Page 6 of Ellen Found
A woman not much taller than Ellie stopped stirring a pot of what was probably stew and turned around, wiping hair curled by the heat off her forehead. She frowned.
Don’t complain yet, Ellie thought.Get to know me. “I’m Ellie Found,” she said. “I come with a mouser.”
The frown disappeared. “Very well, then,” the cook said. “Close the door after you on the way out, Mr. Child. Tell your ill-begotten crew that we’ll eat in half an hour.”
The door closed. Ellie had the distinct impression Mr. Child was happy to leave. “Come over here,” Mrs. Quincy said. “Let me see you better.”
Ellie did as directed and set down her carpetbag. Through lowered eyelids, Ellie did her own appraisal. Mrs. Quincy looked like someone who had never suffered a fool gladly in her life.
“You’re too pretty and the men will hang around,” she said.
“I am here to cook, same as you,” Ellie said, surprising herself. Hadn’t Mr. Child said to be firm? The job was hers, after all. “No one ever said I was pretty either.”
“You don’t own a mirror?”
Ellie shook her head. Maybe mirrors were mortal sins at St. Catherine’s. “I don’t own anything,” she said. “I have another dress and an apron. That’s it.”
“No one takes care of you,” Mrs. Quincy said, her tone not so forbidding.
Ellie shrugged. “I’m an orphan.”
“Is this your work dress?”
Oh, dear. Ellie’s chin went up. “It’s my best dress.” Something compelled her to stick out her foot. “These are my only shoes, Mrs. Quincy. But I can prep and cook, and you won’t be disappointed.”
“You’re forthright,” Mrs. Quincy told her, but without the accusing tone this time.
“I never was, before I answered Mr. Child’s ad,” Ellie said. “May I let out my cat? I think he’s the real reason Mr. Child tipped the balance in my favor.”
“He’s in your carpetbag? You may.” Mrs. Quincy indicated a closed door. “That’s your room. When the inn is done, it will be used for food storage. I suppose your cat will come and go as he pleases. They do that, don’t they?”
Ellie picked up her bag and opened the door. She couldn’t help her gasp of delight at seeing a bed already made, with a patchwork quilt and a pillow. There was a bureau with a mirror and a stand for a washbowl, complete with towels. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said to Mrs. Quincy, who had followed her. “This is all forme?”
“I have the room next to yours. I’d call this a bit of a come down.”
“Ma’am?”
“I wasthecook in the Childs’ residence in Helena,” she said. Her voice hardened. “I cook plain food, and Mrs. Child wanted a French chef. I have been reassigned to outer darkness here.”
If this was Mrs. Quincy’s idea of outer darkness, she had obviously never set foot on Mercury Street in Butte. “It’s a nice room,” Ellie said cautiously.
“Our rooms are Mrs. Child’s experimentto decide what bedroom furniture and coverlets will look best in a wilderness environment. She thinks rich folks want rusticity.”
“It’s the nicest room I have ever seen,” Ellie said simply. She saw hooks for all the clothing she didn’t own, and a shoe rack for her one pair of shoes. One drawer in the bureau would suffice for her possessions. She could pull out the bottom drawer for Plato, who, like most cats, preferred hidden spaces.
“Does your cat like meat scraps?” she heard from the doorway as she lifted Plato from the carpetbag.
“He eats what I eat,” Ellie said, then took another chance. “That was the condition of our association.” She felt the need for this woman to understand her, if they were going to work together. “I took a thorn out of his paw and he wouldn’t go away.”
Mrs. Quincy smiled at that. “Set him down and follow me,” she said. “I’ll need you to scrape and chop more carrots for the stew. Potatoes too. Maybe an onion. We didn’t know how many more workers Mr. Child would dredge up.”
Ellie set Plato on the bed. Mrs. Quincy returned to the cooking range for another stir and taste. Ellie got carrots from a sack and looked for a knife. Mrs. Quincy made a shooing gesture. “Don’t dawdle! They’ll be here before we know it!”
“I never dawdle,” Ellie said. “More potatoes and onions?”
“Yes, and when you’re done ...” Mrs. Quincy looked Ellie over again. “How’re your biscuits? I’ve been giving these miscreants pilot bread and they’re sick of it.”
“None finer,” Ellie said firmly, well aware that this was a test, one she intended to pass. “Just point me to the baking powder.”
