Miss Pearson tapped her nose, which shaded a trifle on the bold side. “A competent cook pays attention to the senses of taste and smell.”
Ann Pearson paid attention to much more than that. Her perspicacity was at once troublesome and reassuring. Benny would thrive under her tutelage, if Rye could persuade the woman to take on that challenge.
“You are more than a competent cook,” he said. “You are second-in-command to one of the foremost chefs in London. That a woman holds that post is most unusual.”
“Unusual, but neither illegal nor unheard of. Most cooks are women.”
“I was trying to pay you a compliment, not incite a skirmish. Will you take Benny on as an apprentice? I have racked my brains for a subtle approach to that request, but subtlety has ever eluded me. Besides, you strike me as a woman inured to plain speaking.”
Though not quite that plain. Truly, Rye had been away from polite society, and from ladies of any sort, for too long.
Miss Pearson’s brows rose, then drew down. “You flatter me, Colonel, and Benny would doubtless make an apt pupil, but I cannot take on the responsibility for an apprentice. I haven’t the authority, and the introduction of an assistant to the undercook without prior permission from the chef would be akin to petit treason.”
Well, damn. Protocol had been the very devil in the army. “Benny cannot stay here much longer, and she cannot be cast upon the charity of the employment agencies. As soon as her gender becomes apparent, the talk will start.”
Miss Pearson rummaged in her reticule and produced a small tin with flowers etched on the lid. “Would you care for a pastille, Colonel? I make them myself.”
Rye avoided sweets, but all this infernal talking had left him parched. He took two. The flavor was a smooth peppermint, refreshing without bitterness. Miss Pearson took two as well.
“Could Benny not simply remain here as a maid-of-all-work, Colonel? This is her home, after all.”
Precisely what Rye had told the girl, more fool he. “First, my housekeeper does not prefer to bide here overnight, but is doing so only as a temporary favor to me. She has a follower and will not be denied his company indefinitely. Second, a maid-of-all-work holds a precarious and grueling post. If Benny must labor for eighteen hours a day, then she should at least have a trade or profession to show for her efforts. Third, Benny adores your blueberry crepes.”
Miss Pearson’s smile was unexpected and luminous. “She does?” That smile would inspire new recruits to babbling and seasoned officers to gawking and flattery. Such a smile held secrets and wishes come true and dreams brought to life.
When Miss Pearson smiled like that, she wasn’t merely pretty, she was alluring.
Rye crunched his mints and mentally kicked himself. “Benny is a notably reticent creature, but about your blueberry crepes, she becomes as voluble as Otter discussing the finer points of mud larking. Benny dreams of those crepes.”
“I fed her one just as the crop was ripening—weeks and weeks ago. I was experimenting with spices. Everybody assumes blueberries should be consigned to the same old cinnamon and nutmeg routine, or perhaps—for the adventurous—a dash of lemon zest. But I thought basil deserved a try, and lavender adds unexpected complexity. It’s a pairing that makes people stop and wonder what exactly that little extra something is. Benny didn’t gobble hers up either, but rather, savored every bite. I am babbling. I do apologize, but fruit flavors want a careful touch.”
“You are passionate about your profession.” At one time, Rye had been passionate about the profession of soldiering. Now he was passionate about his vineyards. Though, when had passion become dogged determination?
“You have the right of it, Colonel. I am passionate about cooking. I am supposed to want nothing more than a spouse and babies, my own household, and a domestic table to set every evening. Alas, I am more interested in pièces montées and sauces.”
Rye liked Miss Pearson’s honesty, though he saw little point in spun-sugar castles. “Wait until a spouse and babies are beyond your reach, Miss Pearson, and you might revise your assessment of their worth.”
She glanced around the room, which had been well appointed by somebody. The wallpaper was flocked, the draperies lace, the andirons adorned with brass lions sejant.
“Your means do not limit your marital prospects, Colonel.”
Perhaps her honesty had its drawbacks. “My past limits my marital prospects. My former commanding officer is no longer at home when I call. I make a tidy income, God be thanked, but rumors of misconduct from my army days haunt me and limit my business prospects. Now that my sister is comfortably remarried, I am free to rehabilitate my reputation.” Perhaps then, Rye might find a woman equal to the task of turning a field command center into a home.
Miss Pearson produced her flowered tin again. “Have another mint.”
They were good, as mints went. Pleasant. “You can see how Benny’s situation becomes complicated.”
Miss Pearson did not take a mint for herself. “Complicated, how?”
“If word gets out that I house a very young female without proper chaperonage, the worst conclusions will be drawn, about Benny and about me. For my sake as well as hers, I must find another solution.” And soon. Talk spread through polite society faster than flame burned down a dry fuse.
“Surely you exaggerate, Colonel? Benny should be beneath the notice of the gossips.”
“Benny’s antecedents are not…” How to put it? “Benny is apparently not legitimate, and I gather her mother’s profession…”
“Oh dear. That is unfortunate.”
Silence crept into the conversation—embarrassed perhaps on Miss Pearson’s part, thoughtful on Rye’s. Miss Pearson held an unusual position, and she was ambitious too. That’s what all that lemon zest and basil was about—ambition, a thirst for recognition, a desire to excel.
“What could I offer you, Miss Pearson, that would tempt you to take Benny on in your kitchen?”
She rose and pretended to study the cutwork yellowing behind glass near the window. “It’s not my kitchen and will never be. The Coventry needs the cachet of a French chef.”
“What do you need?” Rye grasped strategy, and he’d been an adequate officer as a result, though nobody would believe that now. He knew how to motivate his subordinates and how to brangle with his superiors such that they weren’t offended, and all the bright ideas ended up being theirs.
Miss Pearson slanted a glance at him over her shoulder. She was petite but well formed, and her garb was fancier than that of a cook on her half day. Who were her people, and how had she come to be the Coventry’s undercook?
“I need nothing, Colonel, but what I want is hard to explain.”
“Try.”
This time when she sat, she took the second wing chair, next to his, and perched on the edge of the cushions.
“I want menus, Colonel. I want to plan the most talked about, impressive, enjoyable formal dinners. I want to be the genius behind the buffet that is too pretty to eat, but too delicious to resist. I want my Venetian breakfasts to be the delight of all who attend because they are breakfasts, not mere excuses to flirt away the afternoon in Godmama’s conservatory.”
She spoke with the fervor of British officers who’d contemplated the conquest of France. Neither mountains, nor blizzards, nor bad rations, nor disease had been allowed to stand in their way, and Rye had shared that ambition.