Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

City of Philadelphia,

1816

The sun set behind the forest bordering the Schuylkill River. The water ran quietly, barely causing a ripple on the wide surface. Even though it was late in autumn, the riverbanks had swelled to their highest point of the year, thanks to heavy, cold rains all through October and early November. A few miles downstream, those waters would join the much wider Delaware at a point south of the bustling city of Philadelphia. But here, the city seemed far away. It was easy to imagine that the house was alone in the wilderness.

Standing on the wide porch of his home, which he had named Northwind, Noel Forrest watched the color draining slowly from the sky. The now-bare trees were only charcoal strokes, dark against the vivid sunset. At one time in his life, he would have grabbed his box of oils or his pencils, intent on recording the spectacular display of the sky onto a page in his sketchbook. But he hadn’t been attracted to such colors in years.

“Mr Forrest?” a voice called.

Noel turned back to where a young man stood at the open doorway. “Yes, Emmanuel?”

“Your guests have all gone. I see you didn’t eat anything at dinner. Again.”

“I ate,” Noel protested.

“You lifted your fork a few times. That’s not eating.”

“Don’t bully me.”

“But I’m so good at it, sir.” Emmanuel grinned as he spoke, softening the reprimand. “After all, I’ve been practicing since I was fifteen.”

That was true. Emmanuel Marley was a free Black man who had volunteered for the most recent war as soon as it became clear that Britain would not lightly accept the sovereignty of the new and fragile United States. By chance, Emmanuel had served under Forrest for the duration of the conflict, and then—since the war’s end—in a private capacity as his personal secretary.

“So will you eat something?” Emmanuel pressed.

Noel gave him a long-suffering glare, which had no effect on his friend whatsoever. “If a plate is left out, I’ll eat. Eventually. Probably.”

“A plate of what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think that’s part of the problem, sir,” Emmanuel noted. “Food should be desired, not merely consumed.”

Sighing, Noel walked back into the house, following Emmanuel’s footsteps, though with a markedly different gait. He could walk short distances without a cane now, which ought to feel like a triumph.

But then, even as he had the thought, his lungs began to protest the mild exertion and he slowed his pace. He didn’t want to reach the dining room unable to speak without wheezing. He was thirty-six, not sixty-six.

His physician said he was more or less recovered from the worst of the injuries he suffered during the war, and even the lingering illness that had settled in his lungs during the harrowing winter before he was discharged. But he didn’t feel recovered. He felt like he was only half living. Ever since he fell ill, now nearly three years ago, food tasted bland. Wine and spirits were dull on his tongue. The result was that he barely ate, even though Dr Mall implored him to.

Dr Mall, being a friend as well as his physician, had actually been at dinner tonight. He was probably the person who pushed Emmanuel to bully Noel about eating (not that Emmanuel needed much pushing). The dinner party had been held as a sort of adventus hibernium , a convivial occasion to mark the beginning of the holiday season, as well as an acknowledgment that, with the coming of winter, travel would be difficult and they might not get many opportunities for festivity until spring.

To make the most of the event, Noel had ordered his household to decorate Northwind with holiday style. There were swags of holly and ivy at the mantels of every fireplace. Wreaths of boxwood and evergreen had been accented with satin bows of rich red or gold or snowy white. There were piles of pomanders—imported oranges with whole cloves pushed into the rind in tidy patterns, a task that doubtless left the maids with hands sticky from the juice and smelling of citrus and spice.

In the main parlor where guests gathered after the meal, there was even a small pine tree hung upside down from the ceiling, decorated with little ornaments of shiny gold paper in the shape of angels and stars, and garlands of ribbon. Noel was dumbfounded when he first saw it, but his housekeeper, a stout woman of German descent, informed him that this was how her people celebrated the season (with the unspoken commentary that the rest of the world would do well to emulate the practice if they wished to not lag behind). Since Noel knew that Philadelphia boasted a large population of German immigrants, he decided that such a decoration might make them feel at home.

He liked entertaining, in fact. And if he wasn’t so damned ill, he’d do it far more often. Northwind was a gigantic house, built before the war had tossed all his plans for life overboard, and it felt far too empty most of the time.

