He refused to touch any ingredient in her uncle’s section of the larder. Not only was Mr. Townsend not present to enjoy the meal, John could not leave to chance any element of the recipe. After acquiring a handsome side of beef to roast, he had gone directly to market to select all the other ingredients by hand. The next half hour would be a simple matter of preparation, assembly, patience, and timing, so that each of the courses would finish at the same moment.
In other words, it was a recipe for disaster.
“I love watching you cook.” Allegra stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon. “You look very fierce and imposing wielding your knives with such force and precision. Exactly as I imagine Captain L’Amour does when sacking ships. All swift execution and barked orders and cross-me-at-your-own-risk determination.”
John could not think about Captain L’Amour just now, although he was definitely filing away Allegra’s admiration of his culinary mastery for later reflection. He didn’t want this supper to be good. He needed it to be perfect. Delicious. Romantic Memorable in a we-should-do-this-again sort of way, not a call-the-surgeon-and-the-fire-brigade disaster.
He wanted to impress her. To hear her say, “You absolutely should open a tea room. You would be wonderful at it,” rather than wince and ask if he was really, really certain he should be giving up his sensible post as a solicitor for such a silly dream.
The burgundy was in the bourguignonne, the savory profiteroles were ready to garnish the soup, leaving only the bay leaf for the—
He choked in horror. “Where is my bay leaf?”
Allegra glanced at her skillet. “There’s one in here. Should I take it out?”
“No. Don’t touch it. That’s part of the bouquet garni, along with the thyme, parsley, and—I had another bay leaf. I definitely purchased two bay leaves. They were right here when we started, and now there’s only one—”
“Do we need the bay leaf?”
He stared at her in incomprehension. “Do we not need…the other bay leaf…”
“Maybe someone took it on accident,” she suggested. “It’s a big kitchen. The servants are preparing meals for all the other families, too. Or maybe it fell on the floor.”
“The floor,” he groaned. “To be trampled upon and shredded by muddy boots.”
“It hasn’t rained in weeks.”
“Sandy boots, then. Not much of an improvement. Dinner is ruined. How will I ever run a tea room if I cannot even—”
“Listen.” She placed her free hand on his arm. “Do you hear that?”
“Did the sauce over-boil?” he asked in dismay.
“No! It’s the sound of improvisation. ‘Lack of bay leaf’ is like when my cousins press discordant notes on the piano and expect me to build a melody from it.”
“You can do so because you’re a genius at the piano.”
“I can do so because I know how music works…and because the first notes don’t matter. After they make their noise, I can play anything I want. Listeners don’t remember individual notes from the start of the song. They remember the overall melody, and how it made them feel.”
“That’s all very well when ‘clever and creative’ is in your nature—”
“I know eighth notes and grace notes, crescendo and decrescendo, keys and chord progressions. And so do you. The ingredients are your keys, the kitchen your pianoforte. Don’t worry about one note out of a thousand. Make the music that only you can.”
She gave his hand a squeeze, then returned her attention to her saucepan, serenely confident in his ability to improvise the perfect solution.
Improvise.
Him.
John wracked his brain, sorting through catalogues of recipes as he scanned the remaining ingredients in the pantry. If he bungled this, if the meal was anything less than perfect, if he failed to meet expectations… He wouldn’t just spoil the supper, but risk losing Allegra’s faith altogether.
He could not allow that to happen. There had to be a way. Very well, this kitchen was his pianoforte, the available spices his keys. All he needed to do was find the right melody. Perhaps he could try…no, not that. But what about…no, dreadful. Or what if he…
Yes. Yes, that just might work.
Deviating from the original recipe would give him hives, but he could not stop now, with everything else minutes away from being done to perfection. He was going to have to let the missing bay leaf go and trust in his own resourcefulness. The potential miracle that maybe, just maybe, he could create something even better than the rote recipe he had intended to follow.
Or else face the possibility that his future kingdom in a tea room kitchen would forever remain just a dream.
Chapter 15
Supper was an unmitigated…success?
John barely knew what to do with all the praise being heaped upon him by Allegra’s two cousins. They were not professional critics of French cuisine, but neither was the average customer who popped into a tea room for almond biscuits and a cup of tea.
If Miss Dorcas and Miss Portia had noticed the absence of a certain bay leaf, there was no such indication. They ate as ravenously as farmhands, mmm-ing with delight over every bite.
“Do you cook like this for your pirate cohorts every night?” Miss Portia asked.
“Er,” said John.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Miss Dorcas said. “Where would he get fresh shallots and champignons in the middle of the ocean?”
“Both those things grow in or on soil,” Miss Portia replied. “Surely a man who can fell governments is capable of bringing a trough of dirt on board, if it is his wish to engage in a bit of light gardening whilst his cannons are being reloaded.”
“I suppose a herd of cattle, too,” Miss Dorcas shot back. “For the fresh beef. Why not an apple orchard on the gun deck, while he’s at it?”
“Ladies,” John and Allegra began in unison. They looked at each other and smiled.
Miss Portia clapped her hands. “Reprimanded in tandem! Has there ever been anything more lovely?” She gave a happy sigh. “This must be what it feels like to have two parents.”
“I am ten years older than you,” Allegra said. “Ten.”
“Eleven,” Miss Dorcas whispered, then spun to her sister. “I imagine you also think—”
Allegra gave up on corralling her bickering cousins and turned to John. “Thank you for allowing me to stir the pot.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Did you nick my bay leaf?”
“I would never,” she protested. “I didn’t know a bay leaf from a birch leaf until this evening, and I’m not even certain I have that straight now. How can you keep all those ingredients in your head? What goes where, and when, and how. It’s very impressive.”
“You don’t think my…” He mouthed tea room. “…a fantasy?”
“A fantasy! I only wonder at you limiting yourself to tea. You could cook for the Regent himself.”
“I don’t want to work for anyone else,” he reminded her, but his chest warmed at the compliment.
How he wished she could be there at his side on opening day!