Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As he promised, Mr Forrest did hold a party about a week later, which definitely required the skills of both Beatrice and Ivy. While his own household staff took care of the main dishes, all the desserts and treats had been created by Beatrice. The two ladies arrived at Northwind in plenty of time so they could be ready well before the start of the afternoon’s festivities.

Beatrice thought the place was enchanting. The wide lawn swept from the house down the steep decline to the riverbank. Though the sun had been up for hours, frost still sparkled on the grass, which was defiantly green even into winter.

“My goodness,” Ivy murmured, looking at the three-story house, which was quite new, perhaps only ten or fifteen years old. “All that for one man! It must be terribly lonely.”

“He has a household, and people like Mr Marley,” Beatrice said, repressing her natural sympathy.

“Yes, but no family.” Ivy felt strongly about family, being part of a large one herself.

“Well, it will be busy enough today,” Beatrice said as the carriage came to a halt.

The household staff had obviously been instructed to cooperate fully with them, though everyone was genuinely friendly (which was not always the case). The German housekeeper seemed especially interested in the food they brought, and they had a lively conversation about the various methods of preserving fruits, of all things.

The party began and it was indeed well-attended. Beatrice recognized several important people of the city’s elite.

One man came up to her and introduced himself as Dr Mall. “You know, I gave him a box of your chocolates not too long ago. I’d practically given up hope that he’d start eating properly again, but it seems to have been the spark. Ha, ha, just proves that one must try every avenue! Perhaps I’ll write an article for a medical journal about my successful prescription!”

“I’m pleased to have helped a patient,” Beatrice said, amused at the doctor’s obvious pride in his “cure.”

She and Ivy were kept busy replenishing platters with treats—people seemed to snap them up as soon as they saw them. Eventually, Bea took a moment to find a quiet spot. She never liked crowds, and she’d been in the midst of one for hours.

As she walked down the unfamiliar hallways, curiosity got the better of her. She peeked into several rooms, noting that Mr Forrest’s style tended toward simplicity, though never plainness. She’d spent far too many nights thinking about Mr Forrest, what he liked or disliked, and his honey-gold eyes. And the way he’d kissed her hand.

She walked on. At the entrance to one door, though, she was so surprised that she walked right in before she realized her transgression.

It was a studio, set up for painting. One wall, facing north, was nearly all glass doors, which provided a flood of indirect light. There were also dozens of paintings of different sizes, but all in unfinished states, clustered against the walls and the cabinets, as if begging to be completed.

Footsteps sounded behind her, along with the tap of a cane. “What do you…” Mr Forrest stopped short in the doorway. “Oh. Miss Holliday. I don’t allow people in here,” he said.

“I don’t allow people in my kitchen,” she countered, “and that didn’t stop you .”

He smiled. “Fair point.” He came in, resting the cane against a table.

“This is your studio?” she asked. “You painted everything in here?”

“Most of it’s old. I wasn’t painting much for a long while.” He gestured to a dark seascape. “And what I did work on I never finished.”

Beatrice considered the nighttime scene. It depicted a narrow beach with craggy hills rising up behind it. A few small figures gathered around the wreck of a ship. The only light in the painting was a moon half-hidden by clouds, and the tiny lanterns held by the figures as they looked for survivors. It was not hard to sense the desperation and despair in the picture.

“Is this something you saw personally?”

He shrugged. “A composite of my memories and others’ stories. The key thing about painting is that most of it’s a lie. It’s not a literal rendition, but rather something we create to improve on the world or to show something no one really could have seen. Not that it matters. I won’t ever finish it.”

“It looks finished to me,” she said. “What remains to be done?”

“Not much. But there’s no point in completing it. No one wants such dismal work, and that’s mostly what I’ve done since the war.”

“Why not paint something more cheerful?”

“I have, in a way.” He led her to his work table, where a number of tiny pieces lay face up. Each one featured a dominant color, though no obvious subject. “These are experiments. I started them not long after I met you, actually. I forgot how intense colors could be.”

She followed him, but then stopped, seeing something out of the corner of her eye. “What’s that?”

“What?” He followed her gaze. “Oh. Damn. I meant to destroy that.”

Beatrice got to the painting before he did, and picked up the image that had attracted her.

“It’s only a study. Just a sort of sketch, really,” he said hastily as Beatrice gazed at the piece. “I’ve been experimenting, trying more colors. But it’s just for practice. It’s nothing.”

“It’s me,” Beatrice said. It was her, but not prim and proper. Not past her prime. It was Beatrice as she sometimes dreamed she could be—beautiful.

“How did you do this?” she asked. “You haven’t spent more than five minutes with me face-to-face. And you certainly weren’t sketching me when you were at my shop!”

“No.” He looked distinctly abashed, as if he’d been caught in mischief by a superior. “The day we met, later…I was here in my studio. I just mixed some colors and started working. I didn’t mean to paint you. It just…happened.”

