“We won’t get Sophie and Riley to cross the country with their little brood if not for a big occasion. They won’t be able to attend the wedding, you know. Sophie already has a huge commitment with the orchestra in September.”
“I can’t even believe they’re coming at all.” It was always a treat when the Dalcourts came to Boston as it happened so infrequently since Sophie had moved away.
“So you’ll help instead of hinder?” Elise asked.
“Oh, I suppose,” Rose agreed. “Let’s discuss the food.”
Elise pulled a leather-bound notebook out of her writing desk.
“What on earth?” Rose asked.
“It’s my organizer,” Elise said.
“I swear, you get more eccentric all the time.”
“I am not the least bit eccentric,” Elise protested. “Anyone can have a stack of stationery, but this,” she ran her hand over the blue-dyed leather, “this is for serious projects. You know, like the suffragette meetings that I go to with Mama. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Charlotte said that her French chef will make everything to perfection. We have only to give him an idea of what you like.”
“And William, too, of course,” Rose added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“And William, too, of course,” Elise repeated before the two of them burst out laughing. As if he would have a say in any of it!
When they had gathered themselves and could talk again, Elise added, “Charlotte is writing a special toast for her and Reed to deliver. So sweet.” Not to be outdone, she added, “Michael has a special surprise for you, too.”
Elise was aglow with excitement. Rose shook her head, warmed by the fond feelings she felt for her sister.
“I think this party is as much for you as for me.”
Elise opened her mouth in surprise. “No! Well, maybe a bit. I may be a long-married woman, but even so, I love the idea of romance and weddings and finally seeing you all settled.”
It was Rose’s turn to look surprised. “Finally seeing me settled? Why? I’m not exactly an aging spinster.”
“I didn’t mean that. Yet you were so light and gay a few years ago, and then you did not seem so happy until Mr. Woodsom came along.”
Rose only nodded. At first, she’d had no idea her family had noticed her bereavement. By the time she came out of her own grief enough to realize the distress she was causing them, she hadn’t the energy to do anything about it. In any case, she thought they would have preferred the subdued Rose to the wild one who’d never listened to her elders if she could get away with it.
“Back to the food,” she said, watching Elise lick the end of a stubby pencil that she’d pulled out from her pocket. “I want those little fairy cakes with orange bits. And the citrus rum punch that made you fall down.”
“Oh my goodness! You remember that?”
“I may have been only fourteen, but I knew a tipsy sister when I saw one.”
“Moving along,” Elise muttered, a slight frown on her forehead. “What about actual food? Not merely cake and drink.”
“Cubes of roast beef,” Rose said, “tucked in individual puff pastries. Perhaps with some horseradish on the side. Do you think Pierre would do that?”
“I’m sure he would. I’m surprised, though, that you already have something so specific in mind.”
Rose smiled. She was bursting to tell her sister about her latest desire — to attend the Boston Cooking School. Ever since her conversation with Reed about doing something with her life, even during the delightful romance with William, she had continued to think about what stirred her. One day, as she’d exited the Common on Tremont Street, she’d come face to face with the school.
Of course she’d heard of it and knew that not only did women attend who wanted to be employed as cooks, like their Emily, but also women who simply wanted to offer more nutritious and tempting meals to their families. What’s more, some of Rose’s peers went to the Saturday lectures to listen to the likes of Mrs. Richards discuss food chemistry. How thrilling to listen to the first woman admitted and graduated from such an institution as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology!
Immediately, Rose had gone inside, only to be met by some of the most delicious aromas she’d ever had the pleasure of encountering. Her mouth started watering while she was still in the foyer, and her brain began deciphering what ingredients she was smelling.
Eventually, she’d been introduced to the assistant principal, Miss Farmer, who’d tried to steer her to the Saturday lectures attended by other well-to-do young ladies until Rose expressed in no uncertain terms that she wanted to actually learn to cook.
“You understand,” she’d told the heavy-set lady with her clean white lacey blouse and wavy brown and white hair, “I want to cook with my own two hands.”
“Yes, indeed, Miss Malloy, I do understand, and I believe our school can help you. Indeed, you shall use your hands and all ten fingers and your arms and sometimes your back. And more importantly, you will use your brain — for cooking isnota slipshod and estimated endeavor. It is a science and thus responds to measurements and precision.”
