Thankfully, Francesca had yet to cross paths with Mrs. Lancaster, though it seemed odd the mistress didn’t want to know who worked and lived under her roof. Mr. Lancaster had, on the other hand, checked in on her once more after his initial welcome, gifting her with an English dictionary. She’d thanked him profusely and made him laugh, earning another scowl from Janie and a curt nod from Charles.
Once the breakfast dishes had been cleaned, Francesca began the midday meal preparations. Claire let her choose the menu for the day, to “give her a little more confidence,” she’d said. Francesca prepared hardboiled eggs stuffed with crab and capers, a loaf of fresh rosemary bread, cold salad of chopped carrot and greens tossed with vinegar, oil and lemon, and sliced cold chicken from the night before. Since she still had a lot to learn about baking, she made something she knew how to do well instead: custard with sugared lemons for afternoon tea.
As she slid the custard into the icebox to set, Claire leaned over her shoulder and in her thick French accent said, “I’ll show you how to make tarts. Plum tart with apricot glaze is perfect for this time of year. And we’ll need to make rice pudding with raisins for Mr. Lancaster.” She shuddered. “The texture is like vomit.” Claire mimicked the vomiting motion.
Francesca laughed. Claire had warmed to her quickly when she saw how hard Francesca worked and how much she wanted to please the head cook. She hoped, in time, Claire would grow to like her—who she really was—and not only the immigrant who must work like the devil for approval. Francesca found it stifling, that she should be judged by what she did for others, how well she served them and their needs, and not for who she was as a person. Then again, she had not always done the right thing—or even the good thing—so perhaps it was best they didn’t. As a rush of guilt washed over her, she glanced at Claire’s open face.
“How long have you been a cook?” Claire asked. “You’re very young.”
She’d hoped to avoid this question. Claire was nearly twice her age, with much more experience. “My mother teach me to cook before she…left, and Sister Alberta after, but that is all.” She scrubbed a saucer clean and dried it with a dish towel. “I haven’t worked for anyone before.”
Claire’s thick brow scrunched into one long caterpillar across her forehead. “I see.”
“You are the head cook, yes? Not me.”
Claire burst into a jolly laugh. “You think I’m threatened by you?” She shook her head as she folded a set of tea towels. “Merci—non, my lamb. I am happy to have you here. Now the two of us can take the heat of Mrs. Lancaster’s rage together.”
Francesca smiled, though she didn’t like the sound of facing anyone’s rage. She’d narrowly escaped that life at home.
“The last cook burned the food, or made disgusting recipes.” Claire’s nose wrinkled at the memory. “She burned the chicken, she burned the beef, she burned the potatoes. How can a cook burn potatoes?” She shook her head. “But even when she made something edible, the mistress made life very difficult for her. When Susanne started to cry, Mrs. Lancaster called her names. Whatever you do, don’t let the mistress see you cry!”
“I do not cry easily.” Francesca wiped an invisible spot on the countertop vigorously with a damp towel.
Claire patted her shoulder. “Good.”
As they prepared the tray for the midday meal, Claire leaned over the dish of stuffed eggs.
“What is it?” Francesca noticed the hesitation in the woman’s eyes.
She shrugged her thick shoulders. “I hope she likes the eggs. We’ve never served them before.”
Doubt needled Francesca’s confidence. “They don’t like crab?” She hadn’t thought to ask whether or not they would like seafood, and had Claire told her otherwise, she wouldn’t have added it to the menu.
When Claire saw Francesca’s expression, she smiled. “It’s all right. They like seafood and this isn’t burned, so I think you’re safe for now.”
“Those plates ready?” Charles called as he whisked through the kitchen. “They’re being seated.”
Francesca had stayed out of his way since she’d arrived. She couldn’t tell if he was a quiet sort of man, or if he thought too little of her to bother taking the time to talk to her. She wiped her palms on her apron, sprinkled parsley over the eggs, and put the plate on a tray. Next, she plated the cold salads and lined the breadbasket with a beautiful lace cloth before slicing the loaf into pieces and arranging them inside it. The footman gathered the tray and headed for the stairs.
When all the dishes had been served, Francesca wiped the countertops and table again.
“You’ll rub the varnish off the table if you keep that up.” Claire touched her hand. “Too much. It’s clean.”
Francesca laughed nervously. “Yes, it’s clean.”
“It will be all right. You’ll see, chérie.” She smiled warmly.
At Claire’s warm smile, Francesca relaxed a little. “Thank you.”
“Help me with supper. We have a lamb shank that I picked up at the market yesterday.”
She followed Claire around the kitchen until they had all the items they needed. Soon, she lost herself in the rhythm of chopping and dicing and mixing.
When Charles stormed into the kitchen, his face pinched as if he’d just eaten a lemon, Francesca’s stomach plummeted.
“You’re being summoned by the mistress of the house.” His eyes flicked over her dirty apron. “Change your apron and follow me at once.”
Claire gave her a sympathetic look. “Keep your head up, and whatever you do, don’t cry.”
Francesca pulled on a fresh apron, hands trembling. The moment she had dreaded had arrived. As soon as Mrs. Lancaster recognized her it was over. Francesca would be scolded and dismissed. But there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, so she would try to do as Claire suggested—hold her head high.
Smoothing her hair, she followed Charles upstairs to face what came next.
26
To Alma’s surprise and relief, it had been a quiet week at Ellis Island. One steamship had arrived on Monday, and the remainder of the week there had been nothing but detainees’ hearings, organizational tasks, and, most of all, plenty of gossip. The building felt oddly empty, even with the hundreds of staff members about, and the hours ticked by slowly. Commissioner Williams had made his rounds through the building to various offices, unlike Fitchie, who’d mostly remained out of sight in his office. But Williams wasn’t like Fitchie in any way and, in fact, was examining operations closely, peering over everyone’s shoulders, measuring the time, quality, and value of each task with his ever-present notebook in hand. Most tried to stay out of his way, and all were on edge. Alma counted herself lucky to have had no interactions with him. Yet.