by A. Gardner
"So lucky," she mutters.
"And I get to go to England tomorrow," I add. "I'm helping him with a wedding at a place called Dovington Manor."
"You get to meet British royalty?"
"A Lord," I answer. "I'll try to take some pictures for you."
"You better."
I tug gently at the pendant around my neck. Sam didn't leave any kind of contact number, but he knows where to find me if he wants to see me again. I bite the side of my lip. I've been wearing his necklace all week, mostly because I know Marta hates it.
"Oh, I almost forgot," I say. "I met a guy…well, sort of. He ran into me on my first day."
"A French man already?"
"He was British and nothing happened," I reiterate. "He spilled his coffee on me."
"How romantic," she jokes.
"His apology was romantic." I look down at the sparkly diamond between my fingers. "He sent me a gift. I'll show it to you when I get back. You're going to die."
"I take it that it's not edible then?" I hear the sound of her mixer running at full speed. I wait for her to finish before I say anything else.
"By the way, have you by any chance talked to Cole at all?" I ask.
"Not really, but I know he was called back to work just like me."
"Oh." I sigh. "Well, I'll tell him all about Paris when I get home."
I think of the way Cole reclined back in his chair during class, quietly commenting on the airiness of Georgina's puff pastry. Back at Calle Pastry Academy, he always made me laugh when I needed it. I could use his sense of humor right about now. He would've eased the blow of failing miserably at making French macarons in front of a macaron master.
"I'll make French macarons for the occasion," Bree suggests. "Though I doubt I'll be able to make them as good as you." She giggles then chews loudly. "Mmm…I do feel better. Call me when you get back from England." I hear more chewing.
"I will."
* * *
My connecting train ride from London toward the Cornish coast, thankfully, didn't take as long as the train ride from Paris to London. Marta sat next to me and spent the entire time reading a romance novel. I mostly slept, grateful that I only had to share uncomfortable glances with Marta because Jean Pierre was taking a later train. When we arrived at our destination, a driver was waiting for us. The car took us into a small village neighboring the coastline. One with mostly row homes, a pub, and an inn.
After passing several acres of apple orchards, I step onto the gravel in front of Dovington Manor and smell seawater. The house sits on spacious grounds, and it looks more like a pristine country club than someone's home. I look up at the rows and rows of tall windows leading up to two towers on both ends of the stone residence. The windows on the main level have white trim that matches the front door. The surrounding lawn is a brilliant green and undeniably well kept. Not a leaf or pebble looks out of place. And in the distance I see waves crashing against the cliffside.
"We'll run over tomorrow's schedule during supper, I'll do prep work for the sweet table, and then bed." Marta grabs her suitcase and strides through the arched pillars over the front entrance like she has been here thousands of times. I follow her, not surprised to see that the inside of the house is just as breathtaking.
The front foyer is narrow and the hardwood floors look as if they're original to the estate. The walls are a light blue that reminds me of the ocean and hanging on them are various works of seaside art. A grand staircase swirls up to the second floor, and there are formal sitting rooms on both sides of me. The furniture is mostly white. It goes well with the mosaic tiles surrounding the main fireplace. I think it is meant to look like sea glass. Overall, the manor feels like a mix of English traditional and modern day. If I was the owner, I might never leave.
"Wow," I say quietly. Mostly to myself because I know Marta doesn't care much what I think about the mansion. "Can you imagine getting married in a place like this?"
"This way," Marta responds, tilting her head toward a staff member who has come to show us where we'll be cooking. A man wearing a suit takes our bags, except for Marta's case of culinary tools. We wind through a few hallways all with the same ocean blue paint and faded paintings of portraits and landscapes.
