Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The next day, Beatrice called Ivy into the office, where she was poring over the account ledgers.

“Yes, ma’am?” Ivy asked. “Do you have an errand for me?”

“Indeed,” Beatrice said, handing her a list. “These are the names of several fruit vendors with stalls on Market Street. Will you go to each of them and inquire about their prices for apples, plums, and pears, and how much they may discount the price should I buy in large quantities? I’ve written down how many pounds of each fruit we used over this past summer and fall. I expect that should be similar to next year when I will buy from them.”

Ivy looked puzzled. “But, ma’am…you already know what vendors you buy from.”

“And after our discussion with Mr Marley and Mr Forrest, it occurred to me that some of them are based in New Jersey, possibly selling fruit grown on plantations run with slave labor,” Beatrice said. “How can I know if the fruit is harvested by free people or slaves? The vendors on this list are all in Pennsylvania, which gives me more assurance that I am not accidentally supporting a position I despise.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ivy said, blinking.

“And I must apologize to you, Ivy.”

“For what, ma’am?”

“My ignorance. Mr Marley was correct to reprimand me for my failure to become acquainted with all the laws of my new home. It never even occurred to me to think about the source of my ingredients. I concentrated only on getting the best produce for the best price. I thought that, as a businesswoman, that was my sole metric.”

“Oh, you’ve been in America barely a year. And in England, slavery is already abolished.”

“So? We are not in England. My ignorance ends now. I’ve always wished to sell things that are delicious to eat. But I now realize that I must pay more attention to every aspect of production, starting with where my ingredients come from.”

“You will create more work for yourself. And you already work too much.”

“That is my choice,” Bea said, secretly wondering if Noel and Ivy had discussed her work schedule between themselves. “And now that you mention it, this is an opportunity to bring in new items to the shop—savory pastries and breads that will not require sugar at all.”

“It’s called Holliday’s Confections,” Ivy pointed out. “Customers come for the sweets.”

“Then perhaps the city needs Shepherd’s Bakery.” Bea smiled. “I know you love bread best.”

“Someday,” Ivy sighed.

As December progressed and the shop continued to be busier than ever, Mr Forrest continued to order from her. With every order, he’d request a particular ingredient. Thanks to his swift recovery and return to health, he now came in person, at the close of the day, just when Ivy was about to lock the door to the shop. And yes, there was something scandalous about the way Noel lingered after Ivy left for her now-daily walk with Emmanuel. Beatrice was an unmarried woman, unchaperoned with a man. But Lord, she was twenty-eight! And no one particularly cared what Miss Beatrice Holliday did with her life. Her reputation was tied to her tortes, not her personal conduct.

Noel didn’t overstay his welcome either. In fact, she wished he’d stay a bit longer. He looked healthier each time, though she felt too shy to tell him such a personal observation—mostly because that would reveal how much she noticed his appearance, and his transformation from almost frail to, well, distractingly fit.

Each time, he brought a loosely wrapped painting or pastel sketch to show the progress he’d made, and ask her to suggest a color or object to work on for the next time. He always offered the canvas to her, but Beatrice refused each time. “I can’t keep your work! You pay me for the food I make, but I haven’t the income to pay for art.”

“It’s a gift, then,” he said. “It’s not as if I’d sell them elsewhere.”

But Beatrice remained adamant. The only painting she kept was the tiny picture of the sliced lemon, which she looked at every day.

She did, however, work hard to prepare something new, based on each of Noel’s challenges. These treats were nothing she sold in the shop—they were experiments born solely from his suggestions, and tasted only by Beatrice and Noel, alone in the back of the shop.

That was how she discovered how a lively orange flavor could meld with the subtleness of lavender, and why a coffee-soaked cake benefited from a thin, almost hard-crack burnt sugar glaze.

One evening, Noel’s eyes slid closed as he put a forkful of cake in his mouth. He let out a sound that was almost a moan.

Beatrice smiled at his reaction, very pleased she could evoke such pleasure.

“You should sell this,” Noel said after several bites. “Only this. You don’t need to sell anything else.”

She laughed softly. “It’s a terrible candidate for a shop product. It must be assembled just before serving, or the cake will dry out and the glaze will turn soggy.”

“So I’m the only one who benefits?”

“You are, Noel.”

“I like it when you say my name.” He put his fork down. “Come over here. You should be eating this too.”

“I know what it tastes like. I taste all the ingredients at every stage.” Hence her full figure.

“It’s a matter of etiquette,” he countered. “It’s impolite of me to eat while you look on. You ought to know that, Lady Beatrice.”

“I should show you the door for that, sir.”

He chuckled as he reached out, took her hand, and drew her to him. “I like when you call me sir too.”

