Cooking Up Trouble Page 22

  The weeks of tension, coupled with exhaustion and total misery, finally engulfed her. With a ragged moan, Yvonne flung herself onto the bed and sobbed until she cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  Two hours after Heather and Philippe had returned from town, the wind was trying to lift the roof from his house. Thunder grumbled in the west, and Heather had seen sheets of lightning illuminate the mountains in the distance. She hoped it would rain, but didn’t believe it would. The genius of the weather, as Charles Dickens had called it, wasn’t so kind a benefactor. Especially not in Fort Summers. Fort Summers and its environs were more apt to suffer a prairie fire.

  Heather told herself not to be pessimistic as she stood in the dining room, facing Philippe. She never used to be pessimistic. Of course, she never used to be a liar and a fraud, either.

  “Um, it’s called a cassoulet de Toulouse,” said she, trying very hard not to make mincemeat of the pronunciation. Because she was uneasy in Philippe’s company this evening—she hadn’t been able to cease thinking about that kiss for a second—she added with a nervous wave of her hand, “They’re really only beans and sausages. But they’re good.”

  Philippe had been staring at her ever since she brought the tray into the dining room. He’d taken it from her hands without even bothering to lift a cover or sniff, set the tray on the table, and was now standing at the head of the table, staring at her. She wished he’d stop. He was making her want to scream.

  “I know what a cassoulet is, Heather.” His voice was very low, very soft, and very gentle.

  Heather swallowed. Her swallow was very hard, very loud, and very rough. “Oh.” Then she said, “Of course.” He knew a good deal more about food than she did; she’d known as much for a month now.

  His smile came out of nowhere and almost knocked her over backwards. “You are a very clever young woman, Heather Mahaffey. With no other food around—because the master of the house had a temper fit in town and spirited you away before you’d done the marketing—you have still managed to create a wonderful supper. You’re a perfect example of frontier indomitability, and I admire that quality in you.”

  Dear Lord, please save me. Heather swallowed again and, in spite of the boulder lodged in her throat, whispered, “Um, I know you probably won’t believe me, but I didn’t do it, sir. It was D.A. Bologh.” Her heart hiccupped when he suddenly frowned at her.

  “Don’t—” Philippe took a big breath. —”call me sir. Please.” He sighed heavily. “Someday, Heather, you’ll have to introduce me to this person you claim has done the cooking since you’ve been in my employ. Until then, I hope you won’t be too offended if I give you the credit for creating the masterpieces I’ve been eating for the past month.”

  Defeated—indomitable, phooey—Heather said, “Of course not.” Her insides were as tumultuous as the weather outdoors.

  “Please, take a seat and dine with me. I’d like to discuss something with you.”

  Blast. She’d hoped to escape to the kitchen. Actually, what she wanted to do was go to the bathhouse if the wind didn’t blow her to perdition, wash up, get into her big flannel nightgown, crawl under the covers, and sleep for a thousand years or until the end of the world, whichever came first. Since that delightful option was denied her, she said, “Of course. Thank you.”

  “Thank you. In the face of your denials, I still thank you for this wonderful meal, Heather.”

  Right. He would. Heather sat and decided she probably had better not thank him a second time, or the cycle would begin all over again and she might lose control of her emotions and shriek. At the moment, the wind was doing her shrieking for her, so she decided that would have to do.

  Philippe sat, too, and lifted the cover from the cassoulet dish. “Smells heavenly.”

  “Yes, it does.” She only said it because it was the truth and she’d had nothing to do with its creation, so she didn’t consider it boasting. She had enough sins on her soul lately without adding boasting to the lot.

  “And what do we have in this dish?” Philippe smiled one of his prize-winning smiles at her.

  She wished he wouldn’t do that. Every time he smiled, her guard dropped a tiny bit. Pretty soon, if he kept it up, the combination of Philippe’s smiles and her own lies would probably vanquish her resolve to live a decent, honorable life, and she’d jump into his bed.

