Love's Sweet Beginning Read online

  “I assume you want these in the kitchen?”

  He nodded. No doubt about it, he was smiling. Grinning, in fact. If it weren’t for the skeptical expression on his face, she’d have thought he was pleased.

  She grabbed the stack, wishing she hadn’t put so many heavy dishes into a single pile. The crockery plates weighed far more than Rosemary’s china. Tightening her grip, she pushed through the door with her shoulder and deposited her burden next to the washbasin.

  An older woman pulled her hands from soapy water and stared. “What in heaven’s name are you doing? Did Mr. West say you could come in here?” She pushed a strand of gray hair away from her forehead with the back of one reddened hand.

  “More or less.” Mr. West spoke from the doorway. “Miss Haddon, would you please come with me?”

  “Certainly. As soon as I clear the rest of the tables.”

  “Now. Mrs. Fielder will finish in the dining room.”

  Mrs. Fielder huffed out a breath. “In due time, sir. I’ve only got two hands.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward, then turned and marched through the door, motioning for Cassie to follow him.

  Before leaving, she glanced around the kitchen for someplace to clean congealed gravy from her fingers. Mrs. Fielder frowned at her. “What is it you’re wanting now?”

  “My hands. They’re sticky. Have you a towel I could use?”

  “Mercy sakes. You carry half a dozen plates and you think your hands are sticky?” She gestured at a roasting pan and baking sheets waiting to be washed. “An hour up to your elbows in the dishpan will fix that.” Then her expression softened. “There’s towels on that shelf behind you. Help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Heat stung Cassie’s cheeks as she made quick work of wiping her fingers. She hurried after Mr. West, praying her efficiency at clearing the dishes had made a good impression.

  He sat at one of the tables farthest from the kitchen. When he saw her, he pointed to an empty chair facing him. “Please have a seat.” He rubbed his moustache with his thumb. “I don’t understand why a lady like you would want to work here. My trade is mostly workmen from the boardinghouse. Some of them can be rough around the edges—not like the gentlemen you’re no doubt used to.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I need a job, Mr. West. I want to be able to support my mother and myself.”

  “Why not set up as a seamstress or milliner?”

  “I can barely stitch a straight hem. I’ve never made a dress in my life.” She leaned across the table, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. “The only work I’ve ever done is help with dishes after a meal.”

  He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his apron. “I take it your mother hasn’t tracked her brother down.”

  “No, and we can’t continue to impose on Rosemary and her husband. If I had a way to earn some money, I could find us a little cottage to rent.”

  She wondered at herself, giving so much personal information to the grocer. Except for seeing him away from the store a few times when he called on Rosemary last spring, he was a stranger. Why should he care what happened to her and her mother? She gave his face a brief survey. At least he didn’t appear hostile.

  She lifted her chin. “I can start tomorrow. Tell me what time to be here.”

  “Six o’clock. We’re busiest at breakfast.”

  She jumped from her chair. “Thank you, Mr. West!”

  “Wear something less . . . noticeable. And Miss Haddon—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m willing to try this for one week. Then we’ll see.”

  With purposeful steps, Cassie strode out the door and hurried toward Rosemary’s house. Once she was beyond sight of the restaurant, she paused, her heart galloping.

  Six o’clock in the morning. She’d never been anywhere that early in her life. She prayed she’d awaken in time.

  After Miss Haddon left, Jacob plodded into the grocery and leaned against a counter. What had he done? He raked his fingers through his hair. Mrs. Fielder wouldn’t be happy. Miss Haddon likely wouldn’t last the first day. Then he’d have to dismiss her, and she wouldn’t be happy either.

  He paced to the rear of the store, straightening stock on the shelves as he walked. He could work with other men without a problem. But for some reason, ladies baffled him. He needed a cook, so he’d hired Mrs. Fielder. So why did he hire Miss Haddon?

