Poppy collected two plates from the cupboard and set about dishing up the beef stew. She carried one bowl to the table, then went back for the second. To her private delight, Francis not only made quick work of the wine cork, but he sliced up the loaf of bread she had baked earlier in the morning. He cut the bread exactly how Poppy liked it. Thin, so that the salty butter could be savored.
Are these the little things that change your opinion of someone? That move emotions from friendship to more?
She was still trying to come to terms with that thought as she and Francis took their seats at the table. He offered a brief prayer of grace, after which he poured them both a generous mug of wine.
“To you, Captain Basden. May you have many happy days in London, and all of your dreams come true,” he said, raising his cup.
Taking a sip of her wine, Poppy nodded her appreciation. How could she respond to those words? To what her heart was asking her to risk?
She handed him the small plate of butter. “Please help yourself.”
The first mouthful of the meal had them both humming their appreciation. Poppy was quietly proud of herself. A pinch of salt and pepper added an hour ago had resulted in the best beef stew Poppy had ever cooked. The tripod legs of the pot had allowed her to maintain an even spread of the hot coals and cooking temperature over the day. The meat was tender and the vegetables perfect.
Francis set the spoon down in his now empty bowl and sighed. “That was delicious. Dare I say, almost as good as our cook’s, and believe me, she is outstanding. I can’t begin to tell you how many people have tried to steal her away from my family over the years.”
That was high praise indeed. “You say that your father has a silver tongue, but I think you can hold your own when it comes to it,” replied Poppy.
She dropped her gaze to her food as a sudden bout of shyness took hold. Light banter had never been her forte, whereas the Saunders men seemed to have a natural affinity with it.
Silence sat heavy in the cavernous space, broken only by the scrape of a knife on bread. A cautious glance had her taking in the sight of Francis wiping a slice of buttered bread across the bottom of his bowl. Not a drop of his stew was going to be left to go to waste.
“How are you going with your cinnamon bales? I’ve seen a few loads of them being loaded onto carts. Do you have many left?” he asked.
All thoughts of food and generous gifts came to a screeching halt in Poppy’s brain. Francis was her guest. Her neighbor. He was also her rival bidder for the new spice contract.
His question sounded innocent enough, but Poppy’s business instincts immediately took over. Tucking a curl of hair behind her ear, she fixed her best mask of indifference to her face.
I wish he didn’t want to talk about business.
The spice bid sat, a dark, heavy secret between them. Poppy had no idea how good Francis was at playing at bluff. Her reading of him so far was that he struggled to keep his inner thoughts from appearing on his countenance. If she played this moment carefully, then hopefully the wine and a sated belly would be enough to dull his wits and keep him off-guard.
Trust wasn’t something Poppy had ever been able to hold close to her heart. Too many disappointments. Too many broken, false hopes.
“I’m not sure how many we have left,” she replied carefully. “Only a few. Most of the cargo was already spoken for before we sailed from Ceylon. Papa negotiated the contracts. I merely hauled the cinnamon bales for him.”
You know the exact count and their value. But you won’t let him know that.
She could play the dutiful daughter, one who was simply doing her father’s bidding. No actress could handle the role as well as Poppy did.
Smiling and playing sweet were first-rate stalling tactics that she had mastered for whenever business negotiations were getting too tight. Few men dared question a woman who had turned on the feminine charm.
Francis pushed his bowl and empty plate away. “Well, just let me know if you ever need me to find a buyer for your spices. I have connections in London who I am sure would be happy to give you a fair price.”
A horrible thought crept into Poppy’s mind.
Is that why you are here? To talk business. Not just for my company?
Was there anyone in the world who didn’t have an ulterior motive for spending time with her?
“That is a generous offer, thank you. But I can’t accept it. You have already done so much for me.” Does he like me for me? Or is this just another way for him . . . oh.
She pushed her growing fear to the back of her mind. If she granted it more space, she may not have been able to hold back the threatening tears of disappointment.
Change the subject. Talk about anything else.
“So, your parents have gone to Scotland for Christmas. Is that an annual tradition?” This was another successful tactic which she kept in her quiver—and one which usually worked on men. If the male of the species had one common fault, it was that they loved to talk about the things which mattered to them.
His brows knitted together for a moment. Poppy picked up her cup of wine and sipped the last of it. The bottle of wine was empty. The food was gone. And the fire was slowly dying down. Francis might soon be ready to call it a night.
