Just Like Magic (4 page)

Henry put down his cup and made for the door. “I’ll be back in the morning, miss.”

“Oh. Yes.” I stood up. “I’ll see you then. And— thank you, Henry.”

“No trouble, miss. And thanks for the tea!” And he was out the door; I heard the gate bang.

I remained standing, then slowly looked about for a tray. I needed to take Stepmama and my stepsisters some tea before they came poking downstairs again. And maybe some sliced bread and jam; there was a loaf in one of the bundles I’d opened. As I looked for the bundle, I caught sight of the book Stepmama had thrust into my hands. Picking it up, I read the title:
Mrs. Homebody’s Household Helper, or, Hints for Housekeepers
.

I thumped the book down on the table. Housekeepers! I was not a housekeeper! How dare she? Maybe I had to do this for now, but it would not be forever or even for very long. On that I was absolutely determined.

3

Roast Beef and Ashes

“Miss!”

I opened my eyes groggily. What on earth—

“Miss! It’s me, Henry!”

The voice was muffled and accompanied by a rude thumping. Henry? Who was Henry? I opened my eyes wider and looked around and saw, not my own room in Merton Manor, but the underside of a staircase in a dark, cobwebby, crate-strewn basement kitchen.

I groaned and sat up. What on earth was that boy doing here so early? Pushing back the scanty blankets, I got up and called through the door, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yes, miss. I’m sorry I’m a bit late, but my mum had me run her an errand first, and—”

“Late? What time is it?”

“After seven, miss. Shall I come in?”

“No! No, wait a minute.”

I hurried back to my trunk and groped through it until I found my oldest dress, which I flung on as quickly as I could, thinking, seven o’clock, why on earth seven o’clock? And where shall I put this dress of mine from yesterday? It needs to be washed—washed, oh, no, they’d better not expect me to do that, too!

Ignoring Henry’s further knocking, I spent a few minutes doing up my hair, then tucked a fresh handkerchief up my sleeve and opened the door. Henry gave me a dark look, his arms full of wood.

“Morning’s half over, miss.”

“The morning’s hardly begun. Here, light the fire again. Then you need to clean.”

“Clean, miss? I told you how I don’t do much in the cleaning line. And wouldn’t you want to send me out for some food, to the butcher and like? Your garden needs a lot of work, too. And I’ll show you how to keep the fire going.” He started laying wood in the fireplace again.

“Are you telling me you won’t clean?” I folded my arms and narrowed my eyes.

“Oh, no, miss!” He looked over his shoulder at me. “Just that I’m only here until dinner and there’s a lot to do! You wouldn’t want to be digging in the garden yourself, would you?”

“No, but you can do that on Thursday. Today you will clean.” I was determined not to cook until the room was spotless.

Henry sighed. “All right, miss, but what about the food?”

“There’s plenty of time. You can clean now, and then shop.”

So with a kettle on the fire, we set to work. Henry scrubbed out the shelves and the table, and I unpacked the barrels. He swept down the cobwebs, and I dusted a chair. He cleaned the cast iron stove, and I made some tea and toast.

“That does look good, miss.” Henry’s eyes brightened at the sight of food.

“Not until you’ve washed up.” I sat down to my breakfast and Henry grumbled his way out to the pump. When he returned, red and dripping, I was scribbling a list. “There. This should do it.”

He sat down, took a large bite of toast, and said with his mouth full, “Golly, miss, you don’t think I can read, do you?”

I thwacked my pencil down. Filthy rooms, mongrel dogs, and now illiterates. “Then how will you know what to get?” I snapped.

“Oh, I know the regular stuff, miss. Just tell me if you want a roast, or chops, or what.”

“A roast,” I said. It sounded good, and surely it couldn’t be too difficult.

“Right. Then I’ll be back in a jiff.” He crammed another piece of toast into his mouth and banged his way out the door.

“Boys!” I said to Archibald, who had wandered in and was now whining for some toast. “And you’re no better!” Finding a bowl, I broke some bread into it. “If you don’t like this, you’ll have to go hungry.”

