Page 15 of Miss Delectable
“If I used my inheritance to open a school, would that be less of an embarrassment?”
“Acookingschool?” Melisande’s tone conveyed both disdain and amusement, as if cooking weren’t a necessary daily undertaking in most households. “Were you a French chef of considerable renown, then such an enterprise would be bearable, but you are not, and you never will be.”
“French chefs can be more trouble than they’re worth. Let me know what Mrs. Bainbridge says, and please tell her I have more recipes if these won’t suit.”
“Your mother would die a thousand deaths to know what’s become of you.”
Your cook is cheating on the shortbread with lard. Your devoted brigadier has been seen at the Coventry with Emily Bainbridge clinging to his arm.
“I am content, Aunt.” A trifle lonely, truth be told, and utterly sick of Monsieur’s drama in the kitchen, but happy too. That Mama might well have been mortified by Ann’s vocation barely signified.
“You think you are content,” Melisande said, offering a plate of petits fours, “and I know what it is to be young and in thrall to silly dreams, so I turn a blind eye to your stubbornness for now. Promise me the Coventry’s guests never see you, Ann. You owe the brigadier and me, as well as your future expectations, that degree of discretion.”
“Our chef isn’t about to allow the guests to see the army of minions who turn his ideas into delicious reality.” Ann managed a sip of her tea. “The Marchioness of Tavistock has consulted me for menus.”
“She’s Mrs. Dorning now, unless somebody wants to show her undue courtesy. Her husband is your employer. Of course she consults you.”
The marchioness did not consult Monsieur, and that drove him to sniffing and pouting as badly as if his soufflé had fallen.
The point of the call had been achieved. Ann had made certain Mrs. Bainbridge had her menu and turned over another list of suggestions for Aunt Melisande’s upcoming officers’ dinner.
“If your cook has questions,” Ann said, rising, “please let me know. Some of the recipes are complicated, and she should practice them before serving them to your guests.”
“She has enough experience with yoursuggestionsby now to know that, though I must say, the results are delicious and present well.”
“Is that a compliment, Aunt?”
Melisande rose gracefully, her airs still those of the regimental darling. “I do not doubt your talent, Ann, merely your good sense. You could have married a wealthy cit and put on all the lavish dinners you pleased, but you insist on squandering your good name on sculpted potatoes. I worry about you.”
On the quiet nights, when Monsieur retired early and left the kitchen entirely in Ann’s hands, she worried too. The Coventry could be closed down with a single raid, or Monsieur could have her fired on a whim. The Dornings might sell the club, and the new owner could see the kitchen staff replaced.
Ann’s inheritance was safely invested, but Melisande was right: The post of undercook was not a certain path to fame and acclaim.
“You worry for nothing,” Ann said as Melisande escorted her to the front door. “I am happy, and my employers value me.”
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.”
