Chapter 4
As he promised, Mr Forrest did hold a party about a week later, which definitely required the skills of both Beatrice and Ivy.
While his own household staff took care of the main dishes, all the desserts and treats had been created by Beatrice.
The two ladies arrived at Northwind in plenty of time so they could be ready well before the start of the afternoon’s festivities.
Beatrice thought the place was enchanting. The wide lawn swept from the house down the steep decline to the riverbank. Though the sun had been up for hours, frost still sparkled on the grass, which was defiantly green even into winter.
“My goodness,” Ivy murmured, looking at the three-story house, which was quite new, perhaps only ten or fifteen years old. “All that for one man! It must be terribly lonely.”
“He has a household, and people like Mr Marley,” Beatrice said, repressing her natural sympathy.
“Yes, but no family.” Ivy felt strongly about family, being part of a large one herself.
“Well, it will be busy enough today,” Beatrice said as the carriage came to a halt.
The household staff had obviously been instructed to cooperate fully with them, though everyone was genuinely friendly (which was not always the case).
The German housekeeper seemed especially interested in the food they brought, and they had a lively conversation about the various methods of preserving fruits, of all things.
The party began and it was indeed well-attended. Beatrice recognized several important people of the city’s elite.
One man came up to her and introduced himself as Dr Mall.
“You know, I gave him a box of your chocolates not too long ago. I’d practically given up hope that he’d start eating properly again, but it seems to have been the spark.
Ha, ha, just proves that one must try every avenue!
Perhaps I’ll write an article for a medical journal about my successful prescription! ”
“I’m pleased to have helped a patient,” Beatrice said, amused at the doctor’s obvious pride in his “cure.”
She and Ivy were kept busy replenishing platters with treats—people seemed to snap them up as soon as they saw them. Eventually, Bea took a moment to find a quiet spot. She never liked crowds, and she’d been in the midst of one for hours.
As she walked down the unfamiliar hallways, curiosity got the better of her.
She peeked into several rooms, noting that Mr Forrest’s style tended toward simplicity, though never plainness.
She’d spent far too many nights thinking about Mr Forrest, what he liked or disliked, and his honey-gold eyes. And the way he’d kissed her hand.
She walked on. At the entrance to one door, though, she was so surprised that she walked right in before she realized her transgression.
It was a studio, set up for painting. One wall, facing north, was nearly all glass doors, which provided a flood of indirect light. There were also dozens of paintings of different sizes, but all in unfinished states, clustered against the walls and the cabinets, as if begging to be completed.
Footsteps sounded behind her, along with the tap of a cane. “What do you…” Mr Forrest stopped short in the doorway. “Oh. Miss Holliday. I don’t allow people in here,” he said.
“I don’t allow people in my kitchen,” she countered, “and that didn’t stop you.”
He smiled. “Fair point.” He came in, resting the cane against a table.
“This is your studio?” she asked. “You painted everything in here?”
“Most of it’s old. I wasn’t painting much for a long while.” He gestured to a dark seascape. “And what I did work on I never finished.”
Beatrice considered the nighttime scene.
It depicted a narrow beach with craggy hills rising up behind it.
A few small figures gathered around the wreck of a ship.
The only light in the painting was a moon half-hidden by clouds, and the tiny lanterns held by the figures as they looked for survivors.
It wasn’t hard to sense the desperation and despair in the picture.
“Is this something you saw personally?”
He shrugged. “A composite of my memories and others’ stories.
The key thing about painting is that most of it’s a lie.
It’s not a literal rendition, but rather something we create to improve on the world or to show something no one really could have seen.
Not that it matters. I won’t ever finish it. ”
“It looks finished to me,” she said. “What remains to be done?”
“Not much. But there’s no point in completing it. No one wants such dismal work, and that’s mostly what I’ve done since the war.”
“Why not paint something more cheerful?”
“I have, in a way.” He led her to his work table, where a number of tiny pieces lay face up. Each one featured a dominant color, though no obvious subject. “These are experiments. I started them not long after I met you, actually. I forgot how intense colors could be.”
She followed him, but then stopped, seeing something out of the corner of her eye. “What’s that?”
