"Of course," Eliza said, swallowing past the emotion. "You can be my assistant chef. First thing we need is meat from the cold cellar. Think you can show me where that is? " Together, they gathered ingredients. Tough beef that needed slow cooking, potatoes from the root cellar, carrots and onions, herbs from the dried bundles hanging in the pantry.
Meera narrated her mother's methods as they worked, her small voice carrying the weight of precious memories. "Mama always sang when she cut up vegetables," Meera offered, watching Eliza chop onions. Said it made the time go faster and the food taste better. What did she sing? All kinds of things.
Church hymns sometimes, but mostly this one song about a mockingb bird. I don't remember all the words, but it went like this. Meera hummed a few bars of a melody that was probably hush little baby, her pitch uncertain, but her enthusiasm absolute. Eliza found herself humming along, then quietly singing the words she remembered from her own childhood. Her voice was nothing special, serviceable, but plain, but it filled the kitchen with something other than silence and grief.
By the time Bo and James returned, dusty and tired from their fence mending, the house smelled like home, like beef and herbs and fresh-baked biscuits, like effort and care and the beginnings of healing. B stood in the doorway again, but this time his expression was different. Not surprise, but something deeper, something that looked almost like pain. P. James touched his father's arm.
You all right? Fine, Bo said horarssely. Just smells like it used to, that's all. He didn't say more. Just moved to wash up at the basin.
But Eliza saw the way his hand shook slightly as he worked the pump. The way he kept his face turned away from his children so they wouldn't see whatever emotion was threatening to unmore him. Dinner was a quiet affair. Tension threaded through every bite. The stew was good.
Not perfect, but good, and the children ate with the kind of focus that suggested they'd been half starved for this particular comfort food. Even Matthew managed three helpings, though he still refused to acknowledge Eliza directly. "This is just like Mama's," Meera announced happily. "Miss Eliza made it from Mama's recipe, and I helped. " "It's very good," Bo said, his voice carefully neutral. "Thank you, Miss Morland. " "Mera did most of the work," Eliza demurred.
She knew exactly how her mother made it. I just followed instructions. James looked up at that, something shifting in his expression. Not acceptance, not yet, but maybe the first crack in his armor. You used Ma's recipe box.
With your father's permission, yes. Eliza met the boy's eyes. Your mother's recipes are treasures, James. They deserve to be used to keep feeding this family the way she would have wanted. I hope that's all right.