Karen Gibbs, cook
We grew most of our vegetables on the grounds, either in the greenhouse or in the kitchen garden, but fresh fruits, other than apples, were just as scarce at Patriot House as they were in colonial times, so to obtain them, we’d have to go to market.
No Safeway, alas. No Giant. But, LynxE had made arrangements with several vendors at Market Space on Annapolis’ city dock to carry the meat, cheese, produce and sundry items that we might need to buy for Patriot House.
One of my jobs was to plan the meals, a challenging task since – thanks to our Founding Father – I never knew who was going to be dropping in (or out!) for dinner. This couldn’t be done without consultation with the cook who had her finger on the pulse of household stores, so after breakfast was over, I picked up my copy of American Cookery and trotted down to the kitchen.
A fire was burning cheerfully in the large, open fireplace. Karen’s son, Dex, crouched in front of it, using a bamboo whisk to baste a duck that was roasting on a spit being turned by a clock-like contraption mounted over the fireplace. When he saw me, Dex leapt to his feet and bowed deeply. ‘Good mornin’, missus.’
‘Good morning, Dex. I haven’t seen very much of you lately.’
‘I’ve been chopping wood, mostly. It’s gonna get cold soon, and we’ll be needing fires in the house.’
On the hearth, the duck began to sizzle alarmingly. ‘Hadn’t you better get back to the duck?’
‘Oh, yes ma’am,’ he said, bending again to his task.
‘Looks like hard work, Dex.’ He looked like such a little man in his white hose, brown breeches and white linen shirt, that I had to smile.
‘Oh, not so hard. Much better than emptying the chamber pots, ma’am.’
Chamber pots. I’d been mistress of the house only a little over a week and already I was taking the clean chamber pot that sat under my bed each night for granted. I felt my face redden, not realizing that a lad of ten, who should have been playing Little League baseball or going on a campout with his Boy Scout troop had been taking care of our ‘night soil’ every morning. History textbooks hid some ugly truths.
‘Where’s your mother, Dex?’
Dex shrugged and continued to mind the spit.
While I waited, I wandered over to a board near the window where three fresh-baked loaves of bread were cooling. Next to the bread sat two pies. I bent over them, touched a finger to the juice seeping up through a slash in the crust and tasted it – cherry.
On a long table sat the tools of Karen’s trade – wooden bowls and spoons, a rolling pin, a mortar and pestle, a cleaver, a salt pig, cones of sugar and packets of spices. On a wooden block nearby lay a dead rabbit, fur and all, and a lifeless chicken. I was just wondering whether I should go look for Karen in the garden when she struggled through the door sideways, carrying two buckets, one of milk and one of water, balanced across her shoulders on a wooden yoke. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’ She knelt and set the buckets down on the tiles near the door, wiped her face with the hem of her apron.
‘The ham was delicious this morning, Karen.’ It had been sliced from one of several hams – smoked, wrinkled and green with mold – that hung in the storeroom just off the kitchen, a room I knew had been an office until just a month ago. The space that the desk, computer, printer and fax machine once occupied was now crowded with bins of root vegetables – potatoes, carrots, onions, turnips, beets, cabbages – and various grains, such as wheat, oats, peas, beans and dried corn that we’d need during our time at Patriot House. Sugar, salt and jugs of vinegar, oils and other liquids sat on wooden shelves. Jugs of rum, too, which went into the punch that sat out in a bowl in the front parlor, swimming with sliced fruit, ready refreshment for anyone who came to call. There was also a wine cellar in the room below stairs, but it was kept locked, and Jack Donovan wouldn’t trust anyone but himself with the key.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Karen said as she hefted one of the buckets and poured some of the milk into a jug. ‘It’s all in the soaking. Draws out the salt.’
I pulled up a stool and sat down on it, arranging my skirts around me. ‘I’ve received news that we’re having an important guest next Saturday. He’ll be spending the night, so we’ll need to plan for dinner, supper and for breakfast the following morning.’
Thinking about all the extra work this would entail, I was sure Karen was about as excited by this news as I was, which is to say – not! But, we were both aware of the wall-mounted video camera silently whirring away, capturing for posterity our cozy domestic scene, so she said, ‘Who would that be, ma’am?’
