“Of course I know Emma Ives,” he said with bafflement. “But what has she to do with Monsieur Sabine?” Alex glanced at the chef, who had crossed his arms on his chest and was waiting like a Buddha for matters to be resolved to his satisfaction.
Christa lowered her voice and said confidentially, “Apparently he feels that Mrs. Ives is necessary to his art. He says the soufflés don’t fall as quickly and the sauces don’t curdle when she is around. So either you must persuade her to go with us to London or resign yourself to eating his cooking only when you are in Suffolk.”
When the viscount still looked puzzled, Christa shook her head in resignation. Really, men were so slow. Carefully she said, “She is a comely woman, you would agree?”
Laughter showed in Alex’s eyes as he caught her meaning. “And she has been a widow for some years now. I shall see if she is willing to go to London.”
Mrs. Ives blushed like a schoolgirl. The good lady had never been out of Suffolk in her life, but she “wouldn’t mind, if that’s what Pierre wants.” Alex and Christa exchanged a speaking glance that almost sent them both off into whoops. Pierre, indeed! Obviously something had been going on amongst the garlic ropes.
One of the baggage coaches was detailed to wait while Mrs. Ives packed her possessions and the Monsieur’s special knives and omelet pans. Monsieur Sabine was so pleased that he handsomely offered to leave two ropes of garlic. The offer was received with faint enthusiasm; garlic was all very well in heathenish French delicacies but had no place in honest Suffolk fare. Meanwhile, the Kingsleys finally left for London.
* * *
Christa was grateful for the bustle of activity that awaited her in the city. All of the other servants welcomed her back warmly; her young friend Miranda, looking healthy and happy compared to the peaked waif of last spring, was delighted to see her and demonstrate how she had practiced her letters over the summer.
After a frenzied week of updating his wardrobe to his new dimensions, Jonathan was off to Eton for the Michaelmas term. And true to his word, Alex volunteered his services to Admiral Hutchinson at the Admiralty. He was gone from the house early most days, and his casual morning visits to his sister’s room were a thing of the past. It would have been difficult to determine whether Annabelle or Christa missed the visits more.
It was remarkable, Christa decided, how two people could live under the same roof without ever seeing each other, but of course a servant and a master lived in different worlds. The informal companionship of the summer had been an aberration; the present lack of contact was the norm. Resolutely she pushed aside all thoughts of Alex the man, and dedicated herself to making Lord Kingsley’s sister happy and successful. Only in the reaches of the night would she feel his touch, remember how the laughter in those amber eyes always kindled a response in her.
Luckily arranging Annabelle’s ball was a demanding task. Nominally, Annabelle’s Aunt Agatha was the hostess and organizer, but, in fact, Christa made all the arrangements after discussing the possibilities with her mistress.
Over the summer, the girls had considered numerous themes and settled on an Arabian Nights fantasy. The ballroom would have panels of gauzy fabric sweeping from the center to the walls in simulation of a tent, and the refreshments would include honey and nut pastries and spicy lamb dishes as well as the usual ices and lobster patties. The date chosen was October 15, Annabelle’s twenty-first birthday, and they had five weeks to clean and polish, send out cards, and see to the other minutiae of entertaining.
On the fourth day after their return to London, Christa went to her cousin Suzanne’s shop, ostensibly on behalf of Annabelle’s wardrobe but in reality because she felt the need to visit a friend. By arriving early, she caught Suzanne before the shop became busy, and they were able to retire for a proper cup of French coffee.
After exchanging hugs and commonplaces, Christa asked, “How is the business doing?”
“Quite well. I have retained almost all of Mme. Bouchet’s customers and acquired a number of others as well. Except for your Miss Kingsley, there are no aristocrats, but that is not altogether a bad thing. I understand that merchants’ wives pay their bills more promptly than members of the beau monde.”
“Your clientele should increase soon. Yesterday Miss Annabelle and I were walking in the park when she fell in with a friend of her aunt’s, Lady Camwell. While they were chatting, I walked with Lady Camwell’s maid, who was most curious to find out who made Annabelle’s gown. It was the pomona-green walking dress, you remember it?”
“Of course,” Suzanne said eagerly. “Then what happened?”
“Naturally I wasmostreluctant to divulge the information, but after much coaxing, I told her. In the strictest confidence,naturellement.”
Suzanne started to laugh so hard she choked on her coffee. “Naturellement, indeed, you minx. You could not have picked a better method to publicize the shop if you had run advertisements. I’ve heard of this Lady Camwell—five daughters, and one of the biggest gossips in London.”
“Exactly so,” Christa said complacently. “Soon you will be everyone’s favorite little dressmaker. ‘Such an unfashionable address, my dear, but a marvelous way with style.’” Christa mimicked the bored tones of a lady of fashion with wicked accuracy. “And soon you will be busy enough to take me on.”
Suzanne looked at her with a slight frown. “You know that we can always find a place for you,ma petite. Are you unhappy in the Kingsley household?”
“Oh, no, no,” Christa quickly reassured her. “Miss Annabelle is kindness itself, and the work is pleasant. But I can foresee the time when I will be ready for something more . . . challenging. Perhaps in the spring. I will have been in service for a year then, long enough to prove that I can do it.”
Suzanne relaxed a trifle. “That would be better for me. I have just paid the children’s school fees, and I am negotiating for the lease of the shop next door. Henry assures me that my business will be expanding, and I will need the space soon.”
“And who is this Henry?” Christa asked as she sipped her coffee. She was interested to note a faint tinge of color rising on her cousin’s cheekbones.
“Henry Worth, the draper who supplies my fabrics. He has been a great support to me these last months.”
“Hmm?” Christa said with a twinkle.
Her blush deepening, Suzanne said, “His wife died last year, leaving him with two little ones.Les pauvreswere so sad. They like to come and play with my children.”
“And what do their parents do when the children are engaged in their play?”
“Henry has behaved with complete propriety,” Suzanne said with austerity, then burst into giggles. “But it is not for my lack of trying to make it otherwise. He is a perfect gentleman. Too perfect.” She reached for the coffeepot to refill the cups, then said happily, “Henry doesn’t want to compromise my reputation. He thinks it is better to wait until we are married.”
Christa jumped up to give her cousin another hug. “That is wonderful! Have you set a date?”
