Page 89 of Miss Delectable
Jeanette set aside her stitchery. “Tell me the rest of it.”
And there was the magic of marriage to Jeanette. Sycamore hadn’t known he needed to discussthe rest of ituntil Jeanette had parsed the topic with him.
“Ash would typically take over managing the club in summer, and I’d be free to nip over to Paris, pop in at Dorning Hall, or venture down to Brighton. I did the same for him in winter, and that meant we were both free of the damned club for weeks at a time, confident that all would run smoothly in our absence.”
“And now?”
Sycamore took up Jeanette’s hoop and traced his fingers over pretty butterflies and blooming buttercups. Winter in London was a dark, noisome prospect compared to the open air and sweeping, snowy vistas of Dorsetshire.
“Now, one person gives notice after years of loyal service, and I face hours of interviews to replace her, the delicate task of finding somebody who can do the job without offending Jules’s sense of indispensability, and the inevitable jostling about in the kitchen pecking order when staff changes… Better now than in the spring, but the whole prospect is tiresome. I wanted to spend much of this winter kitting out the house in Richmond.”
Also snuggling with his wife, of course.
“Has Miss Pearson said why she’s leaving?”
The satin threads were smooth and luminous against the white linen, and Jeanette’s skill with the needle exquisite. She was equally adept at picking loose the threads of a problem.
“No, and that bothers me too. Miss Pearson doesn’t mention career advancement, matrimonial ambitions, or an aging cousin in the north. She is held in near veneration by the staff, which I’m sure contributes to Jules’s sense of discontent in the kitchen, and unless I miss my guess, most of the food we serve is the result of her recipes.”
“Nearly all of it.”
“Jules says English tastes aren’t sophisticated enough for his best creations.”
Jeanette took her embroidery from him and stashed it in a wicker workbasket. “Jules talks a lot. How much is he actually cooking?”
Sycamore ventured into the kitchen during working hours only occasionally, and that bothered him as well. He owned the damned club, or owned much of it. Why was he hesitant to roam anywhere on its premises at any hour?
“I love the Coventry,” Sycamore said. “I love the complexity of it, the challenge.”
“You love being able to show your family that you can make money—something Dornings do not excel at generally—and entertain the highest society night after night. You take pride in that club.”
“Well, yes, but I also simply like the work. I like charming the dowagers and consoling the bachelors on their loneliness. I like providing employment for a lot of good folk who seek only a decent wage and the occasional thanks in exchange for hard work. I like how the whole place works together—from the cellars to the buffet to the tables to the staff to the ledgers—tocreatesomething fine. Nobody needs the Coventry, and yet, London is a little more dashing for featuring such a venue.”
Jeanette shifted to straddle Sycamore’s lap. “But?”
“But I have proved my point, Jeanette. The Coventry is a business to be proud of, and now I would like to spend more time with you, making the Richmond property into a profitable garden farm. Looking in on the nieces and nephews, taking you to Paris.”
“While I would like to take you to bed.”
“Bed is a lovely destination, provided you join me there.”
She kissed him, which had the delightful effect of putting the whole complication of Miss Pearson’s leaving at a slight distance. Married life involved the occasional midafternoon nap with Jeanette, though such naps—while highly restorative—involved little sleeping.
“You should talk to Miss Pearson,” Jeanette said when she’d allowed Sycamore to come up for air. “Or I can talk to her.”
“I’ve already told her I will need time to find a replacement. Mrs. Dorning, you aren’t wearing stays.”
“While you are still in full morning attire.”
“I’m sure you will remedy my error. What exactly should I talk to Miss Pearson about?”
“Why is she leavingnow? Something is brewing in your kitchen, Mr. Dorning.”
“Something is brewing in my breeches. Shall we to the bedroom, Jeanette?”
She rose and took him by the hand. “I could do with a nap and a cuddle, now that you mention it.”
“When is a nap and a cuddle ever a bad idea?”
