A lull in surrounding conversations coincided with the lady’s question, and more eyebrows went up. As the gentlemen exchanged glances, and Melisande’s expression edged close to a grimace, Orion smiled down at Mrs. Bainbridge.
“The verb does mean, in present French parlance, to court, tracing its origins to the courtiers who paid their polite attentions to the sovereign and thus attempted to win his or her favor. That is a very fetching fan, Mrs. Bainbridge. Do you recall how you came by it?”
Conversation resumed, and Melisande was soon pairing up her guests to process into the dining room. Ann found herself on the arm of a magpie lieutenant, one who patted her hand needlessly and wore far too much Hungary water.
The lieutenant seated her, then moved around the table to take the place opposite, which ensured, at least for the early courses, Ann would hear him chattering, but would not have to engage him in conversation herself.
Orion was seated next to the lieutenant, surely a form of penance, though when Ann felt a boot nudging against her toe, she looked across the table to see Orion regarding her with the veiled humor so characteristic of him.
The canapés were brought out, and the conversation barely paused. Ann had agonized over the choices, weighing appearance, cost, flavor, ease of preparation, and availability of fresh ingredients. Mrs. Spievack—she’d nearly shouted her name to Orion—popped a little serving of ham, Dijon mustard, and cornichon into her mouth, all the while nodding vigorously at whatever Orion was saying.
Up and down the table, guests behaved similarly. The first course disappeared while the talk grew louder. Emily Bainbridge’s laughter occasionally sliced through the din, and those sly, measuring glances from the officers passed over Orion and occasionally rested on Ann.
Dexter Dennis, who’d accompanied his sister to the gathering, sent Orion a particularly venomous look, which Uncle and Aunt pretended to ignore.
Ann stuffed a canapé into her mouth—brie topped with chopped green olives and a garnish of parsley and ground black pepper—and wished she were back in the Coventry’s kitchens, melting butter for her white sauces.
All the pretty delicious courses in the world could not disguise the fact that something nasty and mean was being served up exclusively to Orion Goddard, and Ann had been wrong to insist he escort her into this company.
The food was glorious, the table magnificent, but most wonderful of all was the chance to sit and merely behold Annie Pearson amid the bounty she’d created. From the artful little canapés to the delicious soup, to fish in a sauce so scrumptious it defied description, Orion had never partaken of a meal half as impressive.
Ann belonged here, laughing and chatting with the officers, quietly outshining all the ladies in their formal best. She deserved to hear the occasional compliments regarding the food, including a rhapsody by Lieutenant Colonel Mornaday about the beef roast. He actually asked for the sauce recipe, and Orion waited for Melisande to acknowledge Ann’s contribution.
“The sauce isn’t that complicated,” Melisande said, smiling self-consciously. “I’ll send along the particulars before the week is out.”
“Send them to me too,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “And I’m sure Mrs. Haines would like them as well. You have quite outdone yourself with this meal, Melisande, but then, you always outdo yourself with your menus.”
Across the table, Ann sipped her wine and said nothing. At a formal meal, one conversed exclusively with the dinner companions on one’s left and right, but the wine had been flowing for well over an hour, and this was a company of officers.
Formality was slipping by the wayside as each course was removed and more wine was poured.
“I commend Upchurch for inviting you, Goddard,” Lieutenant Haines said as the main dishes were taken away and the greens brought out. “The war is over, I say. We were all a little mad back then, all happy to flirt with anything in skirts, but we showed Boney our mettle, and that’s what ought to matter most.”
He lifted his glass of claret, toasting his own sentiments. Across the table, Ann had apparently heard him, her expression a cross between veiled curiosity and not-as-veiled ire.
Mrs. Spievack, a widow whose husband had been struck down by a carriage a year after Waterloo, leaned closer. “The military has always excelled at two things, fighting and talking, and the less it does of the first, the more it does of the latter. You seem a perfectly agreeable sort to me, Colonel. Heaven knows some of the younger wives weren’t always circumspect on campaign.”
Rye was spared a response to that odd comment by the arrival of the vegetable dishes, beautiful, colorful, spicy individual servings that put Rye in mind of the baked tians served in his mother’s native Provence.
The meal went on, with conversation eventually flowing in all directions, and again, somebody offered a compliment, this time to the cheese course.
“Can’t say I usually care for fig jam,” a tipsy captain observed, “too grainy, but this is outstanding. Makes the Camembert… more cheesy. My missus loves the fruit-and-cheese bit and would love to have the recipe.”
That profundity merited a toast to smooth fig jam, and then the toasts to the ladies began, the toasts to His Majesty, Wellington, and fallen comrades having already been dispensed with. Rye dutifully lifted his glass and pretended to sip, all the while calculating how many bottles of wine were being consumed and what profit could have been made off them if Upchurch had deigned to place his wine order with Orion.
A petty sentiment. By the time the dessert course arrived, Rye’s only thought was to say his good-nights and take full advantage of a long, slow carriage ride back to Ann’s house.
The world’s best pear compote was the finale to a grand meal, the flaming brandy sauce earning a round of applause.
“Melisande is a genius at this sort of thing,” Emily Bainbridge said. “I vow her dinners would put the great Carême to shame, and she concocts all these recipes herself. To our Melisande and her exquisite menus!”
A round of hear, hear and to Melisande followed with the more inebriated banging spoons against glasses and fists upon the table.
Across the table, Ann’s expression became a blank mask. Rye had seen the same shock on the faces of men wounded in battle, when the mind could not grasp the reality of the blow despite both pain and welling blood proving that a wound had been suffered.
The din died down, and Rye decided to fight one more battle before he withdrew to France.
“Mrs. Bainbridge,” he said, rising with his wineglass in hand, “I would never argue with a lady, but you are much mistaken. The recipe for this most delicious sweet, in fact all the recipes we’ve enjoyed tonight, are the creations of Melisande’s niece, Miss Ann Pearson. I know this because I have seen the recipes written in Miss Pearson’s own hand. I’ve had the pleasure of sampling this very compote on a previous occasion, and I can assure you, Miss Pearson has put much consideration and effort into the food we’ve enjoyed this evening. To Ann Pearson, ladies and gentlemen, the true culinary genius.”
He lifted his glass and waited for the other guests to do likewise. Only then did he take a taste of the champagne served to accompany the final course of the meal.
The fine meal, one of the best Ann had ever devised, sat in her belly like so much bad ale. All heads turned in her direction, save for Uncle Horace, who was glowering dire retribution at Orion.