Page 27 of Miss Delectable
Before leaving his house, Rye had debated whether to pluck the last blooms from the rosebush in his garden. His French roses were bedraggled this late in the season, but Miss Pearson had remarked their scent. He’d not brought the roses—bad enough he’d brought the picnic basket—but apparently, asking Ann Pearson to taste his wine was a finer gift even than exotic roses.
“You wantmeto taste your wine?”
“I very much do. Your palate is refined, your knowledge of cuisine sophisticated. I am but a soldier who happened to inherit vineyards and farms. I made changes to my cousins’ wineries, and one wants… That is… I think I have made improvements, but my opinion is hardly expert.”
“Open the bottle,” Miss Pearson replied, her smile fading. “I promise you honesty, Colonel, but if a tasting is your ulterior motive, what was your main objective?”
Rye’s folding knife included a corkscrew. He extracted the knife from his boot and tended to the wine.
“You come armed to a picnic,” Miss Pearson said.
“I come armed nearly everywhere. I have enemies, Miss Pearson. Their preferred weapon lately is gossip and tattle, but they might tire of wounding with a thousand whispers and resort to more expeditious means of seeing to my ruin.”
Miss Pearson set about arranging their feast, and she had a knack for the task. The cloths used to wrap the biscuits and tarts became table linen, the plates and cutlery a still life. When a shower of golden birch leaves drifted onto the table, the effect was perfection.
“Shall I pour?” Rye asked. “I brought the basket as a thanks for your willingness to take on Hannah’s education. The primary reason for my call is to inform you that Sycamore Dorning has agreed that the girl will be answerable to you, starting Monday. She’s to be properly articled, though we’ll start with a three-month trial period.”
“Was that your condition?”
“Dorning’s. Either you or Hannah can decide you don’t suit and abandon the arrangement without penalty.”
Miss Pearson brushed at the fallen leaves. “Monsieur won’t like it.”
“Does Monsieur ever like anything?”
She made up a plate for Rye of two tarts and a butter biscuit with a generous portion of cheese on the edge of the plate. Her hands were competent, the nails blunt and clean, a pink, irregular scar across the back of one thumb. A burn, doubtless, a hazard of her profession.
“Monsieur likes his brandy and his fits of pique,” she said. “I should taste your wine before I eat.”
Rye poured out, passed her a serving, and touched his glass to hers. “To new ventures.”
She sniffed the wine before sampling, her expression intent, as if listening to far away music. Rye ought not to stare at her as she rolled the wine on her tongue, but she was so focused on her investigation, he doubted she noticed his rudeness.
“Lovely texture,” she said. “Light, just the right effervescence. The nose has a hint of toast with butter and honey. The palate is orange with overtones of almonds.” She took another taste. “Maybe an insinuation of vanilla or orange pastry crust. I’d have to think about it.”
“Do youlikeit?”
She set down her glass. “I do, Colonel, and I would not offer you anything but the truth when it comes to food and wine. That is top-quality champagne, far above the insipid pinkish business served at the Coventry. Mr. Dorning should exert himself to acquire as much of your inventory as he can, for it would make an excellent complement to our private dinners.”
Rye wanted to toss his eye patch in the air and whoop with glee. “You truly like it?”
“You neglect your own glass, Colonel, and yes, I truly like it.”
He took a sip, not because of the fruity, toasty, vanilla whatever, but because he and Ann Pearson were in accord, andshe liked his champagne.
“I have no sophistication in polite matters,” he said, “but my champagne fortifies me. To me, it captures all the sunshine and vigor of the French countryside, the tradition and abiding resilience of my mother’s people. Joy and elegance, determination and humor. I taste that.”
“Well said,” Miss Pearson replied, lifting her glass a few inches. “You bring poetry to your picnics along with your other weapons, Colonel.”
She smiled, and for no earthly reason Rye could articulate, he chose that moment to tasteher. He kissed her on the lips, a presumption and an act of hope. France and England had both survived the wars, so had Rye.
When he was with this woman, he was glad of his victory. Battles remained to fight, but what was a soldier if not a fighter? Perhaps for a moment, he could be a little bit of a lover as well, or an affectionate friend.
Something sweet and fine.
Ann’s lips were soft and yielding, though Rye could taste surprise in her response. When he would have desisted, she cupped his cheek, her palm and fingers callused and warm.
“Whenever I sample this fine vintage,” she said, “I will recall the man who introduced me to it, and I will smile at the memory.” She caressed his cheek and brushed his hair back from his brow, then sat back.