“I expect you do. You’re used to it back from when all the troops obeyed your every word. But if you think I’ll follow orders from you, think again.”

Noel gave her a look that sent heat whirling through her belly. “You might enjoy it.”

“That would depend on the orders,” she said, her voice a little breathy.

“Let’s start with something simple. Take a bite.”

Yes, sir , she thought, surveying his lean but sensual form. She could nibble quite a bit of him before she felt full…oh. He was lifting the fork to her mouth, the tines heavy with cake.

Beatrice accepted the offering, though it was not what she’d been dreaming of. And yes, the cake was a delight. Deep notes from the coffee, with the lively herbal tones of the fruit and flower additions…

She swallowed, and said, “I did do a rather fine job, didn’t I?”

“Magnificent.” He dragged his finger through the soft cake and the softer frosting and held it up to her lips. “Lick it off.”

It was an order, and she wanted to obey it.

She kept her gaze locked on his as she opened her mouth and bit down gently on his finger. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared as she began to suck the sweetness off him, swirling her tongue slowly to catch everything.

Noel seemed shaken when he finally reclaimed his hand. He didn’t appear to know where to look, and when he spoke, his voice was rough. “May I ask you something? It’s personal, and I know how you hate those questions.”

“Well, you may ask. I may not answer.”

“Fair,” he said. “How many marriage proposals have you turned down?”

“Ah, that is personal.” She paused, thinking. “Three.”

“Only three?”

She laughed at his tone. “Did you imagine I was surrounded by suitors?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you are quite wrong. I had a few, men who were after my potential wealth, or my social connections.”

“You’re doing your suitors a disservice.”

Beatrice sneered. “Oh, I have plenty of evidence that I’m not. One gentleman who pursued me with the most zeal always asked after my father’s health. He grew more romantic whenever he thought my father sick. I was due to inherit land upon his death, you see.”

Noel frowned. “Or he could have been concerned for your family’s health. He must have appreciated you for yourself.”

“He did enjoy my baking,” she admitted. “That was before I trained in Paris, so I can’t say I was very skilled, only enthusiastic enough to play in the kitchens. My parents never liked it, but I was a defiant girl. And Cook was indulgent.” She stopped speaking, her cheeks coloring as she recalled what happened next.

“Go on,” Noel urged.

“The gentleman proposed to me. I refused him, mostly because my mother always said a lady should not appear too eager.”

“Is that the fashion? He must have proposed again,” Noel guessed.

“Oh, he did. But not to me. He found an equally wealthy lady who was praised as having the figure of a sylph. He did request that I make the cake for their wedding breakfast. He said he’d hire me as a cook if only my class were lower and his bride would let him. Perhaps he was thinking ahead, for when he might want a midnight snack.”

Beatrice knew how bitter she sounded, but speaking about it brought all the old pain and hurt back. “It was then I decided that I’d be better off in a kitchen than a drawing room. I went to Paris the next month. My parents told me I wouldn’t be welcome back if I went, and that I shouldn’t use any title or even the family name. I obliged them.”

“Beatrice,” Noel said, “not many people would have the will to do that.”

“You mean run away?” She sighed. Then realization jolted through her. He was holding her hand , offering comfort without asking for anything in return, and she hoped he wouldn’t stop.

“I meant living an independent life,” he said. “So you never went back?”

“No,” she said. “I trained in Paris, fending off two more proposals which I wasn’t the slightest bit interested in. And then I chose to go into business for myself. The dowry was just sitting there, after all. And my parents still live in fear that I’ll suddenly reveal to the ton that I bake cakes for living, so they looked upon the money as a sort of bribe to ensure I’ll stay far away. I had to agree to never open a shop anywhere in England, of course.”

“That’s England’s loss.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Well, I don’t know what made you choose this city of all cities. But I’m glad you did.”

“What flavor is next?” she asked, trying to keep her attention from the delightful sensation of his lips on her skin.

He looked almost shy. “You want another flavor?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought you might be done with me. I pushed you further than you expected to go today.”

“Maybe, but perhaps I was being silly about not telling you. I’m not very good at being mysterious, after all. Perhaps next time, I’ll return the favor and push you.”

Desire flashed in his eyes. “I would be at your service. Literally any service you could imagine.”

“Name me a flavor, Noel,” she ordered. Lord, it was too easy to picture some services she’d like to request.

He licked his lips. “Do you have a recommendation?” He seemed to be having trouble thinking at the moment.

Beatrice gave him a sweet smile. “Rosewater. People overlook rose as a flavor. It can be cloying. But done correctly, it’s luxurious. Subtle. Smooth. Silky.”

“Christ,” he whispered.

