He could also privately confess that he wanted her to think of him every time she used his gift. At some point, he had stopped viewing the next-door neighbor as a nuisance. Poppy had become something else. A friend.
One who found her way into his thoughts at odd times of the day and night.
“A large fireplace?” replied Cook.
“Yes. Oh, and my friend likes to bake. She is good with biscuits and cinnamon toast,” he added.
As a soft smile appeared on the woman’s face, Francis silently chastised himself for having mentioned that his friend was, in fact, a she.
The servants will have a lovely time gossiping over that gem as soon as I am gone.
To his relief, Cook simply turned and made her way over to the nearby fireplace. A selection of pots and pans sat to one side of the main grate. She picked up a three-legged round pot and brought it back to where Francis stood.
“This is what they call a Dutch oven. One of the most useful inventions ever made for the kitchen,” she said.
He took hold of the pot. It was heavy. “What is it made of?”
“Iron. They cast it in sand molds, and that gives them the nice smooth surface inside. Stops things sticking to the bottom. The three little legs are so you can stand the pot either in the hot coals of the fire or near them.”
It looked sturdy, reliable. Something that would last a lifetime. He was certain Poppy would appreciate the practicality of it.
“It’s not the most romantic of gifts,” said Cook.
Francis set the oven on the floor. She was, of course, completely right; a cast-iron pot didn’t quite send one’s pulse racing. He hadn’t meant it to, but now that he thought about it, perhaps that was a misstep.
No. No, it’s not. Remember, you like Poppy. You want to be on friendly terms with her. Anything else is an unnecessary obstacle.
“The lady in question is just a friend. Well, more of an acquaintance,” replied Francis. He kept his gaze from meeting Cook’s, fearing what he would see in her eyes. The lack of conviction in his voice was bad enough.
Cook picked up the Dutch oven and replaced it back beside the fire. “If you are still set on buying one of these for a gift, I can give you the address of the ironmonger Mister Saunders has an account with in Thames Street.”
Francis was caught in a bind of his own making. If he said no that he would find another more suitable present, Cook would have won. And if he kept on with his original plan, he ran the risk of appearing stubborn and thoughtless.
I lose either way.
It was the thought of Poppy and her delicious baked goods that finally settled things. He was being a good friend by gifting her an oven which would enable her to make more sweet treats and tasty bread.
And if the cast-iron pot means that she is inclined to bake every day, then it goes without saying that she will need a friend with whom she can share her food. Perhaps even a gentleman who happens to have a shipping office close to hers.
Poppy was living alone. It would be impolite of him not to call in each day and spend a little time with her. And he could hardly refuse if she asked him to stay and give her a spot of his attention while she served up elevenses and a cup of tea.
Francis swallowed down a lump of imaginary cake. “I would be most grateful if you could write the address down on a card, thank you, Cook.”
Cook opened the drawer at the end of the large kitchen work table and sorted through a small stack of cards. “Ah,” she muttered, before handing one of them to Francis.
“Just let him know who you are before you begin to conduct business; that way, you will get the best quality Dutch oven. It might cost your father a pretty penny, but I am sure that if it has the desired result with the young lady in question, he will think it money well spent.”
“Thank you, Cook. But just so as we are clear regarding this cooking pot, it is a gift to a friend, nothing more.”
“Of course, Master Saunders.”
Francis took both the card and his leave. As he climbed aboard the carriage in the mews at the rear of his family home a short while later, he swore he could hear the buzz of the rumors which his visit to the kitchen had already started.
Just a pot. Not a proposal.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Poppy had burned the cakes in true King Alfred style. She had gotten busy with some paperwork and forgotten that they were cooking on the small iron tray on top of the grate. The smell of burnt butter and sugar alerted her to the impending disaster.
