“Rarely,” she said with a giggle.
The door from the kitchen opened. Entering the room backside first, Mrs. Abernathy’s cook carried a large shallow bowl, its little brown lumps dancing back and forth with the shifting of the amber liquid, and made her way through the parting crush of bodies. “Best take a step back,” she warned those closest to the table then set the bowl in the center of the cloth and took up a nearby candle.
Caroline had to rise up on her toes to see past the person in front of her, unlike Walsh, who’d have a clear line of sight no matter where he stood.
The cook held the candle closer and closer to the surface of the brandy until fire shot across it, lapping the air with tongues of deep blue flame. She took up a pinch of salt from a salt cellar, closed her eyes as if in prayer, then tossed the salt onto the flames, causing a momentary flash of gold. “May God be withya,” she said and burrowed her way back through the oohing throng of people.
The first circle of guests closed in and poised themselves to begin plucking raisins from the bowl. “Your lace!” someone shouted just in time to warn a lady to hold back her cuff.
“Oh, dear,” Walsh murmured. “I’m not entirely sure I want to see this.”
Caroline hid a laugh behind her hand.
Some guests reached and hesitated, working up their courage to breach the flames, while the eager ones plucked raisin after raisin and popped them into their mouths.
“Doesn’t it hurt their tongues?” Walsh asked. “They’re not even waiting for the raisins to cool.”
“Brandy doesn’t burn very hot. So long as the flames are blue, the risk of injury is minimal.”
“Unless their garment catches fire.”
“True. But that’s what makes it such a challenge.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Call me a stick in the mud, but I refuse to jeopardize a new suit, much less my aunt’s home.”
“If you’re a killjoy, then I’m one, too.” Like Walsh, she was content to be a spectator. “You needn’t fret, though,” Caroline added, pointing out buckets of water that had been placed on the floor along the wall. Her hostess was flamboyant, not stupid.
The commotion died to a low roar when the Snapdragon bowl gave up its last raisin. A winner was declared, and Mrs. Abernathy pinned a ribbon on the young man’s lapel, causing his face to glow with triumph.
It would glow even brighter once the alcohol hit him.
“Shall we find Miss Teague?” Walsh asked when his aunt announced supper and indicated they should make their way to the dining room.
“Here I am,” Malvinia said from behind them.
“Very good,” Walsh said with a smile. “Let’s go lay waste to Aunt’s seating arrangement.”
Caroline went along without naysaying him. Adjustments had, no doubt, been made as soon asAuntlearned Caroline’s chaperone wasn’t male.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Abernathy placed Walsh opposite her at one end of the table, as she had been widowed for years and had no male to serve as host. She’d placed Caroline to his left, and Malvinia to his right. The three of them would be good company and blessedly far from the important guests seated near the hostess—the ones most likely to throw verbal stones. But it seemed Walsh’s aunt wasalsoin the business of matchmaking.
“Do you live here in Greenvale,” Walsh asked Malvinia.
“Yes. On Beacon Hill,” she added in a softer voice.
“How nice.” Either Walsh was still getting to know the city, or he was being polite. Beacon Hill was in a poorer part of town. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Nine, two older and seven younger.”
“All sisters,” Caroline interjected.
“Not a brother in the bunch?”
Malvinia shook her head.
Supper began simply enough, with a flavorful beef consommé. Next came fresh bread, haricots verts, and pigeons comport, followed by stewed cardoons and a tourtière of minced pork and potatoes.
As the plates were cleared to make way for the dessert course, Malvinia leaned in and whispered, “Thank goodness. I live in fear of sweetbreads.” Her family had struggled through the war and often survived on butcher’s remnants stewed with an abundance of shallots and garlic.
