The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series)

by Dorsey, Christine

  As much an exaggeration as all the rest, Cinnamon admitted to herself, though to the company she agreed with her mother.

  “Well, I must say you seem less than enthusiastic about the man you will wed in less than two months, Cinnamon. I was under the impression when you returned from England that you were madly in love,” her mother finished petulantly.

  Cinnamon felt the captain’s gaze and couldn’t help her own eyes being drawn to his. He stared at her with an emotion she couldn’t fathom.

  “Mrs. Murphy, I dare say, our Cinnamon grows tired of discussing Lord Westfield. Perhaps we should—”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Murphy. How could she not wish to speak of her beloved?” Her mother puffed herself up, her ample breast expanding above the décolletage of her mauve gown. “Isn’t that correct, Cinnamon? Cinnamon?”

  “What? Oh.” She tore her gaze away from the captain’s blue-eyed stare. “Yes, of course,” she agreed, though for the life of her she couldn’t recall what had been said. But it hardly mattered, for the last course was being cleared and a manservant was bringing in the cake she had baked that afternoon.

  Much of the icing had run down the sides, pooling on the crystal platter, but she decided that was just a minor drawback. For very soon Captain McGregger would take his first bite of her delicious concoction. Then he’d be forced to admit... She wasn’t certain what he’d admit. But he’d know she’d done it—baked the perfect cake.

  A maid sliced pieces while her father, sisters, and Captain McGregger admired her handiwork. She could hardly contain herself. She thought the portions a bit small, especially the captain’s, but decided it would be worth it when he begged for a second piece.

  All assembled waited until the dessert plates were positioned and Mrs. Murphy lifted her silver fork. Anticipation made Cinnamon slow to place her own bite on her tongue. She was too interested in the captain’s reaction. It came about the time her own lips closed over the morsel of wedding cake.

  Five

  He swallowed the bite, and that was to his credit, Cinnamon thought, because that was not an easy feat. “My heavens,” she managed to croak as she grabbed for her water glass.

  “What’s wrong with this? Mama, it tastes awful.”

  “There, there, Philomela, it isn’t all that... What is in this cake, Cinnamon? I hope you don’t plan to serve this to the duke.”

  “Of course not, Mama,” she answered, after draining the water from her glass. Though she didn’t know why the duke’s taste buds were any more precious than hers, or Philomela’s, or even Captain McGregger’s. He sat across the table from her trying to hide his grin. She would have tossed the contents of her glass at him had there been a single drop of water left. She couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty—or embarrassed.

  “Well, what happened?” her mother demanded.

  “I’m not certain. No, Papa, don’t eat it. Really, it’s awful.”

  “Cinnamon, dear, it couldn’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Yes, Papa, it is.”

  But it was too late. He was already closing his lips over the fork tines. She watched until his eyes began to water, then balled up her napkin, plopped it on her plate, and mumbled a request to be excused. She made it out of the dining room and to the first step of the stairs before she heard her name.

  “Miss Murphy.”

  She paused, her hand upon the newel and shut her eyes. Why did he, of all people, follow her? “If you’ll excuse me, Captain McGregger, I really must—” Must what? She sighed as she turned to face him.

  Standing as she was on the step, she was nearly level with him, could stare him straight in his mirth-filled eyes. “What is it you wish? I believe I gave everyone, including you, sufficient time to make light of my cake.”

  “Even me?” His dark eyebrow lifted. “Did I say anything about your cake, then?”

  No, he hadn’t, but he’d been thinking it. She was certain of that. Still, she tried to modulate her tone. She didn’t want him knowing how upset she was. “How may I help you, Captain?”

  “I wish to seek yer advice.”

  That was hardly what she’d been expecting. “My advice?”

  “Aye. Do ye suppose we could speak privately? Could I perhaps call on ye tomorrow, or whenever ’tis convenient?”

