Page 62 of All is Fair in Love
It was an expensive gift. It bordered on extravagant. And in her world, such gifts rarely came without ties.
“I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but why?” she asked.
It was a question which she felt had to be asked. She needed to understand him, and this moment in particular.
In the short time since she had known Francis, Poppy had developed a sense of being able to read his moods. He wasn’t one who could easily hide his emotions. At times, he barely seemed able to keep them under control.
This morning, however, he appeared hesitant, almost unsure of himself. This was not a version of Francis she had encountered before now. The closest he had been to this was when he’d arrived at the warehouse the morning after the pistol incident and discovered his father happily sitting with her, sharing French toast.
Poppy’s senses clicked into self-preservation mode. They were heightened but not alarmed. She searched his face, trying to get a clearer understanding of him.
Another step brought Francis to within a short arm’s reach. “I was unkind to you when you first arrived. And while we have been able to establish a peace, I thought it only right that I offer you this gift. Please accept it with my best wishes for your future happiness here.”
Disappointment dropped like a heavy stone into Poppy’s stomach.
His gift was a peace offering. A token of his ongoing guilt over the barrels and ropes. Of course, it was.
“You didn’t have to do that, Francis. The fact that we are on speaking terms and good neighbors is more than anything I could honestly have asked for,” she replied, pushing down her unexpected sadness.
A perplexed look appeared on his face, then it suddenly cleared, and he took hold of Poppy’s hand. “I’ve made a mess of things again, haven’t I? I don’t mean this gift was something I felt obliged to do. I wanted to give it to you. It wasn’t just to say how sorry I am, but rather— to say welcome.”
Francis was an extremely tall and solidly built man. He towered over other people. But there was also a kindness about him, a surprising amount of tenderness which he now displayed to her.
As she stared up into his sky-blue eyes, Poppy remembered that morning on the wharf road when she had dropped the eggs, when Francis had hurried after her and offered his assistance. The more she got to know this man, the more convinced she was that his conduct toward her over the barrels hadn’t been true to his nature.
Something else had driven him to behave that way. She would love to know what it had been.
Her gaze dropped to where Francis still held her hand. “Thank you. This is a generous gift, and I shall treasure it always.”
“But will you use it?” he asked.
Poppy rewarded his question with a beaming smile. “Oh, yes. I have a dozen recipes already planned in my head. Not just bread, but stews and roasts. And when I can source the right spices, a good strong Ceylonese Kari.”
“Kari?”
“Or what the English call curry. It’s from the Tamil language. We ate it all the time in Ceylon. Cinnamon, black pepper, and coconut milk. I might see if I can find a good fishmonger at the market, or if not, then somewhere that sells cured tuna.”
Francis’s stomach rumbled and they both laughed.
“Have you eaten this morning? I have some bread left over. I promise I won’t press my burnt cakes upon you,” she said, taking a step back. “And I have freshly brewed coffee if you would like some.”
“Thank you. That would be nice. Where do you keep your cups?” he replied, letting go of her hand.
“On the second shelf,” she said, pointing to the nearby cupboard.
By the time Poppy had returned from the fireplace with the pot of hot coffee, Francis had collected two cups and arranged them on the table.
“Oh, and I found this. I accidently trod on it, so I would suggest it is beyond repair,” he said, holding a squashed object in his left hand.
It took a moment for Poppy to realize what the item was, then she shook her head. It was the missing sixth cake. By the look of it, Francis was right. There was nothing to be done about the poor burnt creation.
“Shall I throw it and the others into the bin? Or feed them to one of the dockside cats?” he asked reaching for the other cakes.
Poppy playfully batted Francis’s hand away. “Don’t you dare! I will cut the burnt pieces off these remaining cakes, and then eat them myself. Food onboard a ship always finds its way to the floor. There is no standing on ceremony when it comes to food. You simply scoop it up, dust off any dirt, and stuff it in your mouth.”
The chastened expression on Francis’s face told her all she needed to know. It hadn’t occurred to him that the food might be salvaged. That she would actually eat it.
This is a man who has servants to make sure his food never hits the floor.
