Had Ann made that tart, she would have known exactly how much calvados to add, when to add it, and how to flavor the cream.
“Tell me more about these rumors, Aunt, and please don’t prevaricate.”
She sniffed, she adjusted her shawl, she generally exercised an old woman’s right to make company wait upon her pronouncements.
“They say you sold secrets to the French. That you did so in exchange for promises that the retreating French army would not loot your farms in Provence.”
“The fighting remained west of Provence.”
“The looting went on all over France, my boy. The Grande Armée made off with our sons and husbands, then it made off with our livestock, and eventually, our very buildings were ripped down to feed its campfires. Thank the merciful God I was not in France to see that.”
The émigrés endured a torn existence, longing for home, mistrusted in England, bitter toward France’s democratic violence, and unimpressed with the recently restored monarchy.
“Who says I sold secrets to the French?”
Lucille gave him an imperious stare.
“I know Deschamps is back in London, Lucille. He has reason to dislike me, and I most assuredly do not like him.”
Lucille glowered down an aquiline nose. “If we slandered all whom we dislike, we would have no time for laughter. Besides, what Frenchman would boast of having relied upon a spy? Dirty business, spying. War is at least honorable, no sneaking about involved.”
Many a Frenchman would boast about having compromised an English officer’s honor. “Very well, I will confront Deschamps myself.”
“Vous avez l'intelligence d'un mulet.”
“The stubbornness of a mule, perhaps. Mules are actually quite smart.” Rye rose and gathered up his coat. “Wordsworth wrote a lovely little verse about a rainbow. Nettie might consider starting there. It’s only eight or nine lines.” The child is father of the man…
That sentiment put him in mind of Ann, longing for her father’s notice, looking forward to each meal in hopes she might gain a moment of his attention.
“You must not confront Deschamps,” Lucille said, rising. “He is no fool.”
“Somebody is interfering with my business, attacking my good name, and going to great lengths to do it. Selling secrets to an enemy is treason, Aunt, and a hanging felony. If I could in any way see how the charges might be justified, I’d withdraw quietly to France and ponder how to atone for my error, but I cannot.”
Rye had had opportunity after opportunity to betray his command—officers on all sides of the conflict faced such temptations—but he’d made his choice for England and kept his word.
“If you are determined to die of male stupidity, you should first bring your sister around to meet Nettie. They are family.”
“Jeanette doesn’t even know Nettie exists…” Well, that might not be true. Sycamore Dorning had chanced upon Nettie and her nurse paying a call upon Rye’s household. Dorning was entirely in Jeanette’s confidence.
“Jeanette should know of Nettie’s existence, Orion, because you are soon to be spitted upon Deschamps’s sword, and I will not live forever.”
“I fence well enough.”
“Deschamps is a former French officer. He will fillet you comme un maquereau.”
Like a mackerel. “I merely want to talk with him, Aunt.”
She snorted as only a disgusted elderly Frenchwoman could snort, and she had a point. Jeanette and Nettie were related, and keeping Nettie’s existence secret served no one. Rye had promised his sister he would make an effort to socialize with her, but the rumors—the intensifying rumors—bothered him sorely.
Jeanette, and even Sycamore Dorning—damn it all to hell—were owed an explanation.
“I will take my leave of you, and you have my ongoing thanks for all you do for Nettie. I will call again next week and expect to hear my poem.”
Aunt made no move to accompany him into the chilly hallway. “If you are alive next week. Do you dislike the French countryside so much, Orion? You could take Nettie to live with you in Champagne or Provence, and she would have no need of silly English poems.”
Wordsworth was sentimental, not silly. “I delight in the French countryside, but the market for my wine is here.” His boys were here, Jeanette was here. His parents were buried in England on the Surrey property where he’d been raised.
“Deschamps is biding with his cousin, Mullineau,” Tante Lucille said, “the cloth merchant. Deschamps rides out on fine mornings and frequents La Retraite of an evening. You will be careful, Orion. If you can be neither intelligent nor sensible, you will at least be careful.”
“I am always careful.” He took his leave, using the walk home to mentally rehearse his discussion with Jeanette. How to explain Nettie, and more to the point, how to explain his failure to mention her to Jeanette previously?
Upon arriving home, Rye took up his daily battle with the ledgers in his study, the fire’s feeble efforts to dispel the chill abetted by a decent glass of brandy. Rather than pour another, Rye bestirred himself to build up the fire.
He’d added half a bucket of coal, poked some air into the flames, and was replacing the hearth screen before he noticed that his cavalry sword no longer hung in its assigned place over the mantel.
No matter. He kept the thing on display as a reproach and a warning, not because he cherished it as a memento. He’d killed with that sword and intended to finish out his days without ever killing again. If Mrs. Murphy had taken it down to give it a dusting, she’d soon have it back up again.
He resumed his tallying and came to the same conclusion he usually did: Without substantial new custom, his best vintages were destined to spend the next several years gathering dust at his expense.
“Another invitation?” Horace asked.
Meli would reproach the butler later for bringing the note to her at the breakfast table. “Ann’s duties do not permit her to call on me this morning.”
Ann further promised to send along the menu and recipes for Deidre Walters’s buffet by the end of the day—and that assurance was none of Horace’s concern. Deidre’s youngest was enthralled with the harp, and nothing would do but half of Mayfair must delight in the girl’s talent while her mama cooed and clapped after each piece.
And because Miss Walters’s talent wasn’t likely to impress the audience all that much, Deidre wanted stellar offerings on the buffet at the interlude.
“I thought Wednesday was Ann’s half day,” Horace said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Half days are for walking in the park and calling upon acquaintances. Shopping for bonnets and gloves. What at the Coventry could possibly come between a young lady and her opportunities to shop?”
Why would Horace recall Ann’s half day? But then, his mind worked like that. He had the memory of a homely spinster keeping track of social slights, a talent that had served him well when negotiating myriad military procedures and rules.
“You are correct,” Meli replied. “Today is Ann’s half day, but she has taken on an apprentice, a girl from Colonel Orion Goddard’s household. Ann has some errands to run with her new protégé. Will you attend the Walters’s musicale with me?”