The notion of bumping into Reed caused her to quickly open the door and step inside.
Rose found the restaurant to be deserted, save for an older gentleman sitting by himself at a table by the right-hand wall, eating a meal with apparent great gusto. Until he looked up and saw her. At which point his brow took on a thunderous look and he began to scan the restaurant. No doubt he sought a waiter to toss her out or show her upstairs to the rooms in which a lady was permitted to dine.
Nodding to him, Rose kept moving, keeping her eyes averted from the infamous nude painting of Mademoiselle Yvonne. Obviously, the restaurant was between the luncheon crowd and the dinner set, and even more obviously, she was not welcome there.
Before she could decide what to do, however, themaître d’hôtelhurried out from a door in the back of the room. Suddenly a sliver of worry skated through her at the thought of being recognized so close to her home, and she tried to keep her head down while gracing him with a smile.
“Are you dining alone, mademoiselle?” he asked in a thick accent, looking shocked at the prospect. However, as soon as she gave him her name, he bowed low.
“Come this way.” He led her through the ornate dining room with its mahogany furnishings, Italian sculpture adorning pedestals, and richly detailed European paintings on the walls. She remembered pressing her face against the glass as a young girl and looking in for the first time when walking with her father. She’d been unable to take her eyes off the sparkling crystal chandeliers, certain they were dripping with large diamonds.
Allowing her to pass through ahead of him, themaître d’hôtelheld the door open to the kitchen from which a wave of warmth assaulted her along with the delectable aroma of roasting meat and sautéing onions. Finn leaned against a counter, arms crossed, talking with a tall, wiry man in a traditional chef’s uniform with a kerchief knotted around his neck. The man was efficiently slicing mushrooms, his hands moving at lightning-quick speed.
“Rose,” Finn greeted her, coming forward as soon as he saw her, his limp still obvious though less startling.
Her heart lurched. Would she ever be accustomed to seeing him alive again, in the flesh instead of only in her memories? And what of the surge of anger that followed. Could she ever forgive him?
“Louis, this is the lady I was telling you about. Monsieur Louis Ober,” Finn added for her benefit. “This is Miss Malloy.”
Rose felt a rush of alarm. What had he been telling this man who paused only briefly, sparing her a welcoming glance as he bobbed his head before turning his attention back to his task?
“Excuse my back, mademoiselle,” the chef said. “I must keep working. We will have a full house tonight.” Then he chuckled. “As every night we are open.”
Indeed, not only was he working, but two other men — one kneading dough and the other cutting up a chicken — worked at different counters. Neither of them said anything or even seemed to notice her.
She relaxed a little and released the breath she’d been holding. If Finn had told this man more, then certainly he would have introduced her to Chef Ober as Mrs. Bennet. She’d hardly thought of herself that way, except the day they stepped out of the magistrate’s office as husband and wife.
“You’re mine now, Mrs. Phineas Bennet,” Finn had said to her, but then she’d stopped him from kissing her on the public street.
“I already was yours,” she’d told him to soften the rebuff until they were alone again when she could show him how much she loved him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Monsieur Ober,” Rose said.
“The pleasure’s all mine, mademoiselle. You may call me Louis.” At last with the mushrooms sliced, he laid his knife down, wiped his hands on the apron wrapped around his waist, and clapped Finn on the back. “It’s so good to have you back in town. Take this lovely lady upstairs to your table, and I’ll have Joseph bring your meal up. I must start my roux.”
Finn put his large palm in the small of Rose’s back and directed her to the back stairs. When they got to the smaller of the two second floor dining rooms, it was deserted. He escorted her to a table for two, set with a stark white tablecloth and fine china.
“What did he mean by ‘your’ table?”
Finn shrugged. “Louis is the first friend I made when I moved to Boston, before I met you. My mother was French-Canadian, you remember?”
She nodded.
“I walked by here one day and smelled what I would have sworn was her cooking. Louis said it was one of the greatest compliments he’d ever had.”
“Why do you sit up here?” she asked as he pulled out a chair for her, then moved to the other side of the table and sat down.
He shrugged. “It’s a little joke. I helped Louis design a vent to draw the oven fumes and smoke out of the kitchen and keep it cooler as well as making it easier for him and his cooks to breathe. In return, he dubbed this my table and said I could eat here whenever I wanted.”
That was like Finn, Rose thought. Always thinking of some way to improve design, either a ship or a kitchen, it made no matter.
“Chef Ober was not shocked to see you when you returned?” Rose asked, watching Finn spread his napkin across his lap.
He looked up at her quickly, and she caught it — a flash of guilt.
“He already knew,” Finn began slowly, “that I was alive.”
“Oh.” What could she say? He’d contacted his friend but not her. “You had written to him. When?”
