Cassandra sighed, jumped off the table, and grabbed several logs from the metal box against the wall. Opening the stove door, she tossed them inside. The flames under the stove grew. She turned to Amelia. “Didn’t you ever make jam when you were my age?”
“No.”
“Cookies?”
“No.”
“Scrambled eggs?”
Amelia sighed. “I can’t say that I’ve ever been in a kitchen before today.”
Cassandra hopped back onto the bench. “What did you do when you were young?”
“I did the same things that I do now—wrote letters, played piano, embroidered.” There was no food in the kitchen, just pots and pans, knives and towels.
Where in heavens was the food kept if not in the kitchen?
“What are you looking for?”
Amelia handed her the instructions.
“Larders,” Cassandra said, pointing to two doors at the end of the room. “I’ll take the dry larder. You take the wet.” Together they collected all the ingredients needed to make the meal, piling them on the center bench. Amelia picked up the butter.
The instructions called for a quarter pound of butter. How was she supposed to measure a quarter pound? She shrugged and tossed the entire slab into the saucepan on the stove.
Cassandra continued to pepper her with questions.
“Did you climb trees?”
“Certainly not.”
“Go fishing?”
Amelia turned to the slab of meat in front of her, the smell making her queasy. “Cassandra, I’m a lady. Ladies don’t climb trees or fish.” Or cook, really.
“But you weren’t always a lady. You must have been a child at some point.”
“Stop your questions and tell me what to do next.”
Her childhood did not bear thinking about. She had been in duchess training from the moment she could walk and talk. She’d never much minded the childhood she’d missed out on because the reward was worth it—but now she’d had neither a childhood nor a title, and that was a bitter, bitter pill.
“Use this knife,” Cassandra said, handing a long blade to her.
Amelia held the large kitchen knife awkwardly in both hands and tried to saw through the lamb, but the meat kept moving. Resigning herself, she held the meat still with her left hand, almost dry retching at the cold, sticky texture.
She held up her fingers and shuddered. He would pay for this.
Enjoy being useful.
The nerve. Well, he had a surprise coming. She would make this dratted pie, clean the dratted banisters, do the laundry, and when her things arrived, she would sell some of her jewelry and disappear. It would be a shame to lose any piece from her collection, but it was better than being forced to do manual labor.
She noticed the smell of acrid smoke just as Cassandra gasped and jumped down from the bench toward the stovetop. The butter in the pan caught fire a second later.
Amelia grabbed Cassandra and shoved her away from the flames. The black smoke coming off the pan stung her eyes. Luckily, the fire was small and confined to the pot.
“I am going to kill your brother,” Amelia said through gritted teeth as she grabbed the kettle of water.
“Don’t!”
