and her own position. Margot guessed Hattie feared her background would make her ineligible to be on the Benedict staff. It spoke to the honor of her family that despite Hattie’s shortcomings as a cook, there was never the slightest consideration of letting her go.
Margot put two slices of bread in the brand-new pop-up toaster. Toast, at least, Margot could manage. She had learned to make it by holding a wire toasting rack over Blake’s hot plate, turning and turning it while trying not to burn her fingers. The automatic toaster did all of that for her, and renewed her appreciation for modern conveniences.
The toast popped up neatly, perfectly browned on both sides. The percolator finished, and Margot filled her mug and sat down at the table to butter her toast. The sky was still dark outside, but the warmly lighted kitchen was peaceful, fragrant with the scents of newly brewed coffee and toasted bread. Margot sipped her coffee and pulled Frank’s letter out of her pocket to read one more time. After surgery this morning, and her rounds in the children’s ward, she would find a quiet corner and write back. She would be as careful with her wording as he had been. She could fill her letter with reports on the clinic’s progress, the stocking of the storeroom and the examining room, all the bits and pieces Frank had launched for her. She would tell him again how grateful she was for his help, and she would finish just as he had, with a restrained expression of her affection. The real issue that lay between them was, just as he had said, too complicated to be resolved in letters.
She wouldn’t tell him the funding from the Sheppard-Towner Act had come through. The Women and Infants Clinic would soon be a reality, and would teach hygiene, home health care, and contraception to women and girls. There was no point in announcing that, because she was going to do it no matter what Frank might feel or say. All she could do, though it went against her nature, was postpone their conflict until they were face-to-face, until they could decide how big an obstacle it was going to be.
She finished her breakfast and was stowing the butter and cream back in the icebox when Hattie came in, smoothing her printed cotton housedress over her broad figure. “Oh, Miss Margot! Good morning! Let me cook you some eggs.”
“Thank you, Hattie, but I don’t have time. I’m assisting in the operating theater this morning.”
“Oh, my goodness, my goodness, Miss Margot.” Hattie bent to take a fresh apron out of a drawer, pulled it over her head, and began tying the ribbons. “You’re gonna have a long day! Let me send you with a sandwich, at least.”
Margot refolded Frank’s letter and slipped it into her pocket. “I had some toast,” she said. “And I can have lunch in the hospital canteen. No need to trouble yourself.”
That won not one but two resounding clucks from Hattie. As she selected eggs from the pottery bowl on the counter, she said, “Canteen food! Cold meat loaf and overcooked vegetables!”
Margot had to hide a smile. There were evenings in Benedict Hall when the canteen’s meat loaf sounded appealing. Hattie was right, though. It was often cold.
“I wish you’d tell me when you got to make an early start, Miss Margot,” Hattie went on. “I got me a perfectly good alarm clock, same one as you children gave me years ago, and I can sure get up to see you have a proper breakfast.” She was in motion even as she spoke, opening a drawer for the egg whisk, taking a mixing bowl from the cupboard, setting the heavy cast iron skillet on the stove. “You may be a doctor now, but old Hattie knows what it takes to get a body through the day.”
“I know you do, Hattie. Thank you. I’ll try to remember to tell you next time.”
Loena and Leona came in, yawning. It had been uncomfortable at first, Margot having breakfast in the kitchen, but the maids had gotten accustomed to it. They had stopped curtsying every time
Margot put two slices of bread in the brand-new pop-up toaster. Toast, at least, Margot could manage. She had learned to make it by holding a wire toasting rack over Blake’s hot plate, turning and turning it while trying not to burn her fingers. The automatic toaster did all of that for her, and renewed her appreciation for modern conveniences.
The toast popped up neatly, perfectly browned on both sides. The percolator finished, and Margot filled her mug and sat down at the table to butter her toast. The sky was still dark outside, but the warmly lighted kitchen was peaceful, fragrant with the scents of newly brewed coffee and toasted bread. Margot sipped her coffee and pulled Frank’s letter out of her pocket to read one more time. After surgery this morning, and her rounds in the children’s ward, she would find a quiet corner and write back. She would be as careful with her wording as he had been. She could fill her letter with reports on the clinic’s progress, the stocking of the storeroom and the examining room, all the bits and pieces Frank had launched for her. She would tell him again how grateful she was for his help, and she would finish just as he had, with a restrained expression of her affection. The real issue that lay between them was, just as he had said, too complicated to be resolved in letters.
She wouldn’t tell him the funding from the Sheppard-Towner Act had come through. The Women and Infants Clinic would soon be a reality, and would teach hygiene, home health care, and contraception to women and girls. There was no point in announcing that, because she was going to do it no matter what Frank might feel or say. All she could do, though it went against her nature, was postpone their conflict until they were face-to-face, until they could decide how big an obstacle it was going to be.
She finished her breakfast and was stowing the butter and cream back in the icebox when Hattie came in, smoothing her printed cotton housedress over her broad figure. “Oh, Miss Margot! Good morning! Let me cook you some eggs.”
“Thank you, Hattie, but I don’t have time. I’m assisting in the operating theater this morning.”
“Oh, my goodness, my goodness, Miss Margot.” Hattie bent to take a fresh apron out of a drawer, pulled it over her head, and began tying the ribbons. “You’re gonna have a long day! Let me send you with a sandwich, at least.”
Margot refolded Frank’s letter and slipped it into her pocket. “I had some toast,” she said. “And I can have lunch in the hospital canteen. No need to trouble yourself.”
That won not one but two resounding clucks from Hattie. As she selected eggs from the pottery bowl on the counter, she said, “Canteen food! Cold meat loaf and overcooked vegetables!”
Margot had to hide a smile. There were evenings in Benedict Hall when the canteen’s meat loaf sounded appealing. Hattie was right, though. It was often cold.
“I wish you’d tell me when you got to make an early start, Miss Margot,” Hattie went on. “I got me a perfectly good alarm clock, same one as you children gave me years ago, and I can sure get up to see you have a proper breakfast.” She was in motion even as she spoke, opening a drawer for the egg whisk, taking a mixing bowl from the cupboard, setting the heavy cast iron skillet on the stove. “You may be a doctor now, but old Hattie knows what it takes to get a body through the day.”
“I know you do, Hattie. Thank you. I’ll try to remember to tell you next time.”
Loena and Leona came in, yawning. It had been uncomfortable at first, Margot having breakfast in the kitchen, but the maids had gotten accustomed to it. They had stopped curtsying every time
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