Page 42 of Miss Delectable
“She was even happier to make her first batch of butter biscuits this morning,” Ann said. “The cinnamon aroma in the kitchen, the taste of the first batch warm from the bake oven, the longing glances from the waiters and footmen… She reveled in all of it. Hannah will make an excellent cook, if early days tell the tale.”
Though they often did not. The absconding apprentice was a caricature in British humor, but all too often a reality as well.
“I am in your debt,” Goddard said, “and you are correct. My hovering presence isn’t necessary. I would invite you up to the guest parlor there to lament the weather with me, except I forgot to light the fire until you were on my doorstep, and the room is quite chilly. My office is warmer, if you can bear the slight to good manners.”
“I am too pragmatic to value manners over comfort, Colonel, and I did not surrender all of the biscuits to the children.” Then too, Ann wanted to see his office, a space where he would not normally welcome a social caller.
He’d seen her kitchen, after all.
“Cider and biscuits?” he asked, detouring into the kitchen. “Or could I tempt you to try my hot buttered rum, in deference to the weather?”
“Is the recipe yours?”
“My grandfather’s, then my father’s, and now mine.”
Ann was torn between the notion that a lady did not take strong spirits and a burning curiosity to know his recipe.
The colonel leaned closer, as if the children laughing and carrying on in the hall might overhear him. “I’d take it as a kindness if you’d say yes. My hip is predicting colder weather, and a medicinal tot would enliven my afternoon considerably.”
“In the interests of facilitating your good health, I will accept a small serving of your hot buttered rum.”
The ingredients were few and readily at hand: dark rum, butter, brown sugar, water, spices, and—Ann would not have thought to add this—a precious dash of vanilla.
“You don’t measure the spices?” she asked, itching to take notes regarding the order in which the nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice went into the mix. No ginger, which was sensible. Ginger had a pungent quality the other warm spices lacked.
“A pinch per serving,” he said, giving his melted butter-and-spice mixture a stir. “The real question is how much hot water to add, and that’s a matter of personal taste. Shall we take our drinks to my office, where we can enjoy them without the sound of pitched battle from across the corridor?”
“A happy battle,” Ann said, taking the steaming teakettle off the hearth swing. “I’d like my drink to resemble yours as nearly as possible.”
He poured off his mixture into two sizable, plain mugs. “I prefer mine at what we used to call marching strength.”
“If I’m to learn to make this concoction to serve at the Coventry, then I must acquaint myself with the version that will appeal to a robustly healthy male in his prime.”
“About as much water as rum,” he said, stepping back. “And I will cheerfully carry you home if the dose is too extreme for the patient.”
He could do it too. Toss her over his shoulder and march back to her house, there to delight Miss Julia and Miss Dianna with his manly vigor.
Ann poured the hot water into the mugs, creating the most delicious scent imaginable. Buttery heaven, redolent of exotic spices and a rich, rummy undernote.
“I will carry the drinks,” the colonel said, “and you will leave the mess for Mrs. Murphy to tidy up.”
“If Mrs. Murphy is smart,” Ann replied, leading the way to the steps, “she’ll pour a dollop of rum into the dregs of the butter mixture and make herself a midafternoon treat.”
“Mrs. Murphy is smitten.” Colonel Goddard collected the mugs and followed in Ann’s wake. “She has a swain of recent acquaintance, and I fear she will soon trade the glory of keeping my house for the joys of holy matrimony.”
“Don’t you mean the bonds of holy matrimony?”
“Left at the head of the stairs,” the colonel said. “Bonds are not always a bad thing, Miss Pearson. Soldiers who’ve bonded with their comrades will fight more fiercely than those who do battle simply to earn the king’s shilling. You are employed by a pair of siblings, and if I were to offend one Dorning brother, I have no doubt the remaining six would see me taken to task. That door,” he said, nodding. “You are sworn to secrecy regarding unpaid bills and personal correspondence.”
Colonel Goddard’s office was, like the man himself, tidy and unassuming. The scent was leather, books, ink, and a hint of pipe tobacco. A manly space, and—as promised—well heated.
“You spend a lot of time in here,” Ann said, inspecting the artwork. No military portraits or battle scenes. Instead, a landscape hung over the mantel, pastures and tilled fields under a pretty summer sky, a Tudor manor off to the side with red roses climbing halfway up one wall.
Opposite the windows hung a pair of portraits, the first of an older gentleman in the finery of the previous century. The second portrait was of two children, a boy and girl, the boy several years older than the girl. She had russet braids and a serious gaze that put Ann in mind of Jeanette Dorning. The dark-haired boy, who stood with a hand on the girl’s shoulder, bristled with mischief and high spirits.
“You were a rascal.” Ann set her reticule on the desk that faced the hearth. Two wing chairs stood between the desk and the fireplace, a hassock before one of them. “That has to be you and Mrs. Dorning.”
“Guilty as charged. My childhood was mostly happy, though I cannot say Jeanette’s early years were as sanguine as my own. I was the indulged only son, the apple of my papa’s eye. We lost our mother too soon, though that took a harder toll on Jeanette than on me. You must not let your drink get cold. I believe you promised me biscuits, Miss Pearson.”
