21

Cassie burst through the kitchen entrance, her hand at her throat. The screen door banged behind her.

“Good gracious! Was the news as bad as all that?” Jenny bustled over from the stove, concern clouding her hazel eyes. “Did something happen to your ma?”

“No. Far from it.” Cassie slumped against the wall to catch her breath.

“Then what’s got you all aflutter?”

Surrounded by the familiar kitchen aromas of apple pie filling and breakfast bacon, she wondered if she’d overreacted. Mr. Fitzhugh lived in Calusa. Reverend Greeley could believe whatever he wanted, but his outdated ideas couldn’t touch her here in Noble Springs. She dragged in a steadying breath and told herself to be calm. She was safe in Jacob’s restaurant.

She glanced between Jenny and Becca and forced a smile. “The reason for Mr. Fitzhugh’s visit took me by surprise. An unwelcome surprise, I might add. Thankfully, he’s on his way back to Calusa.” She dusted her hands together. “Time to start on those pies. Becca, would you please carry that pot of apples over to my worktable?”

“Yes, missy.”

Jenny gave her a searching look. “I can tell when you’re upset. There’s something you’re not saying.”

“Nothing important.”

“Humph. When you’re ready to talk, you can always come to me.”

“I know. Thank you.” She slipped her arm around the woman’s ample waist. “We’d better get busy. Time’s flying, and Mr. West doesn’t pay us to stand around.”

“This is your day to be boss, is it?” Jenny faked a grumble and marched to the range, where steam rose from two skillets.

After Jenny turned away, Cassie tied on an apron and walked on wobbly legs to her worktable. She’d never considered such a thing before, but Mr. Fitzhugh’s determination left her shaken. Could there be truth in his words? Did Scripture really say Garrett’s brother was required to marry her?

While Becca watched, Cassie measured flour and salt into a large bowl, then cut lard into the mixture. “This is the important part,” she said, striving to keep her voice level. “Just the right amount of water to moisten.” She lifted a pitcher, but the base struck the side of the bowl and most of the water splashed over the floury mix.

Her hands shook when she replaced the pitcher on the table. Using a fork, she tried to fluff the flour and water together. The result stuck to the bowl like wallpaper paste. She fought a desire to panic. Much as she’d like to throw the whole thing out and start again, she couldn’t waste that much wheat flour.

She opened the flour bin and dumped several scoops into a smaller bowl, then dropped in additional lard. While she cut through the mixture with two knives, she sent Becca a weak smile. “I’m sorry. This is not the way I usually make piecrust.” The knives clattered against the side of the bowl.

Becca’s soft brown gaze rested on her. “Maybe I’ll go see if Miz Fielder needs me. It don’t help none to have someone starin’ at you when you’re in a fix.”

“You’re so right. Thank you.”

The young woman’s kindness threatened to undo the fragile control she’d maintained since her meeting with Mr. Fitzhugh. Somehow she had to get nine pies ready for the ovens in the next few minutes. She scraped the contents of the smaller bowl into the large one and stirred the ingredients together, her wrist aching from the weight of the additional dough. As soon as the crust felt workable, she removed a portion and flattened the sticky substance on a floured cloth.

Cracks appeared in the dough with the first pass of the rolling pin. Her stomach tightened. No matter what, this crust was going in the pans. Their dinner customers expected dessert. She picked up pieces of dough and pressed them together inside the first pie pan, then repeated the technique with five of the remaining pans. After a struggle, she managed to fill and cover each pie, although the results looked more like a patchwork quilt than anything edible.

While Becca carried the completed efforts to the ovens, Cassie stared at the three empty pans, representing customers’ orders. Her shoulders sagged. Jacob charged fifty cents for a whole pie—she’d have to do what she could to produce pies worth that much money.

She poked at the dough remaining in the bowl, sprinkled more flour in to balance the stickiness, and flattened another disk on the pastry cloth. Jacob trusted her to fill these orders. She couldn’t disappoint him.

Jacob sat at the table in his corner office, fighting to keep his mind from wandering to Cassie and Patrick Fitzhugh. He’d heard the train arrive, so assumed Fitzhugh was on his way back to Calusa. What could the man have had to say that was important enough to keep Cassie waiting for two days? He hoped she’d tell him as soon as she had the opportunity.

It would be just like that mother of hers to come up with a scheme to send Cassie running to her side. He wished he could stand and pace the room, but being on crutches ruined the effect. Instead, he kicked the table with his left leg and stared at a blank sheet of paper in front of him.

He needed to tell Keegan Byrne about operating a bakery from the restaurant kitchen. Writing to him now would help pass the time until he had a legitimate reason to go to the kitchen. He tapped the end of a pen holder against the tabletop.

How to best present the situation to a man who was a stranger to him? Colin Riley had encouraged him to think of ways to help the business grow as the war years faded behind them. He had no idea how Mr. Byrne might react to the news.

Huffing out a breath, he dipped the pen nib into an inkpot.

Noble Springs 22nd June 1868

Dear Mr. Byrne,

This is to inform you that as of last week, I’ve added a new income-producing department to West & Riley’s kitchen. Miss Haddon has proved herself to be a proficient baker, to the extent that her pies are in demand by grocery customers as well as patrons at mealtimes. Thus encouraged, I instituted a bake shop solely for her management. She reports to me, of course.

He strove to keep his words noncommittal. His personal feelings for Cassie were of no concern to Keegan Byrne or anyone else in Boston.