At that moment, the door at the head of the stairs opened and Gerta’s voice called, “Ella? Where’s our breakfast? Hurry up, will you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” I poured myself another cup of tea and took a slow sip. The door slammed.

Half an hour later I balanced a tray upstairs with tea (hot and leafy) and—surprise!—toast (scorched and scraped) with jam. Lucy took a look and made a face. “Can’t you make anything else?” she said.

“Not until the boy comes back with the food. Besides, I don’t know anything about cooking.” I set her plate down and turned to go.

“It seems to me you could take a little interest in it, seeing as it’s in your blood!” Lucy shot at my back. I slammed her door and had to stop and take several deep breaths in the hall before pushing my way into Gerta’s room without knocking and thumping her plate down on her bed, but she didn’t even look up from the novel she was reading
(The Haunted Castle of Shadowmere
) as she lay back against the pillows. “I hope dinner isn’t this late!” was her only remark.

Stepmama was also in bed. “Oh, my dear, would you help me on with my dressing gown?” she moaned. “And then perhaps you could scrub these windows. I daren’t put up our curtains, and it is so depressing!”

I put down her plate and picked up her dressing gown. “I’m sure the boy will get to the windows, but he’s out shopping now. He’s only here three mornings a week, you know.”

“I know, but couldn’t you do it yourself, dear? It wouldn’t take but a moment.”

“Stepmama,” I said, arranging her gown as she settled back against her pillows, “if you want meals, I need to work on them. I’m sure I won’t have any time for scrubbing windows. The boy will do it when he can.”

“Oh, dear. I suppose you’re right,” Stepmama sighed and reached for her tea. “And about the laundry, dear—”

But I had escaped downstairs. Henry had returned and was sitting at the table, eating more bread. I snatched up the end of the loaf and put it on a shelf. “There’ll be no eating when there’s work to be done! Now show me how to use the stove.”

“Well, the wood goes in here, miss.” Henry pulled open a square black door and started jamming wood in. “The little pieces on the bottom, like in the fireplace, remember?”

I didn’t remember and I didn’t care. “Just light it,” I said, waving a hand.

“Don’t need to light it yet, miss! Maybe in half an hour, before you put the roast in? Just light the tinder with a coal.”

That sounded fairly simple. “So where do I put the roast?”

“Here. In the oven.” He opened another door. “And when you want to change the heat, make it hot or not so hot—”

“I understand, Henry.”

“—you slide this little thingummy here. If it’s open, it’s hotter. Try it, miss.”

I slid the thingummy with a finger. All right, I had that mastered.

“That’s about it, miss. I’ll just be bringing in some more wood, and then I’ll be off. My mum’ll be expecting me.”

I wiped my finger on my handkerchief and looked around as he dropped his load of wood. The kitchen was moderately clean, and we had food, fire, and water. “All right, Henry, you may go. Be sure to be here early on Thursday! You can start off working in the garden—you needn’t call me till that’s done.”

When he had gone, I stretched out on my bed. What a morning! The dinner could wait. My thoughts started to drift: dinner later, but no cleaning…cooking shouldn’t be much, and somehow…I’d find a way out…somehow…

When I opened my eyes the room seemed dimmer. Dimmer? What about dinner? What was the time? I jumped off my bed and stared out a window. Past noon! What to do? The roast—I pawed through the packages on the table and found one, large and slightly damp, that I gingerly picked up. Now what? A pan? What did one cook these things in, anyway? I put down the roast, wiped my fingers, and flipped with distaste through
Mrs. Homebody’s
.

“Of flesh.” That ought to be the right spot. Now where…aha, “Roast Beef.” “Take a six pound Piece of Beef fit for roasting.” Well, I had that. “Rub it all over with a Piece of Suet.” Suet? Wasn’t that something birds ate? Ignore that part. “Make a few small Gashes”—ugh—“and insert Slices of Onion or two small Cloves of Garlic.” Onions? Garlic? I rummaged through the packages Henry had left. Yes, here (I took a whiff and winced) was an onion. But where was some garlic? I finally gave up and read on.

