Page 47 of Miss Delectable
* * *
“I do not wantto go to the Coventry today,” Ann informed an enormous fluffy gray cat. “This is a first for me.” A somewhat disconcerting first for a woman who’d risen each morning, year after year, with cooking on her mind.
Boreas squinted at her from the side of the desk and went on rumbling like the autumn storms he was named for. Miss Diana and Miss Julia spoke to him freely and even invented replies from him. Ann was not quite that far gone.
Yet.
The day was brisk, the sky overcast, with no shift in light to delineate morning from afternoon. The colonel’s hip had portended cold weather, though the day wasn’t quite bitter. Worse, though, the weather was windy, giving the sullen air a bite that whistled beneath doors and rattled windowpanes.
“This should be a perfect day to spend in the kitchen,” she said as the cat began licking his luxurious fur. “I don’t want to go near the kitchen.”
Aunt Melisande’s note sat on the blotter, in this, the family parlor, not that Ann’s only family would ever think to call on her here. Aunt inquired rather directly as to when Ann would provide the next menu, and could Ann please offera few suggestionsfor the brigadier’s quarterly officers’ dinner as well?
“Time is of the essence,” Ann quoted softly. Why did that one line from Melisande’s little epistle rankle exceedingly? Not as much as the closing, though:You have your orders, my dear. Please do march out smartly! M.
A single consonant, as if such correspondence would somehow damn any who knew the author’s identity.
“As if I am the poor relation,” Ann said, running a hand over Boreas’s soft fur.
The cat looked up sharply when a solid triple thump came from the direction of the front door.
“Not Mrs. Becker,” Ann muttered. “Please not Mrs. Becker and her ailments.” Mrs. B was a widow, and she came around regularly to lord her bereaved status over Miss Julia and Miss Diana, who, in their own words, had been too sensible to get caught in parson’s mousetrap.
Ann took up a thick wool shawl and made her way to the door, dredging up a smile of welcome.
“Colonel Goddard.” Her smile became genuine. “What a lovely surprise. Do come in.”
“Miss Pearson, I hope I am not presuming. The hour is early for a call, but I know your afternoons are spoken for.”
He made no move to enter the house, and the sight of him—eye patch securely in place, bearing erect, breeze whipping his dark hair—was rendered even more dear by the fact that he held a half-dozen pinkish roses in a small bouquet. His free hand sheltered the flowers from the wind, but their perfume came to Ann nonetheless.
“From your walled garden?”
“The very last of the stragglers,” he said, still making no move to enter the house. “I thought you should have them. Their fragrance speaks more for them than does their appearance, and tonight would see them nipped, I’m sure.”
“Please come in, Colonel. The day is too brisk to chat away the morning on the doorstep.”
Humor lit his gaze, as if he knew that pragmatic speech for the sop to Ann’s dignity that it was. The scent of the flowers was luscious, even if they weren’t awash in glossy foliage, and that the colonel would bring them to her…
“I’m supposed to declare that you shouldn’t have troubled to bring me flowers,” Ann said, taking the bouquet from him, “and pretend eight more such offerings are already wilting in my conservatory, but this was very sweet of you, Colonel.”
“I have an ulterior motive.” He peered around, ever the reconnaissance officer, though Miss Julia’s and Miss Diana’s housekeeping exceeded even military standards.
“Which you make it a point to once again announce. You have little talent for subterfuge. Come to the parlor with me, and we’ll find a vase for these blooms.”
He accompanied her to the parlor, and Ann was glad that the older ladies were fanatical about the domestic arts. The room was warm, tidy, and as well lit as a parlor could be on such a dreary day. Though with Colonel Goddard on hand, the space seemed smaller, the ceiling lower.
“You trimmed the thorns,” she said, filling a vase half full of water and setting the flowers on the windowsill. “Considerate of you.”
He stroked the cat, who rose to encourage more such cosseting. “Who is this grand fellow?”
“Boreas, named for the Greek deity who brought the autumn storms. He offers us an expired rodent just often enough to maintain his credentials as a mouser. Shall I take your coat, Colonel?”
He passed Ann a gray wool scarf of exceptional softness, then set about undoing his buttons. “My grandmother knitted that scarf. The wool is from Ouessant—Ushant, to the English. A delightful little breed of sheep has called that island home since antiquity. When I was in Spain, I might have misplaced my telescope or my flask, but I would never misplace that scarf.”
Ann took a whiff, finding his signature lavender scent beneath the predictable aroma of wool. “And is your grandmother still knitting you scarves, Colonel?”
“She went to her reward before the Hundred Days, and I considered that a mercy. Most of my French relatives were enthusiastic supporters of Bonaparte, until his mad venture to Moscow. Half a million soldiers killed in a single campaign rather put a damper on the populace’s interest in further warfare. Unlike the English army, which maintains itself mostly through recruitment, the Continental forces practice conscription, which has drawbacks.”
