“Sometimes, I’ve a mind to wish he was still here beside me. Prattling and chatting my ear off,” Mrs. Pragajh said with a deep exhalation. “There was no better man in the world than my hog’s ass of a husband.” She was sitting on a stool beside the cookfire, nursing a mug of thinned red wine to calm her nerves. Shortly, the majority of the staff would come into her kitchen and make fast work of supper without so much as a scrap of gratitude. Most of them, anyway.

There was a spit rack on the fire with a generous leg of mutton. Today it would be carved and shared amongst the servants, tomorrow the bone and remaining bits would go into a fortifying stew. Not a piece wasted. The spit was being slowly turned by her right-hand man, Lewis. Just young enough to be her son, and old enough that if he were she’d have boxed him on the ears for being unwed and without so much as a son to show for it. Sometimes she thought she ought to, anyway. He was a good sort. Strong arms, strong back, and just as able bodied as any despite his limp. Couldn’t help the fact he’d broken his leg as a lad and never set it right. Just as well for Mrs. Pragajh, she preferred him in the kitchens with her and not wasting his time in the stables with horses and hay.

“You only talk about him when something is bothering you,” Lewis said softly, keeping his eyes on the mutton. Every so often he would reach for a serving spoon in a small pot and ladle a bit of seasoned oil over the meat.

She pinched her lips together, hands folded over her generous stomach grasping at her mug. Hard to argue with him. She was very much bothered.

“Mister Reeve is gone. That means one less hand to help around the house. So that means Gordon is to pick up the work Mister Reeve should be handling, and the Baron still hasn’t risen for supper. It isn’t right. Isn’t normal.”

Lewis continued to turn the spit, nodding to indicate that he hadn’t missed a word. He pressed the fore-arm that wasn’t indisposed to his forehead to mop a trickle of sweat from his forehead, stray dirty blonde hairs clinging in wet curls to the skin. His brown eyes sparkled with joy as he watched the meat cook. He truly had a passion few others shared, and Mrs. Pragajh would sooner cut her own tongue out than say he’d ever so much as burnt a scrap of bread.

“Saw some egg shells in the bucket this morning Hilde threw out, nearly whole. Bad luck. Nothing but bad luck,” she told him in a low voice, careful that they weren’t heard. Lewis was the only one who minded her wisdom about the signs she saw. You had an egg and didn’t crush the shell completely, you may as well invite the devil in.

“Then there was that duck you’re so fond of, the little one with the bad wing. Laid two dark eggs a month past. Two, Lewis! That fool Landon spilled a whole carafe of oil last night. Not to mention that huge hole in the loaf I cut this morning,” she went on, wagging her finger as she listed out the many bad omens she’d been seeing in the past week. “I say, it’s all no good. Evil is in the county, and we’d be better off to offer that brother of yours a room for the fall and see if his prayers can brush off some of the worst of it.”

“Mrs. Pragajh,” Landon called out. He’d just walked in through the kitchen door that led out into the gardens, just in time to catch the last bit of their conversation, and was carrying a generous basket of greens.

“I hardly think Father Bream can spare the time,” he continued, “you know he’s the only priest and schoolteacher in the county for miles.”

She snapped her head around to give him a stern look, exclaiming “you watch your ears and talk when you’re being spoken to!” She took a generous mouthful of wine afterwards and turned back to face Lewis. The drink was weak, but good for the soul. Something to keep the chill out. Always a chill in this damnable place, no matter how hot they had the fires going. She was convinced the Baroness’s spirit was haunting them and punishing the whole lot for not keeping her husband from drink and debauchery.

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“Forgive me, Mrs. Pragajh,” Landon replied, sheepish. Ah well. He was a good sort, manners aside.

The door was still open, and shortly Hilde followed Landon inside, closing the door behind her with her foot. She ignored the irritable harrumph from Mrs. Pragajh and yanked off her hair kerchief to viciously brush at the dirt on her boots. The young woman was far more at home in men’s clothing than a frock, much to the dismay of the cook, and today was no different. She sported a pair of breeches and a white linen shirt with a blue cotton waistcoat.

Hilde was far too stubborn to abide, but she was excellent at trapping, and there were many leaner winter days she somehow managed to catch a bit of good meat when they were more likely to be stuck with thinned vegetable soup. So Mrs. Pragajh allowed her the improprieties in the kitchen, so long as she made herself scarce in proper company or wore proper clothing when the need arose. Sunday prayers were non-negotiable.

“Was ever there a more trying niece,” Mrs. Pragajh said, more to herself and Lewis than to Hilde, who looked back at her with an innocent smile.

“Sorry, auntie,” she apologized, slapping the kerchief back over her light brown mane and tying it with a slovenly flair. Her braid threatened to unravel if there was so much as a light breeze.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the staff began to arrive in the kitchen. First Thomas to collect servings for the other stableboys and gardeners. Then the maids, in as foul a mood as they always were when in each other’s company for too long, and finally Mr. Grady, and Gordon. Still no Mr. Reeve, which settled it. He must have taken ill.

They all settled to eat, with Lewis generously carving as much of the mutton as he could before Gordon had a mind to say something rude.

“You’re to see to his lordship this evening, boy,” Mr. Grady directed Gordon with a firm lift of his shaggy gray eyebrow, “you’d do well to mind your tongue.”

Gordon lifted his napkin to cover his grinning mouth full of bread and greasy meat, bobbing an enthusiastic nod.

“What of Mister Reeve?” Constance asked, looking bewildered. The girl was always so full of questions she had no business asking.

“We do not know as of yet,” Mr. Grady replied, “no doubt Lord Albert will enlighten us after supper when he rises. He has been indisposed, according to Doctor Prattel, and it’s not for us to know unless he so wishes. Mind yourself, Constance.”

He directed his attention to Victoria, who was as polite and quiet as always. Such a good girl. A shame she was without family outside of their little group. It was a firm guarantee that she’d never be able to marry. Perhaps Mrs. Pragajh could speak to someone in the village when next they held a service with Father Bream.

“Victoria, it will be your duty to serve his lordship and the esteemed guest this evening. Once you have finished eating, both you and Gordon will see to your work. Philhomena will serve Lady Elmira’s supper in the meantime, and after you are no longer needed you will see to your regular evening tasks with her.”

Victoria nodded, “as you wish, Mr. Grady.”

Constance’s lips fluttered as if to protest, but she remained silent at a look. They had a strict rule of peace and camaraderie when they ate together. It was the one thing the child seemed to respect.

“I would be honored to serve my lady’s supper,” Philhomena said, placing a hand on her chest and smiling with just a little too much emphasis in Constance’s direction.

“Do you think–” Constance began, poking sharply at her food, “--you might need some help? I could carry the tea, and–”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Constance! You have so much work to do! Why, weren’t you the one who said you could ‘deal with all the sheets later, nobody ever uses them anyways, it’s just a couple of rat droppings’?”

Mrs. Pragajh took a hefty gulp of her wine, narrowing her eyes at the pair, “bad luck to leave a job undone. Mark me, my girl, you’ll finish those sheets or you’ll be up until dawn scrubbing this place top to bottom. Understood?”

Constance looked down at her lap, speaking softly, “yes, Mrs. Pragajh.”

“And once you’ve seen to her supper, Philhomena,” Mrs. Pragajh went on, “you’ll help.”

Philhomena paled, and the cook couldn’t help but smile. There was a good reason no one fought at supper. There was always work to be done, and she was only too happy to divvy it out. Peace reigned once more.