  The last serving girl he employed had left to get married, and he hadn’t replaced her. Up to now, he hadn’t seen any need. Still didn’t, for that matter. He closed his eyes and pictured Miss Haddon in her rustling taffeta dress, marching to the kitchen with her bonnet ribbons streaming behind her. No one looked less like kitchen help than she did.

  He poked at a case of canned beans with the toe of his boot. Even if she lasted only one day, he’d have to make sure none of his customers got the wrong idea about her presence in the restaurant. Instead of freeing him to spend more time in the grocery, she’d be taking him from his other duties. He should have said no and sent her on her way.

  Growling in his throat, he bent and stacked the cans on a shelf. He’d allow her to fail. When she recognized the work was too much for her, she’d leave on her own. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with the tears he feared would come if he’d denied her the job today.

  “Cassiopeia Rosetta Haddon! I’m thankful your father isn’t alive to see how far you’ve sunk.”

  Cassie flinched at her mother’s rebuke. “I don’t see where I had any choice. We can’t continue to live on Rosemary’s charity.” She kept her voice down so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  Mother rose and paced the length of their shared bedroom. “But to lower yourself to a servant’s level. How could you? I’ve tried so hard to teach you to be a lady.” She dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Didn’t you pay any attention to me at all?”

  “You taught me how to make lace, appreciate classic literature, play a piano, and write a fine hand. I’m grateful, but none of those things will help me earn our keep.”

  “A lady marries well. Her husband earns their livelihood.” The bed creaked as Mother sank onto the edge and covered her face with her hands. “Your reputation will be ruined. I’d hoped once we found Rand that he would introduce you to a suitable bachelor. But now . . .”

  Cassie settled beside her. “We don’t know how long it will take to find your brother.” She softened her voice. “In the meantime, I must do something to provide for us. I pray you’ll try to understand.”

  She kissed her mother’s cheek, then crossed the room to the wardrobe and drew out the blue print dress she’d worn before leaving for West & Riley’s that afternoon. If she borrowed one of Rosemary’s aprons, the garment should fill Mr. West’s definition of “not noticeable.”

  Mother sniffled. “That’s your oldest dress.”

  “Exactly. I plan to wear this to the restaurant in the morning. Mr. West advised me to wear something inconspicuous.”

  “My heavens. Now the man is telling you how to dress.” She fanned herself with her hand.

  Cassie drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. “He’s my employer now. He has the right.” She stumbled over the words. He also had the right to send her packing if she couldn’t do the work.

  5

  Leaves on a butternut tree across the street from West & Riley’s trapped the early morning sunlight, sending filtered shadow over the alley behind the restaurant. Cassie shivered, more from nerves than cold. She hurried through the kitchen entrance.

  “I’m not late, am I?”

  Mrs. Fielder paused in the act of kneading dough and rested her hands on the worktable. “Mr. West said you’d be here. Didn’t say what time, so guess you’re not late.” She gave Cassie’s garments a quick glance. “At least you wore an apron today and changed from that fancy outfit.”

  Cassie ran her fingers along the sleeve of her blue dress. “This one’s easier to care for.” She smiled, hoping to make a friend
of the cook. “Please tell me what you want me to do.”

  “The men will be here for breakfast in a few minutes—most of ’em, anyway.” With a floury hand, Mrs. Fielder pointed to shelving piled with brown crockery. “The plates are over there, knives and forks in that tray against the wall. Best get everything on the tables right away. Put a setting in front of each chair—but you already know that, eh?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  Heart thudding, Cassie nodded and took three plates from the shelf. Before she reached the door, Mrs. Fielder snorted.

  “Three at a time? You’ll be ten minutes just carrying plates. There’s twenty-four chairs out there.”

  Cassie backtracked, adding three more pieces of the thick crockery to her load. As soon as she entered the dining room, she thumped the stack onto the nearest table. A quick survey of the room showed four rectangular tables, each surrounded by six chairs. Some part of her mind must have noticed the furnishings when she visited yesterday. But yesterday she hadn’t paid attention.

