Melisande sipped her tea with the satisfied air of a cat who’d just spied an unguarded bowl of cream.
“You want me to plan a menu for your holiday open house?”
“And my at homes. I have them twice a month, and half the regiment shows up, but I’d like to offer more than sandwiches and dry cake.”
On the one hand, Ann wanted and needed to cook, and Miss Diana and Miss Julia had no appetite for rich or expensive dishes. On the other hand, Ann was a professional with years of experience, and Melisande expected her to work for free and pretend all that effort and expertise was an indulged peculiarity.
An eccentricity. Messing about.
“I will consider your offer,” Ann said, “and thank you for your generosity. I have been careful with my wages and need not pinch pennies just yet.” Then too, Ann liked her life, but for Jules’s petty games.
She liked Miss Diana and Miss Julia, liked being able to trot around London on her own without maids, footmen, or a chaperone. She liked being able to set foot outside her door and, with a single sniff, know what had come from the bakery’s ovens that morning.
She liked very, very much being free to spend time with Orion Goddard in private.
“Ann, I know you think my existence frivolous,” Melisande said. “I have but the one daughter, and she’s too young to need much from me besides kind governesses and the occasional outing to the park. But I do socialize, and I can give you the opportunity to see your cooking from the perspective of those who enjoy a meal.”
Vain, self-absorbed, and shallow Melisande might be, but she wasn’t stupid. “Go on.”
“You spend all this time choosing and testing recipes, then sampling the results,” Melisande said. “You are never seated with the guests to see the impression your dishes make when the footmen set them before the host or hostess. You never experience the aromas at the table, all blending as the wine is poured. You never eat the portions the guests are offered, never assess the whole meal as a progression of courses.”
Ann wanted to argue—she knew her recipes—but Melisande was right. To cook a meal was like directing a play, a very different exercise from sitting in a theater box with friends and enjoying the performance over the bustle and chatter of the pit and gallery.
Melisande had decided that having a free chef for the winter suited her ambitions, while for Ann…
Orion Goddard had made her no promises, and Ann had been very clear with him that larking off to France did not suit her plans.
She wished now she hadn’t been so clear. “I will consider your invitation, Aunt. If you are content with the selections you’ve made for the menu, I will calculate the portions needed to feed thirty for supper. Your cook will have the recipes by tomorrow.”
Melisande’s frustration showed in a pinching of her lips. “You are so stubborn, Ann. I despair of you. I offer you an opportunity to frolic to your heart’s content in my kitchen, to make connections in polite society, and you turn up difficult. What is so blessed precious about chopping leeks all day that you’d hesitate to join this household?”
My freedom is so precious. The respect of the staff at the Coventry. Access to a kitchen larger than all your public rooms put together. The privilege of enjoying Orion Goddard’s intimate attentions without fretting that I’ll cause a scandal.
So much that was so dear hinged on remaining independent from Melisande’s household. “I will take you up on your offer to attend the dinner, Melisande. Let’s start there.” Ann rose, lest Melisande wheedle and browbeat her into a greater concession.
Melisande got to her feet as well. “You have suitable attire for a formal dinner?”
“I am your spinster niece who has been rusticating for years, as far as your friends know. I’m sure I can dress myself adequately to uphold that fiction.”
“I will have to find another fellow to make up the numbers,” Melisande said, walking Ann to the door. “The brigadier might know somebody.”
“I will bring my own escort,” Ann said, “a former military man who has at least a passing acquaintance with Uncle Horace.”
“This is an officers’ dinner, Ann. Don’t show up with some infantryman-turned-groom from the Coventry’s stable.”
“It might surprise you to know, Aunt, that at the Coventry, we enjoy the custom of the occasional duke and even George himself from time to time. I will bring an officer, you need not worry about that.”
Melisande passed Ann her cloak and then her bonnet. “You aren’t thinking of bringing Jeanette Dorning’s brother, are you?”
Such enthusiasm. “The last time I checked, colonels were included among the officers’ ranks, and yes, I might well bring Colonel Sir Orion Goddard as my escort. He is a gentleman and acquainted with Uncle Horace. Perhaps you also knew him in Spain?”
Melisande passed Ann her parasol. “I did. Why he was knighted, I do not know. There was talk and a board of inquiry if I recall correctly.”
“That board absolved the colonel of any and all accusations of wrongdoing, and thereafter, he was knighted. Can your other guests claim that honor? I thought not. I must be going.”
“I’ll find you somebody other than Goddard,” Melisande said. “He’s not good ton, Ann.”
He is my friend and my lover and better ton than you can aspire to be. “Don’t bother. I’m sure the colonel is free to accompany me. If you want me to consider biding with you this winter, Melisande, you will accustom yourself here and now to the notion that I see whom I please and do as I please. I am not a schoolgirl who can be scolded into submission with threats of your disapproval.”
Melisande smoothed the drape of Ann’s cloak. “Were you ever?”
“Yes.” For too long—but thank heavens the lure of the kitchen had been sufficient motivation to put aside that foolishness. “Please give my love to Horace and Daniella.”
Melisande kissed Ann’s cheek and let her go, then stood at the window and watched her progress down the steps and onto the walkway. She was still watching when Ann offered her a parting wave.
The whole conversation had been uncomfortable, probably for both parties, and a lingering disquiet stayed with Ann as she made her way home. In girlhood, Ann had told herself that school wasn’t so bad, that the other students weren’t so unbearable, that an occasional afternoon pestering the school’s cook was enough indulgence of a little hobby.
Leaving Mayfair for the busier and more commercial neighborhoods abutting it, Ann made up a similar litany about a winter spent in the Upchurch household.
It would be for only a few months.
Melisande meant well.
Not even Carême had the opportunity to partake of the banquets he planned.
And just as when she’d been a girl, Ann’s list of considerations felt like so many lies told to pour the sauce of patience on a dish of flaming misery.
Orion wished Ann lived several miles more distant from his house, because he needed the walking time to rehearse his confession.
Confessions, plural. Informing Ann that Horace Upchurch had been Rye’s commanding officer shouldn’t be too awful. She’d wonder why Rye had dissembled, and he could explain: He’d simply been surprised and then uncertain about how to broach a difficult topic.