“Your employer was determined to exhaust you?” Colonel Goddard asked.
His patch was firmly back in place, his gaze still on the doorway through which Benny had disappeared. Ann should not be so glad to see him, so willing to offer him her hand to bow over.
But she was.
“The work is exhausting,” she said. “I was given simple tasks, such as churning butter and beating eggs, so I might be useful while watching how the kitchen went on. I was also given tasks that allowed me to sit, which was a mercy when a cook has to be on her feet for as much as eighteen hours at a stretch. But my manners are remiss. May I offer you tea, Colonel?”
Monday morning had dawned windy, wet, and raw, and yet, Colonel Goddard had brought Benny to the club himself. He held his hat in his hands, and he’d gone so far as to unbutton his greatcoat, though he made no move to take it off. Even bareheaded, even under the kitchen’s fifteen-foot ceilings, he was an imposing presence.
“I would not want to put you to any trouble. I should be going, but I’d like to take a proper leave of Benny.”
Other than Henry and one potboy the worse for drink, the kitchen at this hour was deserted. The kitchen staff would wander in at mid-day, the waiters not until late afternoon. Ann had wanted Benny to start when she and the girl could make a thorough tour of the kitchen without an audience.
“I thought Benny and I would begin with a batch of crepes,” Ann said. “She would enjoy sharing them with you, Colonel.”
Ann would enjoy sharing another meal with him.
He circled his hat in his hands. “I thought you said the batter had to rest.”
And he had recalled her words. “I made the batter last night. Benny can learn to cook them this morning and to clean up the mess as well. She can watch me making a pear filling while she beats the heavy cream, and her first lesson as a cook’s apprentice will be delicious and in good company.”
Benny scampered into the kitchen, her apron rolled up at the waist to prevent her hems from dragging, a puffy white cap hiding her braids. The girl was neat as a pin and bore the scents of starch and lavender soap.
“Reporting for duty, Miss Ann.” She snapped off a curtsey and offered a tentative smile.
“First rule,” Ann said, “no running, ever, just like in the stables you love so well. You don’t want to accidently jostle the rôtisseur when he’s carving his roasts. We might walk swiftly, but we do not run.”
Benny nodded solemnly. “Yes, Miss Ann.”
That was the proper response. Had Benny made an excuse or offered a denial, Ann would have delivered a stern lecture, regardless of the colonel’s presence.
“Hands,” Ann said.
Benny obligingly held out two pale paws.
“Wash them again,” Ann said. “Washing your hands marks the beginning of your every task as a cook. Normally, I would have you read the whole recipe and ask me any questions before we begin, but we aren’t cooking from a recipe this morning.”
“No recipe?” the colonel asked.
“I will rely on memory and inspiration,” Ann said as Benny walked quite quickly to the wet sink under the windows. “May I take your hat and coat, Colonel?”
He passed her his hat and turned his back, and Ann lifted his greatcoat away as he shrugged loose of it. The wool was heavy and soft, first quality, and redolent of cedar. She indulged in a sniff before he faced her again. Cedar and leather, London’s smoky rain, and that underlying hint of Provence he carried with him everywhere.
“My hands are clean,” Benny announced. “Do we get to eat the crepes?”
“We will share them with Colonel Goddard, assuming our efforts are successful.” Ann started Benny on the arduous business of whipping air into cold, heavy cream.
“And what might I do to be of use?” the colonel asked, slipping his sleeve buttons into a pocket and turning back his cuffs. “I’ll have you know I’ve peeled potatoes and apples by the hour, though army cooks are inclined to leave the skin on to save time.”
“You keep me company,” Ann said, nodding to a stool beside the cook stove, “while I create the pear sauce. When the sauce comes to a rolling boil, I will start on the crepes, and you can continue stirring.”
And exactly when had the sight of a man’s wrists become so distracting?
“I’m not to wash my hands before I start?” he asked, settling onto the stool.
“You used your lavender soap thoroughly this morning, and you are not embarking on a career as a cook.”
