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“Do you need me... Master?” She bit on her lip.
He swung around to look at her. A soft smile spread across his face. “In a while, in a while.”
She smoothed down her apron with trembling hands. She made sure he saw they were quivering with anticipation.
The days began to blur into one another.
* * *
She found the scraps of paper at the back of the cutlery drawer. Each one had neat rows of handwriting listing ingredients and a recipe. The crumpled notes were yellowed, the edges torn in places. She picked one—chicken pie. She still had some leftovers from the chicken Matthew had cooked on the fire. Rolling the pastry was a challenge; it stuck to the table and tore, but she persevered. Eventually, she had enough to line the pie dish. She filled it with the chicken, some carrots and onions, and the stock she had made with herbs. With the pie topped with another layer of pastry, she placed it in the small oven that was built into the brick fireplace. It was where she baked the bread.
The temperature of the oven was unpredictable. Mostly too hot, occasionally too tepid, it meant keeping an eye on the pie in case it burnt. The smell filled the cottage; she was proud of the way it made her stomach rumble. When the top was crusty and golden, she lifted the dish out and left it on the hearthstone. Stepping outside, she called to the men; Kurt heard her first and came running.
“Smells good,” he said, wiping his face with his grubby sleeve.
She frowned. “Wash properly, Kurt.”
Lemuel and Ezekiel arrived together and joined Kurt at the trough.
“What have you made, Dara?” Lemuel asked.
“Chicken pie.”
Matthew emerged from behind a barn. He had his sleeves rolled up.
“It’s pie, Master,” Lemuel said. “I can smell it from here.”
Matthew sniffed. “Is there enough for the lads?”
“Yes,” she said. “Plenty.”
She served the portions onto plates and lay them on the table. The three labourers followed Matthew into the house, removing their hats and bobbing their heads at her. She pointed at the table. Matthew hooked the biggest chair for himself.
They spooned the pie into eager mouths. Lemuel smacked his lips. “This is good.”
“Good,” Kurt repeated.
Matthew picked at a piece of chicken. He had not spoken yet. Dara waited apprehensively.
“It reminds me of the one Missus—” Lemuel’s comment was cut short. Ezekiel kicked him under the table. Kurt spluttered on a mouthful.
Matthew slammed his spoon down. “Out, get out,” he roared.
The men grabbed their caps and bolted, leaving behind half-eaten food and a stunned Dara.
“Why did you do that?” She planted her hands on her hips. “They liked it. I worked all day to make it.”
“They know why, that’s all that matters.” He would not meet her eye.
Dara stopped short of slamming the cottage door behind her. Not one word of gratitude. Outside, Ezekiel was loitering, walking in circles. He started when she approached.
“What was that about?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said unconvincingly.
“You mentioned a missus? Yours?”
“No.”
