“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?”
“A lot.”
She grinned and slathered some butter on the cut roll before placing it on a small plate and setting it in front of him. “I like butter, too. How old are you and what is your name?”
“I am Noah and I am four. Almost five.”
Abigail decided not to ask when he would be five as she had talked to enough children in her life to realize almost could be months and months away. “Then you definitely need to get enough food. You are a growing boy.”
“Yes, I am.” He looked at the fancy dish that held the stew. “Maybe I need more stew to make sure I keep growing.”
“Oh, that is a good idea.” Mabel set the boy’s bowl in front of him and Abigail put more stew in it. “There you go. Thank you, Mabel.”
Mabel smiled and grabbed a few empty dishes before returning to the sink. Abigail wanted to know what the boy’s story was but did not want to poke at what might be an open wound. So she sat and watched him eat. She had the feeling the children were fed but not in a manner they were used to. Mrs. Beaton did not seem the type to cater to a whine about being hungry.
