Now her job was to master it. Jane scoured the kitchen to find the stove black. She located the tin of polish in a drawer with string, tweezers, penny nails, scissors, an eggbeater, brushes, two wooden spoons, an empty flask, cotton balls, and a paring knife. Another challenge, she told herself, but first the cookstove.
Beginning at the front of the stove, she applied the polish evenly, rubbing it in a circular pattern and working her way to the back while the surface gradually heated. She could not guess when the stove had last received the equal of her attention, perhaps never, but when she was done, she was hopeful that it looked as good as it had upon delivery. She recognized the model. It was not very old, certainly not a relic from the days when Uriah Burdick built the house, but that did not mean that Morgan had purchased it either. Her only hint that he might have came from the fact that it was similar to the cooking stove at the Pennyroyal. It was conceivable that Mrs. Sterling had advised him.
Jane returned the polish to the drawer, tossed the cleaning rag on the tin box, and checked to see if the wood was thoroughly kindled. When she saw that it was she added more coal and waited for the blue flame around the coals to change to a white one. It was then that she closed the oven damper. In a few moments, she was able to mostly close the front damper, leaving enough space for oxygen to flow and nourish the fire. Finally, when she was certain there was a good draft and the coals were sufficiently caught, she half closed the chimney damper.
She could finally appreciate the warmth coming from the stove. What she had felt before was the effect of her own exertions.
Jane explored the pantry. It was well stocked. She had supposed yesterday that it must be the case because Morgan had had two opportunities to purchase staples in Bitter Springs and had brought nothing back. He impressed her as someone who would not have returned with a bride alone if he was also in want of molasses.
For some reason, that made Jane smile.
She measured flour, salt, baking powder, and sugar and then mixed and sifted them over a green glass bowl. From the cold store she took an egg and some fresh, cool milk. She beat the egg in a separate bowl and added the milk. There was no point in mixing them together until someone joined her. She’d have to add more baking powder, spoiling the proportions, and the hotcakes would not taste the way they should. Someone drowning them in butter and syrup might not be able to tell the difference, but she would.
Jane decided to make coffee. She suspected that would rouse Morgan, and perhaps he would invite his hands to come and sit at his table. She made enough for them. It did not seem right to her to do otherwise.
Jane found finely ground coffee in an airtight glass jar in the pantry. She measured out a cup for the strainer, returned the strainer to the pot, and put it on the table. She pumped enough water at the sink to fill the kettle and set it on the stove to boil. That left her with time to dress. A shift and robe was not suitable for greeting anyone, even if her husband was the only one who came to the table.
Jane thought she heard the back door open and close while she was dressing, but she did not give it any thought except to suppose that Morgan was finally up and making his morning visit to the necessary. When she returned to the kitchen and saw him standing at the stove pouring boiling water from the kettle into the coffeepot, she realized that she had been wrong. The door had certainly opened and closed, but he had been coming in, not going out.
“I will do that,” she said, skirting the table. “I just went to the bedroom to dress.”
Morgan did not relinquish the kettle, but he did look at her sideways. “I see that. Are all of your dresses like that one?”
Jane glanced down at herself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Fancy is what I mean. Sunday fancy. Going-to-a-social fancy.”
“This?” The dress was apple green calico with white polka dots on the skirt and the hint of a white ruffle around the scooped neckline. The sleeves were plain and fitted, with none of the puffery that was becoming the fashion in the East. Jane wore a corset but deliberately had set aside her bustle. It seemed to her that the appendage had no place here. The hem of her skirt hovered just above her ankles, a good length for walking and working. She thought she had chosen practically. He thought she had chosen fancy.
She understood then that she had nothing that he would pronounce suitable.
“What’s wrong with what I have on?” she asked.
“It’s pretty. That’s an observation, not a compliment.”
“I was not in danger of mistaking one for the other.” She left Morgan at the stove and applied herself to making the hotcake batter.
Morgan looked over at Jane and watched her tie a towel around her waist. “I have no objection to pretty,” he told her. “But it goes against my grain to see it come to a bad end. Someday you’ll look at it and not recollect that it was ever once the color of summer apples or that it had that little ruffle at the neck.”
“It’s for wearing,” she said, stirring the batter. “It goes against my grain to tuck it in a wardrobe and only visit it from time to time.”
“Is that right?”
She looked at him sharply to gauge whether he was mocking her. Unfortunately, he had turned away so that only his profile was visible. “I shall miss the sewing machine I had in New York, but I do well enough with a needle and thread. There is no reason I cannot make one or two aprons, or even a dress. It will merely take longer.”
“Is that a compromise or an accommodation?”
“The latter, I think.”
Morgan nodded. “Coffee’s ready,” he said, removing the pot from the stove. He held it over the table where he had placed two cups. “Can I assume you want some?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured coffee into both cups and set the pot on the table. Jane traded places with him at the stove.
“Did you invite your men to breakfast?”
“No.”
