The hour was too early for the butler to be manning the door in anticipation of morning callers, so Melisande herself passed Ann her cloak.
“Your mother was headstrong,” Melisande said. “Papa wanted a minor title for her, a younger son at least, even a barrister might have served, but she had to have her solicitor.”
Aunt and Mama had been fifteen years apart in age and thus hadn’t known each other well. “Mama and Papa were devoted, as you and Uncle are.”
Melisande’s expression turned wistful. “I was headstrong once too, Ann. Nothing good comes of women who want more than their due. I wish you would remember that. Only the brigadier’s vast patience with a younger wife saved me from making a complete cake of myself.”
The brigadier had made a cake of himself at the faro table not a week past.
“You don’t often speak of the early years of your marriage,” Ann said, pulling on her gloves. “Following the drum sounds patriotic and glamorous, but I imagine it was trying as well.”
Melisande rearranged the folds of a man’s greatcoat hanging on a peg. The scents of tobacco and beeswax clung to the wool, which was excellent quality. The brigadier came from old money—old, modest money. He was a distant, if polite, uncle and, according to Aunt Meli, much respected at Horse Guards.
“I was not suited to many aspects of being an officer’s wife,” Melisande said. “I suspect few young women are. I will see you next Wednesday, weather permitting.”
She pulled Ann in for a hug, a surprisingly affectionate gesture, and Ann hugged her back. Melisande meant well, and maybe someday, the menus Ann passed to her would have their intended effect.
“Where are you off to now?” Melisande asked, stepping back.
“I must call upon Colonel Sir Orion Goddard,” Ann said. “We have a mutual project to discuss.”
The warmth in Melisande’s eyes evaporated. “He’s a single gentleman of dubious repute, Ann. Your good name will be tarnished past all bearing if you make a habit of such company and such behavior.”
“The colonel’s sister is married to my employer, and he has been all that is gentlemanly in my presence. I am not a brigadier’s pretty wife, Aunt. I am an undercook by choice. If the colonel wants to discuss a menu with me, I cannot receive him at the club, can I?”
Not that he’d set foot there, and not that the colonel looked to be anything more than a beefsteak-and-ale man.
“Be exceedingly careful,” Aunt said. “Your uncle is notably reticent on the subject of the colonel’s military record. Goddard does not merit a place at the brigadier’s military dinners.”
“Fortunately,” Ann said, gathering up her parasol, “the war is over.” Some wars were over. “I bid you good day, Aunt, and will see you next week.”
Ann left, relieved as always to be free from the gently relentless censure of her only living relative. Melisande was gaining a reputation as a hostess of some renown, no little thanks to Ann’s menus. Her suggestions extended to centerpieces, table linen, wine and spirits, and even the tea tray following the meal.
Ann loved to create not merely a meal, but an occasion at supper. Aunt scolded her consistently for that ambition, and just as consistently requested Ann’s aid.
“I should be used to her hypocrisy by now,” Ann muttered, declining to open her parasol. The sharp autumn sunshine felt good on her face, though the lingering taste of lard marred an otherwise beautiful morning. Aunt’s cook was probably selling the extra butter out the back door, as many a cook did with her employer none the wiser. Lard could lighten the texture of a piecrust, to be sure, but in shortbread it wasn’t to be borne.
Ann turned her steps in the direction of Colonel Sir Orion’s abode, her mind consumed with two puzzles. First, Aunt was drinking more, probably gin in her morning tea. Not genteel, but a soldier’s wife brushed up against the ungenteel occasionally, and gin was a discreet drink. Most people would have been unable to detect evidence of its consumption.
Second, if Colonel Goddard’s military record was so dubious, why had he attained the rank of colonel and then been knighted? That made no sense. None at all.
Chapter Four
“Benny has developed a routine,” Rye said, realizing in the same moment that he should have rung for a tea tray. Ann Pearson wasn’t a fancy lady, but Rye needed a substantial favor from her, and she was a lady of the un-fancy sort. “Forgive me, I am out of the habit of entertaining guests. Shall I ring for tea?”
Mrs. Murphy might well be off at market, in which case Rye would look like a fool for offering courtesies he could not produce.
“No, thank you,” Miss Pearson replied. “I have already enjoyed my morning tea. Tell me of Benny’s routine.”
God be thanked for a woman who didn’t fuss. “Benny has taken a room upstairs—the governess’s room, I suppose. The lads helped her kit it out and scrub it down. She rises, attires herself as a boy, and joins the others for breakfast. Her day begins with chores in the stable, and when those are complete, she changes into a dress. She assists Mrs. Murphy for the balance of the day and makes another pass through the stable after supper.”
Miss Pearson had the gift of sitting quietly. She did not fluff her skirts, twiddle her lace collar, or toy with a bracelet intended to call attention to her graceful hands. She perched on the sofa, perfectly at home in Rye’s guest parlor, which he’d asked Mrs. Murphy to dust and air in anticipation of this call.
Rye had no use for this room whatsoever. He managed his affairs from his office and retired to his personal sitting room when he was done with the business of the day.
“Despite this routine, Colonel, you worry for the girl.”
Rye cast himself onto the sofa beside his guest, then realized he ought to have taken a wing chair, and then realized he ought to have asked her permission to sit.
He rose. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to presume.” Though he was about to presume mightily. For Benny’s sake, he must.
Miss Pearson patted the sofa cushion. “Please do join me, Colonel. I am frequently a puzzle to my betters. My speech is that of a finishing school graduate, and my antecedents are genteel enough, but to the consternation of all, I delight in beating egg whites into meringue. Experimenting with spices is my guilty pleasure.”
Rye sank into a wing chair. “I do not number among your betters.”
“A lady refrains from arguing with a gentleman, else I should correct you, Sir Orion.”
She looked so prim and serene in his parlor, and yet, he’d seen her scamper up a barn ladder while holding a basket. She’d known his kitchen at sight better than he knew it, and she wasn’t too proud to look in on Benny.
“What makes you think I’m a gentleman?”
“You care for Benny and the lads. You came at once when your sister was in peril. You labor mightily to retrieve your family holdings from the brink of ruin. You receive me here—a room recently treated to a thorough dose of beeswax and lemon oil, unlike the rest of your abode—rather than in your office.”
Rye seized on the least bothersome observation. “You noticed the scents of beeswax and lemon oil?” He certainly hadn’t.