Read Online Just Like Magic by Elizabeth Townsend - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Townsend
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“Give it about an hour and a half, miss, not too hot or too slow, and we’ll clear up this clutter in the meantime.”
So the first hot water from the kettle went for dishwater, besides Stepmama’s tea, and Lottie washed and I rinsed, then we both dried, and Lottie told me about life in the palace kitchen and how she hoped to be a head cook one day. I listened, and when we were done Lottie scrubbed the kitchen table, helped me turn the oven down and put in the potatoes (well-poked, to keep them from exploding), and straightened the shelves. She even showed me how to wind and set the clock, then picked some flowers from the garden and set them in a glass on the newly scrubbed table.
“There now, doesn’t that look nice, miss?”
“It does. Almost cheerful.”
“Well, why shouldn’t it? You’ve got some good sunlight in here—I’ve seen some kitchens dark as dungeons. Course it does need a little more straightening—” She was glancing over at my bed, which was unmade and had been for the last five months.
“I’ll get that, Lottie.” As I struggled to make my bed, my cheeks were flushed. Lottie was a servant, but I was sure that wherever she lived, her things were spotless. I considered myself a lady, but I lived in a pigpen. Making beds was beneath me, wasn’t it?
Meanwhile Lottie swept the floor, and the oven started producing delicious smells of roast beef and onion.
“Time to put on the vegetable,” Lottie announced. “What’s in the garden, miss?”
I wasn’t sure, so we explored together and found some green beans dangling from vines on a trellis. Together in the late afternoon sunlight we filled a basket, then sat in the shade next to the shed and snapped the beans and pulled off their strings.
“This’ll be a nice simple dinner,” said Lottie as she finally set the pan of beans on the stove, “and I’ll show you how to make the gravy.”
She had me pull the roast out of the oven, and it wasn’t burned and blackened. It looked crisp and juicy and hot and utterly delicious, and we had to shut Archibald outside because he thought so, too. Then she initiated me into the ways of flour and water and the drippings from the roasting pan. In ten minutes, thick brown gravy was steaming in a pitcher, Lottie was draining the green beans, and I was arranging trays with plates.
“There!” said Lottie, hands on hips, looking at the food spread out on the table. “I’ll just give you a hand with carving, and then I’ll be going along, miss.”
“You won’t stay and have some?”
“Oh, no, miss. Mum’ll have mine ready at home.” She handed me the carving knife, and in a few minutes I had carved some wobbly but halfway respectable slices.
“I can’t thank you enough for giving me your day off,” I said, washing my hands in the washtub as Lottie took off her apron. “Can you come back again?”
“Next week I could. Will you be all right, miss, in the meantime?”
“I suppose, now I have a better idea of how to use the stove. I could always read Mrs. Homebody’s , too.”
“You’ve got Mrs. Homebody’s Household Helper ?” Lottie’s voice took on a new quality of respect. “She’s the best, miss. You can learn a lot from her.”
“I’ve learned a lot more from you in one day.”
Lottie blushed. “Thank you, miss. Some things it’s easier to be shown, the first time. But I’m sure you’ll do fine now. I’ll see you next week, then.”
When I carried the trays upstairs, Lucy said, “Finally a decent meal!” as she looked up from the latest novel she was reading. Gerta squealed, “Not that much potato, Ella!” And Stepmama said, with a googly look at Mon Petit, “Wouldn’t the sweetums little doggy like some nice roast beef? Yes, he would!”
“And that’s all they said!” I complained to Archibald as I came back down the stairs. But as I sat down afterwards and ate my supper, looking around at the lush green garden and feeling the warmth of the late summer air about me, I
So the first hot water from the kettle went for dishwater, besides Stepmama’s tea, and Lottie washed and I rinsed, then we both dried, and Lottie told me about life in the palace kitchen and how she hoped to be a head cook one day. I listened, and when we were done Lottie scrubbed the kitchen table, helped me turn the oven down and put in the potatoes (well-poked, to keep them from exploding), and straightened the shelves. She even showed me how to wind and set the clock, then picked some flowers from the garden and set them in a glass on the newly scrubbed table.
“There now, doesn’t that look nice, miss?”
“It does. Almost cheerful.”
“Well, why shouldn’t it? You’ve got some good sunlight in here—I’ve seen some kitchens dark as dungeons. Course it does need a little more straightening—” She was glancing over at my bed, which was unmade and had been for the last five months.
“I’ll get that, Lottie.” As I struggled to make my bed, my cheeks were flushed. Lottie was a servant, but I was sure that wherever she lived, her things were spotless. I considered myself a lady, but I lived in a pigpen. Making beds was beneath me, wasn’t it?
Meanwhile Lottie swept the floor, and the oven started producing delicious smells of roast beef and onion.
“Time to put on the vegetable,” Lottie announced. “What’s in the garden, miss?”
I wasn’t sure, so we explored together and found some green beans dangling from vines on a trellis. Together in the late afternoon sunlight we filled a basket, then sat in the shade next to the shed and snapped the beans and pulled off their strings.
“This’ll be a nice simple dinner,” said Lottie as she finally set the pan of beans on the stove, “and I’ll show you how to make the gravy.”
She had me pull the roast out of the oven, and it wasn’t burned and blackened. It looked crisp and juicy and hot and utterly delicious, and we had to shut Archibald outside because he thought so, too. Then she initiated me into the ways of flour and water and the drippings from the roasting pan. In ten minutes, thick brown gravy was steaming in a pitcher, Lottie was draining the green beans, and I was arranging trays with plates.
“There!” said Lottie, hands on hips, looking at the food spread out on the table. “I’ll just give you a hand with carving, and then I’ll be going along, miss.”
“You won’t stay and have some?”
“Oh, no, miss. Mum’ll have mine ready at home.” She handed me the carving knife, and in a few minutes I had carved some wobbly but halfway respectable slices.
“I can’t thank you enough for giving me your day off,” I said, washing my hands in the washtub as Lottie took off her apron. “Can you come back again?”
“Next week I could. Will you be all right, miss, in the meantime?”
“I suppose, now I have a better idea of how to use the stove. I could always read Mrs. Homebody’s , too.”
“You’ve got Mrs. Homebody’s Household Helper ?” Lottie’s voice took on a new quality of respect. “She’s the best, miss. You can learn a lot from her.”
“I’ve learned a lot more from you in one day.”
Lottie blushed. “Thank you, miss. Some things it’s easier to be shown, the first time. But I’m sure you’ll do fine now. I’ll see you next week, then.”
When I carried the trays upstairs, Lucy said, “Finally a decent meal!” as she looked up from the latest novel she was reading. Gerta squealed, “Not that much potato, Ella!” And Stepmama said, with a googly look at Mon Petit, “Wouldn’t the sweetums little doggy like some nice roast beef? Yes, he would!”
“And that’s all they said!” I complained to Archibald as I came back down the stairs. But as I sat down afterwards and ate my supper, looking around at the lush green garden and feeling the warmth of the late summer air about me, I
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