‘Colonel George Washington. He’s actually going to sleep here.’
Karen chuckled. ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, ma’am, I think you’ve just invented a joke.’
I had to laugh, too. ‘Since I received the message, I’ve been thinking about the menu,’ I told her. ‘We could start with fresh melon slices and some of that wonderful ham, followed by peanut soup, baked oysters, braised beef, roast quail, sweet potatoes – if the market has any – and green peas. Are the peas in the garden ready yet?’
‘No, ma’am. The peas are done, but we’ve got beets, kale and spinach.’
‘Spinach, then,’ I decided.
When Karen nodded, I continued. ‘What do you suggest for dessert?’
‘Would a butter cake be satisfactory?’
Even though I’d just eaten breakfast, my stomach rumbled in anticipation. ‘Perfect! We’ll need a light supper, too. Welsh rarebit? Strawberries and cream?’
‘That can certainly be arranged. And there’ll be leftover ham and biscuits enough, too.’
I stood up. ‘Good. We’ll be leaving for market in half an hour. I’m hoping the rain will let up by then.’
‘Your mouth to God’s ears,’ Karen said.
I left her to get started on the chicken we’d be having for supper – its limp feathers and lifeless eyes had been staring at me accusingly from the sideboard all though our conversation – and went in search of Mr Donovan to talk about the wine.
There has been a market house at the city dock in Annapolis since 1788. The most recent iteration, closed since Hurricane Isabel flooded the entire downtown area in 2003, had reopened with great fanfare the previous July after nearly a decade of internecine squabbling and mismanagement. Although glassed in and air-conditioned within an inch of its life, the market felt open and airy, its high roof supported by gold, pole-like pillars, with exposed pipes and ductwork overhead.
After long negotiation, the new market featured local merchants, like Chick and Ruth’s Delly Express, and vendors selling Sno-Cones, popcorn, and even Chinese food. Local craftsmen were represented, too, and at the Visitors’ Information Center, tourists could get information to go along with their crab cakes. It had been good to see the market thronged with customers again, but I missed the hubbub of fishmongers, butchers, bakers and greengrocers who used to have concessions there. It had been an old-fashioned waterfront market back then, the kind of place where the floors had to be hosed down every night.
The rain had let up, thank goodness. Perhaps foolishly, we’d forgone the pattens, so we had to negotiate our way around the puddles, hiking our skirts up to help keep the hems dry. Chad’s Nikes splish-splashed along the sidewalk behind us as he and his Steadicam followed us out of Patriot House heading east along Prince George Street.
‘It’s creepy,’ I commented as we turned into Wayman Alley, a shortcut that led directly from Prince George into Fleet Street. ‘I feel like there’s somebody following us.’
From behind me, Karen said, ‘Duh, Hannah. Chad, one hundred tourists with cameras, a class of fifth graders on a field trip?’
I stifled a laugh with my gioved hand.
As we turned down Fleet Street Amy pointed a gloved finger at a passerby dressed in University of Maryland sweats who had stopped to take our picture. ‘Invisible?’
‘Invisible,’ I repeated, sidestepping a puddle and wishing I�
��d worn my pattens after all.
Thanks to Founding Father, the vendors were indeed expecting us. The minute we pushed our way through the glass door, we were met by Derek filming from a crouching position, the better to capture our ruined footwear and muddy hems. A clot of tourists surged behind him, most of whom aimed their cell phones in our direction and began clicking away. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, we smiled, nodded, and forged on through the crowd, carrying our baskets and string bags.
‘They should have issued me with blinders,’ I muttered as we passed Firenzes Gelateria where colorful tubs of gelato (Caramel! Lemon! Passion fruit!) called out to me temptingly, and the aroma of fresh-brewed Italian coffee wafted over, seized me by its tendrils and dragged me totally against my will over to the refrigerated display case, like a scene from a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
‘Earth to Hannah?’ Karen muttered under her breath.
I snapped out of it. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered back. ‘Lost control there for a moment.’
‘There it is,’ Amy chirped. ‘On the right. Maryland Table.’
