The Kitchen Marriage

by Gina Welborn

  Isaak didn’t care about her being in Helena; it was her being in Jakob’s life that was the problem. “Whatever possessed you to bring a woman all this way, one about whom you didn’t even know the barest of facts?”

  Jakob held Isaak’s gaze for a moment before shrugging. “I guess that’s a fair question. We were supposed to correspond by letter first. That’s how it usually works. Mrs. Archer has never had a prospective bride show up uninvited, but after the interview, she realized Zoe was eminently suitable. Even you have to agree she is. She’s smart. She’s cultured. She’s also tenderhearted and shyer than any girl we’ve ever met.”

  The change in Jakob’s tone of voice on the last sentence said he expected Isaak to keep from questioning her too closely given her gentle disposition.

  Ha! Her disposition was more coy than shy.

  Isaak set the wooden spoon on the soapstone counter and removed the potatoes from the heat. “She may not be who she says she is.”

  “I have sixty days to figure that out before she’s contractually free to walk away from my courtship.” Jakob shot a glance toward the kitchen door. “I like her. I like her a lot.”

  Isaak was afraid of that.

  “Please be nice to her.”

  “Of course I’ll be nice.” But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to ask some pointed questions.

  Jakob let out a huff of relief, then looked at the cookstove. “Need any help?”

  Isaak shook his head. “As soon as I finish the potatoes, I’ll warm the green beans and make gravy. The lamb chops are already cooked. I just need to cut them up and add them to the gravy.”

  “You’re making gravy?” Jakob made it sound like the worst idea in the world.

  “Of course. Mashed potatoes need gravy.” And what else was Isaak supposed to do about only having four chops for six people?

  Jakob rubbed the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly, as he always did when he knew he needed to ’fess up. “Um, this may not be the best time to tell you, but . . .” His gaze shifted again to the kitchen door.

  “Say it.” Isaak carried the kettle of potatoes over to the sink to drain.

  “Zoe’s a chef.”

  Of course she was! Just like she was French and the perfect wife for a man she’d never met as decided by a woman in Denver who made matches to make money—the more the better, at least for her.

  Isaak inhaled through his nose and let out the air in a slow exhale to keep from stating his thoughts. “What do you mean, a ‘chef’?”

  “I mean exactly that. She’s culinary trained. She’s cooked for those rich guys, Vanderbilt and Astor. Her father used to be the secretary of the Society of Culinary Philanthropy in New York City.”

  Isaak focused his attention on draining the potatoes to give him time to figure out what to say. He was proud of his cooking, something Jakob knew full well, so ignoring the woman’s supposed skill wasn’t an option. On the other hand, Isaak didn’t want to appear to believe the obvious lie. A quick telegram to this society was all it would take to disprove her story—assuming the organization even existed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before I invited her to lunch?”

  Jakob’s hand appeared, holding the butter plate. “I didn’t know myself until yesterday, and we didn’t talk this morning about Zoe and me coming back here after church.”

  “Fair enough.” Isaak took the butter and dumped all of it into the pot. He’d made a huge batch of potatoes, hoping people would fill up on them and not notice how little meat they were getting. “Grab the milk out of the icebox and then ask Yancey to come in here.”

  “You must be desperate if you’re asking Yancey for cooking help.”

  Isaak mashed the potatoes, the extra quantity requiring greater force. He was desperate, at least about getting a telegram sent, something Yancey could help him with because her family owned both telegraph offices in town. As for the cooking, she’d improved once her mother forced her to stay in the kitchen and learn for an entire summer.

  He added a large amount of salt to the pot. “There’s nothing difficult about making gravy.”

  Jakob set the milk bottle on the countertop. “If you don’t mind lumps.” The usual note of teasing was absent from his voice. Was he worried that a hearty meal would scare off a woman claiming to be a chef?

  Ridiculous. Miss de Fleur would probably eat sparingly in front of everyone for appearance’s sake, but then she’d ask to take the leftovers back to the boardinghouse, where she’d shovel them down fast enough. Or share them with the relative who had yet to make an appearance.

  Isaak added the milk and finished mashing. He tasted the potatoes. A little too much salt. He’d add less to the gravy, and once it and the potatoes were stirred together, the flavor would even out.

