Amity sighed. She had a feeling it would be more than one meal. “How did you know to call him ‘His Grace’?”
Lydia and Delia exchanged a look. It was the latter who answered. “We may not have a fancy education, miss, but we are taught a few things, especially about how to call our betters.”
“Yourbetters? Delia, I’ve never heard you use that term before.”
“The Rare-Foures are exceptional, miss. Your parents treat us like family, and so do you three girls.”
“Why wouldn’t we? After all, we live together. Surely, in 1877, you don’t believe we are better than you? Nor the Duke of Pelham better than any of us?”
Lydia chuckled. “Our bettersis just a turn of phrase, dear, but class is class, and that’s the way the world works. I’m not going to break bread with a duke any more than I’m going to have an outing with the queen. Bless her!”
Amity nodded. “Just a phrase,” she repeated. She certainly didn’t think Lady Madeleine was any better than her or her sisters. Undeniably lovelier in a cool and precisely perfect way but not a kinder person. All the same, even Amity had been guilty of thinking an earl’s daughter was better for a duke than a shopkeeper’s daughter who made chocolates.
Glancing around at all the food these two women were preparing, she realized Henry had already caused changes that an ordinary guest would not have caused. Since her father didn’t employ a scullery maid or any other kitchen servants, she offered, “Can I help you with preparations?”
Delia’s eyes rounded, and Lydia clucked her tongue in exasperation. “You’d best get out of here, miss. Your place is entertaining that handsome young duke who came all the way here from London simply to see you.”
Amity felt her cheeks grow hot. “Do you two know everything?”
As the two women dissolved into laughter, Amity rose to her feet thinking how nice it would be to stay in the warm, cheery kitchen and cut up vegetables. Making her way along the hallway, she straightened her shoulders, put on a smile, and re-entered the parlor.
***
HENRY COULDN’T GETAmity alone again that evening. At dinner, he had been seated on one length of the table with Charlotte on his left, Beatrice on his right, and his chocolatier and her fiancé across from him. It had been a delicious country feast, but he wasn’t there for the food.
After the meal, they returned to the parlor, but unlike his own sister, none of the Rare-Foure girls played piano or sang.
“They had no interest when they were younger,” their father said with a shrug. “But Beatrice can recite all number of literary works, Charlotte is a fair horsewoman, ice skater, and even marksman — I suppose she’s a marks-woman.” He chuckled to himself.
Henry should have held his tongue, but he asked, “And Amity?”
He noticed a few heads turn at his use of her given name, and wished, for her sake, he hadn’t said it, but it had slipped out. There was nothing he could do except wait for her father to answer.
“My fiancée has a number of skills,” Mr. Cole blurted before anyone else could say a word.
Amity’s eyes widened as she turned to the man. Henry had a feeling the lawyer hadn’t any more clue than he did what she could do well besides make chocolate. Nor did she need to have any other skills. He continued to wait in silence.
Mr. Cole’s face reddened. “She ... she...,” he stammered.
Amity began to look embarrassed, and Henry thought between himself and Mr. Cole, they’d made a right hash of it.
Mrs. Rare-Foure spoke up. “My eldest daughter has two very special talents in addition to making chocolates. For one, she is a consummate storyteller.”
Henry nodded. “Yes, I had the pleasure of hearing her tell a tale of an unfortunate chocolate-covered chocolatier in Switzerland. Everyone at the dinner table was delighted to hear her tell it.”
“She used to tell her sisters stories in the nursery before any of them could read,” Mrs. Rare-Foure added.
“Mother, please,” Amity protested. “His Grace doesn’t want to hear about me or my so-called talents.”
“On the contrary,” Henry interrupted her. “I am interested. What is the second, if I may ask?”
Amity shrugged. “I am sure I do not know, except it isnotice skating.”
Her sisters laughed, as did her father. Mrs. Rare-Foure waited until they’d finished.
“I’m surprised Mr. Cole hasn’t come up with it yet. Our Amity has a special way of figuring out what people like. It manifests in her chocolates, but in other ways, too. For instance, she always picks out the perfect present. Sometimes, I believe she knows me as well as I know myself.”
“True,” Armand Foure added. “Last year’s pipe was exactly the one I had my eye on. I’d never said a word, but there it was on Christmas morning.”
