A few days after Betsy’s funeral, Regan was standing in the parlor trying to decide which pieces of the old overstuffed furniture to keep and which to give away. She looked up at the portrait of Adele hanging above the fireplace. “What do you think?”
Whenever she was in the house alone, she often conversed with the first Mrs. Lee. It was silly of course, but it was her way of remembering that this had been her home, too, and that she’d been loved. She knew many women would’ve taken the portrait down as soon as the ink dried on their marriage papers, but Regan didn’t feel threatened by Adele’s painted presence.
She was further contemplating her furniture decisions when the door pull sounded. Walking to the opened screened door, she came face-to-face with a young man in a dark suit standing on the porch. Parked out in front of the house was a large wagon. Its signage showed it was from the stove company.
Filled with excitement, she asked, “Is that my new stove?”
The man looked her up and down. “I’d like to speak to the lady of the house, please.”
“I’m she.”
He chuckled. “No, the real lady of the house. The woman who employs you.”
Regan paused, eyed him up and down in the same manner he’d done with her, and replied, “Ah. I understand now. You want my mistress?”
“Yes. I do. So, run and get her for me, please.”
“Will do!”
Sighing at the ignorance of some people, she walked into the kitchen. She stood, counted to one hundred to give herself time to find her mistress, and returned to the man on the porch.
At her approach, his jaw tightened but before he could express his impatience, she said coolly, “My name is Mrs. Colton Carmichael Lee, andI’mthe mistress of this house. Is the stove on that wagon the oneIrecently purchased through Miller’s store?”
His face turned red and he stammered, “Uhm, yes. Uhm. My apologies, Mrs. Lee. I thought—”
“We both know what you thought, but we’ll move past that, shall we?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry. I-I...if you’ll show me where you want the new stove placed, we’ll get started on setting it up.”
Regan held the screen door aside and he entered.
An hour later, the old stove had been hauled away and in its spot stood the brand spanking new replacement, manufactured under the name Acorn. It had six cook plates for her pots, a good-sized oven, a warming closet attached to the side, and it burned wood or coal. It cost her a bit under ninety dollars, but it was well worth the money. Now, she could do some proper cooking and, most important, bake Anna’s cake. The new icebox was outside on the porch and it, too, helped turn the ancient kitchen into one more suitable to her needs.
Tired after being up all night helping a rancher’s mare birth a breeched foal, Colt trudged into the house that afternoon with only one thing in mind: sleep. A heavenly smell drew him into the kitchen where he found Regan seated on a stool with a bowl of something in her lap. Whatever was in the bowl was being whipped to death by the long-handled wooden spoon in her hand. She looked up and her smile was a balm to his weariness. “How’d the foaling go?” she asked.
“The colt was breech so it was a long night.”
“Colt and mare okay?” she asked, still whipping away.
“Yes. What are you doing?”
“Making icing for Anna’s cake.”
Seeing his confusion, she inclined her head to direct his attention. “Meet my new stove.”
He turned and his jaw dropped.
“Isn’t she beautiful? I named her Portia after my sister, which may be a mistake seeing as how Portia can’t boil water.”
Colt continued to stare at the huge stove that dominated the small kitchen. He took in the shiny black top with its six circles where he assumed the pots would be placed, the stovepipe, the oven with its glass window, and the rest. He couldn’t get over the size. “What’s this bustle-looking contraption on the side?”
“Warming oven so things like bread don’t get cold while the rest of the meal finishes up.”
“Should I sit before I ask how much it cost?”
She grinned while she continued to whip away. “Maybe.”
He made a show of gripping the counter’s edge. “Okay, tell me.”