Burning the food once he could understand as being in a rush the first night, to get food on the table. Twice he could see being an accident. In three days, however, she'd managed to burn part or all of four meals, and that spoke either of intentional scheming or blatant disregard of her assigned duties. Neither option was acceptable.
"Jackson, find Leroy, make sure he hasn't broken his neck or anything. The rest of you know your duties." He waved his hand in the direction of the dining room door, dismissing them all, and waited. He toyed with the black piece of coal that might have been chicken once, pushing it around the plate. It took almost ten minutes before he heard footsteps, and caught the color white in the corner of his eye.
"I thought everyone was done eating." Gold leaned back in his chair and looked at the girl standing there, holding a tub to collect the dishes. She was dressed in something gauzy and covered in flowers, better suited to a garden party than a kitchen. Only the thick muslin apron covering it showed any common sense.
"That would assume, Miss French, that there was anything at the table worth eating. What exactly do you call this?" He stabbed the chicken with his fork and held it up for her inspection.
"Blackened chicken, sir. It's a speciality in these parts." She answered so quickly that he might have thought she was telling the truth, if not for the flash of ire in her eyes and the complete absurdity of the idea.
"As is blackened beans, blackened bread, blackened grits and blackened eggs, I assume? No wonder your men went to war if this is what they receive on the homefront; even rations over a campfire are better."
"Our men went to war because your President won't grant us the same rights and liberties that he does to those citizens in the North. And if you don't like the cooking you can go make your own food over a campfire in the yard." Dishes rattled against each other as she stacked them. He was surprised that none of them broke.
"That wasn't part of the deal, dearie." He wasn't used to woman, Southern or Northern, talking back to him. His mother-in-law was the sole exception, and she'd be glad enough to see him dead, if not for the fact that it would grieve the grandson she doted on. Bailey was their one and only link, now that his wife was dead; something that was, in Bernice's opinion, his fault.
"No, but neither were well cooked meals. If you'd wanted savory meals you should have kept Granny, or Ruby. Just how much time do you think I spent in the kitchen, sir? That I can manage as well as I do is only because my mother kept cookery books of her favorite recipes." She'd forgotten all about the dishes, and was glaring at him openly.
"Perhaps she should have taught you some of those recipes. It would have been more practical than preparing for yet another ball or picnic, or whatever it is you do for fun." He had no use for excuses.
"Perhaps she would have, if she'd lived past my eighth birthday." Her voice was even, just a shade scathing, but the grief was obvious even after all this time in the way she reached to caress the necklace she wore. He'd bet a month's wages and his next letter from Bay that the necklace had either been her mother's or had been a gift from her.
"I'm sorry, Miss. French. I was not aware." She hadn't been much older than Bay, when he'd lost his mother.
"Why should you be? You don't know anything about my family, or this home that you have claimed. You don't know about the lives lived here, the celebrations or the sorrows. This way of living that you hold in contempt is my life, and it's not inferior to your own." She reached in front of him to clear the last of the plates, the sleeve of her dress riding up enough that he could see an angry red mark on her inner arm. There was at least one blister, but he couldn't see what was beneath her sleeve.
"What is this?" His tone was harsh as he grabbed her wrist, keeping her still.
"I told you I don't know my way around the kitchen." She spoke as if he was an especially slow child.
"You didn't say you'd hurt yourself." Damn her. She was under his protection, she should have mentioned this. He let go of her wrist, trying not to think about how soft the skin was under his fingers, and ordered her harshly not to go anywhere.
"What are you doing?" She asked, but he didn't answer as he strode to the door. Fortunately the hall was not empty.
"Nolan, go find Hopper and send him to the dining room. Then go fetch Chambers and tell him I wish to assign him a different temporary assignment."
"Yes sir." The man was quick to comply. Fortunately Hopper should be in the house, and it shouldn't take him long to arrive.
"Are you going to tell me what this is about?" She was still clearing the silverware, a fact that for some reason bothered him despite the fact that he'd ordered her to clean up after meals.
"Hopper's our medic; he's going to look at your arm. Sit down in one of the chairs. Please," he added as an afterthought.
"My arm is fine."
"Sit down in one of the damn chairs, Miss. French, or I will assist you in sitting down." He barely had time to issue the threat before there was a soft coughing in the doorway, the ever polite medic standing there with his bag in hand.
"You needed me, Captain Gold?" Archibald Hopper was a tall man that looked underfed no matter what he ate and gave a sense of always being a little confused by his surroundings. Today wasn't any different.
"You need to tend to Miss. French's arm. She's managed to give herself a nasty burn." He gestured his hand in Belle's direction.
"You make it sound like I did it on purpose." She was, finally, sitting at least, though she showed no sign of making things easy. Her sleeve was still covering her arm.
"Her arm, Hopper." He didn't feel the need to dignify her response with one of his own. He'd issued an order and like all other orders it would be obeyed.
"These things can get infected very easily, Miss. French. May I please look at it?" Hopper's voice was soft, the same tone he'd heard the medic use on spooked horses and dying men. Gold took a step back, then another, until he was standing in the doorway. There was no reason for him to stay, but for some reason he couldn't seem to leave. Hopper had managed to get Belle's sleeve raised, and was feeling her arm gently with his fingers. He could see from here the flash of pain in her eyes, but the medic said something in a soft murmur and she laughed. She laughed, and after a year away from home, fighting a war against his own countrymen, it was the most pleasant sound Gold could imagine.
She didn't even know he was still in the room. She'd laughed for Hopper, not him. It shouldn't bother him, but it did.
"Captain?" Chambers stood quietly in the hall, waiting for him. With one last look into the dining room he turned, facing the private that wasn't much more than a boy.
"You have some cooking experience, I believe?" He'd studied the files of all the men serving under him, and had made it his job to find out things that weren't in the files. One never knew when a little information would come in handy.
"Yes, sir," he nodded. "My pa runs a hotel. I used to help out in the kitchens."
"Good. Miss. French needs lessons. You'll join her for all meal preparations, and make sure that neither our food nor her limbs become burnt. Understand?" Chambers was an eager soldier. Cooking wasn't at all what he'd had in mind when joining the army, Gold was sure, but if he found the assignment distasteful he was wise enough to keep his opinion to himself.
"Yes, Captain."
"Good. Make sure to tell Miss. French that I sent you, and make sure she learns something. I grow tired of eating charcoal."
"Yes, Captain. Is there anything else, sir?" Chambers asked.
"No. You're to return to your other duties until it's time to prepare supper." Which would, he hoped, be edible. The young private nodded, and left as quickly as he'd come. Gold lingered in the hall for another minute, until a second laugh from the dining room sent him off to the library for a dose of solitude. Arranging a caretaker for his headquarters was supposed to make his life easier, not more difficult, but his life had only gotten more complex since meeting Belle French.
He paced the room until he realized that he was still thinking about her, then threw himself into the desk chair and forced himself to focus on the maps of the area. He was sending out a scouting party in the morning, and as restless as he felt he might just lead the party himself. At the very least it would give him a break from the damn woman.