  “Well, yes, tomorrow would be fine. In the afternoon or morning.” She had thought he planned to criticize her baking abilities, of which he knew better than her family, but instead he appeared perfectly serious about discussing something with her. What it was, she didn’t know, for at that moment, when she would have asked, her mother appeared in the dining room doorway.

  “Cinnamon?” She marched forward like a general preparing for battle. “Whatever are you doing standing in the hallway like this?”

  “I was—”

  “I was explaining to Miss Murphy what might be the problem with her cake. ’Tis a simple enough mistake really. One I’ve managed myself a time or two.”

  “You are a cook?” Her mother said it as if the words left as bad a taste in her mouth as this evening’s dessert.

  Strange as it seemed, Cinnamon had the strongest desire to come to the captain’s defense. He didn’t stand a chance against her mother. No one, not even her own father, did.

  However, Captain McGregger didn’t seem to realize the peril he was in. He simply smiled that smile Cinnamon was beginning to realize made her stomach feel fluttery whenever she saw it. “Not anymore, but I cooked my share when I was younger. On your husband’s ships,” he added.

  With a “humph” her mother hustled the captain back into the dining room. Then she accompanied Cinnamon up the wide stairs to her room.

  “I don’t know what you were thinking, Cinnamon. Meeting with that man, unchaperoned.”

  “Captain McGregger was simply—” Telling her what the problem was with her cake. Cinnamon thought she had that figured out. One taste, one salty taste, had been enough.

  “And that’s another thing. This silly notion about baking your own wedding cake—”

  “Only as a test. The actual cake itself will be—”

  “I really don’t care. The entire scheme is ridiculous. The very idea of you in the kitchen, beating and mixing, and... and... Well, I should think you can see now how very foolish it is.”

  “Foolish to mistake salt for sugar, perhaps.”

  “What?”

  Cinnamon whirled to face her mother. “That’s all I did, simply mistook one for the other. Everything else worked out. No fire, nothing.”

  “Fire?” Her mother settled down onto the dressing-table bench. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, Mama, really. It’s just that next time I shall bake it perfectly.”

  “Next time?” Her mother was on her feet. “Do you mean to say you plan to continue this debacle?”

  “If you mean, am I going to bake this cake, the answer is of course I am. I said I would. I always do what I say I will. Would you have me fail at this?”

  “Ohhh. Whatever am I to do with you? You are such a vexing child.” She crossed her arms, then took a deep breath. “I told your father naming you Cinnamon was a mistake. I wanted Theodora, but, no, he insisted you should bear the name of a spice. A spice.” She sighed. “And see, I was right.”

  “Mama, I hardly think my name has anything to do with... well, with anything.”

  “Humph, I should think it does. The very idea. I can’t believe I allowed him to have his way.”

  Cinnamon couldn’t believe it, either, knowing her mother as she did. Kathleen Murphy had a way of wearing a person down. But Cinnamon was exceedingly glad Papa had stood his ground with her name. She didn’t feel like a Theodora at all.

  “Well, I suppose it isn’t too bad. Lord Westfield didn’t find fault with your name. Didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Yes, Mama,” she answered through clenched teeth. She should hope he had no objections, with a name like Alfred Henry Charles Augustus Westfield.
>
  “Then I suppose all is not lost,” her mother said, assuming her lecture pose, her chin high, her eyes leveled on her prey. “However,” she began, and Cinnamon realized she knew there would be a ‘however.’ “You must stop this foolishness with the cake. And Captain McGregger....” She shook her head as if she couldn’t think of enough terrible things to say about him...

  Then she marched toward the door, her bustle swaying in time to her steps. “Take a moment to compose yourself, then please join us in the parlor. I believe Philomela has a surprise planned for us on the piano.”

  That hardly induced Cinnamon to hurry. Yet she found herself, before too many minutes passed, descending the stairs, her cheeks freshly pinched, her coiffure patted into place.

  But he was gone.

