Prelude to Heaven (7 page)

She frowned, puzzled, and walked over to stand beside him. “The label said it was red wine.”

“It’s Dumond Red.” He smiled slightly, swirling the glass, studying the wine. “Made with Muscat white grapes. The pink blush is from adding a slight amount of Muscat Hamburg. Not a high-quality grape, but being red, it gives the wine its unique color.”

He swirled the wine in his glass once more, then held it beneath his nose, inhaling the fragrance. At last, he sampled it. With a satisfied nod, he picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.

Taking the one he offered her, she took a sip as he watched. It was marvelous, full-bodied and fruity, like swallowing sunshine. “I like this wine,” she told him, licking a droplet from her upper lip. “It's sweeter than I would have expected.”

“The sweetness comes from the way we harvested our grapes. At harvest time, we would twist the stems, but leave the grapes to hang on the broken vines for several days. Then we would pick them.”

“But the grapes would rot.”

“Precisely.”

She gave him a skeptical stare, wondering if he were teasing her. “You made your wine from rotten grapes?”

He laughed. “Not all of them were rotten,” he assured her. “But it is a very old technique here in the Midi, dating back many centuries. It is hot here in the south and heat destroys the wine, causing it to spoil too fast,” he explained. “If a good percentage of the grapes are overripe, the sugar content of the wine is much higher, making it a stronger wine and preventing it from spoiling.”

“I see.” She glanced down at the wine and took another sip. Looking back up at him, she said, “Whatever you do, it works. I don't particularly care for wine, but I like this.”

“I'm glad, mademoiselle.”

“Since you are so good at it, why don't you make wine anymore?”

He froze, the glass poised in midair. Then he took another swallow before he replied. “I will never make wine again.” Frowning down at the food on the table, he added, “We should eat.”

She didn’t point out that he had changed the subject without answering her question. Instead, she filled two plates, handed his to him, and moved to take her seat. He took his as well, and down the long length of table that separated them, she watched anxiously as he broke apart the crab on his plate. As he took the first bite, she held her breath, watching him chew. And chew. And chew.

Something was wrong. Tess broke apart her own crab and one bite confirmed that the meat, which was supposed to be tender and sweet, had the texture of rubber and no taste at all. Across the table, their eyes met as they both valiantly chewed in silence.

Tess finally gave up the struggle and swallowed the bite whole with a gulp of wine. Hoping the vegetables were better, she pushed her fork into a bite of slightly brown, boiled potato. The potatoes, at least, had a taste. Scorched.

With growing dismay, she sampled the carrots and found that they were not scorched. Instead, they were only half-cooked and had the pungent flavor of too much thyme. She crunched bravely, but she knew she’d bungled her chance, and he’d never let her stay. Why should he?

Dumond said nothing. He politely ate what was on his plate and the longer she watched him, the more wretched she felt. Finally, she could stand it no longer and rose to her feet. “Would you care for dessert?” she asked in a strained voice.

Alexandre swallowed another gulp of wine and rubbery crab. “Certainly.”

A man about to be executed probably spoke in that same brave tone of voice, she thought, heading for the kitchen. Almost timidly, she opened the oven door. The apples were golden brown and simmering in their juice, and the smell of cinnamon filled the kitchen. They seemed to be done. Unwilling to trust her own eyes, she pushed a fork into the fruit. It was tender, but not mushy. Relieved, she put the apples into a serving dish, poured some of the sauce over them, and took the dish into the dining room.

“What is this?” he asked as she set the bowl beside his plate.

“Baked apples,” she answered, spooning some of the fruit onto a dessert plate for him and one for herself.

“It looks quite good.”

“Really?” She looked at him and saw him nod. His smile was so reassuring, so
understanding
, and somehow that made her feel worse than before. Taking her plate back to her end of the table, Tess sat down, but didn't make any move to eat. She stared down at her plate, knowing that even if the dessert was good, it probably wouldn't matter. She couldn't cook, and he knew it.

When he picked up a fork to sample her dessert, Tess caught her breath, lifting her gaze to his face with a slight flare of renewed hope. Perhaps, she thought, she’d gotten one thing right. Perhaps the dessert would be good and he would like it. Holding her breath, she watched him bring the fork to his lips.

When he choked on the apples, she couldn't bear it and jumped to her feet. “It's a lovely evening. I think I'll take the air.” She practically ran for the door.

***

Alexandre found her in the courtyard, sitting sideways on a stone bench, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her profile was pensive as she stared out over the crumbled stones of the wall to the setting sun.

She didn’t hear his approach, and he watched her for a long time, wishing he had his sketchbook. The vulnerability he sensed in her was never more clear than at this moment and he would have liked to capture that on paper. He also felt a sudden, unwanted desire to comfort her, a notion that made him grimace. He was starting to feel sorry for her, and that would make sending her on her way that much harder.

He stepped into the courtyard, his boot heels crunching against the loose and broken flagstones.

Tess started at the sound, and she brushed hastily at her cheek, turning her face away. “What was wrong with the apples?”

He tried to make light of it. “I don't know about you, but I prefer a bit of cinnamon with my apples, not a bit of apples with my cinnamon.”

“I used too much spice?”

“A bit.” He studied her discouraged expression. “It isn't so bad,” he added. “We could put the stuff in jars and use it for potpourri.”

Her answer was a choked sound, partly a laugh, partly a sob.

“It was only a meal, mademoiselle,” he said quietly.

She shook her head. “No, it wasn't,” she said in a hard voice. “Not for me.”

He frowned, not understanding her enigmatic remark, but he did not pursue it. He came closer, and as he did, she swung her legs over the side of the bench and scooted over, making room for him to sit beside her.