  Jakob hadn’t left the kitchen yet. “How are they?”

  “They’re fine.” Isaak kept hold of the spoon to keep his brother from taking a bite. “Send Yancey in.”

  “Right.” Jakob pivoted and sauntered out the door.

  Isaak crossed to the stove to start the green beans. Doubt nipped at the edges of his confidence. A trained chef?

  * * *

  From her spot on the velvet-covered settee, Zoe glanced around the parlor that Mrs. Pawlikowski had decorated with damask wallpaper from baseboards right up to the cream-painted crown molding. One would think the burgundy rug and burgundy silk curtains next to the olive-green wallpaper would make the room seem like one was celebrating Christmas all year long. Instead, it looked exquisite. In her crimson gown, Zoe blended in perfectly.

  She breathed in deeply. The house smelled wonderfully of bergamot and lemon oil . . . and of fresh-brewed coffee.

  Miss Carline Pope sat at the upright piano, expertly playing a soft tune. Beethoven, Zoe guessed. She loved music, but she never listened to it enough to distinguish composers. Maman would know. There was not an instrument Maman could not play. Geddes Palmer sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs opposite Zoe reading a book.

  Zoe smiled as she studied the pair. Someday she would have friends and family with whom she could sit in a room and not feel obligated to entertain the other.

  Alone yet not alone. It sounded wonderful.

  “Miss de Fleur?” came a gentle voice.

  Miss Pope stopped playing. Mr. Palmer closed his book. Zoe followed their gazes to where Yancey Palmer stood on the drawing room’s threshold.

  Miss Palmer looked apologetic. “Please believe me when I say we tried our best.”

  Although confused by the vague statement, Zoe nodded.

  “Follow me,” ordered Miss Palmer. She turned around, raised her right arm, and waved in a circle. “To the dining room we go.”

  Mr. Palmer stood. “Ladies first.”

  Upon reaching the dining room, Miss Palmer led a pointed discussion with the Gunderson brothers over where everyone was to sit. Miss Pope and Mr. Palmer sat, only to be ordered to move by Isaak Gunderson, who claimed head of household status. Finally, Zoe and Jakob sat next to each other on one side of the rectangular table. Mr. Palmer and Miss Pope sat opposite them. Mr. Isaak Gunderson sat at the end of table between Mr. Palmer and Zoe. Miss Palmer sat on the other end between Miss Pope and Jakob, who asked the Lord’s blessing on the meal.

  “Amen,” was said in unison.

  Except by Zoe, who had not known she was supposed to join in.

  When they had lived in France, she and Papa had taken their meals alone. The hierarchy among servants was strictly adhered to. After they settled in with Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane, there had been more socializing, and only in English because doing so was, in Mrs. Gilfoyle-Crane’s opinion, the best way to help Papa and Zoe become fluent. Meal prayers, if spoken, were always formal.

  She liked the ease with which Jakob asked God to bless the food and their fellowship.

  “Miss de Fleur?”

  She turned left, toward the man who had whispered her name.

  Mr. Isaak Gunderson offered her a bowl of coar
sely mashed potatoes. He said nothing more as his intense gaze fixed on hers.

  While his eyes were green and Jakob’s blue, they both had stunning flecks of brown in the center. Why did Mr. Gunderson look at her so disapprovingly? Her skin next to her black hair must look pasty white compared to the soft bronze glow the Misses Palmer and Pope had, a lovely contrast to their blond hair. Zoe’s crimson silk dress must seem pretentious next to the modest calico dresses the other ladies wore. She was nothing more than a blackbird amid these five popular—and astoundingly beautiful—canaries.

  Zoe swallowed awkwardly, then accepted the bowl of potatoes. She added a scoop to her plate before passing the potatoes on to Jakob. Keeping her gaze lowered, she accepted the different bowls and platters Mr. Gunderson handed her. Soon the room filled with sounds of silverware clinking against china plates.

  Miss Pope spoke first. “Jakob, how’s work coming along at The Import Company?”

