“Perhaps you are confused, Colonel Goddard,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “I know for a fact that Melisande puts enormous effort into planning these dinners. She has even assisted me with a menu or two. If there’s a culinary genius at this table, then that honor goes to Mrs. Upchurch. Tell the colonel he has misspoken, Melisande.”
Part of Ann was reeling under the realization that Melisande had played her for a fool. For years, Melisande had apparently taken credit for Ann’s work, all the while insisting that Ann should leave the role of professional cook. Years when Ann had been putting in eighteen-hour days, subsisting on limited wages, enduring Jules’s spite, and Melisande’s sniping.
How could you do this to me?
But then, Ann knew how.
What did Melisande have? One child she visited in the nursery, this exceedingly tiresome company, an aging busybody of a husband… No wages, no freedom, no rogue officer willing to take on the regiment for the sake of her compote. What Melisande and the Emily Bainbridges of the world had was an insipid, bland, tepid frustration of a life, and they were supposed to be happy with it and even grateful.
Those thoughts swirled through Ann’s mind in the time it took Mrs. Bainbridge to offer her taunt. Emily Bainbridge was the mean girl at boarding school, the young lady who convened the gossip sessions in the retiring room, and the regimental wife who caused more trouble than Napoleon.
A wise general was generous in victory. Orion had said that. If Ann claimed ownership of the recipes, Emily Bainbridge would win another skirmish, while Melisande would be humiliated before the regiment.
“Perhaps you can shed light on this conundrum, Miss Pearson,” Mrs. Bainbridge went on. “We are all agog to know whose gustatory expertise to commend.”
If Ann took credit for the menu, she would lose the family she had. She wanted and deserved to have her ability publicly acknowledged, but was it justice to humiliate a woman because she longed for some recognition in life? Because a husband and child weren’t the sum of her ambitions?
“Colonel Goddard is correct that the initial ideas are mine,” Ann said, “but you are also correct, Mrs. Bainbridge, in that Aunt Melisande and I collaborate. I send my recipes to Aunt before I show them to anybody else, and the first to prepare them for company dinners is her cook, under her supervision.
“One cannot simply toss together ingredients,” Ann went on, “and know a dish or a meal will be successful. A sense of the guests, of their preferences and tastes, is invaluable when planning any menu. One has to know what’s popular this Season, what has been overdone by other hostesses. Aunt Melisande has an instinct for such matters, while all I know are the sauces and spices. We make a formidable team. Uncle, perhaps you would lead us in a toast to Aunt Melisande.”
Emily Bainbridge looked as if somebody had flung mud on her pinafore, while Orion was beaming at Ann. Beaming at her. When Uncle had offered a long-winded panegyric to Melisande’s myriad virtues, all glasses were lifted, and Melisande blushed prettily.
Ann had hoped that by having Orion included on the guest list, she could see him sent off to France with some vestige of regimental acceptance. If her wildest dreams were to be exceeded, perhaps a gracious welcome by his fellow officers would prevent the need for him to decamp to France altogether.
The sly glances and sniffy asides weren’t being aimed at Orion at the moment, but for Ann, that wasn’t enough.
Uncle resumed his seat amid much cheering and smiling.
Ann dove into the moment before another tipsy cavalier could offer an even more long-winded toast. “Uncle, while we are commending deserving members of the company, we must compliment you on your choice of champagne. Colonel Goddard’s wine is by far the best of its kind I’ve tasted, and I have tasted many.”
Lieutenant Haines, who had imbibed his way to a state of great jollity, raised his glass. “To Colonel Goddard’s champagne. Best thing to come out of France, if you ask me.”
Up and down the table, glasses were raised once again, though in Uncle’s case, the gesture was a bit slow and devoid of conviviality.
Orion’s great good cheer had also left the table, for he was peering at his glass as if it contained wormwood and gall. Melisande called for another round of champagne before the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, and still, Orion remained silent.
“You must escort me to the parlor, Colonel,” Ann said when the ladies rose to take their leave. “Lieutenant Haines is too busy communing with his wineglass.”
“He never did have much of a head for spirits,” Orion said, coming around the table to offer Ann his arm. “Brave, though,” he muttered. “Foolishly brave. I commend your compassion, Miss Pearson. Mrs. Upchurch did not deserve it.”
The company made a slow procession along the corridor to the guest parlor, some of the ladies not very steady on their feet. Orion Goddard, however, exuded all the sobriety of an officer facing massed armies in the morning. He was once again the remote, burdened man Ann had met months ago at Mrs. Dorning’s bedside.
The evening had doubtless been trying for him in the extreme, while for Ann, it had gone surprisingly well. Not as expected, but well.
“Melisande,” Ann said, “did not deserve to be told at the ages of six and eleven and sixteen that her only chance for happiness lay in enticing some man to offer for her. I did not exactly lie, and if I do publish a cookbook someday, Melisande can ensure it has many subscribers. What is wrong, Orion?”
They waited for the assemblage to thread the bottleneck into the guest parlor.
“I all but begged Upchurch to buy my champagne,” Orion said quietly. “I could have supplied most of the wine consumed at this supper—at all of his fancy dinners—but he refused. I badly need the business, and he disdained to send it my way. But somehow, a considerable quantity of my champagne found its way to his table.”
Mrs. Spievack glanced at them, as did Dexter Dennis. The lady’s expression was merely curious, while Dennis was again glaring daggers.
“Uncle Horace did serve your champagne,” Ann said. “I am sure of that.”
“I was too busy wanting to throttle the Bainbridge woman,” Orion said, “to notice that I drank my own vintage. Had you not said anything…”
Mrs. Bainbridge, who was fixed to the brigadier’s arm like a barnacle clinging to the last ship in the harbor, chose then to laugh.
“Orion, listen to me,” Ann said, keeping her voice down as well. “I will make my peace with Melisande—she owes me an apology, at least—but if I had to choose between the man who noticed my recipes and the relatives who’ve spent years being ashamed of me while exploiting my talent, I would choose the man.”
The footmen had neglected to light enough candles in the guest parlor, and the entire company remained milling about in the corridor, escorts and ladies alike.
“I cannot ask you to choose between France and England, Ann. I know how hard you’ve worked, and—”
“I’m not choosing between France and England,” Ann said, the words coming slowly. “I sat among these people tonight, watching them pick at food the cook spent hours concocting from a menu I’ve spent years crafting. Some of the guests noticed a particular dish, some of them even complimented a course here or a wine pairing there, but, Orion, to them it’s merely food. Most plates went back to the kitchen more full than empty. A guest might recall a particular dish if they see something like it again, but it’s not… A menu doesn’t mean what I thought it meant.”