Lise’s eyes widened fractionally, and Jonathan saw her lips part as though to object.But her mother had already turned away, as the last course was being brought in.
“First, dessert,” Herr von Ostenfeld said.“And then, the stroll, if the evening holds fair.”
“The sunset should be lovely,” Frau von Ostenfeld agreed, “and we rarely have an opportunity to show off the gardens.”
Jonathan’s heart sank even as it leapt.More time in Lise’s presence.More exquisite torment.He was beginning to think he deserved it.
A deep glass bowl filled with layers of cake and cream was set before Frau von Ostenfeld.As with the soup, his hostess dished out thePlettenpudding, which Jonathan recognized as their version of his beloved English trifle.The maid also set out a cheese platter, with another loaf of dark bread.
He enjoyed the dessert immensely, from the very first bite of the sherry-soaked pound cake, smothered in raspberry sauce, which in turn was topped with the creamiest vanilla custard he’d ever had.It even distracted him from his inner turmoil.Was it truly better than trifle, or was everything better simply because he was in Lise’s company?
Herr von Ostenfeld, something of an expert in animal husbandry as it turned out, explained the various cheeses and how they were made.Jonathan proclaimed his favorite to be the soft and creamy smoked curd.
“It could not have a better partner than this rye bread,” he said, meaning it, but wondering how he could eat another bite when his stomach was protesting.
“Our cook’sRoggenbrotis the envy of our neighbors,” Frau von Ostenfeld assured him.“Lise helped make this loaf,” she added proudly.
“Elsabeth!”Herr von Ostenfeld exclaimed, pulling a face.
Jonathan understood at once.The man didn’t want their guest to know his daughter got her hands dirty by working in the kitchen.While it was a curiosity, he didn’t think any less of Lise.A glance showed her cheeks pinker than before.
To put them at ease, he said, “Then I must compliment Miss von Ostenfeld on her skill.I have rarely tasted finer bread, even from the best bakers in London.”He met Lise’s eyes deliberately.“Clearly, she has many accomplishments.”
The color in her cheeks deepened, but she lifted her chin slightly, defiantly accepting his compliment.
Frau von Ostenfeld quickly moved the conversation along.“Would you care for coffee or tea, or perhaps some malmsey wine?”
“Tea, please,” Jonathan told her.Malmsey wine be damned.Later, in his Eutin lodgings, he would enjoy a glass of contraband French brandy that the bailiff had left at his disposal.It might soothe the sting of knowing there was a Friedrich blasted Albrecht in the world.
Lise was watching him now from under her lashes.There was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read.Not anger.Not longing.Something harder, more resolute.Everyone drank swiftly as a restorative, rather than sipping slowly.Obviously, he wasn’t the only one who was ready to stand and stretch.
“The light is fading,” Herr von Ostenfeld announced, setting down his cup.“If we are to walk, we should go now.”
“Lise, fetch your shawl,” Frau von Ostenfeld suggested.“And mine as well, if you please.”
Without a word, Lise rose and left the room.Soon, the four of them were making their way to the back of the house, where the long golden fingers of light still slid through the glass-paned doors.Then, at last, Jonathan was outside where he could breathe easily.Not that the von Ostenfelds’ home was stuffy, but during that meal, the atmosphere had been particularly thick with Lise’s strained silence.
He glanced at her, bathed in the fiery orange and yellow rays of the sunset, hanging on the horizon, too bright to look at directly.That was how he ought to treat this woman, as too fine for him to look at directly, let alone yearn after.
As they crossed the stone terrace to the steps down to the tended gardens, swallows dipped and wheeled overhead.Their cries were high-pitched chirps in the stillness.The evening, as Herr von Ostenfeld had hoped, was fine, cool but not cold, with a breeze that carried the scent of ripening apples and late roses.
Nearest the house, the garden was formal in the geometric style that had been fashionable a generation ago.Gravel paths divided beds of herbs and flowers, and espaliered fruit trees lined the walls.Box hedges, neatly trimmed, formed borders and low mazes.
Lanterns had been hung at intervals along the paths — simple metal frames with candles protected by glass.A servant followed at a discreet distance, ready to light them as the dusk deepened.At the moment, though, the sky was still painted in shades of amber and rose.
They walked two by two: Herr and Frau von Ostenfeld ahead, setting a leisurely pace, and Jonathan and Lise behind, maintaining a careful distance between one another.
“Miss von Ostenfeld,” Jonathan said, pitching his voice to carry to her parents, “your mother suggested you might tell me something of the local flora.I confess I know little of your native plants.”
It was a safe topic.Neutral.The sort of polite conversation one might have with any young woman in any garden.
Lise glanced at him, and he saw the flash of something, maybe relief or amusement, in her eyes before she looked away.
“Of course,” she said.Her voice was steady, giving nothing away.“Though I am hardly an expert.What would you like to know?”
“Whatever you think most interesting.”He gestured to the beds on either side of the path.“Your family clearly has a gardener with skill.”
“My mother is the gardener,” Lise said, with a hint of pride.And proving her parents could overhear everything, Frau von Ostenfeld turned and sent him a satisfied smile.
