home

search

3 - A Convenient Calling

  Marial hated being a commoner. She was young, pretty, and had no employable skills. She couldn’t keep selling off jewels without arousing suspicion, and when she went out to find work she realized how woefully ill-equipped she was, and how unprepared she was to actual physical work. Her enthusiasm did not make up for her lack of stamina. Furthermore, she was a stranger in the little town and people did not take kindly to strangers.

  She couldn’t find work as a maid in a noble house. There was no telling who she might come across. Her embroidery was decent but nothing to write home about. The women who did it for a living were much better and much faster at it. Farming was out of the question, with one day under the sun rendering her nearly comatose with exhaustion and heat stroke. The one job she could get and keep was as a serving girl at a local pub.

  On the surface, it appeared that no skill was required to carry food and drinks from the kitchen to the dining hall. But she despised the work. The men were overly friendly, and not put off by her insults. She suspected they were more often than not too drunk to understand what she was saying. She hated the monotony of it, and most of all she hated the food and drinks served at the pub. The food was more offensive to her sense of taste and smell than her insults were to their patrons.

  The cook was convinced that he served the best fare in the nation, despite everyone coming to the pub telling him otherwise. Some of the proof was more visceral, and she knew because she’d had to clean it off the floor, the tables, and sometimes the walls.

  But complaining would only attract attention, because how would a village girl know what was good food and what was not. The people knew her as a woman who’d lost her job in the capital, and had traveled town to town trying to find something new. Even the villagers kept returning because the food was at least edible most of the time, and it was a break from home cooking. It was close enough to the capital that she heard news from the city, yet far enough that people from the city did not come by often.

  However, she still hadn’t heard news of her disappearance or any search for her. Two weeks and there was no news. She expected there to be something at least from the duchy’s side. Marcus was not a patient man, and he had a temper. It was true he didn’t get angry often, but when he did he was terrifying.

  But there was only silence, and it started to eat at her.

  “May I work in the kitchens instead?” she asked the owner of the pub, Mrs. Dilton. She was a plump lady who looked deceptively sweet. She was kind, but she was also a businesswoman through and through. Dishwashing was a thankless job, and she was happy to take on someone who volunteered to do it.

  Marial could hide away in the kitchens, and while washing the dishes was difficult work, it was easier than dealing with the patrons and their ridiculous personalities. The soap helped to blot out the smells of the cook’s creations, and she could think.

  She shared a room with another one of the serving maids, a nice girl who had been working at the pub for two years. Peggy was prettier than her, thinner, and when she smiled at the customers she actually meant it.

  “Are you sure you want to keep washing dishes?” Peggy asked her. “It’s harder work.”

  “Not really,” Marial said. It was true that her hands dried out more and more, and at night she had to rub a salve into them to stop cuts from forming. But it was a temporary thing, until she heard some news from the city and could decide on her further steps. “It’s easier in some ways.”

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “What if you helped with the cooking instead? I hear the cook fell ill today,” Peggy said. “Again.”

  “Do you think he ate his own cooking again?”

  Peggy snickered, hiding her laugh behind her palms. “Mara, you’re so funny.”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Dilton for you,” Peggy offered.

  Peggy helped her, and Marial found it strange. She could offer nothing to the girl, but Peggy was sweet by nature. She taught Marial how to remember orders, and how best to balance the serving trays. When she was in the front room, she took the more difficult tables.

  “I’ve never done much cooking,” Marial confessed. She hadn’t done any at all. She had spent years pointing out flaws in cooking and making suggestions to the royal kitchens, but had never so much as touched a pot or pan herself.

  “You seem the kind of person who would be good at it,” Peggy said. “At the least, Mrs. Dilton will have it a bit easier if you end up good at it. She hates having to cook and handle the accounts at once.”

  So she began, learning first how to cut potatoes and other vegetables. Peggy was right. She was a help to Mrs. Dilton at first, and slowly learned on her own time. When the cook begged off, or when he drank too much of the ale, Marial took over the kitchen. She replaced his greasy food with lighter fare, salty and spicy snacks to complement the different liquors and wines.

  Their pub grew to be more busy during the late nights, with people who came more often to eat than to drink. She experimented with local herbs and spices, and started baking the pastries she missed from home.

  Mrs. Dilton increased her pay. It was simple to disappear into her new life, into the warmth of the kitchen. It was an isolated place, a simple life. She gathered ingredients, made food, and fed people. When she was free, she discovered new ways to combine ingredients.

  “People are coming in from the next village over,” Mrs. Dilton said. “News is spreading about our food.”

  The cook beamed with pride. “It was only a matter of time before people figured out the greatness of my cooking.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mrs. Dilton looked at him. “Take a day off, today.”

  “What?”

  “I know you’re shoving all your work onto Mara here.”

  “I’m teaching her!” the cook insisted.

  “And that’s why I’ve promoted you,” Mrs. Dilton said. “I’m opening a new pub and inn a few towns over, and you’ll be the cook there. Mara will be the cook here.”

  The new pub was mostly a warehouse to store the groceries Mrs. Dilton bought in bulk at the beginning of each year. The cook took a pay cut in exchange for being the warehouse manager, and unlimited liquor.

  So they eased into a pleasant rhythm. Peggy became the assistant cook, a few new girls were hired for the serving, and business picked up at their little pub. Slowly, the clientele changed. As her pastries became sweeter and more like the ones of her memories, children started to frequent the place after school.

  Months passed, and her arms gained muscle from kneading flour and stirring stews and soups. The tips of her fingertips became blunt to the heat of the stove, and when she spilled drops of oil onto her skin she no longer flinched.

  Mariel wondered if Rosalind or anyone from the palace would even recognize her if they saw her. She now tied her hair into a bun held in place with a large pin. Her skin gained a healthy tan from days spent gathering herbs, and she noticed that the way she walked had changed.

  While she retained some memory of her years of etiquette training, her movements gained a more utilitarian grace. She started to learn more about the people who frequented their pub, and she was no longer a stranger to the little town.

  She stopped worrying about hearing news from the capital, or looking forward to a time when she could return. At most, it would only be a year that she’d be able to spend as Mara. Rosalind’s wedding couldn’t be put off forever, and when that day came, they would need her back to present the picture of the complete family. Even the duchy would settle down for the sake of the greater good.

  Until then, she would enjoy herself.

Recommended Popular Novels