scent of rose potpourri, and nary a cobweb or fleck of coal dust was to be seen. The furniture was sturdy and comfortably faded—no spindly chairs or fussy hearth screens for the ladies—and the rugs a little worn, though freshly beaten.
A genteel boarding house, then, and Miss Pearson had a pair of sentries guarding her citadel. If Rye had ever needed to take the measure of morale in camp or winter quarters, he consulted the older women, and their intelligence had never failed him.
“Colonel Goddard.” Ann Pearson paused in the doorway to curtsey. “This is a pleasure.”
She was balm to a soldier’s eye, all tidy and spruce in an ensemble of chocolate brown. Dark hair tucked into a perfect bun, skirts freshly pressed, hems spotless. Her shawl was crocheted of hunter green wool. Her eyes—a few shades lighter than the shawl—conveyed welcome.
Her greeting was apparently genuine.
“Miss Pearson, good day.” Rye swept off his hat, bowed, and mentally scrambled for further pleasantries. I have missed you would probably send the lady pelting for the stairs. You have been much on my mind, while true, was unthinkably bold.
“I brought food,” he said, hefting the basket unnecessarily. “Coals to Newcastle, I suppose, to bring food to a cook, but I wanted you to have a bottle of my champagne, and good wine should not be consumed on an empty stomach.”
She advanced into the room, leaving the door open, of course. “You brought me a basket from Gunter’s?”
“Presuming of me, wasn’t it? Mostly, I am delivering a bottle of wine because I am in your debt.” And because he had wanted to see her, to be with her, to have conversation with a woman of sense and good cheer.
She grasped his elbow. “Let’s repair to the garden, Colonel. Miss Julia and Miss Diana will enjoy spying on us, and we aren’t likely to be blessed with many more such fine days. We can make a picnic of our noon meal.”
“That isn’t… I hadn’t intended…” He hadn’t dreamed he’d be invited to picnic with her. “If you insist.”
“I do. Part of the magic of good food is that it can bring us together with good company. I detect apple tarts, mild brie, butter biscuits…”
“You can tell all that simply by scent?”
“I can. The linen has been pressed with only a hint of starch and dried in a baker’s kitchen overnight, would be my guess.”
She led him to a back hallway that opened onto a small flagstone terrace. Grass tried to wedge its way between the stones, but somebody had waged the battle to contain such intrusions. The garden itself consisted of a white birch sapling in one corner, a few square yards of grass, a birdbath—unoccupied at present—and some potted pansies along the brick walkway.
Rows of what Rye presumed were spices grew up along the stone walls, and a tall wooden gate led into the alley. A grouping of wrought-iron furniture occupied the center of the terrace, four chairs and a table. The flagstones were dotted with dead leaves, though Rye would have bet Agricola’s new bridle that the whole terrace was thoroughly swept each day.
“The ladies like to read out here,” Miss Pearson said, leading him to the table and chairs. “Natural light is easier on the eyes, and fresh air is good for us.”
“To the extent London has any fresh air.” What this little garden did have was privacy. No tall trees bordered the garden, meaning no enterprising spy in the alley could peer down onto the terrace. The wings of the house sheltered the grouping, such that Miss Julia and Miss Diana might keep watch from an upstairs sitting room, but no neighbors would learn that Miss Pearson had picnicked with a caller.
Better that way for all. Rye held the lady’s chair, a courtesy with which he was out of practice, but managed adequately. He put his hat and walking stick in an empty chair and set the basket on the table.
“We get a good breeze off the river for much of the year,” Miss Pearson said, “but I agree. On a bad day, a rainy day, a cold day, London is a tribulation for the olfactory—oh look. The apple tarts are still warm.” She unwrapped the red-checked cloth. “If I am not mistaken, a bit of anise has crept in beneath the cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg.”
She sniffed the tart the way some women might have sniffed a bouquet of roses. She sniffed everything, in fact, from the roast fowl to the