“Alas for me. Does champagne go well with pears?”
While Ann mashed some of her pears and sliced the rest, and debated whether to include a dash of rose water, a dollop of honey, or the zest of a lemon, the colonel lounged on his stool and discussed wine pairings and winemaking with her.
At some point, he slipped into French, as did Ann, and all the while, Benny toiled away at her whipped cream.
“You are happy,” the colonel said when the sauce was burbling gently. “You look happy, you sound happy. Stirring up that pot of gold, you radiate contentment. Your French is also impressively facile.”
Ann was happy. Taking on an apprentice had first struck her as a recipe for complications and years of thankless work, but seeing Benny eager to learn, watching her go at her assignment with gleeful enthusiasm, Ann allowed that an apprentice was a step toward opening a cooking school. Not entirely a bad thing.
And yet, that wasn’t the whole motivation for the good cheer Colonel Goddard noted.
“Thank you,” she said. “With Monsieur Delacourt regularly trying to confound us all in his native tongue, one wants to keep the vocabulary fresh. When are you happy, Colonel?”
He watched Benny, his expression wistful. “I was happy showing a pair of striplings around my vineyards. They will try to outdo each other learning the business, they will bumble and occasionally fail, but I realized that I am no longer a stripling myself, haven’t been for years, and there’s peace and satisfaction in knowing that leg of life’s journey has been completed.”
He did not recount a particularly stirring battle or close-run horse race against his fellow officers.
“I want to open a school for cooks,” Ann said, though she hadn’t planned that admission. She took up a pinch of ground ginger and sprinkled it into her pear sauce. “A daft notion, but why teach only one apprentice when half a dozen could be learning at the same time? The school could serve as a kitchen for charities, or offer hot meals to the working folk who have only chophouse fare to sustain them.”
“What’s stopping you from opening this school?”
Ann added a dram of rose water. The resulting aroma as steam rose from the pot was lush and sweet. “I hesitate for want of courage, I suppose. My aunt and uncle would be scandalized. Bad enough I am a cook, but at least nobody ever sees me toiling away.”
She added a pinch of cinnamon. “The irony is, I became a cook in part because I used to have my father’s company only at meals. He was always out and about, riding his acres, meeting with tenants. Had I been a boy, I could have spent much more time with him. But even Papa grew hungry, and my grandmother insisted he be punctual for meals. He saw me at table, though I was all but invisible to him everywhere else.”
The colonel passed her half a lemon. “I can offer only one man’s humble opinion, Miss Pearson. I am exceedingly glad you number among the female of the species.”
At that precise moment, Ann was also glad to be female and, more than that, to be feminine. She hadn’t flirted with a man since the sous-chef at her last post had coaxed her beyond the limits of good sense.
With the colonel, Ann wanted to transgress yet further.
“It’s getting thick,” Benny hollered.
“Scrape the sides of the bowl frequently,” Ann replied. She stirred her pear sauce down, then took up the half lemon. “You removed the seeds.”
“The task wanted doing, and you are busy.”
Ann considered the lemon, the tartness it wo
uld add, the hint of substance on the tongue the texture of the sauce would acquire by association.
“When you kissed me, I was happy then too, Colonel.” She squirted lemon juice into the pot, inspiring another shift in the fragrance rising from the sauce. Five minutes more on the fire, and she’d have the result she wanted.
“Shall I take over stirring?” he asked, rising from his stool.
Heaven preserve her, she liked even standing next to him. Liked the sense that they were both enveloped in the heat from the stove and the scents from her concoction.
“Please, and I will inspect Benny’s progress.” Her hand brushed his as he took up the wooden spoon, and the contact reverberated through her imagination. She mentally poured a helping of his champagne into the saucepot, an experiment to try some other day, when she wasn’t tempted to moon over a man to whom a passing kiss had doubtless meant little.