“It’s remarkable. You did this without even looking at me. What would you do if I’d been sitting there?”

“As if you’d ever pose for a painting. You’re a lady.”

“Ladies get their pictures painted all the time.”

His voice dropped. “Not the way I’d want to paint you.”

Beatrice blinked in surprise, and then felt a warmth creeping up her body. Did he mean what she thought he meant? “Excuse me?”

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.” He actually blushed. His unexpected embarrassment was charming.

Emboldened, Beatrice said, “Honestly, Mr Forrest. I trained in Paris with French chefs for eight years. At this point, my credentials as a lady are in tatters. And honestly, do you think cooking was the only thing I learned?”

After a beat of surprise, he gave her a glance that could only be described as flirtatious. “I should like to hear more about that.”

Dear Lord, she may have started something she ought not to. Flirting with a customer was poor practice. (Even if that customer happened to paint her image without her permission!)

“You want to hear of my dissolute youth? As a former soldier, you surely heard enough of such stories. Yet you want more?”

“What I want, Beatrice, is to taste you.” His voice was low, and held a rasp that hadn’t been there before. She watched him swallow, and realized that he was nervous.

There was no possible way she could let him kiss her.

He leaned in and tipped her chin up with one finger, then laid his mouth on hers, sucking gently on her lower lip. Bea whimpered as her nerves blossomed with expectation. She’d not had such a kiss in a long, long time.

“You taste marvelous,” he murmured.

“I had to test the chocolate sauce in the kitchen,” she explained, even as he parted her lips with his tongue, delving in for a divine moment.

He withdrew, but only to say, “Delicious. I approve of your commitment to your art.”

“It’s baking. It’s not art.”

“It is art, and I would know.” He kissed her again, more deeply. Bea responded as the need built inside her. She wrapped her hands around his upper arms and pulled him closer.

Oh, Lord .

He closed the kiss—if a slow slide of his tongue along her lower lip could be thought of as closure—and said, “Better than the marzipan.”

Though her heart was fluttering, Beatrice got out, “I…I ought to see to the food. That’s why I’m here, after all.”

“Ivy seems like an extraordinarily capable young lady.” He laid a series of open-mouthed kisses along her neck. “And I’m rather enjoying…what’s that word the French use when they serve those things that aren’t any bigger than a bite? The ones that just make you hungry for more?”

“ Amuse-bouche ,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It means delight the mouth . They are intended to whet the appetite for the later courses.”

“Mmm, perfect, then. Because you are the most appetizing amuse-bouche I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m far bigger than a bite.”

“Good, because I’d hate to finish you too quickly.”

“We’re finished now,” she insisted, aware that if he kissed her one more time, she was liable to forget there were dozens of people in the house and do something she’d regret.

“Please stay,” he murmured. Those gold eyes promised a feast of pleasures.

“Noel. Mr Forrest, that is. I can’t do this,” she told him, drawing on reserves of iciness that were melting far too quickly. “Have you forgotten? I’ve work to do.”

“I forget nothing about you.” He sighed, and stepped back, then gestured to the door. “My house is yours, Miss Holliday. Please do whatever you wish.”

If she did whatever she wished, she’d scandalize the whole city. Bea fled the studio, her body singing with long-dormant desires.

Noel had to take a moment to get himself together after Beatrice returned to the kitchen.

Do you think cooking was the only thing I learned?

Was she trying to tempt him? She tossed off that little line with such ease, seeming not to care how provocative it sounded. Now his mind was full of questions about the rest of Beatrice’s “education.” He was wildly jealous of whoever got the gift of educating her, of tasting her. Her kisses suggested quite an education.

He was letting his imagination run wild, newly obsessed with the desire to get closer to Beatrice.

Eventually, he rejoined the party, and soon a guest came up to him, one of Beatrice’s elegant pastries in hand. “Spared nothing on food, did you, Forrest? Her ladyship outdid herself this time.”

Noel blinked in confusion. “Her ladyship?”

“Have you not heard?” The guest’s voice dropped. “Miss Holliday isn’t really Miss Holliday. She’s the daughter of some baron or viscount. Lady Beatrice Something-or-Other. Holliday’s only one part of her name, and not the recognizable part.”

“If that’s true, why is she baking in the back of a Philadelphia shop?”

“Some family squabble,” another guest joined in. “She jilted the man she was to marry. Or something to that effect.”

Noel frowned. Beatrice didn’t seem the type of woman who treated anything lightly. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“I heard the story from a reliable source. You know, once an Englishman came into her shop and recognized her. Called her my lady .”

“What happened?” Noel asked.

“She tossed him out, and then tossed a cake in the street right after and told him it was on the house. Not a woman keen to keep in touch with her old circles, I’d say.”

