“Then cook and be my wife. Dorning had better pay you what he paid that inebriated bouffon, or—”
Ann kissed him. “Gentlemen’s spouses don’t typically work for a wage.”
“I am not a gentleman. I am a humble wine merchant who wants his wife to be happy. I thought you dreamed of writing a cookbook? If last night’s meal is any indication, Annie, your recipes will sell better than Byron’s naughty poems.”
“I do want to write a cookbook, and I’ve had an idea.” This idea had come to her in the middle of the night, between bouts of loving and talking.
“Do tell. I’ve had a few ideas, too, and one of them involves a special license and a wedding journey to Provence.”
“I want to write a champagne cookbook. Meals for every occasion featuring champagne.” She braced herself for laughter, or for gentle teasing.
“A champagne cookbook?”
“Champagne and pineapple juice for breakfast with pear crepes and ham with orange glaze. The Dornings have a pineapple venture. Did you know that? Champagne with raspberry liqueur for a Venetian breakfast and a selection of cheeses to include—”
“Hush, or you will make me hungry. Did you know that Deschamps’s mama is a cousin to the King of France?”
“What has that to do with my cookbook?”
“With your brilliant cookbook? When I send along a case of my finest vintage to Deschamps’s dear mama, I could tuck in a copy of your book, signed by the author. The Coventry could feature your recipes and offer subscriptions to your second book. Your next project might be a book about sauces made with wines, and I suppose Fournier will want copies to pass around because the idea of such recipes is actually his. As your adoring husband, I will do your French translations. Mrs. Radcliffe’s husband managed all of her literary ventures, and—”
Ann put her hand to his mouth. “Then you can love a woman who wakes up dreaming of sauces? Who longs to cook all day? Who is a bossy and very-well-paid chef up at all hours and forever spouting ideas for new dishes?”
She took her hand away, and Orion regarded her with such tenderness, she felt as if she’d drunk a serving of the finest champagne a bit too quickly.
“Can I love such a woman?” Orion asked. “Annie Pearson, I already do.”
“But can you love her if she works at the Coventry, for a wage, with her hands?”
“Of course I can love such a woman. I will say it in French, just so you are certain. Bien sûr, je peux aimer une telle femme. Can you love a man with a foot in each of two cultures that are more often at war than at peace? Who likes the company of impertinent children and aging destriers? Who is likely to be creaky before his time and who comes with a herd of meddlesome in-laws and honorary godmothers?”
“Can I love such a man?” She sank against him, cuddling close. “Orion Goddard, I already do.”
Epilogue
The noise beggared description.
Between the celebration in the kitchen and the wedding breakfast hosted by the Coventry, Ann had to bend close to her new husband to hear him speak. They shared the head of a long table, the detritus of a midday banquet strewn before them.
“Dornings like champagne,” Orion said, “and they love your quiches and custards and fruit and cheese pairings.”
Dornings loved each other, too, if this display of familial loyalty for Sycamore Dorning’s in-law was any indication.
“They appear to be taking quite an interest in your cousins, Orion.” Margaret Dorning, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of herbs, was over by the window in earnest discussion with Alasdhair MacKay, whose family distilled whisky. Willow Dorning was similarly engrossed in conversation with Dylan Powell. A mastiff leaned against Dylan’s leg, the dog looking as if he, too, was engrossed in what Dylan had to say.
Various children scampered about, most of them with food in hand, while Aunt Melisande and Uncle Horace, looking somewhat dazed, were being entertained by Lord and Lady Casriel.
“The Dornings have taken an interest in us,” Orion said, “for Jeanette’s sake, and, Annie, it’s a bit like being in the army before all the gossip started. I am surrounded by goodwill, and I don’t know how to respond. Worth Kettering has agreed to meet with us to discuss investments, and Margaret and Hawthorne want to talk about growing culinary herbs commercially.”
Across the room, Otter was making a pest of himself to Mr. Valerian Dorning, who was showing the boy how to execute a formal court bow for Hannah’s amusement.
“I don’t know anything about growing herbs commercially,” Ann said.
“But you know how they’re used in the kitchen, while Margaret has thus far only advised her husband regarding medicinal properties. These people have become family connections, Annie. If they’d like to chat with us over a glass of claret, I’m happy to oblige.”
Somebody in the kitchen started singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”—several somebodies—and the result was lovely.
“Henry has quite a voice, doesn’t he?” Orion asked.
“He does, as does Nan. Margaret Dorning advises her husband?”
“Hawthorne claims the Dorning botanical venture would be lost without her. Why?”
Ann took Orion’s hand, because it was their wedding breakfast and because she was already in the habit of reaching for him when her courage wanted fortifying.
“You said you feel as if you’re back in the army, before all the intrigue and gossip stole the goodwill of your fellow officers from you. I have no frame of reference for a family where Mrs. Valerian Dorning is the first editor of her husband’s books and Mrs. Margaret Dorning tells her husband which herbs to plant and where to plant them. Jeanette was the first person Sycamore Dorning turned to when the kitchen was in a panic. They aren’t like Melisande and Horace, and I begin to see that much of the world isn’t like Melisande and Horace.”
