Page 28 of Miss Delectable
Rye wished he’d brought a second bottle. As Ann turned the discussion to the curriculum Benny would pursue, he wished he could lay his entire champagne inventory—and his heart—at Ann Pearson’s feet.
Perhaps someday, but today was not that day.
Chapter Six
Aunt Melisande’s letters to Ann from Spain and Portugal had always painted a gay and adventurous picture of life following the drum. The scenery was dramatic, the regimental entertainments frequent and merry. The battles were passingly vexatious but exciting.
Melisande had clearly been a regimental favorite, much doted upon by her husband and his fellow officers.
Even as Ann had pored over recipe books, pestered the cooks at her boarding schools, and dreamed of spun-sugar castles, she’d envied Melisande. All those gallant soldiers, all those new sights and valorous deeds…
As Ann had matured, she’d realized how little of wartime reality Melisande had conveyed in her letters. Unless Uncle Horace had been very protective, Aunt had seen death and horror, injustice and tragedy. The scent of a battlefield had to have been a nightmare.
And yet, as the leaves scraped across the sunny flagstones, and Orion Goddard refilled Ann’s champagne glass, she had reason to envy Melisande her years with the army. The colonel hadlistenedto Ann’s prattling regarding Hannah’s education. He’d held Ann’s chair for her.
He’d kissed her, and when she’d kissed him back, he’d accepted her overtures with a sweet, easy confidence that put her in mind of his French antecedents and his champagne. Heady and light, delicious and fine.
“How soon will you know if Benny has a cook’s vocation?” the colonel asked, dabbing cheese on an apple tart and setting it on Ann’s plate.
“You are eating only the one?” she asked.
“I suspect Miss Julia and Miss Diana will see to the leftovers.”
“They can afford to order their own baskets from Gunter’s, but they prefer my cooking most of the time. On occasion, my experiments are fit only for the slop pail.”
“I cannot believe that.” The colonel swiped a finger through the drizzle of apple filling crossing his plate. “Perhaps when you were less experienced, you had the rare unexpected result, but by now, you know the terrain blindfolded.”
Ann knew sauces, she was making good inroads on desserts and side dishes, but Jules jealously guarded his dominion over the roasts and entrées. Ann did not want to spend this impromptu picnic boring the colonel with a recitation of kitchen skirmishes.
He eyed his hat, as if he were thinking of making an escape.
“Tell me about your eye patch, Colonel Goddard. I suspect you don’t wear it merely to appear dashing.” Ann took a bite of tart to cover her mortification. She should never have pried like that, never have been so blunt. Fine white lines radiated from the colonel’s eye, scars so delicate they would be invisible by candlelight.
“Nobody asks,” he said, considering his wine, “but everybody stares. The tale is simple: Early in Napoleon’s military career, while he was tossing the Austrians out of Italy, his artillerymen had a few lucky shots, managing to land a mortar directly upon the wagon holding his opponent’s powder magazine. In addition to creating one hell of an explosion, he depleted the other side’s store of ammunition and raised morale on the French side. This became something of a sport among French artillerymen thereafter, to blow up powder magazines.”
“A deadly sport.”
“Warhorses become inured to much, and the mules favored by the artillerymen are even more stoic, but that much noise and mayhem… The disruption is as bad as the actual injury and destruction. I happened to witness a lucky French volley at too-close range. I raised my arm to shield my face, but was only half successful. For days, I had little hearing. For weeks, I was blindfolded.”
“Your hearing came back?”
“For the most part.”
Ann waited, hoping he’d tell her the rest of it, because clearly the tale was unfinished. She had missed the empty pleasures of a young woman of means—a London Season, flirtations, pretty dresses—and those had been easy to pass up.
But toiling away in a hot, busy kitchen night after night, Ann also missed any hope of conversations like this, personal and genuine, with a man of substance. She in fact had no real female friends either, outside of Miss Julia and Miss Diana, and suspected her weekly calls on Melisande were as much about disseminating menus and recipes as they were about maintaining a family tie.
“When a storm approaches, I have headaches on this side,” the colonel said, tapping his left temple. “I am grateful to see and hear as well as I do, because for far too long…. The wounds were slow to heal, and the surgeons kept me in the dark. The blast had knocked me off my feet, and I was nursing broken ribs and a very sore hip as well.”
Ann did not like to think of this hale, fit man condemned to a cot in some stinking infirmary tent. “How did you remain sane?”
“The army teaches a man patience, perhaps too much patience. After following all manner of daft orders for a few years, if a soldier is told to remain abed and wear a blindfold, he remains abed and wears the blindfold. I thought about my family’s process for making champagne, the grapes we use, the method of aging in the bottle. The medical officer was French-born, oddly enough, and he promised me even the damaged eye would have some sight if I behaved, and he was right.”
Ann suspected Orion Goddard had not told this tale to anybody, not even his sister. “For you, it would have been worse to lie obediently on that cot in the dark than to take on the French army with nothing but your sword.”
The colonel poured her more wine. “I am not a hero, Miss Pearson. I was simply one of many soldiers and luckier than most. The incident earned me a promotion I have never felt I deserved and might have also figured in the knighthood that even my commanding officer begrudges me.”
The second glass of champagne was as good as the first and held up easily to the food it accompanied. Some champagnes were like afternoon dresses—pretty enough, but not adequate for evening occasions. The colonel’s vintage was equal to any hour, a light midday repast or full banquet honors.