Since the bake shop puts an extra strain on normal kitchen operations, I’ve hired another employee to assist with preparations, although Mrs. Fielder and Miss Haddon will continue to do the cooking in their respective roles.

The operation is in its infancy this month. In the future, I have every expectation that my decision will result in greater income, which will increase your agreed-upon share accordingly.

At any rate, he hoped so. The venture represented the largest gamble he’d taken since opening West & Riley’s. So far, the expenses of the bakery exceeded income. That wouldn’t always be the case, but for now every pie sale was important. If profits failed to materialize, he feared he’d have Mr. Byrne on his doorstep.

He rubbed his moist palms on his trouser legs before signing with a bold flourish.

After addressing an envelope, he grabbed his crutches and walk-hobbled to the grocery, smiling at the sight of a cleared space atop one counter. Three of Miss Haddon’s perfect pies would be cooling there soon.

Jenny carried a stack of empty serving bowls from the dining room to the washbasin. “Might as well cut those pies. They’re not going to improve just sitting there.”

“I know.” Cassie rolled her shoulders to release tension. Filling had boiled through the cracked crusts, leaving sticky residue down the outside of the pans. Worse than the first six pies, the crusts she’d assembled to fulfill customers’ orders had shrunk away from their crimped edges. Exposed apples were burned brown.

She tried to imagine Jacob’s reaction while she cut the crumbling desserts. She could pretend she’d intended to make apple pandowdy for the diners, but nothing could explain away the withered-looking offerings at the end of the worktable. She put her hand over her mouth, trying not to cry.

Within minutes of dessert being served, Jacob entered the kitchen. His gaze locked on hers. “The slices fell apart when the men tried to take them out of the pans. We had to use our spoons. I hope the others are . . .” His voice trailed off when he noticed the three remaining pies. “What will I tell my customers when they come in? Those are pig food.”

“Pig food?” Her words boiled with pent-up frustration. “You can tell your customers their orders aren’t ready. Something went wrong. Period. They can come back tomorrow.” She seized one of the pans and dumped the contents into a slop bucket.

Becca hurried from the washbasin to the table. “Wait!” She faced Jacob. “Mr. West, those are still pretty good. Can I take ’em with me tonight? I’ll share with Wash.”

“Yes, of course.”

Becca’s need and Jacob’s kindly response cooled Cassie’s temper. Maybe those pies didn’t look perfect, but obviously they weren’t swine fodder. She shouldn’t have thrown away something that could be shared.

She shot Jacob a contrite look. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been thinking clearly since talking with Mr. Fitzhugh this morning.” She wished she could respond to Jacob’s questioning gaze, but the matter felt too private to air. “I’ll come in earlier tomorrow and have the orders ready before noon. Would that be suitable?”

“It’ll have to be, won’t it?” The hint of a smile lifted the corners of his eyes. “In the meantime, maybe a few hours away from the kitchen this afternoon would help clear your mind.”

She peeked over her shoulder and saw Jenny’s mouth drop open. The woman’s reaction mirrored her own.

“Th . . . thank you, Mr. West. I’ll be happy to go, on one condition.”

“You’re giving me conditions?”

“Just one. Jenny and Becca should get free afternoons too. You did mention the possibility recently.”

“So I did.” He looked at the three of them. “Fine. One afternoon a week. Take turns.”

After one more glance at the ruined pies, Jacob pivoted toward the dining room. His crutches thumped a cadence across the floor.

“Whoo-ee, missy. You’re brave to speak up like that.” Becca shook her head in wonderment.

“I’m learning that sometimes I have to be.” Her mind flew to Mr. Fitzhugh’s stated purpose for coming to Noble Springs. If he ever dared to return, she prayed she’d find the words to send him away permanently.

When Cassie left the kitchen, she halted in the alley and stared across the street at the tall butternut tree where she and Mr. Fitzhugh stood that morning. She wished she’d paid more attention during Reverend French’s sermon yesterday. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember that he’d said anything about Old Testament laws applying to present-day life.

She bent her head over her clasped hands. Maybe Rosemary could set her mind at ease. Given all the soldiers she’d tended during the war, perhaps she’d heard discussions on the subject of widows’ remarriage.

Stepping from the shade into bright sunlight, she headed down Third Street toward the Stewarts’ home, planning a stop at the post office on the way. Regardless of Mr. Fitzhugh’s assurances, or perhaps because of them, she felt more worried than ever about her mother’s well-being.

As soon as she entered the small clapboard building across from the parsonage, the postmaster, Mr. Lyons, smiled up at her.

“Howdy, Miss Haddon. Looks like you finally got a letter from your mama.” He ran his fingers over the tray of mail before him and removed a square envelope. “Mrs. Elmer Bingham, Calusa, Missouri. Right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She plucked the envelope from his fingers, wishing the letter had arrived before Mr. Fitzhugh’s visit.

Mr. Lyons leaned across the table. “Wonder how she’s getting along?”

“So do I. I’ll tell you after I read this.”

Rumor had it he sometimes read the mail before recipients did. People claimed that’s how he knew so much about Noble Springs’ residents. She tucked the envelope in her handbag and hurried out, ignoring his deflated expression. He probably wouldn’t be so eager for information if he’d already read this one.

Instead of continuing to Rosemary’s house, she doubled back, hastening toward the privacy of her cabin. Once inside, she broke the seal on the envelope and removed two closely written pages.