Read Online The Heirloom Brides Collection by Tracey V. Bateman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracey V. Bateman
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Annie didn’t ask any more of her than she did of herself. She was at the restaurant an hour before Betsy and left an hour after, every day.
Betsy was beginning to settle into her daily routine, and constant fatigue was becoming as familiar as washing her hands or eating dinner. But she couldn’t think about how tired she felt or the years of drudgery ahead of her.
Pops was recovering slowly. On Sunday, the doctor had expressed concern that his lungs didn’t sound good and pneumonia was a possibility. The thought terrified her, and she prayed more often and with more fervency than she’d ever prayed before. That was one good thing about being forced to attend services on Sunday. She was finding peace in silence and had learned that talking to God made her feel better about things in general. It was almost as though He was helping her get through each day.
With a deep sigh, Betsy closed her eyes, determined to stay there only another minute while she gathered the strength to pull her weary body from the porch and fall into bed.
Betsy awoke, shivering, and sat up, realizing she’d fallen sound asleep. Her dress was covered with snow and her hands felt like ice. She hurried into her room. The fire had long since gone out, but she was too cold and weary to start another. Stripping off the dress, she hung it up on her peg, hoping it would dry before she had to rise in a couple of hours. She crawled under two heavy quilts, closed her eyes, and drifted off again.
The next time she woke, it was to insistent thudding on the floor. She opened her eyes slowly, her brain messy and confused as she sat up and tried to make sense of the sound.
Thud-thud-thud.
Suddenly she realized where the sound was coming from. She flew from her bed and grabbed her still-damp dress from the peg. There was no time to iron it, but that couldn’t be helped. Dread twisted her stomach as she hooked her boots and raced down the steps.
Miss Annie glared at her. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t wake up.”
“I didn’t hire you to be a lay-about. I hired you to work. If you can’t be here on time…” Her frown deepened as she scanned Betsy’s appearance. “Did you sleep in that dress?”
“No, ma’am.” Well, not exactly. She’d intended to iron it crisp and tidy.
“Obviously you can’t serve customers that way. Go upstairs, and don’t come down until you’re presentable. You’ll have to come in early tomorrow to make up the time.”
Relief flooded over Betsy that she wasn’t being fired on the spot. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And be quick. I can’t do everything myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Breathless, Betsy took the steps two at a time. She built a fire in the stove and set the iron on top to get warm, then stripped off her dress. While she waited for the iron to heat up, she straightened her disheveled quilts and then sat on the edge of her bed. Overwhelming fatigue came over her, and if she sat there a second longer, she would lie back and risk falling asleep. She forced herself to stand.
By the time Miss Annie resumed her thudding on the ceiling, Betsy was already headed toward the door. She had washed her face, brushed out her thick, long hair and retwisted it into a neat chignon. Her gown looked as though it had just been laundered. All in all, she owed Miss Annie forty-five minutes, but the extra time today was worth it. Or so she thought.
Miss Annie’s face was mottled with anger. “High time you got back here,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I had to build a fire to heat the iron.”
“I don’t want your excuses.” She grabbed Betsy’s arm, her fingers shoving into delicate skin. “Get over here and watch this bacon. If it burns, I’m taking it out of your wages.”
Betsy couldn’t imagine what had happened to anger the woman so much. She had never seen this side of Miss Annie and had certainly never been on the receiving end of a violent outburst. But
Betsy was beginning to settle into her daily routine, and constant fatigue was becoming as familiar as washing her hands or eating dinner. But she couldn’t think about how tired she felt or the years of drudgery ahead of her.
Pops was recovering slowly. On Sunday, the doctor had expressed concern that his lungs didn’t sound good and pneumonia was a possibility. The thought terrified her, and she prayed more often and with more fervency than she’d ever prayed before. That was one good thing about being forced to attend services on Sunday. She was finding peace in silence and had learned that talking to God made her feel better about things in general. It was almost as though He was helping her get through each day.
With a deep sigh, Betsy closed her eyes, determined to stay there only another minute while she gathered the strength to pull her weary body from the porch and fall into bed.
Betsy awoke, shivering, and sat up, realizing she’d fallen sound asleep. Her dress was covered with snow and her hands felt like ice. She hurried into her room. The fire had long since gone out, but she was too cold and weary to start another. Stripping off the dress, she hung it up on her peg, hoping it would dry before she had to rise in a couple of hours. She crawled under two heavy quilts, closed her eyes, and drifted off again.
The next time she woke, it was to insistent thudding on the floor. She opened her eyes slowly, her brain messy and confused as she sat up and tried to make sense of the sound.
Thud-thud-thud.
Suddenly she realized where the sound was coming from. She flew from her bed and grabbed her still-damp dress from the peg. There was no time to iron it, but that couldn’t be helped. Dread twisted her stomach as she hooked her boots and raced down the steps.
Miss Annie glared at her. “You’re fifteen minutes late.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t wake up.”
“I didn’t hire you to be a lay-about. I hired you to work. If you can’t be here on time…” Her frown deepened as she scanned Betsy’s appearance. “Did you sleep in that dress?”
“No, ma’am.” Well, not exactly. She’d intended to iron it crisp and tidy.
“Obviously you can’t serve customers that way. Go upstairs, and don’t come down until you’re presentable. You’ll have to come in early tomorrow to make up the time.”
Relief flooded over Betsy that she wasn’t being fired on the spot. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And be quick. I can’t do everything myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Breathless, Betsy took the steps two at a time. She built a fire in the stove and set the iron on top to get warm, then stripped off her dress. While she waited for the iron to heat up, she straightened her disheveled quilts and then sat on the edge of her bed. Overwhelming fatigue came over her, and if she sat there a second longer, she would lie back and risk falling asleep. She forced herself to stand.
By the time Miss Annie resumed her thudding on the ceiling, Betsy was already headed toward the door. She had washed her face, brushed out her thick, long hair and retwisted it into a neat chignon. Her gown looked as though it had just been laundered. All in all, she owed Miss Annie forty-five minutes, but the extra time today was worth it. Or so she thought.
Miss Annie’s face was mottled with anger. “High time you got back here,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I had to build a fire to heat the iron.”
“I don’t want your excuses.” She grabbed Betsy’s arm, her fingers shoving into delicate skin. “Get over here and watch this bacon. If it burns, I’m taking it out of your wages.”
Betsy couldn’t imagine what had happened to anger the woman so much. She had never seen this side of Miss Annie and had certainly never been on the receiving end of a violent outburst. But
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