Maryland Table, a concessioner who provided organic and sustainable meats, dairy products and vegetables, all locally sourced, was expecting us. In order to make room for an eighteenth-century market stall, they had borrowed a bit of space from Whimsey Cove, an adjoining business selling maps and local art.
Kyle Stewart and his wife, Corey, were decked out in colonial costume, too. Corey wore a linen dress the color of dark chocolate with a clean, white apron tied around her waist; her light-colored hair was pinned up and covered by a mob cap. When we arrived, she was ringing up two boxes of De Cecco pasta for another customer, so Kyle greeted us. Although his dark hair was too short for a ponytail, he’d slicked it back convincingly and looked sufficiently colonial in his breeches, shirt and vest that Colonial Williamsburg would have hired him in a shot. One of the couple’s children – dressed in jeans and a T-shirt – seemed to be rebelling against central casting. He peeked out at us shyly from behind the counter.
While Amy wandered around the market stalls visiting the other vendors and flirting outrageously with the small group of paparazzi in her wake, Karen picked out oranges and blueberries, peppers and mushrooms, then moved on to the meats, some cuts of which I recognized; others could be anyone’s guess.
With Karen’s help, I selected a beef loin, eight Cornish game hens, a slab of bacon, and a leg of lamb. ‘That will be all, Mr Stewart,’ I said as Corey began wrapping up our purchases in brown paper.
‘You won’t want to forget this, Mrs Ives,’ Kyle said. He reached under the counter, grunted as he heaved up a package wrapped in burlap and tied with string. He untied the string, peeled away the burlap.
‘Oh, gross!’ I took a step back. I was staring at a suckling pig – ears, eyes, snout and whiskers, four little trotters and a curly tail. Lying there on the counter, it looked more like a sleeping pet than a future meal. ‘There’s been some sort of mistake,’ I stammered. ‘We didn’t order that.’
Kyle grinned, clearly enjoying his role. He held up a piece of parchment. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it says here that you did.’
I rolled my eyes. Founding Father, again, damn him. ‘How much does it weigh?’ I asked.
‘Twenty-five pounds, give or take.’
‘This must be what we’re supposed to serve Mr Washington,’ I told Karen. Turning to the shopkeeper again, I said, ‘Very well, but we’ll have to send someone from the house to pick it up.’
‘Do you know how to roast a whole pig?’ I asked Karen as Kyle totaled up our purchases and added it to Jack Donovan’s account.
Karen skewered me with her eyes, but her voice was sweetness itself when she drawled, for benefit of the camera, ‘No, ma’am, can’t say as I do.’
In all of the hullabaloo over the pig, I’d lost track of Amy. I sent Karen next door to Pit Boy Oysters to look over the seafood while I went in search of my errant lady’s maid. Finally I spotted her in the glass enclosure occupied by the Annapolis Visitors’ Center and, as I feared, she was talking on her iPhone. Unfortunately, Chad, who was hot on my muddy satin heels, was about to find Amy, too.
I swayed, touched my left hand to my forehead, flailed blindly with my right in the direction of the Gelateria counter, then crumpled gracefully to the floor in a puddle of petticoats. Almost immediately I heard a woman shout, ‘Call 9-1-1!’ so I thought it best to bring a quick end to my charade. I stirred, opened my eyes, fluttered my eyelashes in a damsel-in-distress sort of way, and stammered, ‘So, so sorry. I don’t know what happened.’
Rather than leap to my assistance, Chad stood to one side, camera grinding away, as a woman in a pink jogging suit knelt down and took my hand, rubbing it briskly. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so.’
She helped me into a sitting position just as Amy came rushing out of the Visitors’ Center. ‘Hannah! My God, what happened?’ Wild-eyed, she glanced around at the passersby. ‘Did she fall?’
I touched Amy’s arm. ‘No, no. Just a little light-headedness, is all.’ I smiled (weakly) at the gallery of concerned faces that hovered around me. ‘These costumes …’ I waved vaguely. ‘Very hot.’
Befuddlement turned to smiles. Nodding. Tight corset. Of course.
Several observers went on about their business while Amy helped me to my feet. Others stayed, cell phones held at the ready in case I took another spectacular fall that they could upload immediately to YouTube.
