Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Christmas drew closer day by day, and Beatrice continued to work harder than ever at the shop. It was counterintuitive, but she most looked forward to Noel’s next challenge, so she could devise an entirely new treat. Though it should have felt like more work, it instead felt like a game.

She made a crème de cassis–laced sponge cake with cocoa dusted over the top.

He liked that.

She made a flaky pastry filled with a paste of toasted almonds and orange zest.

He liked that.

She made a torte with a strawberry and whipped cream center.

He liked that.

In fact, Noel liked everything she made, and told her that he was beginning to suspect that she was using magic. “Nothing can taste this good without some sort of supernatural aid,” he said.

“It’s not supernatural,” she chided him. “It’s French. I spent nearly a decade there. Not just baking, but other cooking as well. Someday I’ll serve you my blanquette de veau. After years in the kitchen, I was bound to learn something.”

“I agree. You learned magic.”

“Not any more magical than your paintings. If you handed me a brush and a box of paints, I’d only make a mess. You can create scenes that I want to step into, or things I could swear I could reach out and pick up.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “Only because I spent years at it.”

Beatrice put her hand on his arm. “Precisely.”

Her gesture brought her close to Noel, and he put his hand on her own. “So you’re recommending perseverance?” he asked.

“I, ah…” Beatrice faltered as she found herself looking directly into his eyes. “In the realm of painting, and baking, yes.”

He smiled a bit. “In no other realm?”

“I’m not qualified to say.” Why did he look so…delectable…when he smiled like that? She fought a sudden urge to laugh.

“I think it’s time I tell you what I truly want, Miss Holliday.”

“Yes?” she asked, her breath hitching.

“Honey. Your challenge for next time is honey.” He stepped away from her. “And you should tell me what to do.”

“I should?” she asked faintly. There were so many things she’d like him to do.

“Yes. My assignment, for painting.”

“Oh.” She was far too distracted to think clearly. “You should paint…something you can’t see.”

“Challenging, indeed.” He wrapped up the painting on the table and tucked it under his arm. “Till next week, Miss Holliday.”

“I look forward to it, Mr Forrest.”

“Not as much as I do.”

When he left, Beatrice leaned back against the wall. The heat in her cheeks had nothing to do with the oven.

The next day, Beatrice waited for Noel to arrive. She could scarcely work, she was so eager to see him. She was becoming quite unreasonable about him, and hoped she wasn’t making a fool of herself.

Noel appeared on time, though he looked a bit distracted. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay,” he said. “I have to continue on down to the river and catch my ship before it sails.”

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to New Jersey again, which means, of course, that Mr Marley is remaining here. But north, so I can’t simply cross to Cooper’s Ferry and be done with it. Trust me, missing whatever you’ve made is going to haunt me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Beatrice sensed a distance in Noel’s attitude, very different from his usual demeanor.

“But I wanted to be absolutely clear about what I want for next week,” he went on.

“You’re always quite clear,” Beatrice said, masking her disappointment that he couldn’t stay now.

“Next week is important,” Noel began. “I’m having a small Christmas Eve dinner, you see. What you contribute will be the most important part.”

“All right. So what is the ingredient you wish to have for it?”

“Just this.” He handed her a folded paper. Always before, he’d simply told her.

“The dinner takes place on Saturday evening. Around five would be a good time to arrive. Farewell, Miss Holliday.”

Noel left, as if swept away by winter wind, though Emmanuel stayed.

“New Jersey again,” Beatrice said, not really thinking of anything in particular.

“Yes,” Emmanuel supplied, ever helpful. “He’s finally well enough to visit the family that hosted him during his captivity. They are spending the winter in New Jersey, of all places, not far from New York City. He promised the young lady—Isabel, she’s called—that he’d visit when he could. They’ve corresponded ever since he left Halifax, but he hasn’t seen her since then. And now he can!”

Emmanuel looked so happy at this announcement that Beatrice just stayed stone quiet. No one knew how she felt about Noel, so why should they be concerned when her heart was slowly cracking?

Noel was returning to the place where he’d been held captive, to the person he remembered most fondly during his captivity.

Isabel.

Bea turned away, fleeing to the kitchen. She found it hard to breathe, hard to stay upright. He’d flirted with her, teased her, played with her. And then left the first moment he could.

She’d almost forgotten the paper in her hand, the one Noel gave to her as if it were a playful little game. Unfolding the paper, she frowned, not understanding the message for a long, long moment.

Then she understood everything, all too well.

Flames of indignation flickered inside.

Beatrice crumpled the paper and tossed it into the dustbin behind the counter, vowing to never trust a man again.

No one else ever read that paper. Ivy carried out the rubbish every evening, and that paper would soon be burned.

But if someone could read it, they would see only a single word: Beatrice .