to pick up his leather helmet and goggles from the chair beside him. “Thanks again.”
Nelson reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup. He touched his sandy forelock with two fingers. “It’s a pleasure.”
Frank left the mess hall and turned toward his quarters. All this, he knew very well, was possible only because of what Margot had done for him. Without her skill—and her courage, which would make any soldier proud—he would still be suffering through long days of pain, searching for whisky every night. That, too, had been in defiance of the law of the land. Was it right for him to object to Margot resisting the law when he had broken it so thoroughly and regularly himself?
He stalked across the grounds to the barracks, suddenly angry with himself, with her, with life in general. He wished he could go straight to the airfield, untie the Jenny from its moorings, and take off, all alone. Leave the whole sorry mess behind on the mundane earth.
Margot, since installing herself in Blake’s apartment, had developed the habit of breakfasting in the kitchen with Hattie and the maids. Hattie protested that this was unseemly, but Margot reminded her that her odd hours made it difficult sometimes to sit with the family at breakfast, and that she and Blake had often shared a pot of coffee before anyone else was awake. On this morning, when she needed to be at the hospital early to scrub for the operating theater, she quietly let herself into the kitchen through the back porch door.
There was no one about, but Hattie, bless her, had left the percolator ready. Margot plugged it in, and brought down one of the big china mugs that were only allowed in the kitchen. She found cream and butter in the icebox, and took bread from the box on the counter. Hattie would scold if she didn’t eat more than coffee and toast, but she was no good with eggs. They were always either scorched or runny, and the smell of the sizzling butter and soon-to-be-spoiled eggs would only bring Hattie hurrying from her bedroom, dressed or not. Hattie would cluck, push her away from the stove, and urge her to sit down and “let old Hattie do for you.”
Hattie had been “doing for her” as long as she could remember. As Margot waited for the percolator to finish its bubbling, she wondered how old Hattie really was. She knew Blake’s age, fifty-something, because he had been born right after the Civil War. As a child, she had pestered him for his history, and he had given it to her in bits and pieces, glimpses into a life begun in the shadow of slavery, developing into one lived in the light and warmth of a family he loved.
But Hattie, as she often said, “kept herself to herself,” and believed that was the proper way for a servant to behave. When the young Margot had begged her for stories of her childhood, Hattie only gave that familiar cluck, shaking her head so her round cheeks jiggled. “Ain’t much to tell,” she would say. “Nothin’ a girl like you needs to know. You just remember,” she sometimes added, shaking a surprisingly long finger, “how lucky you are, a bitty girl with this big ol’ house and a sweet mama and daddy to take care of you.” Margot had always thought Hattie was hinting at a hard childhood, but could wring no details out of her.
She’d asked her mother about it once. Edith had been the one to hire Hattie, she knew. Her father had said once, in Margot’s hearing, that Edith should have asked her to cook a meal before she gave her the job, and her mother had heaved a sigh and spoken the line they had all used for years. “Well, Dickson. I know Hattie’s a bad cook, but she’s a good woman.”
When Margot pressed her mother to tell her something about Hattie, though, all Edith would say was that if Hattie wanted the children to know her story, she would tell them herself. Hattie took pride in the reputation of Benedict Hall, in its proper complement of a butler, two housemaids, gardeners and handymen,
Nelson reached for the coffeepot to refill his cup. He touched his sandy forelock with two fingers. “It’s a pleasure.”
Frank left the mess hall and turned toward his quarters. All this, he knew very well, was possible only because of what Margot had done for him. Without her skill—and her courage, which would make any soldier proud—he would still be suffering through long days of pain, searching for whisky every night. That, too, had been in defiance of the law of the land. Was it right for him to object to Margot resisting the law when he had broken it so thoroughly and regularly himself?
He stalked across the grounds to the barracks, suddenly angry with himself, with her, with life in general. He wished he could go straight to the airfield, untie the Jenny from its moorings, and take off, all alone. Leave the whole sorry mess behind on the mundane earth.
Margot, since installing herself in Blake’s apartment, had developed the habit of breakfasting in the kitchen with Hattie and the maids. Hattie protested that this was unseemly, but Margot reminded her that her odd hours made it difficult sometimes to sit with the family at breakfast, and that she and Blake had often shared a pot of coffee before anyone else was awake. On this morning, when she needed to be at the hospital early to scrub for the operating theater, she quietly let herself into the kitchen through the back porch door.
There was no one about, but Hattie, bless her, had left the percolator ready. Margot plugged it in, and brought down one of the big china mugs that were only allowed in the kitchen. She found cream and butter in the icebox, and took bread from the box on the counter. Hattie would scold if she didn’t eat more than coffee and toast, but she was no good with eggs. They were always either scorched or runny, and the smell of the sizzling butter and soon-to-be-spoiled eggs would only bring Hattie hurrying from her bedroom, dressed or not. Hattie would cluck, push her away from the stove, and urge her to sit down and “let old Hattie do for you.”
Hattie had been “doing for her” as long as she could remember. As Margot waited for the percolator to finish its bubbling, she wondered how old Hattie really was. She knew Blake’s age, fifty-something, because he had been born right after the Civil War. As a child, she had pestered him for his history, and he had given it to her in bits and pieces, glimpses into a life begun in the shadow of slavery, developing into one lived in the light and warmth of a family he loved.
But Hattie, as she often said, “kept herself to herself,” and believed that was the proper way for a servant to behave. When the young Margot had begged her for stories of her childhood, Hattie only gave that familiar cluck, shaking her head so her round cheeks jiggled. “Ain’t much to tell,” she would say. “Nothin’ a girl like you needs to know. You just remember,” she sometimes added, shaking a surprisingly long finger, “how lucky you are, a bitty girl with this big ol’ house and a sweet mama and daddy to take care of you.” Margot had always thought Hattie was hinting at a hard childhood, but could wring no details out of her.
She’d asked her mother about it once. Edith had been the one to hire Hattie, she knew. Her father had said once, in Margot’s hearing, that Edith should have asked her to cook a meal before she gave her the job, and her mother had heaved a sigh and spoken the line they had all used for years. “Well, Dickson. I know Hattie’s a bad cook, but she’s a good woman.”
When Margot pressed her mother to tell her something about Hattie, though, all Edith would say was that if Hattie wanted the children to know her story, she would tell them herself. Hattie took pride in the reputation of Benedict Hall, in its proper complement of a butler, two housemaids, gardeners and handymen,
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