“I want to write a champagne cookbook. Meals for every occasion featuring champagne.” She braced herself for laughter, or for gentle teasing.
“A champagne cookbook?”
“Champagne and pineapple juice for breakfast with pear crepes and ham with orange glaze. The Dornings have a pineapple venture. Did you know that? Champagne with raspberry liqueur for a Venetian breakfast and a selection of cheeses to include—”
“Hush, or you will make me hungry. Did you know that Deschamps’s mama is a cousin to the King of France?”
“What has that to do with my cookbook?”
“With your brilliant cookbook? When I send along a case of my finest vintage to Deschamps’s dear mama, I could tuck in a copy of your book, signed by the author. The Coventry could feature your recipes and offer subscriptions to your second book. Your next project might be a book about sauces made with wines, and I suppose Fournier will want copies to pass around because the idea of such recipes is actually his. As your adoring husband, I will do your French translations. Mrs. Radcliffe’s husband managed all of her literary ventures, and—”
Ann put her hand to his mouth. “Then you can love a woman who wakes up dreaming of sauces? Who longs to cook all day? Who is a bossy and very-well-paid chef up at all hours and forever spouting ideas for new dishes?”
She took her hand away, and Orion regarded her with such tenderness, she felt as if she’d drunk a serving of the finest champagne a bit too quickly.
“Can I love such a woman?” Orion asked. “Annie Pearson, I already do.”
“But can you love her if she works at the Coventry, for a wage, with her hands?”
“Of course I can love such a woman. I will say it in French, just so you are certain. Bien sûr, je peux aimer une telle femme. Can you love a man with a foot in each of two cultures that are more often at war than at peace? Who likes the company of impertinent children and aging destriers? Who is likely to be creaky before his time and who comes with a herd of meddlesome in-laws and honorary godmothers?”
“Can I love such a man?” She sank against him, cuddling close. “Orion Goddard, I already do.”
Epilogue
The noise beggared description.
Between the celebration in the kitchen and the wedding breakfast hosted by the Coventry, Ann had to bend close to her new husband to hear him speak. They shared the head of a long table, the detritus of a midday banquet strewn before them.
“Dornings like champagne,” Orion said, “and they love your quiches and custards and fruit and cheese pairings.”
Dornings loved each other, too, if this display of familial loyalty for Sycamore Dorning’s in-law was any indication.
“They appear to be taking quite an interest in your cousins, Orion.” Margaret Dorning, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of herbs, was over by the window in earnest discussion with Alasdhair MacKay, whose family distilled whisky. Willow Dorning was similarly engrossed in conversation with Dylan Powell. A mastiff leaned against Dylan’s leg, the dog looking as if he, too, was engrossed in what Dylan had to say.
Various children scampered about, most of them with food in hand, while Aunt Melisande and Uncle Horace, looking somewhat dazed, were being entertained by Lord and Lady Casriel.
“The Dornings have taken an interest in us,” Orion said, “for Jeanette’s sake, and, Annie, it’s a bit like being in the army before all the gossip started. I am surrounded by goodwill, and I don’t know how to respond. Worth Kettering has agreed to meet with us to discuss investments, and Margaret and Hawthorne want to talk about growing culinary herbs commercially.”
Across the room, Otter was making a pest of himself to Mr. Valerian Dorning, who was showing the boy how to execute a formal court bow for Hannah’s amusement.
“I don’t know anything about growing herbs commercially,” Ann said.
“But you know how they’re used in the kitchen, while Margaret has thus far only advised her husband regarding medicinal properties. These people have become family connections, Annie. If they’d like to chat with us over a glass of claret, I’m happy to oblige.”
Somebody in the kitchen started singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”—several somebodies—and the result was lovely.
“Henry has quite a voice, doesn’t he?” Orion asked.
“He does, as does Nan. Margaret Dorning advises her husband?”
“Hawthorne claims the Dorning botanical venture would be lost without her. Why?”
Ann took Orion’s hand, because it was their wedding breakfast and because she was already in the habit of reaching for him when her courage wanted fortifying.
“You said you feel as if you’re back in the army, before all the intrigue and gossip stole the goodwill of your fellow officers from you. I have no frame of reference for a family where Mrs. Valerian Dorning is the first editor of her husband’s books and Mrs. Margaret Dorning tells her husband which herbs to plant and where to plant them. Jeanette was the first person Sycamore Dorning turned to when the kitchen was in a panic. They aren’t like Melisande and Horace, and I begin to see that much of the world isn’t like Melisande and Horace.”
“The brigadier and his lady are devoted, in their way.”
Were they, or were they devoted to some manual of marriage for senior officers? “They have secrets from one another.”
Orion brought Ann’s hand to his lips. “I will make you a promise, Annie Goddard. When I am flummoxed by this vexatious old world, when I am overjoyed by some unforeseen turn of events, when I have a difficult problem to solve, or a simple pleasure to share, the first person I turn to will be you. I will find you in the kitchen, or the herb garden, or the nursery if we should be so blessed, or wherever you bide, and I will share my hopes, fears, dreams, and delights with you.”
Those words settled around Ann’s heart with a warmth and rightness the old church vows had not.
“And I promise you, Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, that when I am frustrated, or puzzled, or rejoicing, or pleased, I will turn first to you, no matter if you are in your office, the warehouse, the stables, or our bedroom. Kiss me.”
“Your obedient servant, Mrs. Goddard.” He kissed her on the cheek, and that somehow became Ann kissing him on the lips, and a round of applause started up, followed by a demand that the toasting begin.
While tables were rearranged, and the kitchen serenade careened into jolly melodies, Orion refilled Ann’s champagne glass.
“Sycamore Dorning made me an offer, Annie.”
“What sort of offer?”
“He wants a manager for this club. Somebody with a head for business who gets on well with madame le chef, as he put it. Dorning excels at charming the customers, but he also longs to spend more time charming his wife. He wants to develop his Richmond property into market gardens, in the Dorning horticultural tradition, and he doesn’t feel free to do that without dedicated eyes and ears on the club.”
Just like that, Orion was sharing his heart with her, even here, amid this happy din.
“You need to be free to travel back and forth to France.”
“Dorning can spell me for those few weeks here and there, but I’m more concerned that you might not want your husband underfoot at your club, Annie. I won’t necessarily be in evidence every evening, but I’ll be here a lot, if I take Dorning up on the offer.”