  Not that Captain McGregger was the reason she’d hurried last night, Cinnamon assured herself the next morning, She’d simply wished a word with him concerning when she could expect his visit. She hoped it would be in the afternoon while her mother was visiting, then spent the morning fretting about why he didn’t appear. He hardly seemed the lay-abed type. She could imagine him aboard ship, rising with the sun, facing the east and the new day with...

  “Oh, drat, what do I care how he faces anything,” she muttered as she read a row of figures. Each time, she got a different sum, which wasn’t like her at all.

  She despaired of ever reaching the correct answer when there came a polite tapping at the door.

  “Captain Ian McGregger to see you, miss. Should I show him to the parlor?”

  “Yes.” Her hands automatically flew to her hair. “No, wait, James. Show the captain in here.” Yes, the library would be infinitely better. Less likely her mother would chance upon them there. And though Cinnamon had learned years ago the best way to ensure family harmony was to do as her mother said, she also knew a thing or two about appearing to do as Mama said.

  Cinnamon remained seated behind her father’s desk, a fact that she thought brought a smile to the captain’s face when he entered. Or perhaps he simply smiled at her.

  “Thank ye for seeing me today, Miss Murphy.”

  “Of course, Captain McGregger. Please be seated.”

  They both acted so politely distant, it was difficult for Cinnamon to recall they’d shared a passionate kiss—until she looked at his mouth. He did have an extraordinarily fine mouth, firm lips with brackets on either side that gave him character and... “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

  “I said I realize how busy ye are, so I’ll get right to my point in coming.”

  “Busy, yes, I am.” Her gaze followed his to the desk where papers were spread. She straightened a pile only to notice the ink on her fingers. Why hadn’t she washed her hands? And why did she care?

  “I’ve come to ask yer advice and perhaps for yer help, Miss Murphy. As ye no doubt know, yer father has made me a very generous offer.”

  “He’s told me.” She also knew the captain had yet to give Papa an answer. “He seems to have much confidence in your abilities.”

  “Aye, he does.” The captain leaned forward. “And that is where the problem lies.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His grin was self-effacing. “I’m not sure I see myself as he does. Do not mistake me. I know I can captain a ship with the best.”

  “Oh, really,” she couldn’t help injecting with a lift of her eyebrow.

  He chuckled. “Would ye have me full of false modesty, then? I’d have thought ye’d appreciate a person who is aware of what he can do as ye yerself are.”

  “I’m hardly that.”

  “Oh, really,” he said, mimicking her. “It seems to me a woman who can help run a business such as Murphy Import and Export, who can make up her mind to bake a wedding cake, and—”

  “Let’s not discuss the cake, shall we?”

  “Does this mean ye’ve given up, then?”

  “No.” She realized her tone was unnecessarily firm and softened it. “No, I shall bake that cake.” She opted not to add, “if it’s the last thing I do,” deciding it sounded too melodramatic.

  “Good,” he said, smiling again. “And I hope I’m there to taste the results of yer labors.”

  “We shall see,” was the best she could do. “But I’m certain you didn’t come to discuss cake.”

  “Nay. ’Tis my own problem that concerns me at the moment. I’ve had very little formal schooling since I spent most of my youth on board a schooner. And I’m wondering how good I could be in assisting yer fine father.” He shifted in his seat. “He puts much store in yer skills and I was hoping ye could look at mine and give me an honest assessment.”

  “You wish me to judge whether you are competent enough to accept my father’s offer?”

  “Aye, that’s about the size of it. And if ye find me capable, a bit of help with learning the ropes would be appreciated.”

  She looked at him, astonished. Perhaps the man didn’t realize how much she disliked him, if indeed she did dislike him. There were moments when she couldn’t decide. Certainly he should never have kissed her. No, never. But then she should have told him who she was. That, however, was neither here nor there now.

  It didn’t matter if he’d kissed her ten times, or twenty, she would do what was best for her father, and her continuing to help him with Murphy’s Import and Export would, of course, be best. But since that wasn’t possible, perhaps Captain McGregger was the next best thing. And she was being given the opportunity to discover the truth for herself objectively, with a completely open mind. The idea of leaving Boston and Papa didn’t seem quite so repugnant.

