They Cut My Help, I Showed Them Proof

Chapter 2

The very first day of the staff shake-up went completely off the rails. I showed up in the kitchen alone at 5:30 a.m.

Usually, by this hour, Orson would already have headed to the seafood market to pick up the day's catch. But Orson had been reassigned to the garage, so I had to drive there myself.

The seafood market was all the way out on the southern edge of town. A round trip took a full hour. By the time I got back to the kitchen, it was almost seven o'clock.

Mr. Whitcombe always had his morning tea at 7:30, so I had to finish the shrimp tartlets and blanched haricots verts first. But the fresh fish was still sitting unprepared in the corner.

He wanted steamed trout for lunch, and it needed to be cleaned and marinated ahead of time.

I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I hadn't even finished shaping the tartlet shells when the housekeeper called.

"Ms. Sayer, Mr. Whitcombe wants to know whether his morning tea is ready."

"Almost. It's almost there."

I hurried to trim the beans, stacked the tartlets in the oven, and put a pot of water on to boil. The beans had to be blanched just right. If I overcooked them, they would turn mushy. If I undercooked them, they would be tough and raw.

But my mind was spinning a mile a minute, replaying the list of chores I still hadn't gotten to: the uncleaned fish, the unwashed vegetables, and the mountain of dirty dishes.

When the shrimp tartlets were done, I carried the platter into the dining room. Mr. Whitcombe took one bite and said nothing. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief and hurried back to the kitchen.

The sink was piled high with the previous night's dirty dishes. Tobin used to handle the washing up, but he'd been reassigned to take care of the gardens.

Bowls, cutlery, spatulas, baking trays, and stockpots were stacked so high that they were teetering. The soggy, greasy mess filled the entire sink.

I rolled up my sleeves and started scrubbing. Once the dishes were done, I cleaned the fish and rubbed it with seasoning to marinate.

Then I moved on to chopping the side dishes for lunch. I was barely halfway through when the housekeeper appeared again, asking about the pastries.

"Where is Mrs. Whitcombe's lavender tea cake? She needs it for her bridge game this morning."

"I'll get right on it."

I wiped my hands on my apron, mixed the cake batter, and prepared a batch of lavender syrup. The cake needed fifteen minutes in the oven, so I darted back to the cutting board to keep chopping vegetables in the meantime.

Halfway through dicing a carrot, I caught a whiff of something acrid and burnt. The bottom of the lavender tea cake had already become a crisp, black layer of char.

When I brought the cake to Mrs. Whitmore, she took a small bite and didn't say a word.

But one of her bridge friends muttered under her breath. "This cake tastes a little bitter today."

Mrs. Whitcombe shot me a single, sharp look. That look stayed with me for three whole days.

Things got even worse with the trout at lunch.

I had cleaned the fish, but I hadn't let it marinate long enough. On top of that, I'd been in such a rush that I'd put it in the steamer before the water came to a full boil.

Mr. Whitcombe took one bite and set down his fork with a sharp clink. "This fish is no good. It's overcooked and tough."

Corinne chimed in sharply from beside him. "Romilly, what's going on here? You know perfectly well this is Dad's favorite dish."

"I'm sorry. I've just been really pressed for time today."

"Pressed for time?" Corinne frowned. "You never had problems before. Is your head just not in the game lately?"

I didn't bother explaining.

When I got back to the kitchen and stared at the sink full of pots and pans that needed washing, I squatted down on the floor and sat there trying to catch my breath for what felt like forever.

I didn't get a second to rest all afternoon.

The family's youngest granddaughter, Delphine Whitcombe, trudged in from outside and announced that she wanted lemon ricotta dumplings.

I made a batch as requested, but she complained that they were too sweet. "Romilly, are you not putting as much care into this as you used to?"

Dinner was an even bigger train wreck. There were six dishes, and I had to cook every one of them by myself.

By the time I finished the third one, the first was already stone-cold.

I didn't even have time to plate them properly. Tobin used to help with that, but now I had to do every last bit of it myself.

Mrs. Whitcombe glanced at the food on the table and said, "What's with the food today? It looks like something you'd get at a cafeteria."

No one at the table uttered a word in response.

Sabine sat at the lower end of the table, holding her bowl, her face completely blank.

By nine that night, I collapsed into a chair in the kitchen, every bone in my body aching as though it were about to fall apart.

I had two raw, painful blisters on the soles of my feet. There was a cut on my finger from the kitchen knife, and I hadn't even noticed when I'd nicked myself.

The worst part wasn't the exhaustion. It was the chaos.

Before, I only had to worry about cooking. I had my timing down perfectly, and every single step turned out right.

Now, I had to drive to buy the ingredients, wash them, chop them, cook them, wash the dishes, scrub the pots, and hand in the work reports.

On top of all that, I had to deal with random snack requests from everyone in the house whenever they came up.

My whole rhythm was completely out of whack. I couldn't even focus long enough to cook properly.

I checked my phone and saw that Orson had posted on his social media feed, saying he was quite happy with his new role.

I liked the post but didn't leave a comment.

I told myself that I just had to hang in there a little longer. Maybe once I got through this rough patch, I'd get used to it.