Read Online Crimson Snow by Jeanne Dams - Free Book Online Page B

instant, she wanted nothing more than to be safe in Patrick’s arms, shut away from turmoil and confusion and hard work forever.
    Being Hilda, she refused to give in to her emotions. Anyway, she was being silly. No one could protect her from the world. She didn’t need protection. She could look after herself.
    Still, it was an effort for her to keep her voice stern. “I cannot come out, Patrick, and I have no time to talk. Family dinner is at seven, and we are in a hurry, all of us, because Mr. Williams—”
    â€œI heard. Word about Tippecanoe Place gets around, you know,” said Patrick, stepping inside and firmly closing the door after him. “Some of the men are back today, so I have the evenin’ off. I thought the household would be in a rare taking, and you worked off your feet. I came to help.”
    â€œYou? Help? But you do not know—”
    â€œI know how to fetch and carry, and soothe the feelings of an irate Irish cook, and make people smile. Someone can teach me to hand round food at the table.”
    â€œOh, you would never be allowed to do that! Even though it is just the family tonight. You do not know the rules, and you do not have on the right clothing.”
    Patrick’s eyebrows rose almost into his tousled black hair. “It takes rules, and special clothes, to give folks their food?”
    â€œYou know it does, Patrick. There are rules about which side to offer things, and how, and besides that, butlers change their clothes all day long. Sometimes I think it is all they do. Plain trousers and an ordinary coat in the morning, striped trousers and a tail coat in the afternoon, a dress suit in the evening with black trousers.”
    Patrick grinned. “Then I expect me fireman’s uniform won’t do. Never mind, me girl, I was teasing you. I’ll make meself useful behind the scenes. Now where’s that tray you was carryin’ when I peeked through the glass?”
    â€œIt is here, but Patrick, Mrs. Sullivan will not—”
    He picked up the tray. “You let me worry about Mrs. Sullivan. Now, where’re all these dishes goin’?”
    She allowed him to carry the tray to the butler’s pantry, but insisted on putting the china away herself. “Suit yourself,” he said with a grin. Whistling, he went back to the kitchen.
    Hilda didn’t dare hurry with the china, but she ran to the kitchen as soon as she could. Standing just outside the door, she eavesdropped shamelessly.
    â€œâ€¦and how did a colleen like yourself get to be such a fine cook, now tell me that? And without eating more of your own cookin’ than’d keep a bird alive?”
    (Mrs. Sullivan was many years the wrong side of forty, and weighed, Hilda guessed, not much less than two hundred pounds.)
    â€œAh, get away with ye! Sure, an’ it’s a fine line o’ blarney ye spin, me lad.” Her brogue, like Patrick’s, had broadened so much that Hilda had some difficulty in following the conversation.
    â€œ ’Tis no blarney to say you’re the finest cook in South Bend. Even me own blessed mother doesn’t make as light a bread, and her the best baker in all of County Kerry. It’s honored I am to be helpin’ ye in yer hour of need. Only tell me what I can do. I’m yer willin’ slave!”
    There was a rich chuckle, and Mrs. Sullivan sailed out of the kitchen, looking positively kittenish. Hilda got away from the doorway just in time.
    â€œSure, and it’s a fine young man you’ve got for yourself, Hilda! Givin’ up his time off to help us, I call that downright neighborly. Now mind the two of you keep your mind on your work tonight!” But she said it with a coy smile. “You’ll be servin’, Hilda, with Anton, so you’d best be goin’ up and puttin’ on a clean apron. I’ll keep Maggie in the kitchen to help me. When you come down, you can have yourself a