Benny had done a magnificent job with the cream, and she paid rapt attention as Ann demonstrated how to cook a crepe. By the time Benny had tried flipping the last few herself—and done a reasonable job—the sauce was ready.
They ate their crepes at the wooden counter beneath the window, the wind and rain lashing what leaves remained on the oak tree in the garden, while the kitchen was warm at their backs.
“These are good,” Benny said. “As good as the blueberry crepes, but different.”
“When we make crepes again,” Ann said, “I will show you how to mix up the batter. We will find you a journal, Benny, so you can keep notes of your own and have a record of your progress as a cook.”
Benny sat a little taller on her stool. “I am going to be a cook, and everybody will say my crepes are the best in London.”
“See that they do,” the colonel said, crossing his knife and fork over his empty plate. “And more to the point, see that you make the regiment proud, Benny. Or do we call you Hannah now?” He rose and took his plate to the wet sink, while Benny stared hard at the two remaining crepes on the warming dish.
“I would like to be Hannah,” she said. “Benevolence Hannah Goddard. You’ll tell the boys, sir?”
The colonel’s expression was utterly solemn. “I will tell the boys.” He took his coat down from the drying peg before the open hearth and retrieved his hat from the mantel. “Miss Pearson, thank you for a delightful meal. I know Hannah is in good hands, and that means the world to me.”
He was saying good-bye in a way the girl herself could not fathom. This parting would change the course of her life, and the course of the colonel’s too.
“I will take the best care of Hannah, Colonel. She will want for nothing.”
Benny helped herself to a plain crepe, rolling it up and swiping it through the pear sauce on her plate. “’Bye, sir. I get to mix up the batter next time.”
“I am dismissed,” the colonel said softly. He tapped his hat onto his head and donned his coat. “Miss Pearson, good day and good luck.”
Another good-bye. Ann had served him her best pear sauce, and he was walking away. “I’ll see you out.”
“That’s not…” He fell silent. “Very well.” He gave Benny a quick, tight, one-armed hug while she munched her crepe, then followed Ann down the passage and up the short flight of steps that led to the garden terrace. “You will notify me if Benny needs anything?”
“Of course. A journal would make a nice gift from you. Pencils are better than pens for jotting down kitchen notes.”
“I will see to it.” He paused at the door, the wind whipping through the garden audible proof that his journey home would be cold and unpleasant. “Do you know when else I was happy, Miss Pearson?”
“Ann. We’ve cooked together. Please call me Ann.” And please don’t go. How many times was she destined to have that useless thought where he was concerned?
“Do you know when else I was happy, Ann?”
“Tell me.”
“When I was watching you stir that pot, when I was kissing you, when I was listening to you prattle on about when an apprentice is ready to take on desserts and meat dishes. I was happy watching you arrange an impromptu picnic on your terrace, and I will be happy when I recall all of those moments on the dark and chilly nights to come.”
He sent one last glance in the direction of the kitchen. “I will miss her terribly.”
His hand was on the latch. Ann caught him by the arm, though, of course, this man would come and go as he pleased.
“May I bring Hannah to call on you and the boys on our half day?”
Broad shoulders relaxed, military posture eased. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not in the least.”
“The boys and I would be in your debt.” He did not kiss her, but he did smile, a purely charming, delighted smile that banished the wind, rain, and cold as effectively as did the roaring fire in the kitchen’s open hearth.
“Until Wednesday, Colonel.”
He bowed politely and slipped through the door.
Ann watched his progress across the dank and chilly garden. She was halfway through her lecture to Hannah about cleaning every utensil and bowl thoroughly after each use when she realized that, for a man who claimed to avoid sweets, Colonel Goddard had certainly made short work of a plate full of crepes.
Chapter Seven
“Cousin!” The child hurled herself at Orion, and he had no choice but to catch her up in his arms.
“Nettie, mon agneau chéri. Qu’est-ce tu dessines?” His lamb had left behind the toddler’s solid physique for the more coltish dimensions of girlhood. When had that happened?
