A Visitor in the Kitchen

The latch lifted with a dry click. A tall man in a dark coat stood in the kitchen doorway, his head clearing the frame by two inches.

Margaret gripped the thick hem of her apron. Her knuckles turned white against the fabric.

“Is the beef dry?” she asked, her voice faltering on the last word. “Or the gravy?”

“Neither,” the man said. He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “The roast is tender, and the bread is the best I have eaten west of St. Louis.”

Margaret blinked, her hands remaining tight against her apron. She looked past him toward the hallway, expecting the Hostess to march in with a scolding.

“I am Charles Bennett,” he said. He crossed the room toward the worktable, his boots quiet on the pine boards. “And you are the head cook?”

“Margaret,” she said in a quiet voice. “Margaret Ellis, sir.”

“It is a pleasure, Margaret.”

Charles pulled out a mismatched chair at the servants’ table near the stove. The leg creaked against the floorboard as he sat down. He smoothed his coat, resting one hand on the wooden chair back.

“Do you have a plate?” Charles asked. “And a slice of that beef?”

Margaret hesitated. She wiped her palms on her apron, turned to the rack, and took down a ceramic plate. It had a small crack on the rim. She sliced a strip of beef with her knife and placed two warm rolls beside it.

She brought the plate to the table, her thumb keeping clear of the food. Charles took an iron fork from the drawer and cut a piece of meat. He chewed slowly, then gestured toward the chair across from him.

“Sit down, Margaret.”

“I have work, Mr. Bennett. The grease pans need scraping.”

“The pans can wait five minutes,” Charles said. “Sit.”

Margaret pulled out the opposite chair and sat on its wooden edge. She folded her hands in her lap, watching him eat off the chipped plate. He did not touch the silver salt cellar or call for fine linens.

“How long have you baked here?” Charles asked.

“One year, sir. My mother receives my wages on the first of each month.”

“You manage this kitchen alone?”

“The younger girl helps with the washing,” Margaret said. She looked at the worktable where her handwritten prep schedules lay pinned under a stone. “I set the menus and keep the food inventories.”

Charles glanced at the columns of ink on her paper ledger. He wiped his mouth with a plain napkin.

“You run a tight operation,” he said.

The latch rattled against its iron fitting. The kitchen doorway opened abruptly, revealing the Hostess flushed with outrage.