We shuffled back to Pit Boys with me holding on to Amy for support. As we passed Chad, I snapped, ‘I could have been having a heart attack, you jerk!’ Then I smiled toothily and strolled on.
‘What the hell were you doing on your cell phone?’ I whispered to Amy when Chad was out of earshot.
Amy stopped dead in her tracks. ‘You saw me?’
I faced her, eye to eye. ‘The whole world was about to see you! Why do you think I faked the faint?’
‘You were certainly convincing,’ she whispered back. ‘Georgette Heyer would have been proud.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Miss Cornell. I thought we agreed that you’d put the phone away.’
‘You’re not going to rat me out?’
‘No, but you’re either going to put that phone away, or turn it in.’
Amy clouded up. I thought she was close to tears. ‘I can’t, Hannah.’
Chad was closing in, so I rested a hand on Amy’s shoulder, inclined my head toward hers. I kept my voice low. ‘You must. And you didn’t answer my question. Why were you talking on that damn phone?’
‘When we got here, I pulled it out and saw that I had a message from my Navy contact about Drew. I’m sure it’s something to do with the paperwork declaring him officially dead, but I won’t know until I call the guy back.’
‘So, did you talk to him?’
‘No. I left a message, though.’
‘Amy, if you want to stay in the cast, you have got to get rid of that phone. Change your voicemail message, for heaven’s sake. Say you’re away and that if they need to reach you in an emergency, call the number that Jud gave us.’ I tugged on her arm, and set off in the direction of Pit Boys. ‘Frankly, I can’t believe you didn’t do that already.’
‘The battery is about to crap out anyway,’ Amy confided. ‘I’ve got the charger, too, but it’s no freaking good without electricity.’
Just as we caught up with Karen, I extracted a solemn promise from Amy that she’d deep six the iPhone. Her face looked sincere enough as she spoke, but I worried that she had her fingers crossed behind her back.
With four-dozen fresh Maryland oysters wrapped in paper, not plastic, tucked into my string bag, we headed home. Our last stop was Vivo, an eco-friendly shop at the foot of Fleet Street where everything was strictly off limits except their homemade soaps and candles. I charged six-dozen candles to the Donovan account and asked that they be delivered. Perhaps in his day William Paca had been more frugal, but we had been running through candle
s at a rapid clip. I had learned how to make candles in colonial Williamsburg out of meat fat and ashes, but like so many things about being a card-carrying member of the gentry, I was happy that our family was rich enough that we could afford to buy them.
NINE
‘I just got my period and they expect me to deal with it by stuffing rags down my panties. It’s totally gross. If you can’t bring me some Tampax, I’m out of here.’
French Fry, housemaid
They say you get used to the cameras; that after a while they become invisible. As if. Derek and Chad followed us around like malevolent shadows. I always seemed to be tripping over one or the other, or knocking into them with my skirts. Not surprising, considering my farthingale gave me the hip-span of a Boeing 747. Moving around the house became an obstacle course. Like an enthusiastic, tail-wagging collie, I could clear a lowlying table of knick-knacks with a single sweep of my skirts.
That day Thing One and Thing Two must have been working on overtime because they filmed us at breakfast, zooming in for a close-up on my fresh strawberries and cream, and tag teamed Amy and me as we kept our appointment at the dressmakers for a second fitting.
At the dressmakers, or in the shops, whenever I made purchases, the shopkeepers simply added the items to our tab, the colonial equivalent of ‘charge it.’ I had no idea what Jack Donovan made per year – it’s not something a wealthy colonial gentleman like Mr Donovan would share with his household minions, but several days later, I learned that thanks to our Founding Father, Jack’s pockets were apparently not bottomless.
Jack found me in the parlor where I was squinting in the flickering candlelight, reading aloud from a book I had been delighted to find on the bookshelf in the library, shelved between Middleton’s Life of Cicero and Friend on Fevers and Smallpox – namely, A History of Tom Jones, Foundling, the actual 1749 edition. Amy was sitting on a low stool by the fire, knitting a balaclava out of beige wool for the troops in Afghanistan. From time to time, I would put the novel down to help Melody with her sampler, demonstrating, for example, how to tie the French knots that formed the stamens of the tulips beds that bordered her work.
The Last Refuge Page 9
