“You are even more impaired by a soft heart. You are done with the killing. Hence, you retreat to the land of your mother’s people.”
The longer Orion discussed the situation with Lucille, the more heavily the choice weighed on his heart.
Who benefits? Ann’s question came back to him, but as usual, no answer accompanied it. “You mentioned that Deschamps had woman trouble. Can you give me any details?”
“I am speculating. He is handsome, angry, and subjecting himself to the society of his enemies. London is not a cheap place for a foreigner to visit, nor particularly welcoming. But he is here again, is he not? Lurking in the park, brooding at his club. Just as you wonder why somebody would steal your champagne and your sword, I wonder why he’s underfoot when he could be tucked up in his mama’s chateau, flirting with the maids and reliving the glories of fighting for l’empereur.”
She took another tiny bite of her tart, no doubt tasting the days of her own glory.
“I’ve met somebody.” Rye hadn’t planned that admission, but Tante was wise and kind, and he needed her counsel. “A woman. She cooks.”
And Annie Pearson kissed and made love and had her very own pair of fierce old godmothers.
“How did you meet this woman?”
“Through Jeanette, indirectly.”
“That is the best way, through family and friends. She is English, this woman who cooks?”
She was marvelous. “Yes.”
“And her people are here, her kitchen is here. Would she go with you to France?”
Rye shook his head. He would ask, or he hoped he would, but Ann ought not to go with him. That would mean marriage, and he was a man somewhat the worse for past battles. His business prospects were floundering, enemies lurked on the edge of his camp, and all manner of obligations beset him.
Ann ought to stay in England, making her kitchen magic, and Rye ought to leave for France on the next packet.
“How did you do it, Tante? How did you turn your back on everything and everyone you knew and loved, put your whole life into a few trunks, and leap into a foreign land that would never be your home?”
She took a third nibble of her tart and set the plate aside. “One grew tired of the savagery, Orion. The Terror spread its tentacles out from Paris, and nobody was safe. Women, children, the infirm… The bloodlust spared nobody, and we could see no end to it. We had murdered our king, a reasonable man who loved his country, and we dispatched his wife and children as well.”
She sighed softly, her gaze on the past. “There is no justification among decent people for murdering and mistreating children. Then we turned on one another. The Austrians were encroaching, England has never been our friend for long, the Prussians weren’t to be trusted, and I was exhausted. I made the right choice to come to this island. A time arrives when bravery is foolishness. If now is that time, then live to regret your decision, but don’t be so brave you end up needlessly dead.”
“You counsel retreat.”
“If you die with a sword to the heart, nobody will be left to spoil me and bring me tarts, non?”
Ann could make that tart and would enjoy experimenting with its variations. She had, in fact, battled long and hard for the privilege of making tarts and wasn’t likely to walk away from her victories for the sake of marriage to him.
“Has Jeanette brought her husband around?”
“Oui. Mr. Dorning est trés charmant—et astucieux. Charming and shrewd, as the English say. He is in love with Jeanette, and she with him. Nettie likes them both.”
That was good, and painful. “Jeanette is family to Nettie, and they should know one another.” Orion rose, and three more snowflakes drifted past. He felt abruptly old and sad, though he had much to be grateful for. “I will come for my sonnet next week.”
“See yourself out,” Tante said. “The hallway is cold, and the tea is still warm. If I had to choose between winter in Provence and winter in London, I know which one I would pick, Orion. Which one anybody with sense would pick.”
That choice was easy, but for Orion, the choice between winter in Provence and anywhere with Ann Pearson was much more difficult.
The agencies had responded to Ann’s inquiries swiftly: Nobody sought to hire a cook.
London was shifting into winter hibernation, when those able to do so left the capital for country abodes, and those who could not socialized much less than in other seasons.
Ann was seeking employment at the worst time of year. And that realization had made the need to review the officers’ dinner menu with Melisande all the more pressing. Over a pot of unremarkable China black, Ann presented the dessert options.
“The syllabub is so…” Melisande made a face. “So pedestrian, and cranachan is Scottish.”
As was some of the best whisky, and Ann doubted very much that the brigadier would quibble over its nationality.
“The pear compote has been very popular at the Coventry,” Ann said, “and you could have it brought to the table in a flaming sauce.”
“Flaming dishes always create an impression,” Melisande said, considering the recipe. She would no more be able to grasp the result of following the instructions than Ann could imagine battle tactics given a map of unknown terrain, and yet, Melisande dithered.
“And tell me, Ann, what of a wine pairing with the pear dish?”
“Champagne would go very nicely and make an unusual choice.”
“Emily Bainbridge never serves champagne.”
Which had exactly nothing to do with completing a meal on a spectacularly sophisticated and delectable note of sweetness.
“Mrs. Bainbridge certainly avails herself of the free champagne on offer at the Coventry.”
Melisande sent Ann a considering glance. “She does?”
“That champagne is a hallmark of the club’s late-night hospitality, and Mrs. Bainbridge enjoys a liberal portion.”
“I am so glad you won’t be working there anymore.”
Ann took the pear dessert recipe from Melisande and added it to the stack of recipes brought for Melisande’s consideration.
“I have learned what I could at the Coventry, and I will surely find another post come spring.” Very likely at a gentleman’s club, where Ann would spend her evenings mashing turnips and beating eggs for meringues.
“You should spend the winter with me, Ann.”
Ann tucked her recipes away in her reticule. They were more precious than rubies, did Melisande but know it.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, if you aren’t working,” Melisande said, pouring herself another cup of tea, “then you aren’t earning any coin, and unless you want to dip into savings—the brigadier disapproves of dipping into savings—then you will be hard put to make ends meet. Stay with me, and you can oversee the preparations for the officers’ dinner yourself.”
Clearly, Ann was supposed to be delighted at that prospect. “I am not needed in your kitchen, Aunt.”
“But you could mess about there, nobody the wiser. If you were on hand, I could be certain this dinner would keep people talking until Yuletide. I would like to see more of your recipes, Ann, truly I would. Speaking of Yuletide, there’s always some socializing around the holidays, open houses and at homes, and you could accompany me and see what other hostesses are serving.”