Nathaniel, you're on mucking duty in the barn. Levi. He paused, looking at his quietest son. Help Miss Morland with whatever she needs. Can you do that?
Levi nodded silently, his enormous eyes solemn. And Meera, you help your brother and Miss Morland. Mind your manners and do as you're told. B settled his hat back on his head and turned toward the door, then paused. Miss Morland, if you need anything, ring the bell on the back porch.
Two long rings means trouble. Otherwise, I'll be back for dinner. We'll be fine, Eliza assured him with more confidence than she felt. B studied her for another long moment, as if weighing whether to believe her, then nodded and headed out with James trailing behind him, the 12-year-old's shoulders already taking on the set of a man's burden. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of domestic activity.
Eliza discovered that the Thatcher household was desperately in need of the kind of deep cleaning that only happened when someone cared enough to notice the details. 16 months of grieving men and children had left its mark. Dust in the corners, stains on the floors, windows that hadn't been properly washed in seasons. But underneath the neglect, she found evidence of Katherine Thatcher's careful stewardship, carefully mended curtains, hand embroidered dish towels, a sampler on the wall that read, "Bless this home in neat crossstitch, every sign of a woman who had loved this place, who had poured her heart into making it more than just a house. " Eliza worked steadily through the chaos, teaching Meera and the reluctant Nathaniel how to properly sweep a floor, how to dust without just moving the dirt from one place to another, how to shake out rugs and hang them to air. Levi shadowed them silently, occasionally picking up dropped items or moving furniture without being asked, his contribution wordless, but appreciated.
Matthew finished his chicken duties and disappeared to sulk somewhere. Eliza didn't press it. The boy needed space to feel whatever he was feeling, and she wasn't going to chase him down like a truent. By noon, the main room looked almost civilized. Eliza stood in the center of it, hands on her hips, surveying their work.
The floors gleamed, the windows let in actual sunlight instead of filtered merc, and the air smelled of lemon oil and soap instead of stale grief. "It looks like it used to," Meera said softly, standing beside her. "When mama was here. " Your mama had good taste, Eliza said, and she took care of things. We're just continuing what she started. Lunch was a simple affair of bread and cheese and apples from the cold cellar, eaten around the table with considerably less tension than breakfast had held.
Even Matthew showed up, though he sat as far from Eliza as possible and refused to make eye contact. After lunch, Eliza sent the children outside to play, or in Matthew's case, to brood somewhere in the fresh air instead of inside, and set about tackling the stew. Catherine Thatcher's recipe box was exactly where B had said it would be, a carefully crafted wooden container with her initials carved into the lid. Opening it felt invasive, like reading someone's diary. These were Catherine's recipes written in her own hand, splattered with years of cooking stains and kitchen accidents.
Each card was a piece of her life, her knowledge passed down through ink and paper. The stew recipe was near the front, written in careful script. Mother Thatcher's beef stew. Use the tough cuts, they taste better. Don't rush the browning.
Let it simmer until the meat falls apart. Add love and patience in equal measure. That last line made Eliza's throat tight. She could almost see Catherine standing at the stove, writing those words, believing that love and patience were ingredients that mattered as much as beef and carrots. "Can I help? " Meera had appeared at her elbow, quiet as a cat.