  Sighing, she walked around the table, centering a plate in front of each chair. Then she stepped back and studied the arrangement. One of the plates sat off-center. She made a quick adjustment. As she did so, she sensed she was being observed.

  When she looked up, she noticed Mr. West standing in the doorway that joined the grocery to the restaurant. He watched her without saying a word. Unnerved, she hastened back to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Fielder slid a pan of biscuits into one of the two ovens and banged the door closed. “You’ll need to move faster—this isn’t a ladies’ tea. When you finish with the plates, the cups are on that tray under the window.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The words stirred echoes in her memory. She’d grown up listening to servants respond in the same fashion to her mother, never imagining one day she’d walk in their shoes.

  Under Mr. West’s silent, but intent, gaze, she set the remainder of the plates in front of the chairs, then turned to gather tableware from the kitchen. Before she reached the door, he cleared his throat.

  She stopped.

  “Miss Haddon. If I may make a suggestion.”

  Her heart thrummed. “Yes, sir. What is it?”

  “You could save yourself several trips if you put the knives and forks on top of the plates when you bring them out.”

  Heat climbed up her throat and burned her cheeks. How obvious. A few minutes on the job and she’d already earned a black mark.

  “You’re right. Thank you.” She kept her gaze on the floor until she reached the kitchen, then grabbed two handfuls of tableware and dashed back to the dining room. Heedless of alignment, she dropped a setting at each place. As she finished with the last table, the outside door opened and two men entered.

  “Well, if you don’t brighten the morning,” the first one said, removing his hat. He wore a red flannel shirt tucked into dusty black trousers. Stubby whiskers prickled from his cheeks. “Mrs. Fielder sick?”

  Cassie inched toward the kitchen. “No. She’s . . . making breakfast.”

  The second man laughed. “We figured as much. That’s why we’re here.” He stepped to one of the tables and scraped a chair across the floorboards. “I smell coffee. Don’t see no cups, though.”

  Oh mercy. She’d forgotten the cups. A second black mark. “I’ll bring them right now.”

  She whirled and pushed through the door, nearly colliding with Mrs. Fielder.

  “Heard voices. Time to start serving.” She carried the largest coffeepot Cassie had ever seen.

  “Just a moment. I forgot the cups.”

  “Humph. In that case, you take care of the coffee. I’ve got to tend to the eggs.” The cook thunked the pot at the rear of the range and picked up a spoon.

  Cassie’s knees wobbled. She doubted she could lift the pot, much less pour without spilling on customers. Cool air slid over the floor as more men entered, their voices loud above the clinking of Mrs. Fielder’s spoon against the skillet.

  This was the moment she’d dreaded. Mr. West had cautioned her that the men he served weren’t all gentlemen. No matter. She needed this job. She jutted her chin in the air and marched into the dining room carrying a tray full of cups.

  Close to a dozen heads turned in her direction. Some were hatless, others wore slouch hats even though they sat at the table. Cassie marked them as the ones who weren’t gentlemen. With quick movements, she circled the room, plunking a crockery mug next to each plate.

  “You going to fill these?” The boy who spoke couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen.

  “’Course she will. That’s her job.” Middle-aged, with coarse features, the speaker reached out, placing his hand on Cassie’s waist. “Ain’t that right, missy?”

  Revulsion shuddered over her. She twisted away. “Yes. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return in just a moment with the coffee.”

  Mr. West strode across the room and caught up with her next to the kitchen door. “It would be best if Mrs. Fielder handled the coffeepot,” he said in an undertone. “You fill the platters. She can serve the tables.”

  “Yes, sir.” Equal portions of gratitude and embarrassment swept through her. She scurried to Mrs. Fielder’s side to relay his message.

  The cook huffed out an exasperated breath. “Wish he’d make up his mind. First he wants you to serve, now me.” She shoved the spoon into Cassie’s hand. “The bowls are next to the stove. Fill ’em with eggs. Put the biscuits and bacon on the platters. One for each table. Bring ’em right in. Those gents don’t have all morning.”

