Chapter 16 #2
He looked at Frederic, who also stood. The smile and brightening were both gone, perhaps to a mutual hiding place. He bowed courteously.
“We thought you had retired for the night, Your Grace.”
The depth of his voice seemed to increase in the intimacy of candlelight.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, turning her face away. “Please excuse me.”
Philip waved her forward.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself. We have plenty here for three.”
The card table was clear to her now, still littered with the hand they had been playing.
Another table was drawn close, strewn with the remnants of pie crusts and the petit fours from earlier that afternoon.
Everything about the room, from the thick, plush rug to a worn copy of Tacitus on the sideboard, spoke of comfort and comeliness.
“Come, feast!” Philip gestured to the refreshments. “Partake of the ruins of your wedding luncheon.”
Caroline’s stomach grumbled.
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Please?” Philip asked. “We’ll be very good—won’t we, Frederic?”
Caroline stepped hesitantly into the room. Frederic offered her his chair then pulled a stool near the table.
“And what shall your pleasure be, Your Grace?” he asked, picking up a bit of pie crust and gesturing towards a row of pot-bellied jars. “Black currant, blueberry, raspberry?”
“So many berries,” Caroline said, looking over them, a little bewildered. They had never had so many options at home. Philip laughed at her consternation.
“There are always preserves at Highcastle and plenty of them. Carlyle, cook, and the gardener go in cahoots during the summer and make batches of the stuff. They’re famous for it.”
Caroline squinted at the row of little jars.
“Tell me your favorite, then, and I shall work my way through.”
Philip pointed at the blueberry jam.
“There it be—the bluest of blueberries for a boy like me.”
“Then blueberry it shall be.”
Frederic scooped a respectful dab and spread it on a piece of crust. Their fingers brushed as he transferred it to her. She colored but focused on keeping the pie safely in her hand.
“Well?” Philip asked as she chewed. “What do you think?”
She smiled, a little crookedly, with the morsel still in her mouth. She swallowed.
“It was lovely,” she admitted. “A most excellent jam. And you, Your Grace?” She looked at Frederic. “What is your preference?”
Frederic shrugged.
“I like a bit of jam as well as any, I suppose. My favorite varies by time of year.”
His eyes rested on her for a moment, and the blush she had stifled earlier threatened to escape its bounds. She looked at her hands. They were married, it was true, she reminded herself, but given the chance, he very easily would have married another. She was his by necessity, not by choice.
He gestured to the jar of blackcurrant.
“That’s my jam of choice for the present. It’s best on warm scones, but a spare crust of pie—such as we have here—will do.”
He proffered her a piece which she took carefully, having learned from the dismaying crumbles of the earlier piece. She popped it into her mouth.
“Don’t be disloyal, now,” Philip said. “Just because Frederic is your husband doesn’t make the jam he likes better.”
The tips of Frederic’s ears flushed.
“Only just a husband today. Surely the duchess may still maintain her own preferences.”
Caroline winced but smiled at Philip.
“I shall do my best to remain uninfluenced by matrimonial quarters and allow the texture and sweetness to speak for itself.”
She closed her eyes. The rich sweetness worked its way into her taste buds. The tangy, wild flavor spoke of frost on hedgerows and rich fruit ripened in the sun. She opened her eyes.
“Alas, Philip—at the risk of incurring your displeasure, the blackcurrant is also a truly excellent jam.”
Philip smiled but rolled his eyes.
“I might have known. Your favorite?”
Caroline shook her head. Frederic raised his eyebrows.
“Not particularly. I’m mostly partial to raspberry.”
Philip picked up another piece of pie crust then laughed.
“You might have fooled me. You have blackcurrant preserve left still on your cheek!”
How awkward. Caroline dabbed at the stickiness but missed. She couldn’t quite catch it without a mirror.
“Is it still there?”
Frederic leaned forward on the stool. In an adroit move, he brushed his hand against her face, gentle as the wind, removing the offending speck.
Caroline started.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to astonish you.”
Frederic wiped his hand on a napkin. Philip helped himself to another piece of pie, slathering it in a layer of blueberry jam that might have easily coated three such morsels.
“You looked like you had seen a ghost, Caroline. You should know there’s no such thing, or so Frederic says. But come! There are more flavors to try, and we can’t possibly waste good pie crust.”
Caroline flushed. They took turns, slathering and commenting on pie and jam, until Caroline’s stomach simmered in contentment and Philip’s blueberry jar had nearly been scraped clean.
Caroline stood, stifling a yawn.
“Thank you, gentleman, for the excellent refreshments and entertainment.”
Philip and Frederic stood. Frederic took her hand in his own. Caroline caught her breath, remembering the day of the proposal. She pushed the memory away. He dropped her hand, bowed politely, and gestured her out of the room.
“Good night, Your Grace,” he said. “Sleep well.”