“She is drawing battles, of course,” Tante Lucille said, motioning Rye into the parlor. “You bring the cold and damp with you, and why did not that useless Marie hang up your coat?”
“Marie took a little package for me to the kitchen.” A sizable package bearing tea, spices, honey, white flour, a half wheel of cheese, and a few other comestibles. “Show me your great battle, Nettie.”
She scrambled out of his embrace. “Devez-vous parler anglaise, Colonel?”
“We must both speak English, child, until you can think as easily in one language as the other.” Though it was never quite that simple. Rye dreamed in French, the language of his mother’s lullabies, while English was the natural choice for cursing.
“I am drawing the great Bonaparte,” Nettie said, retrieving a square of paper from the table by the window. “He was victorious everywhere save Waterloo, and then he was defeated by the treacherous mud.”
The great Bonaparte had erred beyond redemption by trying to best a Russian winter, and he’d made tactical blunders approaching his final battle too—thank the heavenly hosts. Rye shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the back of a chair facing the hearth. The fire was giving off adequate heat, but no more than adequate.
“You have drawn the emperor on a fine steed,” Rye said, bending to kiss Tante Lucille’s smooth cheek and taking a seat at the table. “He looks quite handsome.” Nettie had drawn Bonaparte brandishing his sword. In battle, the man had been brave to a fault.
“Madame Martin comes by,” Tante Lucille said. “She shows Nettie a few little things to improve her drawing.”
Thus did the émigré community sustain itself. Madame, whose late husband had once owned thousands of acres, would not take money for instructing Nettie, but she would enjoy a cup of tea and some sandwiches during the lesson, and Lucille would press the leftovers on Madame when she left, lest they go stale.
Lucille, despite her advanced years, watched other people’s children most days. The fiction that the children gathered in Lucille’s parlor merely to play preserved parents from parting with coin. More than once, Rye had stopped by of an evening and found Lucille reading to a half-dozen children whose mothers were apparently employed in evening work.
If there was any justice, Bonaparte would have been made to apologize to his countrymen and countrywomen for what his ambitions had cost them.
“Nettie,” Rye said, “might you see i
f Marie can use assistance in the kitchen? I did bring a few little treats with me, and they will need to be put away.”
Nettie was out the door in the next instant, Bonaparte clearly forgotten.
“You spoil her,” Lucille said. “Little girls should be spoiled from time to time. Little boys too. We heard you took some business from Fournier. Well done.”
Rye had come here specifically to catch up on the gossip, but Lucille’s blunt change of subject rankled. “How did you hear that?”
“Fournier grumbled, naturellement, and because he grumbled to his valet, his clerks, his mistress, his groom, and his dog, one could not help but hear. Our champagne is far superior to the pig swill he peddles, and he knows it.”
Fournier served a decent, irreproachable champagne. His fault lay in what he charged for his product. “Dorning has allowed me a foot in the door at The Coventry Club, and Fournier will respect the family connection, but somebody has taken it into his head to breathe new life into the old rumors about me.”
Lucille twitched at her shawl—only the one today, an exquisite creation of crocheted wool. The colors were an autumnal blend of gold, copper, olive, and slate blue and the weave loose. In her youth, Lucille wouldn’t have been caught even at home in such a pedestrian garment, but for the next six months, she would likely wear it daily.
“Fournier is a businessman,” Lucille said. “He would not dredge up military gossip to use against you. He would malign your grapes, your bottles, your prices, but not you.”
“How do you know the gossip is military, Tante?”
Her dark brown eyes went to the scene beyond the window, a modest street of shops that might have been busier, but for the inclement weather. Few trees would sport many leaves after today’s foul weather, and the sun would reach more of the pavement, when the sun deigned to appear at all.
“With you,” she said, “the worst gossip is military. They cannot forget, these English, and they do not forgive. They want French lady’s maids and French chefs. French valets, French tutors, and French fencing masters. They neglect to recall that we French have ears and long memories of our own.”
Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One Page 10