while Rye turned his steps for home and pondered the encounter. Ann might be able to make sense of it, while Rye was puzzled. Fournier had presented himself as more of an ally than a competitor, and yet, he was off to frolic with Deschamps. Was that a casual connection? A warning?
Could a woman be behind Rye’s troubles?
Rye was arguing with Otter over the need to learn Latin—the boys, with the exception of Victor, were already fluent in French—when another aspect of the meeting with Fournier dawned upon him.
Fournier had not once referred to Rye as either Colonel or Sir Orion. The entire conversation had been conducted with last names only, and Rye had been comfortable with that.
He’d been simply Goddard to Fournier, no rank, no title, and he’d preferred to do without them—a realization he would also discuss with Ann when next he called upon her.
“I did not know if offering a tea tray would be coals to Newcastle for a professional cook,” Mrs. Dorning said, smiling serenely from her corner of the sofa, “but you must enjoy the occasional cup.”
For Ann to take tea with Mrs. Dorning would be to cross a social boundary, though not one of unprecedented dimensions. In modest homes, the lady of the house might enjoy a cup of tea with her housekeeper or cook while considering menus or reviewing ledgers. In modest homes, the lady of the house was not the widow of a marquess or married to an earl’s brother.
“I enjoy any chance to get off my feet, ma’am,” Ann said, scooting forward a little on the chair cushions, “and a cup of tea is always welcome.”
Her ladyship—Society would probably afford Jeannette Dorning that courtesy, though she was strictly speaking no longer entitled to it—poured from an exquisitely decorative Sèvres service, all gilt and pink and blue flowers.
“I was hoping you might bring Hannah with you, but then, I did not make that apparent, did I?”
“Shall I fetch her?” The tea was fragrant and piping hot, with a rich reddish hue. Hannah would have enjoyed a cup, though Ann suspected she’d enjoy more catching up on Henry’s endless store of gossip.
“How is Hannah adjusting to her new station?” Mrs. Dorning asked when Ann had been offered good shortbread—her own recipe—and finished her first cup of tea.
Ann knew the civilities expected over tea in part because she’d gone to a proper girls’ school, but also because Grandmama had insisted. Gentry could be higher sticklers than the nobs, or so Papa had often grumbled.
Ann was gentry, landed gentry as it happened. How easy it was to forget that, after two years of Jules’s carping about everything from how thickly Ann sliced a ham to how long she left her croissants to bake.
“Hannah is taking to the kitchen with cautious enthusiasm,” Ann said. “She’s a hard worker, pays attention, and wants to excel. Barring a mishap, she ought to make an excellent cook someday.” Not a chef, of course. Women could not be chefs. They fed the vast majority of George’s loyal subjects, and had from time immemorial, but they could not be chefs.
No matter how competent such a woman might be with both French and English cuisine, no matter that she’d read every word Carême had written, and tried many of his published recipes too.
“Are more apprentices needed?” Mrs. Dorning asked. “I don’t mean to pry, but Mr. Dorning’s approach to the Coventry is to hire good people to manage the various domains and to stand back unless asked to intervene. He focuses on the patrons because that is a host’s singular duty.”
Ann nibbled her shortbread and pondered the possibility that Mrs. Dorning was attempting to spy on her husband’s business operations. That made no sense, when husband and wife were reported to be very much in each other’s pockets.
“The kitchen is always busy,” Ann said, “but your question would be better directed to Jules Delacourt, ma’am. He oversees the whole kitchen.”
Mrs. Dorning made the sort of face that Ann reserved for sour milk. “Monsieur Delacourt has an entire arsenal of flattery to aim at me, but when I want an honest answer, he turns up vague and philosophical. ‘Who can say what is enough, madame?’” She’d taken on Jules’s accent and deepened her voice to mimic him.
“You have him to the life.”
“You should hear Mr. Dorning’s impression,” Mrs. Dorning replied. “As a boy, Mr. Dorning excelled at aping his older brothers. May I tell you something in confidence, Miss Pearson?”
Ann wanted to sprint