“We’ll let her down soft!” she said, as she appeared. “We’ll make her drudge first and smart afterwards! And she’ll come to it the quicker.”
“Nay, Bess,” one of the men answered with a grin, “but you’ll not spoil her pretty fingers.”
“Oh, won’t we?” Bess answered. And turning to Henrietta, and throwing off the mask, “Now, peacock!” she said, “I’ve got you here and you can’t escape. I am going to put your nose to the grindstone. I’m going to see if you are of the same stuff as other people! Can you cook?”
Henrietta did not know what to answer; nor whether she dared assert herself. She tried to frame the words, “Where is Walterson? Where is Walterson? If he is not here, let me go!” But she knew that they would not let her go. And, unable to speak, she stood dumb before them.
“Ah, well, we’ll see if you can,” Bess said, scoffingly. “I see you know what’s what, and where you are. Come, slice that bacon! And fry it! There’s the knife, and there’s the flitch, and let’s have none of your airs, or—you’ll have the knife across your knuckles. Do you hear, cat? Do you understand? You’ll do as you are bid here. We’ll see how you like to be undermost.”
The men laughed.
“That’s the way, Bess,” one said. “Break her in, and she’ll soon come to it!”
“Anyways, she’ll not take my lad again!” Bess said, as Henrietta, bending her head, took the knife with a shaking hand. “We’ll give her something to do, and she’ll sleep the sounder for it when she goes to bed.”
“Ay,” said Giles, with a smile. “Hope she’ll like her room!”
“She’ll lump it’ or like it!” said Bess. “She’s one of them that grinds our faces. We’ll see how she likes to be ground!”