“I should not have let you do so much on only your second day out of bed,” he said. “You should have been resting.”

“I doubt rest will make me a better cook.” Her tone was wry.

He chuckled. “Perhaps not.”

They sat in silence as the sun slowly disappeared and left the courtyard in dusky twilight. Finally, it was she who broke the silence. “Now that you know I can’t cook, shall you send me away?”

His jaw tightened. He should. For his own peace of mind, he really should. “No.”

Her sigh of relief was audible. “Thank you.”

“I have two conditions,” he added, casting a sideways glance at her. She stiffened, only a slight movement, but he saw it.

“What conditions?” Her voice was low, a little wary.

“No hard work until you are feeling better, for one.”

She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “All right. But tomorrow you must show me what tasks I can do.” She took a deep breath. “And the other condition?”

He turned to face her. “I do the cooking.”

Her teeth flashed white in the dusk of evening as she smiled. “That would hardly be fair. If you are employing me as a cook and housekeeper, I should do the cooking, too. I want to earn my keep.”

He considered her words. He really didn't care what tasks she did or didn't do, but he knew that for the sake of her pride, it was important to her. “Very well.” He paused, then added, “Tomorrow I will begin teaching you how to cook.”

“You will?”

He rose to his feet. “If I don't, I fear we'll both starve.”

When Tess awoke the next morning, she found a bucket of fresh water and a silver-backed mirror and brush outside her door. Beside them was an untidy pile of dresses, underclothes, and shoes. She smiled down at the collection of things Dumond had left at her door, for it was a sure sign he was letting her stay.

She shed the blue muslin dress she'd been wearing the past two days, bathed, and brushed her hair. Then she donned fresh underclothes and a gown of peach muslin and went downstairs, where she found him in the kitchen making tea. “Good morning. Thank you for the water.”

He glanced at her, then returned his attention to the worktable. “I have to bathe as well,” he said as he picked up the teapot and filled two cups. “It was no trouble.”

“And thank you for the clothes as well.”

He made no reply to that. Instead, he held out a steaming up to her, and when she took it, he pointed to a porcelain jar on the table. “Sugar’s there, if you want it,” he added and turned away. “I’m going to the garden. I’ll be back.”

He took a big basket from a hook on the wall and left the kitchen. While he was gone, she drank her tea and thought about him and about the girl in the portrait. She wanted to ask him about her, but it was not her business, and besides, Dumond's manner did not invite questions. Also, he might start asking her questions in return. They both had secrets, and she wanted to keep hers. So did he, it seemed.

The door opened and Dumond came in, bringing Tess out of her reverie. The basket he’d taken with him was now heaped with herbs and vegetables, and he brought it to the work table. “Are you ready to begin work?” he asked as he set it down.

“Of course.” Tess set aside her empty cup and her curiosity. “What dish shall we prepare?”

“Something simple. An omelet, I think. But first, we have other tasks. We must milk the goat and fetch the eggs. Come.” Taking one small pail and one large one from their hooks on the wall, he once again left the kitchen.

Tess followed him out into the bright morning sunlight toward the group of crumbling buildings she had passed on her walk the day before.

Dumond led her to the henhouse. He must have let the hens out of their night roost earlier, for they were in the pen, and they scattered as he walked past them toward the coop. Tess moved to follow him inside, but the smell that greeted her through the doorway made her want to retch. She was often queasy these days, and it had obviously been some time since the coop had been cleaned. Hand over her mouth, she choked, “I'll wait out here.”

“If you are to be the cook, tending the chickens will be your responsibility,” he answered. “Come.”

She felt her stomach turn and she was certain her face had gone green. “I can't.” She pressed her other hand to her stomach, fearing her tea was going to come back up. “The smell...”

He shrugged and turned away, entering the coop alone. When he reappeared, the small pail was filled with eggs, and he handed it to her. He then walked back inside, returning with a bucket of feed. He scattered a few handfuls for the hens, tossed the empty bucket back through the doorway and left the pen, picking up the larger pail he’d brought on his way out.

She followed right on his heels, glad to be away from the smell of the coop. They passed the barn and entered another fenced pen, where a gray and white goat bleated a greeting at them. Dumond paused, giving Tess a rueful glance over his shoulder. “You can't cook, you don't like hen houses. I don't suppose you've ever milked a goat?”

She shook her head with an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid not.”

“You’ll have to learn.”

When he moved toward the goat, Tess set down the pail of eggs, entered the pen, and moved to stand beside him. He went into the connecting barn, returning with a length of stout rope and a stool. He tethered the animal to the fence with the rope and pulled the stool forward, then patted it with his hand. “Sit there,” he told her.

Tess complied. The goat, trapped between her and the fence, bleated again, butting her head against Tess's shoulder hard enough to tip the rickety stool.

“Stop that, goat,” Dumond ordered, pushing the animal's head away before she could do it again.

Tess grinned at his words. “Goat?” she asked. “Doesn't she have a name?”

He shrugged and placed the pail under the goat's legs. “None that I know of,” he answered and hunkered down beside her. “Now, grasp—”

“Sophie,” Tess interrupted, reaching up to pat the goat's flank. “Don’t you think that’s a good name for her?”

“Pay attention, mademoiselle,” he ordered and proceeded to explain how to milk a goat. Tess listened carefully, watching as he squeezed and pulled the teats of Sophie's udder, causing milk to splatter into the pail. “You try it.”

She did try, doing exactly what she had seen him do, but nothing happened. Patiently he explained again and Tess tried again, but still she had no luck. She frowned, sitting back on the stool. “What am I doing wrong?”