Off of the main drawing room, where a casual wedding reception will take place before dinner, is the kitchen. It is housed in its own private room, and it matches the size of the front sitting rooms. Appliances line the walls, and a specialty wood-fired oven sits next to the window. In the center of the room are two, long, butcher-block tables running parallel to each other. Near a private entrance to a miniature tea garden are rows of hooks and cubbies for everyone's things. I sneak a glimpse out the window, delighted that there are bistro tables outside facing the sea. I'm going to need a good escape if I'm going to be stuck working with Marta for an entire weekend.
Marta puts her case on the table and immediately gets to work. She pulls out a few containers of hand crafted fondant and sugar paste flowers —white orchids, tulips, and sweet peas —that she made yesterday. She designates a cool spot in the walk-in pantry for them to continue drying.
"So, have you been here before?" I ask, attempting to lighten the mood.
"No." Her answer is direct and brief.
"So you're not from this area of England then?"
"No," Marta says again.
"Maybe you've vacationed somewhere in Cornwall before? Or some beach somewhere?"
"What are you getting at, Poppy?" She abruptly stops what she's doing.
"Nothing." I run my fingers along the counter before brushing them against the diamond dangling on my chest. "Just trying to make conversation."
Marta exhales and resumes unpacking her things. She pulls out a file containing recipes and our work schedules for tomorrow. I will most likely be in charge of the tiny confections that will surround the wedding cake on the dessert table. Chef Gautier's extravagant wedding cake will be the showstopper. I'm sure he trusts Marta with the cake batter. I doubt he'll let me anywhere near it.
There is a firm knock on the door. Marta looks up and changes the look on her face completely. She bends her torso slightly as she nods as if she's discreetly bowing. She rushes to meet our client and gracious host.
I fix a strand of my hair and quickly press my lips together to make sure my lipstick is an even color after my tiresome train ride. I chose a more sensible, conservative outfit for my first trip to England. Unlike Paris where it rains more than I expected, the English coast is sunnier. But the air is chill. I brought along my best cardigans even though they'll be hidden underneath my chef's jacket. I straighten the emerald cardigan I paired with dark wash jeans and a collared shirt.
"Lord—" Marta begins.
"Oh, there's no need to be so formal," he interrupts. "At least, not until my guests arrive tomorrow." The man chuckles, and instantly my heart pounds. I stare at the proud owner of Dovington Manor.
A sleek suit.
Glowing smile.
Chestnut hair.
"Just call me Sam," the man instructs Marta.
"It's such a pleasure to be here, sir." Marta grins from ear to ear as she shakes his hand. I contemplate reaching for the diamond pendant around my neck and yanking it off. Sam spots me before I have the chance to hide it.
"And I see you've brought along the intern," Sam comments, taking a step forward.
"Yes," Marta answers. "But I promise you are in good hands. Right, Poppy?"
"Of course." I smile at Sam as if it's the first time we've seen each other.
"Welcome." Sam's eyes wander down my neck and stop at the silver glint peeking out from underneath my shirt. He smirks. "Nice to meet you, Poppy." He briskly shakes my hand. "Supper is waiting for you ladies in the dining room."
"Thank you," Marta replies.
Sam nods and promptly leaves the kitchen.
"That's Lord Dovington? The groom-to-be?"
"Watch your tongue," Marta scolds me. "He's a very importa
nt client, and Chef Gautier would be furious if he knew you forgot your manners back in America."
"Well then." I take off my diamond pendant and drop it on the table. Marta's eyes widen when she spots the sparkle. She narrows her gaze, confused. "I should probably give this back, don't you think? I mean, he's engaged. I shouldn't be accepting expensive gifts from engaged men, right? It's bad manners."
"That was from him?" She stares at the necklace with her jaw wide open like she's in shock.
"Long story," I answer.
"Oh…" Marta pulls her eyes away from the diamond in the table and smoothes her auburn hair, which is partly pulled back with a gold clip. She finally sighs. "I've heard of Lord Dovington's taste for women, but I guess I assumed it was all rubbish. So, you've met him before?"
"My first morning in Paris," I inform her.
"Hmmm." She stands up straight and regains her usual superior demeanor.