Emmanuel recalled him to the conversation with a slight hurumpf .

“If you’re going to pick at your supper, then at least consider dessert. Dr Mall left this for you,” Emmanuel said, presenting a box to Noel. “He meant to give it to you personally, but he’d forgotten it in the carriage, and only just noticed as he and his wife were climbing back in. He gave it to me with a stern warning to give it to you as soon as possible.”

“What is it?”

“Chocolates, I suspect. I recognize the name of the shop. Popular…and not cheap.”

Noel took the box, loath to show any disdain for a well-meant gift. “Please remind me to write him a note of thanks tomorrow. I’m going to my studio for a while.”

“You can’t paint in the dark.”

“I can’t paint in the light either,” Noel said with grim humor. “So there’s no real loss.”

Noel didn’t go to his art studio, though. He remained where he was after his friend left. Why go into the room just to confront all the half-finished, disappointing efforts he’d made? Nothing was the same since the war. Not even painting, his favorite pastime, gave him any joy.

The fire now burned low, but the candles remained bright and glowing in their sconces. He looked at the little box in his hand, then lifted the lid. Half a dozen confections nestled inside. They looked good, he admitted to himself. Perfectly shiny chocolate coatings, with exquisitely presented hints of some of the flavors within: a slivered almond, a little orange icing flower, a fresh green mint leaf, sugared so that it looked as though it was covered in frost.

He picked up the one in the corner, topped with the sliver of almond. Not bad , he thought, biting down through a dense center under the chocolate. Was it marzi ? —?

Flavors exploded on his tongue. This was no mere marzipan. The richness of almonds had been ground into a meltingly sweet paste with only a hint of sugar and…was that coffee ? Who thought of that combination?

The bitter edge of black coffee surged through the marzipan layer, waking up his senses, making him… hungry .

For the first time since he could remember, he was actually hungry. Salivating. Eager.

He finished the marzipan in two bites, rolling the taste of it around his mouth. I need whiskey , he thought. Whiskey would pair perfectly with the treat.

He walked over to where the bottles were kept and poured one finger’s worth into a glass. He took a drink. Lord, he was right. The whiskey tingled on his tongue. It was nothing to do with the proof and everything to do with that unexpected, possibly unreal flavor.

With a pang, he realized there were only five more sweets in the box, and none of them looked like the marzipan one.

What if they were terrible? What if he would never taste that flavor again?

Feeling half-mad with sudden hunger, Noel returned to the box and pulled out another candy. He took a bite. Orange. Orange bright as a summer sunrise hid beneath that dark chocolate layer. The texture was light, teasing. A sort of sponge cake, soaked in liquor.

He didn’t need another drink. He needed more of these incredible flavors. He picked up the third piece. Caramel. Smooth and rich, creamy and sweet without cloying. Just thick enough to bite into with relish, but then it melted away, all too soon.

Half gone. He just got the box! He grabbed the next piece. Raspberry. Somehow this magician found what tasted like fresh raspberries—in November —and doused them in some whipped, sugary…no, honey-filled crème. This wasn’t fair.

The fifth piece was deceptively simple. Just a perfect half of a walnut smothered in chocolate. No, not just chocolate. Salty, milky, marvelous chocolate.

Noel stared in consternation at the last piece. He should save it.

At least until tomorrow.

At least for half an hour.

At least until the taste of the previous piece faded.

He didn’t. He snatched the final piece out of the box as if someone might steal it from him. Feeling almost frightened, he bit down.

Mint. Perfect, sweet, clean, winter-bright mint mingling with the night-black chocolate.

Heaven. And hunger-inducing. He rang the bell.

The footman appeared immediately. “Sir?”

“Did Emmanuel tell Cook to keep some of that lamb from supper?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“Bring me a plate. And some of whatever else is in the kitchen. Those soft rolls she always makes. And the rice. Maybe some of that apple compote.”

“Yes, sir!” Not bothering to hide his surprise, the footman hurried to fulfill the request.

While he waited for the food to be brought out, Noel picked up the lid of the box again, reading Holliday’s Finest Quality Confections.

Finest quality? Hell, yes, they were. First thing in the morning, he’d ask Emmanuel to get more.