“What?” He followed her gaze. “Oh. Damn. I meant to destroy that.”
Beatrice got to the painting before he did, and picked up the image that had attracted her.
“It’s only a study. Just a sort of sketch, really,” he said hastily as Beatrice gazed at the piece. “I’ve been experimenting, trying more colors. But it’s just for practice. It’s nothing.”
“It’s me,” Beatrice said. It was her, but not prim and proper. Not past her prime. It was Beatrice as she sometimes dreamed she could be—beautiful.
“How did you do this?” she asked. “You haven’t spent more than five minutes with me face-to-face. And you certainly weren’t sketching me when you were at my shop!”
“No.” He looked distinctly abashed, as if he’d been caught in mischief by a superior. “The day we met, later…I was here in my studio. I just mixed some colors and started working. I didn’t mean to paint you. It just…happened.”
“It’s remarkable. You did this without even looking at me. What would you do if I’d been sitting there?”
“As if you’d ever pose for a painting. You’re a lady.”
“Ladies get their pictures painted all the time.”
His voice dropped. “Not the way I’d want to paint you.”
Beatrice blinked in surprise, and then felt a warmth creeping up her body. Did he mean what she thought he meant? “Excuse me?”
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.” He actually blushed. His unexpected embarrassment was charming.
Emboldened, Beatrice said, “Honestly, Mr Forrest. I trained in Paris with French chefs for eight years. At this point, my credentials as a lady are in tatters. And honestly, do you think cooking was the only thing I learned?”
After a beat of surprise, he gave her a glance that could only be described as flirtatious. “I should like to hear more about that.”
Dear Lord, she may have started something she ought not to. Flirting with a customer was poor practice. (Even if that customer happened to paint her image without her permission!)
“You want to hear of my dissolute youth? As a former soldier, you surely heard enough of such stories. Yet you want more?”
“What I want, Beatrice, is to taste you.” His voice was low, and held a rasp that hadn’t been there before. She watched him swallow, and realized that he was nervous.
There was no possible way she could let him kiss her.
He leaned in and tipped her chin up with one finger, then laid his mouth on hers, sucking gently on her lower lip. Bea whimpered as her nerves blossomed with expectation. She’d not had such a kiss in a long, long time.
“You taste marvelous,” he murmured.
“I had to test the chocolate sauce in the kitchen,” she explained, even as he parted her lips with his tongue, delving in for a divine moment.
He withdrew, but only to say, “Delicious. I approve of your commitment to your art.”
“It’s baking. It’s not art.”
“It is art, and I would know.” He kissed her again, more deeply. Bea responded as the need built inside her. She wrapped her hands around his upper arms and pulled him closer.
Oh, Lord.
He closed the kiss—if a slow slide of his tongue along her lower lip could be thought of as closure—and said, “Better than the marzipan.”
Though her heart was fluttering, Beatrice got out, “I…I ought to see to the food. That’s why I’m here, after all.”
“Ivy seems like an extraordinarily capable young lady.” He laid a series of open-mouthed kisses along her neck. “And I’m rather enjoying…what’s that word the French use when they serve those things that aren’t any bigger than a bite? The ones that just make you hungry for more?”
“Amuse-bouche,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “It means delight the mouth. They are intended to whet the appetite for the later courses.”
“Mmm, perfect, then. Because you are the most appetizing amuse-bouche I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m far bigger than a bite.”
“Good, because I’d hate to finish you too quickly.”
“We’re finished now,” she insisted, aware that if he kissed her one more time, she was liable to forget there were dozens of people in the house and do something she’d regret.
“Please stay,” he murmured. Those gold eyes promised a feast of pleasures.
“Noel. Mr Forrest, that is. I can’t do this,” she told him, drawing on reserves of iciness that were melting far too quickly. “Have you forgotten? I’ve work to do.”
“I forget nothing about you.” He sighed, and stepped back, then gestured to the door. “My house is yours, Miss Holliday. Please do whatever you wish.”
If she did whatever she wished, she’d scandalize the whole city. Bea fled the studio, her body singing with long-dormant desires.
* * * *
Noel had to take a moment to get himself together after Beatrice returned to the kitchen.
Do you think cooking was the only thing I learned?