“Waste of a cake,” the first guest noted mournfully.

Noel had to think about the news for a minute. What caused a woman to give up her family name and station to start over on another continent? What secrets was Beatrice hiding?

When the early winter evening had already darkened the sky, Beatrice and Ivy surveyed the remains of the food. The party was over, and nearly everything had been devoured.

“I have to admit, this all went very well,” said Ivy. “If we had an event of this size to cater each month, the shop hours could be reduced.”

“Why would we want that?”

Ivy looked over at her, slightly exasperated. “The prospect of a day to yourself doesn’t appeal to you? You work far too much, and don’t pretend you rest of a Sunday. I know you sneak work in even then.”

Beatrice shook her head. “The shop must stay open. I’ll not trust my financial future to the vagaries of Philadelphia’s social season.”

“But life requires sweetness as well as sweat,” Ivy argued. “And why drive yourself so hard that you lose sight of what drives you? You love cooking and making others happy with what you’ve created. But if it becomes a burden, you’ll lose that joy. You deserve joy, Miss Beatrice.”

Bea blinked in surprise at her companion’s impassioned speech. Did she deserve joy? Before she could reply, Ivy was already motioning her to keep silent. “Mr Forrest!” she said cheerfully as he approached. “We were just saying what a success it’s been. I trust you’re satisfied?”

At the word satisfied , Beatrice felt her cheeks flush. But Noel only said, “Everything went better than I hoped. Miss Shepherd, would you be kind enough to tell Mr Marley how he can help you pack up? I’d like to speak to Miss Holliday for a moment.”

Ivy nodded and moved away.

“Yes?” Beatrice asked, trying desperately not to remember his kisses earlier.

“What would happen,” he asked, looking her over carefully, “if I addressed you as Lady Beatrice?”

Oh, no, not this again. “I would be unlikely to answer,” she said, keeping her tone cool.

“Because it’s incorrect?” he asked more pointedly.

“No,” she ground out. “You would be correct. But also upsetting me.”

“Well, then I’ll be careful not to say any such thing.”

“Have you been asking about me?”

“One of my guests happened to mention it. You’ve intrigued more people than me, it seems.”

“Well, please enjoy speculating on my past, then.” Beatrice turned away, angry at the thought of being the subject of gossip. Again. Not even being on a different continent seemed to stop it!

“I can’t tell if I actually offended you,” said Noel, “or if you just don’t react well to the truth.”

“What does it matter?” she burst out.

“It matters to me.” His voice was quiet, but his eyes never left hers. “If something happened to you that was so serious it caused you to change your name, I want to know what that was.”

“Why?”

“I want to understand you.”

She took a steadying breath. What did that mean? She thought of the painting he’d done of her, sight unseen. That was a perfect example of how shockingly well he seemed to understand her, seeing her as she secretly desired to be seen.

But that didn’t mean she was ready to reveal her past to him. “You must permit a lady her secrets, sir.”

“I can’t force you to tell me anything,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. She pulled it away. The last thing she needed from Noel was pity.

He saw her move and retracted his hand. And with an expression that was far too close to pity, he said, “All I wanted to say, Miss Holliday, was that if you should ever want to tell me anything, I would like to hear it.”

“I heard you endured torture during the war. Why should you wish to torture yourself more by listening to me?” Bea retreated into bitterness, as she always did, and she couldn’t look Noel in the eye.

Soon everything was packed and Forrest’s coach was ready to take them back. Two chestnut horses stamped their hooves on the frosted ground, their breath steaming in the cold air. Ivy accepted a last crate from Emmanuel, and Noel came out to the coach as well.

It was all so cozy and domestic that Bea wanted to run straight back to her home and put a blanket over her head.

“We have to go,” she announced. “We’re late enough already, and I know Mr Forrest will place an order for more chocolates tomorrow.”

“Mmm, not tomorrow. Or for the next few days, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh?” Bea raised an eyebrow, aiming for a nonchalant air.

“I have some business in New Jersey,” he explained. “A small matter that doesn’t really even require my personal attention, but needs must. I will be gone for about three nights, a fact which annoys me greatly.”

Beatrice looked with a bit of confusion toward Mr Marley. “Forgive me for asking, but wouldn’t that be exactly the sort of task for a secretary to handle?” Why else would Noel have hired him?

“Not in this case. Mr Marley has a policy, you see,” Noel said with a faint smile. “Tell her,” he encouraged his secretary.

Emmanuel looked directly at Beatrice. “New Jersey is a slave state, ma’am. And I do not set foot in slave states.”

“Nor should anyone,” Ivy agreed, her normally smiling face now stern. “No matter their race.”

“But it’s just across the river!” Beatrice protested, confused. “It’s still the United States, is it not?”