  “Yes, of course, I shall be glad to help you, Captain McGregger.” She had a sudden flash of how difficult her assignment might be. He did say he lacked schooling. Lifting a paper from the pile on the desk, she handed it to him.

  “A bill of lading,” he said. “From the India Queen, my vessel, by the look of it.”

  “Yes, it is.” Good, then he could read. “I’ve been adding the numbers.”

  “So I see.” He stared at the column a moment. “But if ye will pardon me for saying, I think ye’ve made a mistake. It appears to me it should be eight thousand nine hundred aught seven.”

  “Really?” She rose and circled the desk, looking over his broad shoulder at the figures written in her neat hand.

  “Aye. If ye add four hundred and seventy-two to one thousand two hundred and eighty-five then six hundred and thirty-four and nine hundred and twenty-seven...” He continued down through the numbers almost faster than she could keep up. “The answer is eight thousand nine hundred aught seven.” He turned his head to look up at her and she realized how close they were, and how drawn she was to get closer still. She stepped back abruptly.

  “I thought you said you were unschooled.”

  “ ’Tis formal schooling I lack. Ciphering has always come easy. A way to spend those lonely nights at sea.” He stood, suddenly very tall and powerful before her. “Counting the stars in the heavens.”

  Did he really do that? Stand on the ship’s deck, a freshening breeze ruffling his black hair, singing in the sails, his legs spread against the ship’s sway, his face turned toward the sky? She could see him so clearly in her mind’s eye, could hear the gulls squawking.

  Gulls? She blinked, realizing it was excited voices she heard—Cornelia’s and Lucretia’s. She moved away from Captain McGregger as her sisters burst through the door.

  “There you are, Cinnamon. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Ohhh, and Captain McGregger. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Stop flirting with him, Lucretia, and show Cinnamon the post,” Cornelia said. “It’s so exciting. Do tell us again what he looks like.”

  “Who?” Cinnamon grabbed for the letter her sister waved in front of her face.

  “Why, the duke, of course. Your fiancé. That’s who the letter’s from.”

  Cinnamon’s gaze caught the captain’s for a moment before she looked d
own at the heavy vellum sealed with the duke’s crest.

  Six

  September seventh. Cinnamon read the date again and sighed. The duke and his envoy would arrive in Boston for a three-day visit exactly one month before their scheduled nuptials. A month that he planned to spend on a hunting trip in the West. The land of savages, he called it. Alone. Not that she wished to accompany him. She was far too busy.

  She lifted the watch pinned to her bodice and let the duke’s letter flutter to the table. There really was no need even to keep it. She’d memorized its few lines nearly a week ago when it had arrived.

  Her mother acted as if the duke’s missive contained words of love and fond wishes to see his fiancée’s face again. Cinnamon laughed at the very idea as she smoothed the grosgrain skirt of her afternoon dress. There was a tap at her door and she smiled. The captain was right on time.

  In the library, they reviewed shipments of rice for the last year. It was normally boring work, but Cinnamon found sharing the task with Captain McGregger made it much more interesting. He sat diagonally across the desk from her, his head bent, a lock of black hair tumbling over his forehead. He’d pushed it back two times, and she resisted the urge to do it for a third.

  “Do you have any questions?” she asked, trying to pull her mind back to the business at hand.

  He glanced up and swiped at his hair again. “I don’t think so. The cargo seems to allow for a decent profit.”

  True enough, and a fact she imagined he knew before she had shown him the records. “It isn’t just your questioning your ability to become my father’s successor that’s worrying you, is it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “You’re not certain you wish to give up the life of a sea captain.”

  His grin made her light-headed. “Very astute of ye, Miss Murphy. But then I’ve never doubted ye were a smart lass.”

  “Tell me about it. Your life at sea.” She leaned forward, the ledger books forgotten.