Chapter 4 #2
Was she trying to tempt him? She tossed off that little line with such ease, seeming not to care how provocative it sounded.
Now his mind was full of questions about the rest of Beatrice’s “education.” He was wildly jealous of whoever got the gift of educating her, of tasting her.
Her kisses suggested quite an education.
He was letting his imagination run wild, newly obsessed with the desire to get closer to Beatrice.
Eventually, he rejoined the party, and soon a guest came up to him, one of Beatrice’s elegant pastries in hand. “Spared nothing on food, did you, Forrest? Her ladyship outdid herself this time.”
Noel blinked in confusion. “Her ladyship?”
“Have you not heard?” The guest’s voice dropped. “Miss Holliday isn’t really Miss Holliday. She’s the daughter of some baron or viscount. Lady Beatrice Something-or-Other. Holliday’s only one part of her name, and not the recognizable part.”
“If that’s true, why is she baking in the back of a Philadelphia shop?”
“Some family squabble,” another guest joined in. “She jilted the man she was to marry. Or something to that effect.”
Noel frowned. Beatrice didn’t seem the type of woman who treated anything lightly. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“I heard the story from a reliable source. You know, once an Englishman came into her shop and recognized her. Called her my lady.”
“What happened?” Noel asked.
“She tossed him out, and then tossed a cake in the street right after and told him it was on the house. Not a woman keen to keep in touch with her old circles, I’d say.”
“Waste of a cake,” the first guest noted mournfully.
Noel had to think about the news for a minute. What caused a woman to give up her family name and station to start over on another continent? What secrets was Beatrice hiding?
* * * *
When the early winter evening had already darkened the sky, Beatrice and Ivy surveyed the remains of the food. The party was over, and nearly everything had been devoured.
“I have to admit, this all went very well,” said Ivy. “If we had an event of this size to cater each month, the shop hours could be reduced.”
“Why would we want that?”
Ivy looked over at her, slightly exasperated. “The prospect of a day to yourself doesn’t appeal to you? You work far too much, and don’t pretend you rest of a Sunday. I know you sneak work in even then.”
Beatrice shook her head. “The shop must stay open. I’ll not trust my financial future to the vagaries of Philadelphia’s social season.”
“But life requires sweetness as well as sweat,” Ivy argued. “And why drive yourself so hard that you lose sight of what drives you? You love cooking and making others happy with what you’ve created. But if it becomes a burden, you’ll lose that joy. You deserve joy, Miss Beatrice.”
Bea blinked in surprise at her companion’s impassioned speech. Did she deserve joy? Before she could reply, Ivy was already motioning her to keep silent. “Mr Forrest!” she said cheerfully as he approached. “We were just saying what a success it’s been. I trust you’re satisfied?”
At the word satisfied, Beatrice felt her cheeks flush. But Noel only said, “Everything went better than I hoped. Miss Shepherd, would you be kind enough to tell Mr Marley how he can help you pack up? I’d like to speak to Miss Holliday for a moment.”
Ivy nodded and moved away.
“Yes?” Beatrice asked, trying desperately not to remember his kisses earlier.
“What would happen,” he asked, looking her over carefully, “if I addressed you as Lady Beatrice?”
Oh, no, not this again. “I would be unlikely to answer,” she said, keeping her tone cool.
“Because it’s incorrect?” he asked more pointedly.
“No,” she ground out. “You would be correct. But also upsetting me.”
“Well, then I’ll be careful not to say any such thing.”
“Have you been asking about me?”
“One of my guests happened to mention it. You’ve intrigued more people than me, it seems.”
“Well, please enjoy speculating on my past, then.” Beatrice turned away, angry at the thought of being the subject of gossip. Again. Not even being on a different continent seemed to stop it!
“I can’t tell if I actually offended you,” said Noel, “or if you just don’t react well to the truth.”
“What does it matter?” she burst out.
“It matters to me.” His voice was quiet, but his eyes never left hers. “If something happened to you that was so serious it caused you to change your name, I want to know what that was.”
“Why?”
“I want to understand you.”
She took a steadying breath. What did that mean? She thought of the painting he’d done of her, sight unseen. That was a perfect example of how shockingly well he seemed to understand her, seeing her as she secretly desired to be seen.
But that didn’t mean she was ready to reveal her past to him. “You must permit a lady her secrets, sir.”
“I can’t force you to tell me anything,” he agreed, reaching for her hand. She pulled it away. The last thing she needed from Noel was pity.
He saw her move and retracted his hand. And with an expression that was far too close to pity, he said, “All I wanted to say, Miss Holliday, was that if you should ever want to tell me anything, I would like to hear it.”
“I heard you endured torture during the war. Why should you wish to torture yourself more by listening to me?” Bea retreated into bitterness, as she always did, and she couldn’t look Noel in the eye.
Soon everything was packed and Forrest’s coach was ready to take them back. Two chestnut horses stamped their hooves on the frosted ground, their breath steaming in the cold air. Ivy accepted a last crate from Emmanuel, and Noel came out to the coach as well.
It was all so cozy and domestic that Bea wanted to run straight back to her home and put a blanket over her head.
“We have to go,” she announced. “We’re late enough already, and I know Mr Forrest will place an order for more chocolates tomorrow.”
“Mmm, not tomorrow. Or for the next few days, I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh?” Bea raised an eyebrow, aiming for a nonchalant air.
“I have some business in New Jersey,” he explained. “A small matter that doesn’t really even require my personal attention, but needs must. I will be gone for about three nights, a fact which annoys me greatly.”