“The brigadier and his lady are devoted, in their way.”
Were they, or were they devoted to some manual of marriage for senior officers? “They have secrets from one another.”
Orion brought Ann’s hand to his lips. “I will make you a promise, Annie Goddard. When I am flummoxed by this vexatious old world, when I am overjoyed by some unforeseen turn of events, when I have a difficult problem to solve, or a simple pleasure to share, the first person I turn to will be you. I will find you in the kitchen, or the herb garden, or the nursery if we should be so blessed, or wherever you bide, and I will share my hopes, fears, dreams, and delights with you.”
Those words settled around Ann’s heart with a warmth and rightness the old church vows had not.
“And I promise you, Colonel Sir Orion Goddard, that when I am frustrated, or puzzled, or rejoicing, or pleased, I will turn first to you, no matter if you are in your office, the warehouse, the stables, or our bedroom. Kiss me.”
“Your obedient servant, Mrs. Goddard.” He kissed her on the cheek, and that somehow became Ann kissing him on the lips, and a round of applause started up, followed by a demand that the toasting begin.
While tables were rearranged, and the kitchen serenade careened into jolly melodies, Orion refilled Ann’s champagne glass.
“Sycamore Dorning made me an offer, Annie.”
“What sort of offer?”
“He wants a manager for this club. Somebody with a head for business who gets on well with madame le chef, as he put it. Dorning excels at charming the customers, but he also longs to spend more time charming his wife. He wants to develop his Richmond property into market gardens, in the Dorning horticultural tradition, and he doesn’t feel free to do that without dedicated eyes and ears on the club.”
Just like that, Orion was sharing his heart with her, even here, amid this happy din.
“You need to be free to travel back and forth to France.”
“Dorning can spell me for those few weeks here and there, but I’m more concerned that you might not want your husband underfoot at your club, Annie. I won’t necessarily be in evidence every e
vening, but I’ll be here a lot, if I take Dorning up on the offer.”
Ann thought back to earlier discussions with her husband. “What’s your compensation to be? The Coventry is a jealous mistress, Orion, and hasn’t had a dedicated manager before. You will find that what the Dorning brothers did not enjoy doing often went undone. Mrs. Dorning has made some inroads on things like the linen inventory, but all is not in order.”
“My compensation is to be a share of ownership that increases over time, if Dorning offers suitable terms in other regards. The original owner, a fellow named Tresham, has been gradually bought out, and now Ash Dorning is similarly easing away from the business. Dorning would like to ease us in.”
“Let’s think about it,” Ann said, tucking an arm around her husband’s waist. “We are soon to be toasted at length with the finest champagne in the world, and I would like to enjoy that pleasure with my new husband.”
“Twenty minutes,” Orion muttered as Sycamore Dorning got to his feet with glass in hand. “I will put up with this nonsense for another twenty minutes, and then I’m taking my new wife away for a few toasts made in private.”
“Surely nobody can offer twenty minutes’ worth of toasts?”
The toasts lasted nearly twice that long, and when Orion was inclined to let good manners prevail still longer over marital priorities, Ann took her new husband by the hand and stole away for many toasts made in private, only a few of them involving the finest champagne in the world.
To my dear readers
To my dear readers,
I devour well written biographies of writers from days gone by, and in the course of my reading I came across a recounting of the life of Victorian author Thomas Hardy.
His mother, Jemima Hardy (née Hand), harbored a girlhood aspiration to work in the kitchen of a fancy London club, though her ambition was never realized. She saw such a post as well above the options available to her in rural Dorsetshire, and as sufficiently remunerative that she could enjoy life in the big city. Her unfulfilled dream made enough of an impression on young Tom that when he had the chance to see London for himself, he took it.
Jemima Hardy’s wistful ambition stuck in my mind, as did memories of my childhood. My mom made dinner every night for a family of nine, and she regularly fed whatever shirt-tail cousins, neighbor children, or stray colleagues of my father’s needed a meal that day. Her dinner parties were legendary, and she collected recipes with a passion. She made sure each of her daughters had a copy of The New York Times cookbook, though among my six siblings, my brother Tom is probably the most dedicated cook.
As much as my mom knew about keeping a gang of people fed, it was my father who was the tenured professor of food science. With all due respect, Dad could just about make an edible omelet. Later in life, Mom pointed out to him that he had retired from the professorship, but she was still on KP day after day, decade after decade. He agreed to take over responsibility for half the meals, and this resulted in my octogenarian parents eating a lot of Don Bravos’ carry out fish tacos.
Which are wonderful, but still…
I got to thinking about these matters when I met Ann Pearson in The Last True Gentleman, and I already knew Orion Goddard had some tricky personal matters to sort out. So what if the colonel and the cook took a shine to each other? Wheee!
And if you’re wondering what’s up with Alasdhair MacKay and the ladies of the night… So am I! His story, Miss Delightful, is book two in the Mischief in Mayfair series. Excerpt below.
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Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
Read on for an excerpt from Miss Delightful, book two in the Mischief in Mayfair series!
