‘Ah –but,’ Oliver said, digging through his trouser pocket, and plucking a square of paper from it. ‘I might’ve finally found something.’
It was an advertisement for a kitchen assistant, which apparently included ‘a modest stipend, and the possibility of room and board for the right candidate’. And then Ava’s eyes tracked down to the address printed in squashed, black letters at the bottom.
‘But … this is in York,’ Ava said.
‘At some private members’ club,’ said Oliver, wiping a crumb from his cheek. ‘I checked the directory. It sounds like they’d train me up properly, like one of those fancy chefs in France, or Vienna. And the best part is, it wouldn’t start until December. By which time hopefully this—’ He nodded towards his arm, which was still in its sling. ‘Will be healed.’
‘That’s …’ Ava started, and then stopped. ‘That’s amazing, Oliver.’
‘Amazing?’ her father said, his eyes wide. ‘We’ll starve.’
‘Who’s starving?’ asked Mrs Moss, placing a tray laden with pots of clotted cream and jars of jam down upon the table, and prompting another round of introductions before she sat down to join them. ‘Have we run out of scones already?’
‘Oliver’s leaving us,’ their pa said sourly. ‘To go and cook for strangers.’
‘That’swonderful,dear!’ Mrs Moss said. ‘You know, you should write to Miss Collins and tell her.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Oliver mumbled, though thankfully Mrs Moss didn’t seem to hear him, for she’d turned her attention to Damien.
‘Now then, Mr Carter,’ Mrs Moss said. ‘Tell me, where are you from? Your accent doesn’t sound local at all.’
Damien’s gaze flicked up from his plate with surprise. ‘I was born in Surrey.’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Moss said, triumphantly. ‘I hear Surrey’s lovely.’
‘It was,’ Damien agreed – and Mrs Moss’ head tilted a little.
’Your family no longer lives there?’
‘My father lives in London. Or – he did, the last I knew.’
‘You are not close with them, then?’ she asked, eyes wide with innocence. ‘Your family?’
Ava watched Damien’s fingers curl loosely around the teacup’s handle. Watched the way his thumb dragged slowly across the porcelain. ‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘No.’
‘I hear good things of you from Mr Jane though,’ said Oliver. ‘Although next time you need to borrow a neck-tie, you’d best come to me. His taste is somewhat …’ His eyes tracked to the yellow tablecloth, the yellow teapot sat upon a yellow doily in the centre of the table. ‘Monotonous.’
Mrs Moss pushed a pot of blackberry jam towards Damien. ‘Try this, and tell me what you think.’
Damien’s forehead creased. ‘Me?’
‘Careful,’ Oliver said, lowering his voice a little. ‘Mrs Moss is notorious for being overly liberal with the sugar.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Moss. ‘I’ll have you know my jam has won awards.’
‘At the Widows’ and Widowers’ Club jamboree,’ Oliver said pointedly. ‘Where Mrs Moss is one of the judges.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’d be biased, Oliver,’ said Mrs Moss, watching carefully as Damien spooned a little onto his scone, and took a bite.
‘It’s delicious,’ he said. ‘Truly.’
‘I’ll give you a pot or two to take home with you,’ she said.
Damien looked a little startled. ‘Oh, really,’ he said. ‘You needn’t—’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Moss, dabbing clotted cream onto her scone. ‘You can take some of these scones, too. Oliver baked far too many.’
‘Becauseyoupanicked I hadn’t made enough, and forced me to—’