“I’ll take that as a yes. And as for the color of your next painting…I’d like to see what you can do with pink.”

He assured her, “I can do a lot.”

For Noel’s next visit, Beatrice crafted a rosewater meringue, which floated in a dish of warmed cream, with a few icy-pink rose petals scattered over the top as a garnish.

Noel walked in and stopped short when he saw it sitting on the humble kitchen table. “That’s beautiful,” he said.

“Wait till you taste it.”

“I’d best show you my effort first, so that it’s not disappointing after what you’ve made.”

Noel unwrapped a landscape of the river at dawn, and while she’d never thought of landscapes as being pink, this one was. The snow-covered ground turned a delicate pink in the first light of day, the sky was the lightest blue, striped with long, lacy pink clouds, and even the river glinted pink. “I got up very early to see it,” he told her with a smile on his face, “so don’t say I haven’t sacrificed myself for my art.”

She was pleased by the painting. “It’s so lovely. I’m glad you chose dawn, rather than sunset.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Dawn is more hopeful, perhaps.”

Noel smiled at her. “You may be correct. Shall we sample yours?” There was a glint in his eyes.

Bea blushed. “I hope you like it.”

“Darling girl, have you ever offered anything I didn’t want to devour?”

She gave him a spoon. “Eat.”

After they’d tried the dessert, and Noel approved, Bea ventured, “You’re a war hero, they say.”

“They say a lot of things,” Noel observed. “I served up by the Canadian border and did what I could to annoy the British regulars and their allies—which suppose includes you.”

“I was in Paris by then,” she assured him, “and I must confess I wasn’t paying attention.”

He laughed. “Yes, it was a war everyone wishes to forget. But my main act of heroism was enduring captivity.”

“That’s heroic.”

“Heroism is sometimes a myth. They call me a hero, but only because there was a mistake made when I was taken. I was sent to Melville Island, which is near Halifax, along with a large number of other prisoners of war. Evidently there was an enlisted man also called Noel Forrest, and the soldiers in charge of recording all the information about incoming prisoners had put me down as him, and my uniform was so destroyed by that point that they couldn’t have noticed the emblems of rank even if they looked for them.

“I spent the first few weeks in rather, let’s say, damp quarters. There were so many prisoners that some were kept in the hold of an old ship anchored in the harbor…far enough out that it was no use jumping over the side and swimming, not with the chains we wore. It was February, and there’s no cold like ocean cold. Already wounded from the battle, I quickly took a fever and was delirious for days, and insensible for even longer. When I came to, I tried to explain that I was an officer, but they assumed I was lying to get better treatment.”

“It sounds like a nightmare!”

“That is a very close description, especially since I still had bouts of confusion, and I was sometimes sure I was dreaming.”

“How long were you held prisoner?”

“I was in the ship for a month, they tell me. It took the persistence of Mr Marley to set things straight. He never believed that his superior officer Noel Forrest had died on the battlefield, and he kept harrying the British command for details about all the prisoners taken during the battle we’d been in. He was the one who finally realized that there’d been an error in recording me as an enlisted man. To give credit, the British officer in charge of whole operation at Halifax was horrified when he learned what happened. Mistreatment of a fellow officer, matter of honor, and all that. I was treated very well from that point on. But my leg and my lungs have never been the same since.”

“And yet if you’d actually been that other soldier…”

“I’d have likely died within weeks. Death may treat all men equally, but armies rarely do.”

She paused, thinking of how a simple error in paperwork could have such consequences. “I’m so sorry to hear what you went through. You must never want to remember it.”

He said, “The ship I was first held in, which was more of a floating hulk, was called the Northwind .”

Beatrice gasped. He’d named his house after the ship where he’d been imprisoned! The place where he’d gotten sick and perhaps nearly died. And while in confinement there, he must have endured some of the darkest moments of his life.

“Why would you do that? It would be like naming a child after an enemy.”

“A house isn’t a person,” he countered. “And I felt it was important to always acknowledge that time, so I’d never take anything for granted.”

“But you did get removed from the ship eventually, yes?”

“Yes. As an officer, I was granted privileges not offered to ordinary soldiers. A British major there had nominal charge of me—Major Hemming. His family was very welcoming, considering the situation. I had the freedom to walk the whole town, provided I didn’t attempt to escape. Not that I did much walking for a long time. I spent several months in that house, or very nearby.”

“I heard the officer who housed you had a daughter,” Bea said, more tentatively.

“Yes.” Now he laughed warmly. “Isabel is her name. A truly lovely girl.”

His whole face lit up when he said the name Isabel, and Beatrice suddenly didn’t want to hear any more. Noel had claimed her efforts in the kitchens had brought him back to health. If only she were lovely too. If only she could inspire that same elation.