  Before Jakob finished answering, Miss Palmer asked him a question. And then Miss Pope did again. Jakob had been right when he said the two ladies were overwhelming. They laughed and carried on as if everyone understood what they found amusing; they barraged him with questions, not once including Zoe in the conversation, although she minded not.

  How nice to watch and listen.

  She preferred to just watch and listen.

  Mr. Palmer spoke to Mr. Gunderson, who nodded as he listened.

  His handsome face was more square than rectangular, as Jakob’s was. They both had the same strong jaw, the same heavy dark blond brows, the same ash-blond hair—no, Mr. Gunderson’s hair was a shade or two darker. Or perhaps Jakob’s hair looked lighter because his skin was tanned from the greater amount of time he spent outdoors than his brother.

  “Miss de Fleur,” Mr. Gunderson said as he buttered a slice of bread, “tell everyone what you think of Helena so far.” His pointed look contrasted with his added, “Please.”

  Chapter Eight

  Zoe looked down at the fork in her hand and her food-filled plate, which she had yet to take a bite from because she had been enchanted with the effortless conversation among everyone else at the table. She raised her gaze to see Miss Pope, Miss Palmer, and Mr. Palmer, who all looked sincerely interested in her response.

  She smiled softly, while keeping her gaze away from Mr. Isaak Gunderson. “It is all so much more zan I could have hoped to find. Zis morning I saw a woman in a cart being pulled by a bison.”

  Miss Pope nodded. “That was Mrs. Nanawity. She owns the icehouse. I can introduce you to her if you like.”

  Zoe hesitated. She was unsure if she wished to meet this Mrs. Nanawity. Thankfully, she was spared from answering. Miss Palmer leaned forward in her chair, smiling broadly. “What’s your favorite thing so far?” Her amused eyes flickered to Jakob in a silent I-know-you-will-say-him look.

  While Zoe liked Jakob, of all the things she had seen in Helena so far, what made her heart sing the most was—“I like how ze Montana sun awakes with a gentle crawl and yet sets with all ze power of a raging fire but none of ze destruction.”

  A humph slipped from between Mr. Gunderson’s lips.

  Zoe ignored him. “I watched last night and zis morning from ze balcony outside my room.”

  “Where are you staying?” Miss Pope asked between bites.

  “Deal’s Boardinghouse,” Jakob answered. He gave Zoe a doting look before speaking to Miss Pope. “I wanted Zoe to stay in the one closest to The Import Company.”

  “And closest to you.” Miss Pope sighed wistfully. “Oh, Jakob, that’s so romantic.”

  Another humph came from Mr. Gunderson. Exemplifying the difference between himself and his brother were the smile lines on Jakob’s face and the vertical crease Mr. Gunderson wore between his brows. Likely from scowling, as he was doing now.

  Mr. Palmer’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing. He looked at Mr. Gunderson. “Isn’t Alfred Deal supporting Kendrick in the mayoral election?”

  “Isaak is running for mayor,” Miss Pope put in before Mr. Gunderson could answer. “We’re all so proud of him. If you need a man to lead the masses, to charge into battle, to change a town for the better, Isaak is that guy.”

  “Hear, hear,” Miss Palmer cheered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Zoe saw Jakob slide his left arm under the table, but not before she noticed the fist he had made. She scooped a bite of potatoes and gravy into her mouth . . . and managed to swallow the unsavory food. Meals at the boardinghouse were about as tasty.

  “Deal is supporting Kendrick,” Mr. Gunderson finally answered in that voice of his that was slightly deeper than his brother’s, drawing Zoe’s attention to him again. “So are Charles Cannon, J. P. Fisk, and most of the brothel owners in town. Including Lestraude.” He said the latter with an inflection that must have meant something to everyone else in the dining room.

  Zoe drew in a breath to inquire who Lestraude was, but Mr. Gunderson turned her way, saw she was looking at him, and proceeded to stare. Zoe shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She moistened her bottom lip, but when his hard gaze lowered to her mouth, she pressed her lips closed, holding in her response, holding in her breath. With his jaw clenched, he looked as if he wished to be anywhere but sitting next to her.

  Now that he was looking directly at her, she could see he was a more refined version of Jakob.