“Set it on a Rack in a Dripping Pan.” I slammed the book down in disgust. Where was a rack? And what on earth was a dripping pan? Why would anyone want a pan that dripped? Searching on the shelves, I finally found a rectangular pan that looked like it would hold the meat. Forget the rack. I turned back to the book.

“Put over it a few strips of Suet”—forget that too—“and set it in a very hot Oven to sear for about fifteen Minutes.” Hot oven. Oh, no. I straightened up and gazed about. How had Henry said to light the oven? With a coal. Gingerly, with a pair of soot-blackened tongs, I took a glowing coal from the fireplace and thrust it into the tinder. It smoldered sullenly, then finally caught a bit of dry straw into a crackling yellow flicker. Good! I slammed the firebox door shut.

But what about the meat? Wearily, I stood up, unwrapped it, and plopped it into the pan. Knife. I needed a knife. Some more digging through a drawer found one, and I made several ragged holes in the roast. Then I cut the onion into four large slices and stuffed them into the holes, papery coating and all. Perhaps it softened as it cooked. Now what? Put it in the oven. I opened the door and shoved the pan in with a sigh, then frowned. The oven didn’t feel hot; it felt lukewarm. I yanked open the firebox door. The fire was out.

I left the oven and strode about the room. Why? Why? Perhaps I could boil the meat! But—no. Even servants could make ovens work. I approached the black iron monster with a steely spark in my eye.

Now let’s think. What did Henry say? Something about hot and not so hot. The thingummy! I reached over and slid it all the way open, then grabbed the tongs and got another coal. In a few minutes the oven was heating nicely. I stared at it distrustfully. It had better work now.

But what else would we eat? Potatoes; I’d seen potatoes when I looked for the onion. Bake them along with the roast, that would be easiest, and boil some vegetables. I grabbed a few potatoes; they looked dirty, so I pumped myself a bucket of water and scrubbed them. There! Surely I had thought of everything. I reached for the oven door, then leaped back, yelping and waving my hand. Hot!

I found a towel to use as a hot pad and somehow chucked the potatoes into the oven. There! Now for the vegetables; what did I have? I rummaged through Henry’s packages again and came up with a bunch of carrots. A pan—water—the pump—push strands of bedraggled hair out of my eyes—wash the carrots—cut off the tops—chop them in pieces—throw the whole mess in the pan on the stove top—collapse on a chair. Dinner! I never wanted to eat again.

But I felt so grubby. Stepping over Archibald, who had come inside when I had gone to the pump, I stomped up the stairs and stared into the hall mirror. Smudged face, staring eyes, straggly hair. I stomped back downstairs to heat some water. It was definitely time for a nice hot bath.

By the time I had heated water and filled the tin tub that I found in the closet, I was tired enough to fall asleep. I set a screen around the tub and climbed in with enough bath salts to perfume half the house. Ahhh….

While I was luxuriating in the steaming water I heard a muffled pop from the oven, then another. I glanced that way, eyebrows lowered, when there came an even more unwelcome noise, this time from the top of the stairs.

“Ella!” It was Gerta’s voice.

I glared at the stairway. “Hmmm?”

“Ella! What are you doing down there?”

I almost said, “None of your business,” but refrained. “Taking a bath,” I said shortly.

“Taking a bath! Well, I like that!” Gerta’s voice got louder and I heard the stairs creaking. “What about dinner? We do expect to eat, you know!”

“For your information,” I said, raising my voice, “it’s cooking even now. And please go away!”

There was another muffled bang from the oven. I could hear Gerta lifting a lid, dropping it, and squealing.

“Gerta! Go away! Now!”

She must have found the towel, because I heard the lid being lifted again. “This is burning,” she said.

“Gerta!”

“Seems to me you’d be glad for a little help. And by the by, I’ll want a bath tomorrow morning.”