Chapter Five #2
She looked to Quinn for some support. He kept as quiet as ever, not offering any excuses or apologies. Would neither of them show the slightest remorse?
“What am I to serve them?” She looked from one man to the other.
Tiernan nudged his untouched plate in her direction. “Give ’em this lot.” He scrunched his nose up. “Best of luck to you getting them to eat it.”
First, he ate all her tea cakes, then he insulted the meal she’d made for him? Quinn had finished his lunch, so it couldn’t be as terrible as Tiernan made it out to be. Again, her husband made no effort to defend her.
Mirabelle let her frustration firm her resolve. She hadn’t crumbled under indifference before; she certainly wouldn’t do so now. “If you two are finished, I’ll just clear the table.”
Without looking at either of them more than was necessary, she set their dishes on the platter she’d left in the dining room for just that purpose. She’d learned well how to disappear while clearing tables. A good waitress was unobtrusive.
But I’m not supposed to be merely an employee anymore.
The men stood from the table and made their way from the room, not bidding her farewell or thanking her for the meal.
“I do my work and you do yours,” Quinn had said. But surely he intended her to be more than a worker. Surely.
“It will get better,” she whispered to herself when the room was empty. “It will. It has to.”
In the meantime, she had a more immediate difficulty to solve. What was she going to serve Jane and Caroline?
She lifted the tray in her hand and carried it into the kitchen.
I can’t offer them buttered bread. That would be too humiliating.
She could tell by looking that Tiernan hadn’t even tasted the lunch she’d made. None of his utensils were the slightest bit dirtied. The gravy had a thin skin from sitting undisturbed as it cooled.
Mirabelle pushed out a breath. She was about to eat leftover lunch because she hadn’t the luxury of making herself a meal.
This wasn’t quite what she’d imagined when she’d pictured a home and family of her own.
She’d never been invited to eat with Quinn or his father during their morning or noontime meals.
She ate her dinner in the dining room, mostly so she could sit for a few minutes, but neither of the men talked to her.
She took a fresh fork from the utensil drawer and returned to the cold plate of bread and gravy on the counter. She stood there, alone, eating her hand-me-down meal.
She’d known this wasn’t a marriage of love, that she was there to work and help around the house. She hadn’t expected immediate tenderness or affection, but she had anticipated being appreciated and shown a little kindness. She needed at least that.
“Pull yourself together, Mirabelle. This melancholy mood is not like you.”
She was nervous was all—nervous and a little overwhelmed.
Heavy footsteps announced Quinn’s arrival without the necessity of looking back to see him.
“Da didn’t know about the cakes,” he said.
But once he did know, he didn’t care. Neither of these men did. Heavens, she was struggling to shake this gloom. She took another bite of the cold, now-unappetizing meal.
“He is an old man,” Quinn continued. “He hasn’t a lot of pleasures in life. The cakes are a small thing, really.”
Except it wasn’t about the cakes. Reaching out to these would-be friends was the only thing she had done for herself in the week she’d been in Wyoming.
It was her first chance for connection and companionship, an opportunity to find people she could matter to.
It was a bit of hope she’d offered herself, and it was slipping away.
“I haven’t a lot of pleasures in my life either, Quinn. Having friends over for tea and cakes was meant to be one of them.”
“What time are the ladies arriving?” Quinn didn’t sound overjoyed at the prospect. But he’d agreed to it, and she had lost enough battles that day.
She took a breath and firmly grasped her optimism once more. All would go well. She was determined it would. “They’ll be here at one o’clock.”
“It is one o’clock now.”
For the first time since he arrived, she looked back in his direction, but her gaze slid past him, through the doorway, to the clock just visible on the mantel in the parlor. It was, indeed, one o’clock. She hadn’t even smoothed out her hair or brushed her dress.
So much for lunch. Mirabelle moved quickly to the scrap bucket and scraped the remainder of her meal into it. She had her apron off and hanging on its peg in a trice. Quinn all but blocked the doorway. She was forced to pause in front of him.
“Da really didn’t know about the cakes,” he said.
Find a reason to feel encouraged. Search out a silver lining. “I appreciate that he didn’t do it intentionally. Next time, I’ll be certain to warn him so we’ll not have this difficulty again.”
Quinn gave one of his quick nods. That, she’d discovered, could mean anything from “hello” to “I agree” to “I’m sure you just said something, but I wasn’t really listening.”
In that moment, she needed more than that from him. She needed a kind word, a bit of appreciation, someone to lean on while she regained her own strength.
She needed to not feel so alone.