  If she’d been alone, she’d have buried her head in her hands, rocked back and forth on her chair, and groaned.

  Never, ever, ever, had Heather Mahaffey ever had trouble controlling herself—in that way. Until she met Philippe St. Pierre, she’d never have considered going to bed with a man until his ring was securely on her finger and Mr. Harvey or perhaps an imported priest—one had to make do in the territories—had pronounced them wed in the eyes of God and the rest of Fort Summers. Shoot, until she met Philippe, she hadn’t wanted to go to bed with any man. Philippe, unfortunately, was different.

  Geraldine had been absolutely right. A moral decline could begin with so small a thing as a lie. It picked up speed from there and soon was rushing straight downhill, taking a body’s moral strength and resolve with it. Sort of like a snowball. Or an avalanche.

  Since he’d asked, she said, “It’s a corn pudding.” Thank God D.A. hadn’t given her a fancy French name for that.

  “I see.” Philippe leaned over and sniffed the pudding dish. “What are those green specks.”

  “Green chilies. There’s chopped green chilies and cheese stirred into the mixture. With some eggs, milk, and a little bit of flour. The eggs help it to puff up like that.”

  “Very clever. It smells wonderful.”

  Heather didn’t hear him. She was too busy considering what she’d just explained to him about the corn pudding. For heaven’s sake, was she actually beginning to understand the craft of cooking? Could such a thing be possible?

  It was true she’d been taking her mother’s cookbooks to bed with her at night, reading everything she could about the kitchen arts, but she’d become so accustomed to thinking of herself as a cooking failure that she hadn’t given herself credit for having absorbed anything. She wondered if she dared . . .

  The notion so frightened her that she almost couldn’t complete it.

  But, did she? Did she really dare to try cooking on her own? Without D.A. Bologh to help her?

  “Heather? Are you awake?”

  She started, realizing that Philippe had been speaking to her and she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Flushing, she said, “I beg your pardon. Philippe.” She had trouble saying his name, mainly because she wasn’t sure she should. After all, he was her employer, and she was perilously close to a complete fall already. “I was thinking about something.”

  “Obviously.” His dry tone made her flinch. “Here. Please allow me to serve you some of this delicious food you’ve prepared. That’s what I’d been trying to make you hear.”

  How embarrassing. Heather mentally smacked herself. “Thank you.” She accepted the cassoulet and a serving of corn pudding, and waited until he’d served himself. Then she dipped her spoon into the cassoulet and tasted.

  It was delicious. And it wasn’t hard to make. Not at all. She’d watched D.A. All he’d done was mix some beans that had been soaking for several hours with some fried—sautéed, he’d say—onions, peppers, carrots, and cut-up, cooked sausages, and simmer them all together for a little while. He’d told her you could add chicken or rabbit or anything else you wanted in with the beans and sausages, if you felt like it and had time. And she’d read recipes for corn pudding.

  She imagined she could make those two things without much trouble. All she’d have to do was pay better attention to her job. Her problem had always been that she got distracted too easily.

  But that was childish, and she was no longer a child. She owed it to herself and to her employer—and to Philippe the man, who was a kind and good-hearted person, even if he didn’t want people to think so—to do the job for which
she was being paid, and do it well.

  She’d bargained with D.A. that he’d cook for the rest of this new month. After that—good heavens, did she mean it?

  Heather chewed a bite of delicious sausage and considered the matter. She thought and chewed, and chewed and thought. She swallowed.

  Yes, by gum, she did mean it!

  Because her decision excited her—and scared her a lot—she gave Philippe a broad smile. “I’m glad you like this, Philippe. It’s a simple meal, but it turned out pretty well.”

  He smiled back, obviously amused. “Yes, it certainly did.”

  They ate for a few minutes without trying to maintain a conversation. Heather was glad of it because her brain was spinning with the novelty of her decision. She was actually going to cook. It hardly seemed possible.