  Mr. West didn’t think her capable of pouring coffee. If she couldn’t do the simple task of dividing the food, she knew he wouldn’t let her stay.

  Hands shaking, she scooped spoonfuls of scrambled eggs into four bowls, doing her best to ensure each bowl contained an equal amount. When she reached to the warming shelf for the bacon, her fingers slipped on the greasy edge of the tray. The contents spilled over the top of the range like so many twigs. Grease splatters smoked. Bacon strips shriveled.

  At that moment, the door swung open and Mr. West stepped across the threshold. “Customers are waiting. Where’s the—” His voice choked off. He grabbed a serving dish from the table next to the stove. Using a long-handled fork, he raked the darkening strips off the stovetop and onto the platter.

  Cassie watched, horrified at what she’d done. “I’m so sorry.” The words emerged in a faint whisper. The pan slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor.

  He set his jaw in a tight line. “Take one of those towels over there and clean the grease off the range before a fire starts. Then clean the floor. I’ll send Mrs. Fielder in for the biscuits.” He turned his back and stalked into the dining room.

  The smell of smoldering fat spurred her from her paralysis. She snatched a towel from the shelf, wadding the thick cotton fabric around her right hand. Perspiration beaded her forehead and sizzled on the broad iron surface as she leaned over to reach splatters in the back corners.

  Mrs. Fielder banged into the room, dumped the biscuits into bowls, and stamped out again without saying a word. She didn’t have to. Disapproval radiated from her body like quills on a porcupine.

  Cassie dropped the soiled towel into a basin and slumped against the worktable. Lord, help me. Keep me from more accidents.

  If she finished well, she hoped Mr. West would be pleased enough to overlook the bacon incident.

  Jacob stepped into the kitchen after the final supper patron departed. Reflected sunset sent a saffron glow through the window, tinting Miss Haddon’s auburn hair gold. Bent over the dishpan, she paid no attention to his presence until he spoke her name.

  She turned then, wiping water from her hands with one corner of her food-spotted apron. Her green eyes were shadowed with fatigue.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He pulled a chair away from the worktable. “Sit a moment.”

  After a glance at Mrs. Fielder, who stood with her back to them using a brush to scrub
the stovetop, Cassie crossed the room and sat. Anxiety marked her features.

  “I know I’m slow, but I’ll have everything washed before I leave.”

  “I’m not worried about the dishes.” He hoped the sympathy he felt showed on his face. “You look worn-out. This is more work than you’ve ever done in your life, am I right?”

  Her features tightened, as if she were bracing herself for a blow. She straightened her sagging shoulders.

  “I can do this, Mr. West. Please give me a chance.”

  The scrubbing sounds stopped. He knew the cook was listening to their conversation. He’d hoped to speak to Miss Haddon alone, but if he waited much longer she’d probably collapse. The surge of protectiveness he felt surprised him. He had to send her home. Now.

  “Be reasonable. Today was nothing. When there’s a full railroad crew in town, we have men standing in line to be served.”

  “All the more reason you need help.” Her eyes sparked. “You said you’d give me a week. This is just my first day.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “From what I’ve seen, a full week would probably kill you. Wouldn’t do me any good, either.” Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket and pushed three silver quarters toward her. “Here’s a day’s pay. I hope you find something you’re more suited for.”

  She glared at him. “I’m tired of being told I’m useless.”

  “I never said—”

  “You can keep your money.” She rose and swept her cloak and carryall from pegs near the door. “Good night, Mr. West.”

  The screen door banged behind her.

  He blinked at the intensity of her reaction. She had to recognize that the restaurant was no place for an innocent girl like herself. A fresh flare of anger burned through his gut at the memory of the customer grabbing her waist at breakfast. He’d had to use all of his willpower to stop himself from taking the man by the collar and throwing him out. To have her continue working here would only invite similar incidents.

  The scritch, scritch of brush on iron told him Mrs. Fielder had returned to her task. For a brief moment, he wondered whether he should ask her opinion about Miss Haddon.