The Ridgewater Chronicles; a Romance, part 1

    I remember that first dreary autumn morning at the Ridgewater Mansion. My pa had told me once that it was the largest building from here to St. Paul. I had seen it before, but only ever from a distance and as I drew closer, I could feel myself begin to slow my pace. The Mansion loomed before me, as if it could sense my presence and did not like what it smelled. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Fog clung to the grass like the whispers of ghosts. The Mansion's red bricks stood out against the haze. 

    Out of the corner of my eye I saw the flutter of a lace curtain being draw back. I looked up to see a girl, not much younger than myself, looking down at me. Her haughty face was icy pale, her expression as cold as the winter wind. Our eyes met and she smirked and quickly looked away.

    The family had only recently moved to our town in July and had already lost their cook's help. Mrs. Schmidt, our minister's wife, had told me they had moved here from New Orleans, Louisiana on account of Mr. Ridgewater running his logging business. Mrs. Schmidt also knew that Ma was in troubled states after Pa's death and said she would put in a good word for me with Mrs. Schmidt, even though they were Catholic.  

    I shifted my old carpet bag into my other hand, bowed my head, and stepped forward taking the side path to the back entrance as Mrs. Schmidt had instructed me. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the door. The door creaked open and a blonde woman appeared.  Her gaze rolled over me, stopping when she saw my old boots.

    "You must be the new girl," she raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

    "Yes, ma'am."

    She snorted and opened the door for me to pass, "Cook's in the kitchen; last door on the left."

        I nodded and slid past her. The hallway was sparse and narrow, but well kept. I gasped when I entered the kitchen. Dainty china was stacked along one shelf.

    A thin woman with graying curls stood before the stove. "Is that you, Abby? Where have...," she turned to see me, "Oh never mind! Thought you were our scullery maid." She wiped her hands on her apron and gestured for me to sit down at a long table. 

    "It's Mariam, right?"

    "Yes, ma'am."

    "I'm Mrs. Radcliffe, but everyone calls me Cook. We have Mr. Brown, the butler, Miss Lawson, the house maid or lady's maid depending on the day, George, our stable hand, and Abby, our scullery maid. What do you know about the family?"

    "They moved here from New Orleans because of Mr. Ridgewater's logging business."

    Cook nodded, "Good, I know you're not a gossip then."

    My eyes widened, "Oh no, ma'am. I'm not a gossip."

    "What do you know about food?"

    I gulped, "I've been cooking for my family since my pa died."

    "And your ma?" 

    "She's been... busy with her sewing. She's a seamstress."

    Cook game me a knowing smile, "I think you'll do just fine here. You'll get paid two dollars and fifty cents every Friday and have your evenings off on Tuesdays. How does that sound to you?"

    My jaw nearly dropped. I had never held more than a dollar in my life. It would be more than enough to support my family, "That sounds wonderful. Thank you!" 

    "Whose this?" a red headed young woman poked her head around the door frame.

    "Ah! Abby, come over here and meet our new cook's help."

    Abby bounded over, holding her hand out to me, "Oh nice to meet you! My name is Abby. I'm the scullery maid. My ma wanted me to be a cook's help, but Cook nearly fired me last time I burned the toast. Not to mention the time I forgot the pot on the stove and burned straight through it. Or when I broke that tea pot last week.

    "You broke that tea pot? I nearly had George's head on a spike for that." Cook managed to cut in.

    Abby's eyes widened, "Cook, I think I aught to show our new cook's help to our room. The two of us share after all.