  A soupçon of doubt wriggled its way into her heart. What if she wasn’t good enough yet? What if she poisoned Philippe? She’d never forgive herself if that happened.

  But why should she? Women with much less in the way of brain power than she had cooked every day and didn’t poison anybody. Why shouldn’t she be able to master the kitchen?

  There was no good reason she could think of, and her heart lightened again.

  “May I ask you a question, Heather?”

  She looked up from her cassoulet, startled. For a moment she’d forgotten all about Philippe being in the same room with her, much less sharing the same meal. “Of course.” She smiled again to let him know that, while she might be somewhat distracted this evening, her state of distraction had nothing to do with him.

  He cleared his throat. Heather was surprised, as it seemed a nervous gesture, and she’d never pegged him for a nervous man, or one who hesitated when it came to speaking his mind.

  “I wanted to talk about what happened today, actually,” he said after another moment of hesitation.

  Immediately, Heather’s appetite fled, and she felt her face heat. “Oh?”

  Then it occurred to her that there had been more about the day than that stunning kiss. There had been the incident with her parents and the incident with—or without, actually—the woman on the stage. She told herself that he probably wasn’t going to mention the kiss.

  “Yes. That kiss.”

  Blast. She wanted to talk about the woman. The kiss was too perilous a topic to discuss, in her opinion. “Oh.”

  “I suppose I should apologize for it.”

  Heather’s mood slipped another cog. She supposed he should, too, but she didn’t want him to. Instead, she wanted him to kiss her again. Mercy, she was losing control of herself quickly. Since she couldn’t think of anything to say, she didn’t say anything.

  “But I’m not going to apologize.”

  She remained mute, but her eyebrows lifted of their own accord. Good heavens, he must consider her no better than a strumpet. What a depressing thought.

  “Indeed, I wanted to discuss something in relation to that kiss.”

  She swallowed and managed to squeak out another tiny, “Oh?”

  “Yes. I—” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood, walked to the fireplace and picked up the poker. A fire hadn’t been lit in the house for a day or two. In spite of the wind, the weather had been warm and dry—so dry, indeed, that when people met, they were apt to ignite sparks as they shook hands. Philippe stabbed at the fire-ready logs with the poker and stared into the fireplace, away from Heather. “Curse it, Heather, I’ve been thinking too much lately.”

  That didn’t explain anything to Heather. She carefully laid her fork on the edge of her plate and folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t want them to get away from her and do something embarrassing.

  He didn’t continue and, because she was becoming more and more anxious with each passing second, she said, “About what?” Then she wished she hadn’t asked, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  “About my life.”

  Oh. She waited. And waited. And waited.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Philippe continued. “And what I want from it.”

  She remained silent.

  Suddenly he swirled around and glared at her. “Curse it, why aren’t you saying anything?”

  Feeling helpless and a little scared—he was, after all, still holding the poker—Heather lifted her shoulders a quarter of an inch and let them drop. “I—don’t know what to say, Philippe.” Because he didn’t relax his glower, she added, “I’m sorry.”

  “Damn!” He turned again and replaced the poker. He huffed. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been considering a lot of things lately that I’d never considered before. Since you came to work for me, actually.”

  She swallowed and said, “Oh?”

  “Yes.” He walked back over to the table and sat.

  Heather had been much more comfortable when he’d been at the fireplace. Now his gaze was boring into her, hot and dark and compelling, and it was all she could do to keep her seat and maintain her composure. She wanted to leap up and fling herself into his arms. This was awful.

  “And what I’ve been considering is marriage.”

  She felt her eyes open wide. Her mouth opened and closed, doing her no good at all, since all of her words had deserted her.

  “I know this surprises you, although I don’t know why it should. Surely, you know that I’ve come to value you.”

  “V-value me?”

  He nodded. “Admire you.”