Beatrice looked with a bit of confusion toward Mr Marley. “Forgive me for asking, but wouldn’t that be exactly the sort of task for a secretary to handle?” Why else would Noel have hired him?
“Not in this case. Mr Marley has a policy, you see,” Noel said with a faint smile. “Tell her,” he encouraged his secretary.
Emmanuel looked directly at Beatrice. “New Jersey is a slave state, ma’am. And I do not set foot in slave states.”
“Nor should anyone,” Ivy agreed, her normally smiling face now stern. “No matter their race.”
“But it’s just across the river!” Beatrice protested, confused. “It’s still the United States, is it not?”
Mr Marley said, “I’m afraid that you’ve been so focused on your own business, Miss Holliday, that you’ve likely not been able to pay much attention to our politics.
As things stand now, each state has the power to endorse the institution of slavery…
or abolish it. That compromise was the cost of getting the Southern states to agree to the new federal government, without which the new nation would have failed before it truly began. ”
“Insanity,” Beatrice said, shaking her head. “How can it be illegal on one riverbank, but not on the other?”
“The better question, ma’am,” Emmanuel said, “is how can slavery be legal anywhere? It is immoral no matter where on Earth it occurs.”
Noel nodded, adding, “I respect my friend’s position, and recognize that it is not just a philosophical matter for him. While I occasionally do need to go to New Jersey, I will never make him go there until they abolish the institution. Especially because it would be an unnecessary danger.”
“Danger?” Bea echoed.
“It’s a risk for even free Blacks like us to travel to slave states,” Ivy explained to Bea. “There are endless stories of free people being captured and sold down south as slaves. Once they’re there, it’s almost impossible to locate them. Their names are changed, and they often get resold.”
Beatrice felt sick. To think that this was happening practically under her nose and she had no idea at all.
Ivy put a hand on Emmanuel’s arm. “I’m proud of you for standing up for what’s right.”
“Don’t be too proud,” he said, speaking loud enough so Bea could hear him.
“It’s personal preservation as well. My mother was a slave in the Carolinas.
She took me on the journey north when I was just a baby, even though it would have been easier and safer to go alone.
Technically, I’m still considered a slave, though I’m sure her former master assumes we both died long ago.
But according to the laws of the country, he could still claim me as his property.
That’s why she changed both her name and mine when she got here.
Emmanuel was the name of the last family that sheltered us in Maryland, before we reached Philadelphia.
She named me for them, as a reminder of how I got here.
So you can see why I’m careful not to draw the attention of the catchers. ”
“That will never happen!” Ivy declared, not in disbelief, but rather as a proclamation.
“I am doing my best to make sure of that. Luckily, Mr Forrest supports me in this. Many employers wouldn’t.”
Noel looked a little choked up as he put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The least I can do, after what you did for me.”
Bea watched the scene, feeling quite at sea. What else had she missed, lost in her own kitchen amid spun sugar and buttercream?
Ivy and Emmanuel were talking earnestly, moving away from the carriage as they did so. Noel pulled Bea aside. “Let the two chat,” he suggested in a low voice. “Emmanuel has spent the last few years with only a cranky invalid for company. He deserves some joy for himself.”
“Have you none?” she asked, then checked herself. It was far too intimate a question, even if they had been rather intimate earlier. “I’m sorry, I have no right to pry. Especially when I refuse to speak of my own life.”
“You have your reasons, I’m sure, Beatrice. But to answer your question, I have more joy than I did a month ago,” he said with a sly smile.
“Oh?”
His smile widened. “I’m starting to paint again. That’s something, isn’t it?”
He was teasing her. She knew it, and she liked it.
“I have a suggestion,” she said suddenly. “You said you were working with particular colors to improve your skills. I’ll do the same, so long as you promise to keep pursuing your painting.”
“How?” he asked, confusion knitting his brows. “You’ll only bake red things?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll focus on a particular ingredient. Name me what you want to taste, and the next order will feature it. A sort of challenge. For us both.”
He looked at her, his eyes kindling. “Intriguing. But I’d hate to think that you’re working on something else, beyond what you already do all day.”
“What’s one more thing?” she said, impatiently brushing his objection aside. “I can manage.”
“Yes, you manage everything quite well,” he said. “But sometimes I wonder if you take time to actually enjoy your life.”
Bea blinked in surprise. While she did find herself rather overwhelmed by the demands of her business, she didn’t think it was so obvious. “I thank you for the concern, but I won’t mind because this change will be enjoyable. Tell me what you want first.”
“Very well.” He paused, thinking, instinctively licking his lips. “Coffee.”
“Done.” Beatrice smiled. Coffee would be easy.
Then he handed her a small package. “Oh, one more thing. Please accept this.”
“What is it?” she asked, taking the flat package.
“A thank-you for making this gathering a success.”
“Noel, I can’t. Not after being so rude to you. Again.”
“Take it. It would be rude not to.” His smile warmed her.
At home that night, she unwrapped the package. Under the paper was a small, unframed painting. It was very simple: a partially sliced lemon resting on a dark wooden surface.
But he hadn’t really painted a lemon. He’d painted tang and tartness and bright Mediterranean sunlight. Somehow he captured a drop of juice about to fall, so real that she wanted to catch it on her finger and taste it.
Something about the painting felt very personal, as if it was a message for her alone. But that was nonsense. He simply mentioned that he’d begun using colors again, and was testing his skills with easy pieces. Well, his skills were impressive. All his skills.
Beatrice propped the little canvas up on her dresser so she would see it again in the morning. If he asked, she would definitely not tell him which room she kept the painting in. He might get ideas…