  They are equally handsome. A bizarre flutter began in her heart and spread to her belly. Zoe ate her green beans in response. Never had overcooked, under- and over-seasoned food bothered her insides as this meal was doing.

  “Salt,” she whispered to Jakob.

  He handed her both the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Zank you.” She peppered the potatoes and salted the beans.

  “Right now, Isaak’s campaign is unofficial,” Miss Yancey Palmer said, because clearly silence was something she found dull. “He plans on making a formal declaration on May 4, during The Import Company’s grand opening.”

  The men continued to eat while Miss Pope and Miss Palmer took turns explaining to Zoe what Mr. Gunderson’s reasons were for running against the corrupt, according to them, mayor. Their conversation then turned to disagreements over what could help his campaign.

  Paying no heed to their discourse, Zoe forced down the potatoes, lamb gravy, and green beans. The only way to keep from starving to death here in Helena would be to purchase her own home so she could do her own cooking. Or she could find employment until she married. Nico would say either option was too permanent and too soon. She needed first to open a bank account. The gold coins she had hidden away in her trunks needed to be safely secured in a bank.

  “. . . that’s because every politician hosts a barbeque,” Miss Palmer said in a loud voice. She slid her fork onto her empty plate. “We need to do something unexpected—something different—to set Isaak apart.”

  “Good point, Yancey.” Mr. Gunderson was silent for a moment, just long enough for Zoe to finish chewing a piece of overcooked lamb, before he said in a cheerful voice, “Let’s ask Miss de Fleur for her opinion.”

  Zoe swung her gaze to him. Why would he draw her into the discussion? She knew nothing of politics.

  She settled on, “Zis is none of my business.”

  “She’s right,” Jakob said in a crisp voice. “It isn’t.”

  “Surely she has an opinion,” Mr. Gunderson prodded.

  Jakob looked her way. “You don’t have to answer him.”

  “I know.” To his brother, she said, “On American politics, I have no opinion.”

  Mr. Gunderson’s green eyes focused solely on her with unnerving intensity. He was studying her, looking for something. She was about to believe he had given up on his inquiry when he asked, “Do you have an opinion on the food?”

  Zoe wet her lips. She could not think, not with him staring at her as if they were the only two souls in the dining room. He kept looking at her in clear expectation of a reply, but s
he was speechless. And warm. Strangely warm.

  “Isaak, stop,” Jakob ordered.

  “I think we all are interested in her culinary-trained chef’s opinion.” Mr. Gunderson motioned to Zoe’s dinner plate, to the remaining food she had yet to force herself to eat. “Go on, Miss de Fleur. Speak your mind.”

  Zoe looked about the table; everyone had stopped eating.

  In her peripheral vision, she could see Jakob’s left hand had balled into a fist again. What was she to say to his brother? She would not lie, but no man wished to hear criticism of his cooking. Of course, Mr. Gunderson could have intentionally sabotaged the meal.

  “Why are you doing this?” Jakob asked his brother in an almost malevolent growl. “You promised you’d be nice to her.”

  Mr. Gunderson smiled at Jakob. “How am I not being nice?” he said in a genial tone. “If she is a real chef, she will have an opinion about this meal.” He rested his left arm on the table. “Well, Miss de Fleur? You are a chef, aren’t you?”

  “Household cook,” she said weakly.

  His brows rose. “You told Jakob you were a chef.”

  She looked to Jakob for help.

  “A chef, a cook.” He glared at his brother. “What does it matter? They’re the same thing and you know it.”

  Mr. Gunderson nodded, as if that made sense to him, and yet he said, “Are they, Miss de Fleur?”

  Zoe moistened her bottom lip. This meal was supposed to make friends. It felt more like an inquisition. “Zey are similar, but not ze same.”

  “Explain,” he ordered.

  The others at the table looked at her with curiosity. Except Jakob. He continued to glare angrily at his brother, who seemed unperturbed. Oh, how she wished she could flee the room and Isaak Gunderson’s disconcerting presence.

  Zoe lowered her gaze to where she could see nothing but her dinner plate. “Uh, men are chefs. Women can only be household cooks.”

  “Where did you live in France?” His tone sounded genuine and interested. “Your accent has a strange R-lessness.”