  He admired her? “Um, thank you.” She couldn’t resist asking, “Why?” If it was because of her cooking, she was going to go out to the bathhouse and slash her wrists.

  His posture relaxed slightly, and his smile was tender. Heather felt herself beginning to melt into the embroidered cushion of the chair upon which she sat, and she braced herself. “You’re a beautiful, lively young woman, Heather. Surely you know that.”

  Actually, she hadn’t known it until he’d said it. She knew the boys she’d grown up with thought she was pretty, but prettiness had never counted for much in Heather’s life. Until right this minute. “Um, I guess I’m lively, all right. Nobody’s ever said they considered it much of a virtue, though.”

  He chuckled, sending waves of heat through her and making her wish once more for rain. She wanted to fan herself, but didn’t dare let go of her hands for fear of what they’d do.

  “I don’t want you to make a decision right away. I want you to think about it. Will you do that?”

  She blinked at him. “Th-think about what?”

  He threw out his arms in a gesture that Heather had always thought of as French. “Why, marrying me, of course. I know you need to think about it. Any woman would. But I think we’d suit and, if you think we would, too, well then . . .” He shrugged. “I believe I would make a good husband for someone like you. Not, of course, for anybody, but for you, yes.”

  Heather swayed in her chair and had to unclench her hands so she could grip the table. “You—you want to marry me?” Good heavens, she’d never, in her wildest dreams, contemplated such a blissful option. Not really. Certainly, she’d entertained daydreams, but she’d never really and truly thought he’d ask her to marry him.

  “I do,” he said, still smiling. He plainly thought her confusion was amusing, even charming.

  Heather didn’t. She thought it denoted a weakness of character that had manifested itself all too often in recent weeks. She wanted to scream, “Yes!” at the top of her lungs and then go hollering it down Main Street. She wanted to grab Philippe and kiss him wildly. She wanted to run to her mother and father and cry in their arms out of sheer happiness. She wanted to yank Geraldine out of her staid life and swing her around, as they used to do when they were little children, until they both fell, laughing and panting, to the ground.

  She didn’t, of course. Rather, she stood on shaky legs and squeezed out, “Thank you, Philippe. I’ll be happy to think about it.” Then she walked, trying not to stagger under the weight of his proposal, out of the dining room
, down the hall—ignoring Mrs. Van der Linden, who glared at her as usual—and went into the kitchen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  D.A. Bologh had finished cleaning up the pots and pans, and looked as if he were merely awaiting the arrival of dishes from the table so that he could whip them clean and vanish. He squinted at Heather when she entered the kitchen with his usual sneering condescension.

  Heather wasn’t in any condition to resent D.A.’s attitude. Actually, she was feeling like one of those “undead” zombie things that hail from the Caribbean Islands. She and Geraldine had read about them with fascination once.

  “What’s wrong now?” D.A. asked in a tone that told Heather he didn’t care at all. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He wrinkled his nose and eyed her more keenly. “Rather, you look like you were attacked by a herd of them. What’s the matter with you, lovey? I thought you had more spirit than this.”

  Heather fell rather than sat into a chair, and wished D.A. would vanish forever. “I, ah, am a little shaken.”

  “I can see that. Why?”

  She turned her head and stared straight at him. She didn’t like him. She didn’t trust him. She was scared to death that whatever he expected her to give him in return for his help was going to be something she didn’t want to give. Yet she had to tell someone, and D.A. was the only person available.

  Her heart was doing an alarming dance that oscillated maniacally between an uproarious jig and a somber funeral march. Her nerves were strung like piano wire, alternately playing an exalted melody and a gloomy lament. Whatever was she going to do now that Philippe had proposed to her?

  She’d already confessed about her job, and he hadn’t believed her. She’d known for a week or more that she loved Philippe, but should she marry him? It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair. He only thought he liked her because he didn’t know the truth about her—rather, he wouldn’t believe the truth about her.