“Gretchen burned her hand,” Isabelle explained.
He huffed in annoyance, pressing his massive fists to his hips. Mr. Davies was a large man, but Isabelle would never have called him fat. He gave one the impression of a rock-filled sack. “Well, get it out of the basin and get that food to the customers!” Mr. Davies ordered.
Isabelle shot her employer a disapproving look, but released Gretchen. The girl gingerly patted her burned hand dry, lifted a bowl of stew, and set it down again, howling with pain.
“Would you shut it?” Mr. Davies hissed. “We’ve got gents out there. You want them to think there’s a murder going on?”
Isabelle drew the weeping Gretchen back to the basin and once again plunged her hand into the water. Mr. Davies was usually a jovial man and was not an unkind master of his establishment. There was a larger-than-usual crowd out there tonight, though, so Isabelle tried to ignore his insensitivity to Gretchen’s predicament. “She can’t work anymore tonight,” Isabelle said in a reasonable tone.
“Who’s going to do the serving, then?” the man asked. His dark blue eyes were wide and his gray brows shot up into his forehead. “I’m already short-handed. Gretchen’s the only girl in tonight, as is. We’ve got honest-to-God blue bloods in the private dining room needs seeing to, and half the common room’s going to die of barrel fever on me if we don’t get food into their bellies to sop up the ale.”
“My sister would come help!” Sammy, the dish boy, piped up. “She needs a few shillings for a bit o’ ribbon she’s got her eye on.”
“Go get her, then,” Mr. Davies instructed. The boy dashed out. “In the meantime,” he said, turning to Isabelle, “you do the serving.”
Nerves grabbed at Isabelle’s middle. She was happy in the kitchen, working with only a few other employees. She did not relish the idea of plunging into the morass in the common room. “Who’s going to mind the kitchen, then?” she asked.
“You are!” Mr. Davies barked. “Do both until Sammy’s sainted sister gets here to save us.”
Isabelle gritted her teeth and pulled Gretchen’s hand from the water and wrapped it in a towel a little more roughly than she’d intended. Gretchen yelped. “All right,” Isabelle muttered. “Who’s first?”
“Get that stew out there to the common room. Once they’ve got spoons in their mouths, they won’t be hollerin’, and we’ll all be able to hear ourselves think. The nobs down the hall want stew, too, and a chicken with the sides.”
Isabelle nodded. Gretchen gave her a pained look and bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
“Don’t worry about it,” Isabelle said.
She finished wrapping the girl’s hand and sent her on her way, with instructions to keep the burn clean and wrapped.
Then, Isabelle loaded a tray with bowls of stew and loaves of bread. Mr. Davies held the door for her, and she walked down a short hall that opened into the common room.
Twenty tables stood in the spacious room, every one occupied. When the crowd spotted Isabelle and her tray, a cheer went up around the room. She smiled in spite of herself. Most of the patrons were good-natured villagers. There were a few ribald comments from men deep in their tankards, but she began enjoying herself as she served the hard-working folk their suppers. In turn, the men and women seemed to appreciate being able to personally thank the woman who so satisfactorily filled their stomachs.
A shilling landed on her tray when Isabelle delivered food to the table where Mr. Barnaby, a village carpenter, and his wife were dining.
“Excellent, as usual, Mrs. Smith!” the man boomed. His wife nodded her agreement.
Isabelle’s heart swelled with pride and delight at the extra coin. “Thank you kindly, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy in her giddiness.
As she returned to the kitchen to reload her tray, heat crept up her neck as she realized what she’d done. She was a gently born woman who had just curtsied to a carpenter.
Never did Isabelle think she’d see the day where she’d make a cake of herself over a few pennies tossed in her direction, but that was before she was a ruined woman, before her brother had cast her aside. She might have been born to a softer life, but that life was long gone. She slammed open the kitchen door and filled more bowls.
This was her life now. She cooked in the kitchen of a middle-of-nowhere inn to keep a roof over her head and food on her and Bessie’s plates. Fortunately, Mr. Davies didn’t mind if she took home some of the leftovers from her evening’s efforts. She’d eaten more beef stew and mutton than she cared to think about, but at least she could count on having one hearty meal at night and a bit of bread in the morning.