Once the guests retired to their assigned chambers, Edith returned to her room to finish scrubbing Mr. McTaggart’s shirt. She managed to remove the stain at last, but the garment had seen better days. In fact, snooping in his wardrobe had revealed the few shirts he owned had all seen better days. It was a wonder he didn’t freeze to death in his threadbare garments.
She draped the shirt over the washstand to dry before turning her attention toward her next task. The picnic hamper needed to be returned to the kitchen, and she wanted to thank Mrs. McTaggart for baking her favorite cake, especially since her son had ordered her to do it. The woman must have the patience of a saint, although Edith was wise enough not to say anything against Mr. McTaggart. No mother liked her son disparaged, even if she wanted to box his ears herself on occasion.
Edith took the servants’ staircase instead of marching through the main pathways of the castle with the large hamper. As she reached the servants’ area, a voice blared out, causing her to jump.
She couldn’t understand a word the woman was shouting in Gaelic, but the tone was clear. She was in a temper.
“Finella! Finella McTaggart, ye lazy girl! Get in ‘ere before I skin ye alive.” A loud clatter came from the kitchen, and Edith hastily turned to go back upstairs. “Oh, it is just you, Sassenach!”
Edith cringed at the scorn in those words. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered Mr. McTaggart’s mother red-faced, dusted in flour, and glowering in the corridor.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you, ma’am. I only meant to return the hamper and thank you for the delicious fare.”
The older woman’s mouth puckered. “Weel, I dinna have time for gabble.” She stormed back into the kitchen.
“Gabble? Me?” Edith was speaking the King’s English. Madam Montgomery catered to gentlemen and saw to it her girls spoke properly, and Lavinia had continued to tutor Edith even after they retired to Chelsea.
She followed the woman into the kitchen and came up short. Every surface was covered in flour, water bubbled over the side of a large pot on the wood stove, and a teetering stack of pans hung off the edge of a counter. Most notable, however, was how empty the massive kitchen was. Mrs. McTaggart had no help.
Placing the hamper on the floor out of the way, Edith hurried to grab two towels next to the stove to remove the pot from the burner. “Was there an accident?”
Mrs. McTaggart snorted. “Knowing the lass’s pa, I’d wager its verra likely. No woman with her wits about her would lay wit’ yon Gregory McTaggart on purpose.”
Edith choked down a laugh. “Pardon?”
The woman snatched a knife from the counter and wrestled with a plucked and beheaded chicken before beginning the arduous task of cutting it up. She nailed Edith with a dark look. “Did ye no’ listen to anythin’ I said, Sassenach? I’ve a dinner for six that willna cook itself. I cannae stand ‘round jabbering, no’ when my help has run off and another is sick in bed.”
“Oh, dear. You’ve no one to assist?” Edith didn’t wait for a reply before grabbing an apron from a peg on the wall and donning it. “Tell me what needs to be done.”
Mrs. McTaggart grunted, and it was all Edith could do to keep a straight face. Like mother, like son apparently. She spoke something in Gaelic and when Edith stared in bemusement, Mr. McTaggart’s mother sighed. “Ye need to stay out of the way. I cannae have ye under foot.”
The scent of baking bread on the verge of burning filled the kitchen. Edith grabbed up the same towels she’d used for the pot and pulled the golden loaves from the oven. “I won’t be under foot. I know my way around a kitchen. Just tell me what you need and I can do it.”
“And how do ye know yer way ‘round a kitchen, lass?”
Edith placed the loaves away from the stove to cool. “That was my job at the brothel. I cooked and cleaned to earn my keep.”
Mrs. McTaggart’s knife thwacked against the cutting block. “Thebrothel? In the name of the wee man! Ye worked in a brothel?”
Heat seared Edith’s face and she ducked her head, too humiliated to look at the other woman. “I thought Mr. McTaggart would have told you.”
“My Fergus is no’ loose wit’ his tongue.” Mrs. McTaggart wiped her hands on her apron then stalked toward her. Edith expected to be tossed out on her ear, but the woman’s hands were gentle on her shoulders. “What happened, lass? No woman chooses that sort o’ life unless she has no other choices. Dinna feel ashamed.”
Edith blinked back the unexpected tears blurring her vision. “I lost my position as a seamstress and all my family was buried. I had no place to go, but Lady Thorne’s sister took me in. She convinced the madam I could be of service in the kitchens. I swear, I was never…one of her girls.”
Mrs. McTaggart frowned. “It wouldna matter one way or another to me, Mistress Gallagher. If the menfolk took better care o’ their lasses, no’ one would be without a choice of where ta go. How did ye land on the streets?”
Edith squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head. She wasn’t as ashamed of living at Madam Montgomery’s house of ill repute as she was about wasting her virtue on Jimmy Gibb, silver-tongued devil that he was. Her mother warned her away from men like him, but her mother had been dead for two years when Jimmy came sniffing around her skirts. Without anyone to care about her, Edith had been lonely. And stupid.
Mrs. McTaggart’s light touch at Edith’s chin caused her eyes to fly open. The older woman’s green gaze radiated kindness and warmth, and her smile was encouraging. “Weel, never ye mind about that, Mistress Gallagher. Ye’ve put it behind ye and there it should stay.”
Edith tentatively returned her smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
As quickly as Mrs. McTaggart’s gentleness appeared, it vanished and she returned to her task. “I willna refuse yer help now that I kin ye can cook. The potatoes need peeling the rest o’ the way. Ye can find a knife over there.”
Edith followed the direction of her nod and discovered a bowl of potatoes and a knife beside it. “Yes, ma’am.”
They worked the next hour in companionable silence. Once Edith had the potatoes on to boil and Mrs. McTaggart had prepared the chicken for frying, the cook dismissed her. “Ye should dress for dinner, lass. I can handle it from here.”
