“The cakes!” she cried, pushing her chair back from the desk and leaping to her feet. She scurried over to the fire and took a hold of the tray with the edge of a folded-up dishcloth. Her grip wasn’t sure, and the hot platter slipped out of her hand.
The six little sugar cakes fell to the floor, scattering in all directions.
“Oh, no. Now look what I have done.”
Dropping to her knees, she gathered four of the cakes up, tucking them into her apron. One had rolled under a nearby chair. She bent, stretching to collect it.
Knock. Knock.
“Oh,” she muttered. Talk about terrible timing.
With a huff, Poppy got to her feet. She dropped the cakes onto the table and headed for the door.
Francis Saunders was standing on the threshold; he held a wooden box in his hands. “Good afternoon,” he said, offering up a cheery smile.
Thank heavens we are no longer enemies. His smile lights up the whole of his face.
“Not such a good one for me unfortunately. I have just burned and then dropped a whole batch of sugar cakes,” replied Poppy. She beckoned for him to come inside, and Francis followed her. “I am still in the process of locating the last one of them.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “Feel free to put your box down next to the table. It looks heavy.”
Francis set the box on the floor. “It is rather. But it’s not my box; it’s yours.”
Poppy stopped mid-way to the fireplace. She was sure she hadn’t ordered anything. Turning, she considered the plain wooden box. “I wasn’t expecting a delivery. Was it outside when you arrived?”
He shook his head and the grin on his face grew even wider. Francis might well fancy himself a hard-nosed businessman, but if he had any idea as to the power of his smile, he would know that it was all he would ever need to secure a deal. Charles might be the one blessed with a friendly, disarming nature, but Francis could also hold his own.
You just need to decide that being pleasant with people can get you a long way.
It was a lesson she had learned at an early age. It served as a means to an end. Making sure she survived on her own in a foreign port when her father had yet again gone off on one of his journeys and left Poppy behind.
“I brought the box with me. I have been to Thames Street to the ironmonger,” he announced, proudly.
Poppy’s brows lifted. She didn’t think someone like Francis would even know what an ironmonger did, let alone know where to find one.
Her mind was still tackling that thought as Francis bent and removed the lid from the box. His hands then disappeared inside the wooden frame. When they reappeared, they were holding a cast-iron pot. He lifted it free, then stepped forward and placed it on the floor in front of Poppy.
“It’s a Dutch oven, for you.”
Poppy’s hands went to her heated cheeks in an instant. Francis had brought her a present. A rather grand one, from the look of it.
“Note the matching lid and the three little legs on the bottom. I have been assured that this pot should last you a lifetime. In fact, your grandchildren will very likely be cooking with it long after you are gone,” he said.
Her eyes darted from Francis to the pot, and then back to him. Poppy couldn’t believe what was happening. No one had ever given her such a thoughtful gift. While many might think it odd to buy a new friend a Dutch oven, Francis, of all people, seemed to genuinely understand her.
A Dutch oven. Oh, my.
Flowers of course would have been nice. A fancy handkerchief welcome. But a pot which would enable her to bake bread and full-sized cakes was like being handed the keys to El Dorado.
Her vision grew misty, clouded with tears.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.
Francis drew close. “Tell me that it is something you can use. I wasn’t sure what to get you, but I remembered you bringing some small baking trays off the Empress Catherine. I spoke to our cook at home, and she said this would be something she would want for cooking in a fireplace.”
Poppy nodded. “I have seen smaller iron pots in various places, but these cast iron designs are considered to be the best. You even managed to get a tripod one. Thank you. I really don’t know what else to say, other than that.”
She couldn’t imagine what it must have cost Francis. Good quality Dutch ovens were an investment piece, something she had always promised herself that she would one day own.
And that day is today.
