Wistfulness inevitably rose as well. She had loved Philippe. She had known passion with him, desperate, glorious, wild passion, such as only young people in the throes of their first love affair can know.
“Philippe who?” Meli said, raising her chin. “My recollection of the various Frenchmen we encountered grows increasingly vague. I trust his path and mine will not cross, and I would appreciate it if you would aid me in that objective.”
Horace half rose to kiss her cheek. “No more need be said. Why don’t you bring your place setting down to my end of the table, and you can tell me all the latest gossip. I heard Mrs. Bainbridge played a little too deeply at faro last week.”
Meli complied, relieved to have the subject of Philippe closed. What was he doing in London, and how should she react if she did see him? London had only so many parks, and Philippe loved to be out of doors. He was from quite good family and would likely be socializing beyond the émigré community.
She collected her cutlery and joined Horace at the sunnier end of the table, keeping the conversation to tattle and household matters. Daniella’s progress with her letters and the head maid’s chronic sore knee. Horace reciprocated with the gossip from Horse Guards, and another meal passed without incident.
Horace rose to take his leave with another kiss to Meli’s cheek. “I’m off to lecture the solicitors. The investments aren’t performing quite to standards, and the lawyers need to know that I’m well aware of the problem.”
“You are ambushing them?”
“A surprise inspection. Have no fear, though. Unless you take to gambling in Emily Bainbridge’s fashion, we are still quite comfortably well fixed and can afford every indulgence where the regimental dinners are concerned.”
Horace was a good husband and a good provider. Meli truly did esteem him and always had. “Would it be too great an imposition to ask for more of your company, Horace? I grow a bit lonely late in the evening.”
He smiled, exhibiting a soupçon of the old dash. “Never let it be said I allowed my lady wife to languish for lack of my attentions. You will have my company tonight, if that suits.”
“That suits wonderfully.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Meli to pour herself another glass of wine and wonder how exactly Horace had heard of Emily Bainbridge’s gambling problem.
Sycamore Dorning valued family above all else, but precisely how to value Orion Goddard, reluctant brother-in-law and grouch at large, remained a mystery. Even Jeanette was short on ideas when it came to coaxing Goddard closer to the familial hearth.
“I’m having lunch sent over from the club,” Sycamore said. “You will join me, or good food will go to waste.”
“No,” Goddard replied, passing along his hat, gloves, and walking stick, “it will not. Your kitchen staff will ensure the food is consumed, and I’d like to discuss that staff with you.”
“I am in great good health, thank you, and yourself?” Sycamore led his guest to the family parlor. One of Jeanette’s embroidery projects lay on a sofa cushion, a pair of new throwing knives graced a side table, and a pile of smutty political prints Sycamore was sorting for a bound volume sat on the low table.
The humble side of domestic bliss was on display, and Sycamore hoped Goddard would perceive it as such.
“Apologies for my lack of small talk,” Goddard said, pausing on the threshold of the parlor and glancing around the room. “My sister thrives?” His tone suggested only an affirmative answer would spare Sycamore a slow, painful death.
“We thrive in each other’s care. With the right woman, marriage is a consummation devoutly to be wished. You might consider it. Please do have a seat, and tell me what about my kitchen staff interests you.”
Goddard chose the wing chair facing the door, while Sycamore took up one of the throwing knives.
“I have a problem,” the colonel said, “in the person of one Benevolence Hannah Goddard. She is of an age to apprentice to a cook, and Miss Ann Pearson has agreed to see to her instruction, if you allow it.”
Sycamore tossed the knife at the cork target situated between framed prints of nightshade and jasmine. The blade obligingly struck in the center, but then, the distance—unlike present company— was no challenge at all.
“Is your problem child an illegitimate daughter?” Jeanette would have something to say about a niece toiling away in the club’s kitchens.
“Hannah is no blood relation to me, but she is my responsibility. She will work hard, she already gets on well with Miss Pearson, and she cannot bide under my roof much longer.”
Not a by-blow, then. “An émigré’s offspring?”
Goddard took up the second knife and balanced it across his index finger. “Hannah’s antecedents are humble and, as far as I know, thoroughly English. Miss Pearson is willing to take her on, but you must approve the arrangement lest your fancy chef cause difficulties.”
Monsieur Jules Delacourt was largely responsible for the renown attached to The Coventry Club’s kitchens, and Sycamore avoided crossing him.
“You and Miss Pearson have discussed the matter?” As far as Sycamore knew, Ann Pearson and Orion Goddard had met only the once, and in passing, months ago. And yet, here was Goddard all but insisting that Miss Pearson be assigned an assistant.
Miss Pearson, not the renowned Jules Delacourt.
“Your undercook and I have discussed the particulars. You need not part with any coin, but I want signed articles of apprenticeship for Benny’s… for Hannah’s sake.”
A rap on the door heralded the arrival of lunch, which was fortunate, because Sycamore honestly did not know how to react to this request—demand?—from Goddard.
The footmen set two trays on small folding tables, bowed, and withdrew. The aroma of good, hot food reminded Sycamore that he was hungry. He took the second wing chair and prepared to tuck in.
“Might we wash our hands?” Goddard asked.
Well, yes, of course. “There’s soap and water in the breakfast parlor,” Sycamore said. “Shall we take our trays in there?”
Goddard picked up his tray and gestured toward the door, as if Sycamore were the guest and Goddard the host.
They tended to their ablutions, Goddard doing a thorough job, and then settled at the table. When Sycamore would have reached for his tankard of cider, Goddard bowed his head. Some muttering in French ensued while Sycamore’s stomach growled.
“Amen,” Sycamore said, flapping his table napkin over his lap. “I didn’t know the army put such fine manners on a fellow.”
“It doesn’t.” Goddard lifted the cloth covering his dish and sniffed. “How soon can Hannah take up her post?”
The kitchen had created magnificent hot sandwiches, piles of thinly sliced smoked ham with slabs of melted cheddar between toasted bread. Cold cider was the perfect beverage to wash down such fare, and bowls of hot apple compote awaited he whom the sandwiches had not entirely satisfied.
“I haven’t said Hannah can take up a post,” Sycamore countered. “I know many families embark on shared business ventures, but an apprenticeship can quickly become problematic.”
Goddard ate with peculiar delicacy, the crumbs all falling onto his tray, his pace deliberate. “Hence the need for written articles” he said. “I want Hannah to have genuine credentials when her term of service is up. These sandwiches were not made according to any recipe devised by Ann Pearson.”