But the rest of Alex’s protest was lost as Freddie marched toward the house. She sighed and stared at the little box of sweets still clutched in her hand. Leave it to Freddie to wait until the day of the party to buy Mother a gift. She ran a finger along the edge of the familiar pink box. When they were children and particularly restless Mother would take them on long walks into the village, always with a stop at the sweet shop, where she would buy a bag of lemon drops for herself. Alex lifted the box and inhaled the fragrant notes of citrus. A smile touched her lips as her heart warmed with old memories.
Perhaps… perhaps it wasn’t such a bad present after all. The Sèvres porcelain vase Alex had spent months tracking down suddenly seemed gauche in comparison. She never got gifts right. It seemed like the more effort she put in, the more she failed.
Because you lack all sentimentality.
It was a barb her sisters frequently lobbed at her. And they weren’t wrong. But there were other areas where she excelledbecauseshe wasn’t swayed by menial emotions. Like business, for example. Freddie could act the martyr as much as she wanted, but it was Alex’s commitment to herbusiness relationshipsthat had allowed her youngest sister to spend the last five years swanning around London without a care. Freddie would do well to remember that. Alex shoved the box into her skirt pocket and headed inside. As always, there was work to be done.
Lucien did his best to outrun Alexandra Atkinson’s disapproval, but he could feel her sharp-eyed glare at his back until he turned the corner. He let out a breath as the carriage house came into view.It was the only place on the property where he could never be dismissed. The one place where he was always welcome.
His parents had met while working in service for the family, his father the coachman and his mother an apprentice to the Parisian chef the Atkinsons had poached from a London hotel. Lucien’s mother, Celeste Laurent, had worked hard to earn her position and until she became a head chef, she had no interest in the distraction of a romance withanyone—not even the very persistent Englishman who became a coachman in large part because it allowed him time to read. It was only once the Parisian chef returned to France and Celeste took his place that she allowed true love to prevail. They settled in the cozy flat above the carriage house and filled it with secondhand books and handwritten recipes. Lucien came along a few years later, an unexpected but happy surprise for the older couple, who assumed they had missed the chance to be parents, and he was doted on accordingly.
Lucien climbed the stairs that led to the flat two at a time, suddenly eager for the safe confines of home, and let himself in. There he was greeted by the comforting scent of dusty paper and tea leaves.
He inhaled greedily and scanned the front room. “Father?”
“I’m in here, Lucien!”
His father’s quavering voice carried from the back of the flat. Lucien frowned in concern as he made his way toward the bedroom. It was nearly the afternoon. His father wouldneverbe abed at this time of day unless something was very wrong.
You may find him much changed.
He recalled the dire warning in a letter from Mrs. Holloway, the housekeeper. The one that had compelled him to spend his last francs on a ticket home instead of a final, desperate attempt to savehis business. Lucien had only seen his father once since he’d left for Paris during a brief visit to London after he finished culinary school. Lucien was interviewing at several hotels in Mayfair and managed to fit in lunch with his father in a pub not far from the Atkinsons’ London residence. Over a simple shepherd’s pie and two pints of bitter, Lucien confessed his dread about working in a professional kitchen before tentatively mentioning the idea for the supper club. His father’s response had been short and salient:
Now is the time for big leaps, my boy. Before life gives you reasons to look first.
It was just the push he needed.
As Lucien entered the room, his father reclined in an overstuffed armchair with a thick book on his lap. He took off his reading glasses and smiled. “There he is! Come here, my boy. Let’s have a good look at you.”
Though he was dressed for the day, his father wore slippers and an old dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. As Lucien drew closer, he noticed the hollows beneath his father’s cheeks. He had battled a nasty bout of pneumonia over the winter and Lucien saw that he was still alarmingly gaunt months later.
In his letters, his father had minimized his illness, of course, so it wasn’t until the housekeeper wrote to Lucien directly that he learned just how close to death his father had been. And how weak he still was. Even now, he wasn’t able to resume his full duties. The Atkinsons had been very accommodating of his illness, but their goodwill wouldn’t last forever. If his father didn’t fully recover, he would have to be replaced.
Lucien was filled with a sudden, piercing regret. His father had spent a considerable part of his own savings helping him go toculinary school. He should have taken the London hotel job and paid his father back first. Then he could have tilted at windmills all he wished without imperiling anyone but himself.
“Please, don’t get up,” Lucien said as he approached.
“Nonsense,” his father groused and slowly came to his feet. “I’m hardly the invalid Mrs. Holloway made me out to be.” Then he wrapped Lucien in a tight embrace, as if to emphasize the point.
“Glad to hear it,” Lucien replied, while noting the small brown medicine bottle on the nightstand by the bed. Yet another reminder that sickness still lingered here.
His father pulled back and pressed a hand to Lucien’s cheek. “I’d forgotten how much you look like her,” he murmured in surprise. “You didn’t used to. But as you’ve grown older…”
There was no need to finish the thought. Lucien glanced away from the sheen in his father’s eyes and cleared his throat. The likeness to his mother had been a frequent topic of conversation among his French relatives. And he had long grown tired of it.
“The aunts all send their regards,” Lucien said with a tight smile.
His father let out a sharp laugh and moved to sit back down in his chair. “Oh, I’m sure.” This time he allowed Lucien to help him. “They all blamemefor why she never returned home.”
Lucien pressed his lips together. It was true. “I did tell them she was very happy here.”
“Good.” Then he gave Lucien a searching look. “But theywerenice to you, weren’t they?”
“Yes. Very.” That was also true.
His father relaxed and let out a sigh. “Good,” he repeated. “And the language wasn’t too much trouble?”
“It was an adjustment at first, but I got on well enough.”
