Miss Emily Read Online Free PDF Page A

hard at me. “I like to bake,” I said.
    â€œ Like to, miss?”
    I had to hold back a laugh so as not to wound her. I suppose for her baking is mere work, whereas for me it is ease and alchemy.
    â€œPerhaps we might bake together soon,” I said, and left her alone.
    Now it occurs to me that she will have fresh methods of fashioning cakes and breads to share. What new tricks will she have brought from her mother’s table to ours? I lift my eyes to the window to see rain falling; I love the kitchen on a dreary day. I put down my pen and go there to question Ada about what she knows of cake making.
    Rain sleets against the kitchen window, but all is warmth and industry. Ada is scraping the leavings of a stew from a pot into a bowl.
    â€œThe birds use their wings as umbrellas on days such as these,” I say.
    She stops midscrape. “Is that so?” She fills the bowl, lays down her spoon and looks at me. “Begging your pardon, miss, but you talk a lot about birds. You must be very fond of them.”
    â€œDo I talk about birds so much?” I ask.
    â€œThe other day you said something about a nightingale.”
    â€œ ‘ It was the nightingale, and not the lark, / That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. ’ ” I was quoting Shakespeare to amuse Mother. We need nothing else when we have Shakespeare, Ada.”
    â€œThat’s as may be, but your mother didn’t look very amused, miss, if you don’t mind my saying. And I have pots to scrub.”
    Ada has a superior, petulant face, but when she smiles, she glows like a window opening on a bright day. I want to make her smile.
    â€œI hear that you Irish love rain,” I say. “My sources tell me you are not happy unless soaked through by a torrent.”
    â€œWe’re used to rain, miss—it is constant in Ireland—but that doesn’t mean we welcome it.” She turns toward the scullery, and I have to stand in her way to stop her going.
    â€œMargaret O’Brien brought variety to our table, Ada. I wonder if you have any particular things you like to bake? Cutler’s store can order in even the most unusual items. We have an account there, of course.”
    â€œI know that. Miss Vinnie has already instructed me.” She smooths her apron with one hand and looks at me as if she would like to be left alone. “The Concannons, the same as most Irish people, are plain eaters, Miss Dickinson. My mammy looks at salt as if the devil himself brought it to her table. If you like unfussy food, then I’m happy to share what I know with you.” She wriggles past me, a saucepan held out in front of her like a chalice.
    â€œMy Indian round bread took a prize at the Amherst Cattle Show, you know,” I say to her retreating back, and even as the words leave my lips, I know how silly I sound.
    Ada turns. “Do cows like the taste of rye bread, Miss Emily?” she asks.
    Is she teasing? The Irish employ a canny innocence that has fooled me before. Then she smiles, that lit-up grin of hers, and winks slowly.
    â€œOh, Ada.”
    â€œI think you should get out from under my feet, Miss Emily, and let me move on with my day.”
    â€œLet me perch here. I will be quiet as a nestling, and you won’t even know that I am in the room.”
    She tuts. “Miss Emily, you’re more of a turkey than a wren, truly, and I will know quite well that you’re here.”
    But she smiles again, and I know that, like Margaret O’Brien before her, she welcomes a chance to chatter as she goes about her work. The Irish put great store in spinning a narrative around every small thing, and although I may view life New Englandly, I think I must be somewhat Irish at my core, for I love to do the same.

    Sue comes to me; she rolls in the door, her front a muslin-draped melon, and I lead her by the hand to the library, our favorite spot for conferring.
    The first time I ever saw