Chapter Forty-One
‘So,’ she heard her pa say, as she drew closer. ‘I suppose I should tell you, here and now, that I shan’t be talking about my late wife. And nor do I want to hear of yours.’
Damien’s green eyes widened. ‘I—’
‘He’s not a member, Pa,’ Ava said, taking the seat on the other side of her father. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’
Her father’s frown deepened. ‘A friend?’
‘Yes, Pa,’ said Oliver, appearing from behind them with an enormous tray of scones. ‘You must’ve heard of them. I believe you even had some, at one point.’
‘Speaking of friends,’ Ava said, studying her brother’s red face. ‘Where’s Jem?’
‘Couldn’t come,’ Oliver said, casually.
‘Really? Because I thought I saw him with you in the courtyard out back?’
Oliver’s brows shot up. ‘You were eavesdropping on us?’
‘I was helping Mrs Moss,’ Ava clarified. ‘Why didn’t he come inside? Say hello?’
‘Said he had a delivery,’ Oliver said with a shrug. ‘That he had to get back to the shop.’
‘You’re sure?’ Ava asked. ‘It wasn’t that you said something that might’ve made him feel unwelcome?’
She watched her brother’s expression shutter, and he turned to Damien. ‘You’ll have to excuse my sister,’ he said. ‘She’s forgotten her manners. I’m Oliver, Oliver Adams.’
‘Damien Carter,’ said Damien – earning a curious look from her father.
‘“Carter”?’ he murmured. ‘Sure I did some work for a Carter once. Lived in across the Mersey.’
‘A different Carter, I’m sure,’ said Damien, reaching for his napkin, placing it atop his lap.
‘Ah, so you do remember then, Pa,’ Oliver said, reaching for a scone, his blue eyes sliding to Ava’s. ‘Working. Helping out?’
Her father’s expression drew downwards. ‘You’re one to talk, Oliver,’ he said. ‘You’ve been flitting between jobs since you were fifteen years old. I think by now the only thing you haven’t been is “consistently employed”.’
‘Ah – but,’ Oliver said, digging through his trouser pocket, and plucking a square of paper from it. ‘I might’ve finally found something.’
It was an advertisement for a kitchen assistant, which apparently included ‘a modest stipend, and the possibility of room and board for the right candidate’. And then Ava’s eyes tracked down to the address printed in squashed, black letters at the bottom.
‘But … this is in York,’ Ava said.
‘At some private members’ club,’ said Oliver, wiping a crumb from his cheek.
‘I checked the directory. It sounds like they’d train me up properly, like one of those fancy chefs in France, or Vienna.
And the best part is, it wouldn’t start until December.
By which time hopefully this—’ He nodded towards his arm, which was still in its sling. ‘Will be healed.’
‘That’s …’ Ava started, and then stopped. ‘That’s amazing, Oliver.’
‘Amazing?’ her father said, his eyes wide. ‘We’ll starve.’
‘Who’s starving?’ asked Mrs Moss, placing a tray laden with pots of clotted cream and jars of jam down upon the table, and prompting another round of introductions before she sat down to join them. ‘Have we run out of scones already?’
‘Oliver’s leaving us,’ their pa said sourly. ‘To go and cook for strangers.’
‘That’s wonderful, dear!’ Mrs Moss said. ‘You know, you should write to Miss Collins and tell her.’
‘I’d rather not,’ Oliver mumbled, though thankfully Mrs Moss didn’t seem to hear him, for she’d turned her attention to Damien.
‘Now then, Mr Carter,’ Mrs Moss said. ‘Tell me, where are you from? Your accent doesn’t sound local at all.’
Damien’s gaze flicked up from his plate with surprise. ‘I was born in Surrey.’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Moss said, triumphantly. ‘I hear Surrey’s lovely.’
‘It was,’ Damien agreed – and Mrs Moss’ head tilted a little.
’Your family no longer lives there?’
‘My father lives in London. Or – he did, the last I knew.’
‘You are not close with them, then?’ she asked, eyes wide with innocence. ‘Your family?’
Ava watched Damien’s fingers curl loosely around the teacup’s handle. Watched the way his thumb dragged slowly across the porcelain. ‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘No.’
‘I hear good things of you from Mr Jane though,’ said Oliver. ‘Although next time you need to borrow a neck-tie, you’d best come to me. His taste is somewhat …’ His eyes tracked to the yellow tablecloth, the yellow teapot sat upon a yellow doily in the centre of the table. ‘Monotonous.’
Mrs Moss pushed a pot of blackberry jam towards Damien. ‘Try this, and tell me what you think.’
Damien’s forehead creased. ‘Me?’
‘Careful,’ Oliver said, lowering his voice a little. ‘Mrs Moss is notorious for being overly liberal with the sugar.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Moss. ‘I’ll have you know my jam has won awards.’
‘At the Widows’ and Widowers’ Club jamboree,’ Oliver said pointedly. ‘Where Mrs Moss is one of the judges.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’d be biased, Oliver,’ said Mrs Moss, watching carefully as Damien spooned a little onto his scone, and took a bite.
‘It’s delicious,’ he said. ‘Truly.’
‘I’ll give you a pot or two to take home with you,’ she said.
Damien looked a little startled. ‘Oh, really,’ he said. ‘You needn’t—’
‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Moss, dabbing clotted cream onto her scone. ‘You can take some of these scones, too. Oliver baked far too many.’
‘Because you panicked I hadn’t made enough, and forced me to—’
‘What about the lemon cheese? Have you tried that yet?’ Mrs Moss took the shallow dish, and held it towards Damien.
Damien’s gaze lifted to Ava’s, and she gave him a look that she hoped said, quite clearly: Please be careful, for it’s sharp enough to make your tongue burn.
‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe,’ Mrs Moss said, a proud smile curling her lips. ‘It’s very simple – just lemon, sugar, eggs and butter.’
‘You’re in trouble, Pa,’ said Oliver, nudging his father’s forearm. ‘Looks like Mrs Moss has a new project.’
‘Thank God,’ their father muttered, as Damien took the small dish being proffered. He took a mouthful, and Ava watched his face pinch a little, his lips tweaking into a line.
‘It’s very …’ he began, lips puckering a little as he swallowed. ‘Lemony.’
‘Delightful, isn’t it?’ Mrs Moss said. ‘That’s won awards, too.’
‘At the same jamboree,’ muttered Oliver. ‘Didn’t it come second, to your blackberry jam?’
‘And my gooseberry jam came third,’ Mrs Moss said. ‘I cannot help it if I’m exceptionally talented in the kitchen, Oliver. I can give you a pot of that too, if you’d like, Mr Carter? So long as Mr Willows hasn’t squirrelled them away in his pockets like last time.’
‘I’ve already seen him pocketing the scones,’ said Oliver. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to stick any of the tombola prizes up his sleeves yet.’
‘I can make you a little basket,’ Mrs Moss said, giving Damien a warm smile. ‘To take home with you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Damien – though now his voice was taut, and he pushed his chair back from the table so quickly the cups and saucers began to chatter. ‘If you’ll all please excuse me a moment, I just need to—’
Ava saw how his eyes were glassy, his jaw tight, and when he didn’t walk to the tombola table, as she thought he might, but straight out of the front door – she stood, too.
‘I’ll be just a moment,’ she said, placing her napkin down on the table.
‘Goodness,’ she heard Oliver say as she walked away, his voice lifting over the chatter of other people’s conversation. ‘What on earth did you put in that lemon cheese, Mrs Moss?’