“The children looked so lost,” Abigail said as Julia finally showed her into the room they would share.
The room was larger than Abigail had expected and easily held the two small beds with a table between them. A thick carpet covered the floor and a big fireplace sat on the wall opposite the bed. There were two small chairs flanking a fancy round table in front of the windows at the side of the room. One look at this room was enough to tell Abigail Mrs. Beaton was, or had been, a very wealthy woman. It would be the richest room she had ever slept in. Then Julia spoke and drew her mind back to the children.
“Sad, I know,” Julia said. “We have no orphanages in town for them. The town was small enough that any child orphaned was easily taken in by a local family or relatives but these children are not from around here and the people still here have enough to fret about without taking in another mouth to feed. This is the best we have. There are only four of them so I think the major is hoping we’ll deal with them. We do, but not as it probably should be. Most of the women are still too caught up in their own losses to deal with a child.”
“That does not help the children feel secure at all.”
“True enough but, truly, there are no orphanages near to take them in.”
“The women, sad or not, could do something.”
Julia shook her head. “None show the inclination. It is too dangerous to travel about looking for a suitable place to put them. I sometimes think Mrs. Beaton is a bit taken with the little girl so she might take that one but the others are boys and it has been clear that she finds boys, well, alarming. And who knows if Mrs. Beaton has any plans to leave while the whole country appears to be trying to kill each other.”
Abigail also shook her head. “And no one knows how long it will last, I suspect.”
“Robert thinks it has to end soon. He can’t see how the dead and maimed can keep piling up. He said there will be nothing left of the country soon.”
“That is a morbid thought. And who is Robert?”
“My beau,” Julia said quietly and blushed. “Are you always called Abigail or do you have a shorter name, a pet name?”
Realizing Julia did not want to talk about Robert, Abigail nodded. “My father always called me Abbie.”
“Abbie. That is nice. Less formal. It nears time for our evening meal so we had best get downstairs. Mrs. Beaton gets irritated if we are not on time for it.”
Abigail followed Julia down the stairs and into the kitchen. There was one long table with benches on each side and a chair at each end. In the far corner of the kitchen, a table with four stools around it. She frowned a little. It did not seem right to keep the children separate. Then she recalled how they had been tucked up in a room upstairs with beds and just a few toys while a teenage girl sat in a corner reading a book and ignoring them. It was no wonder they had seemed so lost to her.
She sighed and asked the woman cooking if she needed any help. The woman looked startled but then carefully suggested Abigail might ready the carrots for the stew she was cooking as she was running a little late. That struck Abigail as odd but she just smiled and began to deal with the carrots. Having a conversation was difficult but Abigail kept trying and the woman began to slowly relax. The woman said her name was Mabel Stone and she was the cook and housekeeper. Then Mrs. Beaton walked in to begin setting the table and Mabel went stiff and quiet again. Abigail kept glancing at Mabel but it was clear their very brief comradery was over
Suddenly Mabel leaned closer and very softly said, “Help in the morning is never refused.” She then quietly slipped out of the kitchen.
“Table is set,” said Mrs. Beaton. “I will ring for the others.”
“Doesn’t Mabel eat with us?”
“Who?”
“Mabel Stone, the woman who cooked all this.”
“Heavens, child, why should she? She is the help.”
Abigail watched as Mrs. Beaton stepped out of the kitchen, grabbed a bell off the sideboard, and rang it several times. As she listened to the people coming down the stairs and the talking began, Julia edged up beside her still drying off a pot and whispered, “Mrs. Beaton was once a woman of some stature.”
“You mean rich.”
“Well, yes, she was rich and had a lot of others to do the work for her.”
“But I was not and, I think, many of the other women here were not, either.”
“True, but they follow Mrs. Beaton.”
“Why?”
Julie shrugged. “Because it is her house and she was once very rich.”
“So where does Mabel go?”
“I think she sits in the garden and has her own meal. Then, when everyone is done, Mrs. Beaton rings her bell again as she leaves and Mabel comes back in to clean up.”
The women came into the room, the children behind them. Mrs. Beaton waved the children toward their table as all the women took their seats at the big table, then she took a seat at the head of the table.
“I feel like we should call her ‘Your Highness,’” Abigail muttered, and Julia giggled, quickly covering her mouth to smother the sound.
“Come, settle down, girls. Julia, bring over the stew. And you can bring over those lovely rolls and some butter, Abigail.”
Something about how the woman sat and waited to be served irritated Abigail. She grabbed the ladle from Julia, picked up the kettle of stew, and moved to serve the children. A red-faced Julia hurried over and let each child pick a roll out of the basket she had put them in. She then let Julia set aside the basket. By the time they reached the table where the women sat, Mrs. Beaton looked very angry but said nothing. Abigail just set the basket of rolls and the butter on the table and sat down. Julia had taken time to pour the stew into a fancy dish and set that on the table before taking a seat opposite her.
Just as Abigail ate the last few spoonfuls of her stew, Mrs. Beaton slid her empty bowl toward the fancy tureen and one of the women quickly stood up to refill her bowl. It was not until that woman’s bowl was full that all the others who had finished and wanted more helped themselves. Abigail was pleased when the one they called Molly moved to ask the children if any of them wanted more. Ignoring them had mostly been done because it was what Mrs. Beaton had done not because of a lack of feeling. As she buttered a roll, she decided she would poke at that feeling as much as she could while she was here.
When Mrs. Beaton was done, she simply stood up and walked out. One by one the other women did the same. Abigail was staring at the table littered with dirty dishes when Mabel slipped back inside. She was just about to get up and help clear the table when she felt a light tug on her sleeve. She turned to face a small boy with big brown eyes and very red hair.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I would like another roll, please,” he said in a soft, wavering voice.
“Of course. There are a few left.” She patted the bench at her side. “Come sit next to me.”
“Thank you.” He scrambled up on the bench and wriggled around a little to sit very properly. “I like bread.”
“With butter?”