Defying the Hostess

The kitchen door swung wide, and cool air knifed in from the hall.

Mrs. Wainwright stood there with her chin lifted, her fingers white around the edge of her shawl. Charles was behind her, a broad-shouldered shadow in the doorway, the sound of talk and silverware spilling from the dining room at his back.

Mrs. Wainwright pointed at him as if he had wandered in with mud on his boots.

“Mr. Bennett, I must insist you return to the table at once.”

Charles looked past her to the stove, then to Margaret at the worktable. He had not taken off his coat. He had also not taken his eyes off the copper pan in her hands.

“I’ll return,” he said. “With Miss Ellis.”

Margaret’s fingers tightened on the pan handle. “Sir?”

Mrs. Wainwright gave a small, brittle laugh. “This is a service room. Not a parlor.”

Charles folded his hands behind his back. “Then it should be a service room where the service is thanked.”

The younger girl near the sink went still, a stack of plates pressed to her chest.

Mrs. Wainwright stepped forward one pace. “You cannot mean to bring her to the head table.”

“I mean to do what is fair,” Charles said. “She cooked for fifty guests. She can eat while it is hot.”

Margaret glanced toward the servants’ table. The plates there were plain ceramic, two of them chipped at the rim. The roast rested under a towel. Her own supper waited beside the stove where she had set it down an hour earlier, forgotten in the rush.

Mrs. Wainwright’s mouth thinned. “That is not done.”

Charles tipped his head. “Then tonight will be remembered.”

He moved to the servants’ table, took out the chair with the cracked back, and sat down as if he had chosen it for years. The wood gave a small protest under his weight. He set one hand on the table edge and looked at Margaret.

“Sit down, Miss Ellis.”

She did not move.

“You’ve been on your feet since dawn,” he said. “Humor me.”

Margaret wiped her palms on her apron and reached for the spare plate. Her throat felt tight enough to hurt. “If you are certain, sir.”

“I am.”

She set down the roast, the beans, and a heel of bread still warm from the oven. Charles leaned forward, studied the crust, and broke a piece with his fingers.

From the doorway, Mrs. Wainwright made a sharp sound. “Mr. Bennett, there are silver plates laid in the dining room.”

Charles took a bite, chewed once, and set the bread down. “This is better.”

The younger girl looked at Margaret, then at the door.

Mrs. Wainwright’s face had gone hard with color. “You are embarrassing us.”

Charles lifted his cup. “No. I’m asking for supper.”

Then he turned to Margaret, calm as if they were alone. “And if your hostess has the sense God gave a fence post, she’ll bring another chair.”