Page 63 of Ordered Home for the Holidays
She was putting more coals in the stove to warm the house when her children stumbled into the room. They were both rubbing their eyes, and they both wore the thick wool socks her mother had knitted them.
“Mam, can we please have some hot tea?” Jamie asked in a sleepy voice.
“Yes. You’ll need it to brighten you up for your lessons today.”
“Do I have lessons today, Mam?” Katie asked as she propped the wooden fairy Cass had carved her beside her empty bowl.
“Yes, Katie. Today we’re going to practice counting while you help me put up the apples.”
She sprinkled tea leaves in two china mugs and slid them in front of the children.
“Can I stay home and help with the apples?”
Jamie was usually so eager to get to school he gulped down his breakfast and bolted from the house like the hounds of hell were chasing him.
“No, you may not. You only have two more weeks until the school is closed for Christmas. You’ll have an entire week of helping with apples or whatever other chores I ask you to do.”
“None of my friends will be there,” he sulked. “They’re all helping with the last of the harvest.”
“Well we don’t live on a farm, so you’ll be going to school.”
“I wish I was old enough to go to school and have my own straw hat and pencil,” Katie said dreamily as she sipped her tea.
“Why a straw hat, poppet?”
“All the grown up girls wear them,” her daughter conspiratorially informed her over the rim of her cup.
“You only want one because you saw Jane Randall’s with the red bow when we went to the store last week with Mam,” James scoffed.
Deirdre knew for a fact that her son harbored a tendre for the grocer’s daughter. She was a good five years older than him, if not more, and every single time he found himself in her presence he gawked and stuttered. Deirdre found it adorable.
“‘Twas a very pretty hat. I wouldn’t mind having one for myself. But, Katie, dearest, you shouldn’t wish your life away. The time will come when you’ll want nothing more than to be standing on a stool while you help me put up apple butter.”
Once they’d finished breakfast, she packed one of the pepperoni rolls she’d made earlier in the week into Jamie’s tin lunch pail and sent him on his way.
It took her and Katie all morning and most of the afternoon to skin, core and stir all the apples. By the time they’d finished, the cider Deirdre had put in the copper kettle over the firepit in the backyard that morning was boiled down enough to add them. Katie loved using the big paddle to stir the apples. They were taking turns, coatless because of the heat from the fire, when Jamie returned home from school.
“Mam!” He called. “The schoolmaster said there’s going to be a storm tonight because the clouds are nimbostratus!” He jumped over all three of the bottom steps and came running toward them.
“Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what Mr. Holden said.”
Jamie’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “He said it was going to snow lots and lots and we should go home in case there was anything our parents needed our help with.”
“Then we’d better let this cool and get the rest of the quilts down from the attic,” Deirdre said as she kicked dirt onto the fire. When she was satisfied she’d put it out, she covered the kettle with oilcloth and took her children’s hands.
If Jamie’s teacher was right, Deirdre had to make sure there was enough coal and logs stacked in the woodshed. She started making a list in her head of all the things she needed to do before the storm hit them.
***
That night, supper was a hearty mutton stew and freshly baked bread. All three of her boarders virtually inhaled the meal, even scraping the last dollops of soup from their bowls with hunks of bread.
Cass sat back and patted his stomach. “No wonder you only had one spare room, Mrs. O’Shaugnessy.”
“I count myself fortunate indeed to be one of Mrs. O’Shaugnessy’s boarders,” Mr. Edmonds agreed.
“I won’t argue that Mrs. O’Shaugnessy sets an excellent table, Trenton, but I imagine the fare at Trenton House is even more satisfying. Doesn’t your father’s household employ a French chef?”
“Jean-Pierre’s about as French as my big toe, Gilchrist. And I have no fondness for escargot or most of the other fancy dishes he insists on laying out. I much prefer Mrs. O’Shaugnessy’s cooking.”