Mr Marley said, “I’m afraid that you’ve been so focused on your own business, Miss Holliday, that you’ve likely not been able to pay much attention to our politics. As things stand now, each state has the power to endorse the institution of slavery…or abolish it. That compromise was the cost of getting the Southern states to agree to the new federal government, without which the new nation would have failed before it truly began.”

“Insanity,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “How can it be illegal on one riverbank, but not on the other?”

“The better question, ma’am,” Emmanuel said, “is how can slavery be legal anywhere? It is immoral no matter where on Earth it occurs.”

Noel nodded, adding, “I respect my friend’s position, and recognize that it is not just a philosophical matter for him. While I occasionally do need to go to New Jersey, I will never make him go there until they abolish the institution. Especially because it would be an unnecessary danger.”

“Danger?” Bea echoed.

“It’s a risk for even free Blacks like us to travel to slave states,” Ivy explained to Bea. “There are endless stories of free people being captured and sold down south as slaves. Once they’re there, it’s almost impossible to locate them. Their names are changed, and they often get resold.”

Beatrice felt sick. To think that this was happening practically under her nose and she had no idea at all.

Ivy put a hand on Emmanuel’s arm. “I’m proud of you for standing up for what’s right.”

“Don’t be too proud,” he said, speaking loud enough so Bea could hear him. “It’s personal preservation as well. My mother was a slave in the Carolinas. She took me on the journey north when I was just a baby, even though it would have been easier and safer to go alone. Technically, I’m still considered a slave, though I’m sure her former master assumes we both died long ago. But according to the laws of the country, he could still claim me as his property. That’s why she changed both her name and mine when she got here. Emmanuel was the name of the last family that sheltered us in Maryland, before we reached Philadelphia. She named me for them, as a reminder of how I got here. So you can see why I’m careful not to draw the attention of the catchers.”

“That will never happen!” Ivy declared, not in disbelief, but rather as a proclamation.

“I am doing my best to make sure of that. Luckily, Mr Forrest supports me in this. Many employers wouldn’t.”

Noel looked a little choked up as he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The least I can do, after what you did for me.”

Bea watched the scene, feeling quite at sea. What else had she missed, lost in her own kitchen amid spun sugar and buttercream?

Ivy and Emmanuel were talking earnestly, moving away from the carriage as they did so. Noel pulled Bea aside. “Let the two chat,” he suggested in a low voice. “Emmanuel has spent the last few years with only a cranky invalid for company. He deserves some joy for himself.”

“Have you none?” she asked, then checked herself. It was far too intimate a question, even if they had been rather intimate earlier. “I’m sorry, I have no right to pry. Especially when I refuse to speak of my own life.”

“You have your reasons, I’m sure, Beatrice. But to answer your question, I have more joy than I did a month ago,” he said with a sly smile.

“Oh?”

His smile widened. “I’m starting to paint again. That’s something, isn’t it?”

He was teasing her. She knew it, and she liked it.

“I have a suggestion,” she said suddenly. “You said you were working with particular colors to improve your skills. I’ll do the same, so long as you promise to keep pursuing your painting.”

“How?” he asked, confusion knitting his brows. “You’ll only bake red things?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll focus on a particular ingredient. Name me what you want to taste, and the next order will feature it. A sort of challenge. For us both.”

He looked at her, his eyes kindling. “Intriguing. But I’d hate to think that you’re working on something else, beyond what you already do all day.”

“What’s one more thing?” she said, impatiently brushing his objection aside. “I can manage.”

“Yes, you manage everything quite well,” he said. “But sometimes I wonder if you take time to actually enjoy your life.”

Bea blinked in surprise. While she did find herself rather overwhelmed by the demands of her business, she didn’t think it was so obvious. “I thank you for the concern, but I won’t mind because this change will be enjoyable. Tell me what you want first.”

“Very well.” He paused, thinking, instinctively licking his lips. “Coffee.”

“Done.” Beatrice smiled. Coffee would be easy.

Then he handed her a small package. “Oh, one more thing. Please accept this.”

“What is it?” she asked, taking the flat package.

“A thank-you for making this gathering a success.”

“Noel, I can’t. Not after being so rude to you. Again.”

“Take it. It would be rude not to.” His smile warmed her.

At home that night, she unwrapped the package. Under the paper was a small, unframed painting. It was very simple: a partially sliced lemon resting on a dark wooden surface.

But he hadn’t really painted a lemon. He’d painted tang and tartness and bright Mediterranean sunlight. Somehow he captured a drop of juice about to fall, so real that she wanted to catch it on her finger and taste it.

Something about the painting felt very personal, as if it was a message for her alone. But that was nonsense. He simply mentioned that he’d begun using colors again, and was testing his skills with easy pieces. Well, his skills were impressive. All his skills.

Beatrice propped the little canvas up on her dresser so she would see it again in the morning. If he asked, she would definitely not tell him which room she kept the painting in. He might get ideas…