Page 52 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Twenty-Four

Agood three quarters of an hour later, Harriet descended the stairs with Mrs. S, who then, with the air of a proud mama presenting her daughter at court, escorted her into a small parlor. A fire burned in a wide stone hearth and a table had been set for two. This last was because, to Harriet’s consternation, Mrs. S had sent Theo off after his own wash and brush up and before she started on Harriet’s transformation, to eat in the kitchens with the delighted Marie-Hèlène. Something he was eager to do. He departed with her, before Harriet could say no, to the sounds of him practising his schoolboy French on the bemused servant. “Bonsoir. Je m’appelle Theo. Comment tu t’appelle?”

Which meant that Harriet was going to have to dine alone with Jack. No use complaining to Mrs. S. though, who seemed delighted to be pushing the two of them together, like some old-fashioned matchmaker who’d decided for herself they were meant for one another. Harriet was just going to have to endure the experience. She refused to acknowledge that a part of her, a tiny part only, was quite looking forward to eating with the handsome captain.

He was seated in a high, wing-backed chair by the fire when she came in, but he jumped up with alacrity, his eyes wide with surprise at the changes Mrs. S had wrought on his stowaway. She’d had no black dresses at all, she’d insisted, and Harriet would have to put up with wearing either a prettily sprigged muslin gown or go back to her breeches and shirt. The lure of the gown had won. “Tres bien,” that lady had said with delight, reverting yet again to French. “Parfait for dinner with a gentleman. A shame to hide your beauty in dull black.”

Clearly remembering his manners a little late, Jack swept a flamboyant bow. He’d not changed the clothes he’d been on board ship in, but the flickering firelight bestowed on him an antique glow that was not unpleasing. His dark hair glimmered as though gilded, and those almost golden eyes… well, she’d best not look at them too closely or it might be hard to tear her own eyes away.

“Now,” Mrs. S said, with even more satisfaction. “Your new young cabin boy is eating in the kitchens with my servants, so he won’t be disturbing you. I’ll have Gaston serve your dinner, and make sure young Master Theo goes up to bed when he’s finished eating, although as he’s a boy, that should be a while from now. My servants know how to feed a growing lad.”

Jack gave her a small bow. “Thank you for that.” Then he turned to Harriet. “Won’t you sit down?”

As Mrs. S, with an elaborate wink aimed at which one of them Harriet couldn’t work out, departed, Jack held out one of the two chairs. Harriet sat down, arranging the skirts of the gown Mrs. S had lent her with care.

Jack took the seat opposite and poured wine into two fine cut-glass goblets. He held his up. “To smuggling and all it brings us.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows but lifted her glass. “To not getting caught while Theo and I are on board.”

He clinked his glass against hers. “An admirable sentiment to which I would add—to not getting caught, ever.”

She took a mouthful of the wine, which was full-bodied and strong, not at all like the watered wine Ben had insisted was all she could be trusted with. “I gather the punishment for smugglers is severe. I saw what remained of a few of them as a girl. They’d been hanged then tarred and left up as a lesson to passersby not to follow in their footsteps. It’s a wonder you’re prepared to risk your life and liberty when you already have a fine house and all you could wish for in the way of possessions.”

“Ah, but I don’t do it for the money.”

She took a second mouthful of the wine, savoring its fruitiness. With her present impecunity, some time had passed since she’d drunk wine of any sort, even watered wine. “So, you see yourself as the gentleman smuggler doing it for the good of others?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “I might.”

“Or is there another reason for the trade you carry out?” Goodness, she was feeling bold. Perhaps it was the wine talking. In case it was, she took another long sip to fortify her nerves, liking the effect. The midday meal on board The Fly being a long time ago, the alcohol brought a pleasantly warming glow to her empty stomach, which she also liked.

He smiled. “Would you believe me if I told you I do it for the excitement?”

She set her wineglass on the table, and he topped it up for her. She’d have to be careful not to drink too much, but it was exceedingly pleasant and at the same time gave her the courage to speak her mind. For once. And, unlike Ben, Jack didn’t appear to be too shocked or angry that she was questioning him. In fact, it was fun to question him. To spar with him like a fencer with an epée. Much as she’d felt Fitz was sparring with her. Only she preferred Jack as an opponent.

“I think I would,” she said, picking up her glass again, partly to give herself something to do with her hands, which were bare, as Mrs. S’s wardrobe had not run to gloves.

“Then that is what I shall tell you.” He drained his own glass and refilled it, and the door opened to emit a stout man with a large tray on which resided a large platter. Of snails.

“Escargots, M’sieur,” he said, with a flourish, as he laid the platter on the table between them. “Spécialité de la maison.”

Snails. Harriet’s nose twitched at the inviting aroma of garlic butter. But snails? Of course, she knew, as any child who’d learnt French from a tutor or in school did, that the French typically ate snails and frogs’ legs. But to be presented with them? In this quantity? There must be two dozen of them occupying their neat little shells all sitting in little recesses on the pottery platter as if it had been specially made for them. What if the main course turned out to be frogs’ legs themselves? M. Bulot had said they tasted like chicken when Theo had asked him, and Theo had wasted no time in informing both Lydia and Harriet of this delicious piece of information. But he hadn’t been clear on what snails tasted like.

Jack picked up a little pronged fork and prodded it into one of the shells, lifting out the occupant, cooked and covered in garlic butter. With an air of nonchalance he popped it into his mouth and mopped up the excess butter with a slice of crusty bread. Harriet watched him in fascination. Had Theo eaten snails in the kitchen, or were they reserved for those in the parlor?

“Don’t you like snails?” Jack asked, taking a second. “Don’t think of them as that. Think of them as shellfish. We Brits have little trouble eating oysters, so why should snails be any different?”

“I’ve never tried them.”

“That means nothing. They’re an epicurean delight. Are you woman enough to try them?”

She took another reassuring gulp of her wine. Why not? When in France… Using the tiny fork, she prodded it into the nearest shell until she’d attached it to what was lurking inside. Lifting it out, she paused a moment, the melted butter dripping off the snail. Best close her eyes. She popped it into her mouth and swallowed without chewing. But the taste lingered and… wasn’t at all bad.

“Not quite how I’d imagined,” she said, and took a second one.

To her surprise she managed to eat half a dozen to Jack’s much larger portion, which was enough for her. She’d have to tell Theo later that she’d been brave enough to try snails. If he hadn’t been offered them himself, he’d be fascinated.

“Peasant fare,” Jack said, wiping his mouth. “But too delectable to ignore. Mrs. S is an accomplished cook and thinks nothing of borrowing the recipes of her less affluent neighbors here in Brittany. A lot of peasant cooking over here uses the cheapest and most easily accessible ingredients and turns them into culinary delights.”