Miss Delightful—Excerpt
Miss Delightful, Mischief in Mayfair, book two
Dorcas Delancey, preacher’s daughter, spinster, and do-gooder at large, has seen her late cousin’s infant son ensconced in the household of his new guardian, Major Alasdhair MacKay. The wee lad has kept Alasdhair (and the whole household) up all night for several nights running. When Dorcas visits to look in on the baby, Alasdhair all but collapses at her feet. Modern folk might say Alasdhair is prone to hypoglycemia, but Dorcas apparently thinks he’s swoony…
Mr. MacKay had switched sides of the bed, but not roused. Dorcas took the reading chair when she should have left him to slumber on in solitude.
She was merely resting her eyes when an annoyed Scottish burr roused her.
“Have they gone? I know Powell and Goddard were here, or did I dream that?”
She sat up to behold Mr. MacKay sitting up amongst his pillows, his hair sticking up on one side, his gaze disgruntled.
“Your cousins have traveled on to the Aurora Club, where they await you, though you are not to hurry to join them. A tray is on the way, and I forbid you to leave the house until you eat something.”
Mr. MacKay sank back and nuzzled his pillow. “I love it when you give me orders.”
Was he still half-asleep? “I do not love it when a grown man in otherwise apparent good health collapses in a heap at my feet. I don’t care for that at all.”
“Every woman should have a grown man collapsing at her feet in a heap from time to time. Keeps us grown men humble.”
“Mr. MacKay, you frightened me.” Dorcas hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t allowed herself to think it, but if anything happened to Mr. MacKay, where would that leave the baby John?
He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “You for damned sure intimidate the hell out of me. You are fearless, woman, and I apologize for my language, but profanity is another indication that I need to eat.”
“I am not fearless.” Far from it.
“Then you bluff exceedingly well. I ought to shave, and I refuse to do that with you glaring daggers at me.”
“Your cousins said you weren’t to bother, that they’d seen you looking far worse.”
He sighed and looked around the room as if he expected those cousins to pop out of his wardrobe. “What else did they say?”
“Not much. That you needed to eat very regularly or you got into difficulties. They weren’t worried.”
“They were worried. They are my nannies, those two. In Spain, they carried extra rations at all times…” Mr. MacKay rose, stretched, and gazed down at Dorcas. “I did not mean to frighten you, but that’s part of the nature of the beast. I don’t realize I need to eat, and then I get too muzzy-headed to think through the situation. I always come right, so please don’t fret. My cousins admonished me not to shave because when I’m peckish, my hands shake too badly to manage a razor. I could always shoot straight though.”
“I can shave you. I have shaved my father from time to time, when he’s ill, or once when he sprained his wrist. I will be careful.”
“One suspects you are always careful. Has the wee fiend gone to sleep?”
He thought of the boy, even now. “I don’t know. The nursery is quiet and I gather John enjoys a full belly.” Dorcas was always careful, because she had to be. The offer to shave Mr. MacKay was not one a careful woman would have made. Charitable, perhaps, but not careful. “Shall I shave you?”
“I’ll be fine once I eat something. You have my thanks for your concern.”
Harrison arrived then with a tray of sandwiches and a pot swaddled in a thick linen towel. Dorcas poured out, the coffee aromatic and strong.
“You are to eat before you swill the whole pot.” Perhaps she liked giving him orders, a disturbing notion.
He saluted with his cup. “A sip to revive the dying. You want to leave me some privacy, but you are worried, D
orcas Delancey, because you think I will try to back out of my promise to house John here for the next fortnight.”
She resorted to making the bed, the only bit of busyness available. “I am more concerned you forgot that you made that promise. You were half-swooning at the time.”
“And yet, you badgered me into an agreement. I admire your tenacity.” He consumed a sandwich and poured a second cup of coffee, this time adding cream and honey.
“Swoony men should not be held to account for their delirious declarations.”
“I do not swoon,” he said. “I grow light-headed. I become vertiginous. I am prone to syncope—a French doctor patching up British troops taught me that one—and presyncope, but I do not swoon. Perish the thought.”
Dorcas went to the wardrobe and began laying out a suit of morning clothes. “You fell upon me. I could not stop you from collapsing. You must promise me to leave the nursery to Timmons tonight. She can sing as well as the next person, while you cannot… lactate.”
“My dear Miss Delancey, you are blushing.”
I am not your dear anything. “Have another sandwich.”
He did, this one disappearing more slowly. “Now, I can tell I’m hungry, but this will hold me for the present.” He rose and surveyed the outfit Dorcas had chosen.
“I would not have paired that mulberry waistcoat with a blue morning coat.”
“Too showy? A touch of gold—cravat pin, cufflinks, watch chain—will pick up the gold embroidery in the waistcoat. You must have a care with your appearance to reassure your friends that you are back on your mettle.”
He stood improperly close, but then, what was propriety when she’d offered to shave him? When she’d seen him snoring on the floor? When she’d badgered him—his word—into keeping John here for the next two weeks?
“You put me back on mettle,” he said, “and I state only the somewhat surprising truth.”
Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One Page 30
