Page 135 of A Winter By the Sea
“Fillet of cod,à l’italienne. I prefer turbot, but alas found none for sale. Served in a brown sauce, with anchovy and capers.”
“Good heavens.”
“Buon mangiata.”
Sarah was not certain she liked anchovies and did not even know what a caper was but gave the dish an experimental taste anyway. She decided she liked both very much indeed.
“This is astonishingly good. Thank you.”
He flashed a smile. “We are not done yet.”
Sarah said, “Please do sit down and eat something, I implore you.”
“I shall join you for dessert.”
She wanted to insist, but the allure of the delicious food before her kept her from wasting time in argument.
Between bites, she asked him about his family, his childhood,and his time as a student with the renowned French chef Antonin Carême.
“I own his book,Le Pâtissier Royal Parisien. Someday I shall write my own.”
“You should.”
“Do you know, his parents abandoned him on the street when he was only, oh, eight or nine years old.”
“How sad. Why?”
“They were desperately poor and had many other children to feed. To survive, he worked as a kitchen boy, later for a fashionable pastry shop, and voilà. After years of hard work, he cooks for kings and tsars.”
“You might one day as well, if you liked.”
“We shall see.”
He next set before her a plate filled with a generous serving of chicken.
“Chicken,àla milanaise.”
Near her plate, he also laid two serving dishes of vegetables.
“There’s more?” She chuckled in disbelief.
“Oh yes. Artichokes with Mamma’s sauce and mushroomsau gratin.”
She tasted first a bite of the tender chicken, then the artichokes in their savory sauce.
“Mm. These are wonderful as well. My compliments to you and to your mother.”
He looked down, then glanced up at her through dark lashes. “Perhaps one day you shall meet her.”
“Oh. Um. That would be ... pleasant.”
An awkward moment stretched between them, and Sarah’s self-consciousness returned. The room suddenly seemed too quiet, and the private dinner too intimate. The possible inappropriateness of dining alone with a man, even in her own home, began to settle over her.
She forced herself to take another bite, hoping to dispel the tension. He stood there, looking down at her, watching as she chewed, a gratified look on his face.
Hearing rapid footsteps, she looked over in time to see Georgiana dash into the room in a flutter of printed cotton, hair in characteristic disarray.
“What is that heavenly smell?” she called, heading for the stove. “I had to come and investigate. It smells nothing like Mrs. Besley’s cooking, that’s for sure.” Her gaze shifted from the pans on the stove, to the table set in finery, to Sarah sitting there in candlelight, the chef hovering nearby.