"You believe me?"
Marta nods.
I'm surprised that for once she's choosing to take my side.
Maybe she's not as bitter as I thought she was?
"Not many people can afford such a lavish gift," she admits. "I'll give you that." She shakes her head. "All men are rubbish, Poppy. If you take anything away from this internship, chew on that for a while."
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning of Sam's wedding started bright and early with a quick coffee and buttered toast. As promised, Marta went over my duties for the day last night during dinner. She was still a tad stubborn when I tried a second time to ask her a few questions about her personal life. But the air between us was more comfortable than usual. I guess she can relate to my not-so-lucky taste in men.
"Arrêter ce! Stop!" Jean Pierre shouts. He shoos a group of caterers who place a wooden crate of vegetables too close to his workspace. "No! No! Eh!" Chef Jean Pierre Gautier is a small man, but when he opens his mouth he seems ten feet tall. The group of caterers obey him immediately, putting their food on the opposite table.
We are sharing the kitchen with a group of cooks who are in charge of dinner. We are in charge of dessert, and Jean Pierre hasn't stopped working since the moment he got here. It is still early in the day, and his cakes are almost done cooking. The fondant is ready, and the frostings and fillings are sitting in pastry bags waiting to be piped. Marta is working on edible leaves, and I'm whisking together a filling for my mini lemon tarts or tartes au citron. After the mini tarts I still have to prepare my coconut wedding macaroons, which Marta emphasized have to be scooped into perfectly rounded balls.
Travelling with premade cake layers for onsite assembly is the process Le Croissant normally follows, but Lord Dovington requested the cake be made the same day. According to Marta, he paid extra for the edible gold accents and same day freshness. Chef Gautier hasn't veered from his schedule, and his precision is working in his favor. Our team seems much more calm and composed than the dinner bunch.
The wedding cake display covers a large table in the reception area. Set up neatly with crystal serving plates and baby blue cake platters, the table is meant to be filled with sweets including a variety of tarts, macaroons, French macarons, petit fours, mini croquembouche towers, and of course the main attraction—a six tier wedding cake.
Jean Pierre's sketch of what the final product will look like is sitting in front of him. I catch a glimpse of it every once in a while when I walk past to the fridge. He prepares a fondant mold imprinted with a delicate lace pattern and a small tub of edible twenty-four carat gold powder.
Chef Gautier then pulls a pan of almond cake out of the oven and tests it. The smell wafts through the entire room, and a woman on the other side of the kitchen turns around. She's wearing an apron that matches the rest of the dinner team. Her eyes widen, and her black ponytail swings as she moves her head to get a closer look at the source. She takes a few steps toward the ovens and presses her lips together.
"Poppy," Marta says quietly. "Will you do me a favor?"
"Oh, but—"
"Those tarts and macaroons will be here when you get back," she says. She pauses for a brief moment, making sure that Jean Pierre is fully occupied with cooling his cakes. She shows me one of her fondant leaves. "I need a few orchids from the garden to compare my flowers to. Will you run and fetch some for me? I can't leave the kitchen or Chef Gautier will blow his top."
"So you want him to get mad at me?" I ask.
"Be quick, and he won't notice." She nods, but I don't budge. "Fine, I'll finish your tarts for you."
"And…"
"And." She rolls her eyes. "You're lucky I'm offering to do that."
Whether or not Marta warms up to me before I leave doesn't matter. I've had women despise me before and survived. But Jean Pierre trusts Marta for some reason. I can tell by the way he lets her make madeleines when he has more pressing orders to attend to. I haven't seen any of the others make madeleines, or even address the subject. Chef Gautier takes ownership of those mini sponges every morning.
If Jean Pierre sees that Marta is giving me a second chance, then maybe he will too.
I sigh.
"Coffee?" I offer.
"Milk and two sugars," Marta answers. She looks at her boss. "Chef, café?"
Jean Pierre shakes his head.
I quickly take off my chef's jacket and hang it on a hook near the door. I walk out into the reception area, taking a minute to stretch my legs. Last night, Marta and I stayed in the old servant's quarters turned guest wing. My bed was a tad too stiff, and I woke up sore. I hear the clanging of silverware as members of staff rush to set up more serving tables. I turn toward the back doors leading past the conservatory and into the gardens.
"I can't believe they came early," a woman mutters to herself, walking briskly toward me. I stop and peer around the corner at a sitting room full of well-dressed guests being served their morning tea. Three women take off their coats and sit on a loveseat facing me. All three of them are blonde, thin, and move delicately as if they're made of porcelain.
I proceed to the back garden to collect an orchid and stall before I have to make Marta her coffee. I breathe in the ocean air and let the cool breeze run across my rosy cheeks. The weather is much chillier than I thought it would be. I rub my hands together, scanning the rich green lawn in front of me for a cluster of perfectly formed orchids. A couple of seagulls blitz past me, and I look into the distance at the rolling waves.
A figure is standing near the cliffside, surveying the beach down below. I cautiously approach Sam, unsure if it's the smart thing to do. I place a hand on my chest where my necklace used to be. I walk closer to the sea and hear the sound of the ocean more clearly. Sam turns around, his hands in his pockets. My eyes dart to the nearest group of wildflowers. I carefully kneel next to them and study their pale pink color.
"Taking a break?" Sam comments.
"Looking for orchids."
"Over there is your best bet," he responds, tilting his head back toward the manor. "If you go around the side of the house toward the orchards, you'll find a whole lot of them."
"Perfect." I stand up and smile. Sam's chestnut brown hair waves in the wind. He's wearing another one of his sleek gray suits. I open my mouth to say something more, but a screech from right behind me makes me jump.
"Sam! What the devil do you think you're doing?"
I turn and see a tall, delicate woman who looks much like the blondes inside who arrived for the wedding early. The only difference is that her chocolaty locks are curled up in soft rollers, and she's wearing a powder blue tracksuit.
"Darling," Sam greets her. She marches right past me as if I'm invisible. She stamps the heel of her sandal and almost stumbles when it sticks to the muddy ground.
"You're supposed to be getting ready," she scolds him. "My parents are already furious enough as it is."
"Oh come on." Sam takes a step back. "I invited them to be nice. I didn't think they would actually come."
"In what world is it
acceptable to invite an ex-girlfriend to your wedding?"
"Olivia—" Sam tries to calm her down, but she points her finger at him. I take it as my cue to leave. I back away slowly so as not to disturb their lover's quarrel.
"But you invited not just one," she continues, "but three. Three ex-girlfriends!"
My thoughts jump back to the three blondes sipping tea in the sitting room.
I'd be pissed too.
"Okay." He chuckles and waves his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, but they've obviously shown up out of spite."
"You think this is funny?" Olivia puts her hand on her hip. "You honestly think this is funny?"
"Olivia, darling," Sam answers. He walks toward her with open arms. "Calm down, or I swear you'll be the death of me."
"You should have seen their faces when they saw me coming down the staircase for a quick cup of tea." Olivia pouts, crossing her arms so that her soon-to-be husband can't hug away her embarrassment. "Those women are vile. They obviously have their own agenda for being here. Why else would they dare to show their faces?"
"It doesn't matter." Sam keeps a grin on his face, and even amidst the panic and shouting he makes it look effortless. "You have something they'll never have." The two of them glance down at the sparkly rock on Olivia's finger. She studies it, holding it up to the sunlight. I touch the bare spot near my collarbone where my diamond pendant used to hang. I left it in my room this morning. Wearing it in Dovington Manor feels weird.
I take a few more steps toward the house as Olivia subtly wipes away tears. I don't know if they're tears of joy or tears of frustration, but I do know that today is going to bring a whirlwind of emotions for everyone. The staff. The guests. The bride. Everyone.
