The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (4 page)

He dropped his arm but still stood close as if afraid she might bolt at any moment. She didn’t dare look at him, but instead stared at the intricately designed silver candelabra on the hall table.

“That aside,” he continued. “It was never my intention to be insulting to a woman of yer stature. Ye must know I’d never have kissed ye had I known who ye were.”

Well, she should think not, she decided in a huff, only to pause, not entirely certain what to think. So she was good enough—desirable enough—to kiss as a cook, but not as the daughter of the household? Somehow, she didn’t find that comforting or at all flattering. She glanced around, then finally looked up at him. He apparently awaited her response.

She had the strongest desire to lean forward and press her lips to his to remind him of their earth-moving kiss. But perhaps that was simply how it had been for her. Anyway, she most certainly would not give in to any of her foolish fantasies.

Stepping back, she forced a smile and nodded. “I accept your apology.”

“Good.”

“And we need never speak of this again.”

“Consider the entire incident forgotten.”

How very gallant of him. She caught herself before she berated him for his words. After all, this was what she wanted. Now she could begin a discourse with him without those pesky fissures of guilt and embarrassment clouding the way. Or the memories of how his arms wrapped about her had all but stolen the breath from her body. No need to think on that again. Certainly not. If he could pretend it never happened, then so could she.

“Is there anything else?”

“What? Oh, yes.” She swallowed. “I wished to speak with you about your decision.”

“Concerning Murphy Import and Export?”

“Yes. Have you—”

“Decided to accept yer father’s offer?” His dark eyebrow quirked.

“Well, have you?”

“And would it matter to ye one way or another if I did?”

“Matter?” The word came out a bit breathless and Cinnamon paused to compose herself. She thought he’d moved closer, yet he hadn’t taken a step. But she instinctively backed up. “Well, of course if it concerns my father it is of import to me. That only follows. Certainly you can understand—”

“There you are, my boy. I wondered what was keeping you so long, and now I see.”

“Papa...” she paused. “We were simply discussing—”

“Wedding cake,” the captain inserted.

Wedding cake? Her eyes flashed toward him, then back to her father. “Yes, wedding cake.”

“I was telling Miss Murphy how much I love cake and look forward to sampling her creation.”

“As you shall, Captain McGregger.” Her chin lifted. “As you shall. And it will be the best cake you’ve ever tasted.”

“Ye’ve left me in no doubt of that now, Miss Murphy. No doubt at all.”

“Good.” She almost stamped her foot.

“Fine. And when can I count on tasting this paragon of cake?”

When? Her mind raced. She would show him she could do this—and soon. “Tomorrow,” she announced. “I hope you can join us for dinner then.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Well, that’s settled,” her father stepped forward to say. At first Cinnamon had not heard him as she and the captain stared at each other. But then Captain McGregger bowed, and she excused herself stepping around him and forcing herself to walk sedately down the hallway, when what she wished to do was run.

She heard her father invite the younger man into his library, and wished now she hadn’t insisted she couldn’t stay to hear their discussion. She wanted nothing more than to know what the captain had to say. Would he decide to take her father’s offer? Give up the life of the sea and settle in Boston behind a desk?

She would have thought it an easy decision, since it certainly promised more financial rewards. But there was something about Ian McGregger that made her wonder which he would choose. He had the air of a rogue. She could readily imagine him garbed in a loose-fitting shirt, his black curls blowing in the wind, his eyes crinkled against the sun’s glare, staring out to the open sea.

It was an image that stayed with her as she changed into a visiting gown of heliotrope foulard. Nor could she shake the mental picture later as she sat, perched on the edge of a horsehair divan, sipping tepid tea and listening to Miss Elizabeth Shelby espouse the virtues of the English countryside.

“I think it absolutely fascinating that you’re to marry an English lord, Cinnamon. Where exactly did you say Lord Westfield’s county seat is?”

“What? Oh, the waters off the coast of India, I should think.”

There was a silence loud enough for Cinnamon to realize she’d said something utterly foolish. She swallowed, glanced toward Elizabeth, whose mouth was agape as if she were trying to catch flies. Quickly recovering, Elizabeth gently dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

“I’m sorry,” Cinnamon said. “I may not have heard the question correctly.”

Then using all her considerable inner strength, she vowed to shove Captain McGregger from her mind.

“T
wo pounds of flour,” Cinnamon used her forearm to brush an errant-curl from her face and studied the scrawled words in Queen Victoria’s chef’s own hand. It did say two pounds, didn’t it? She squinted, trying to figure out what was written beneath a splotch of dried batter. Yes, two pounds it was, but since she was halving the recipe, she’d go with one.

“Hand me that—that thing for sifting, Biddy,” she said, motioning with her head, and loosening the curl again. This time she ignored it.

“Miss Cinnamon, why don’t you let me call Cook or one of her helpers out of their room. No one need know.”

“I’d know.” She scooped flour from the bin, shaking it through the sifter.

“But, Miss Cinnamon—”

“Do be quiet, Biddy. I said I’m... I’m... Achoo!”

“Oh, Lord bless you, miss.”

“Achoo...  achoo!”

“Goodness, miss. You’ve come upon a fit of sneezing. Do you think it might be the flour?”

“Achoo! Yes, of course it’s the flour.” She swiped at her streaming eyes. Fine particles of white hung in the air descending slowly to cover the table and her. “Achoo! Why do you think ’tis necessary to sift this stuff?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, miss. I’m a lady’s maid, after all.”

A fact that Biddy took great pride in, as Cinnamon often noted in the past. Now her lofty position seemed to preclude Biddy even helping her mistress. That was fine, Cinnamon decided. After all it was she and she alone who insisted upon baking this cake when the staff had at least three women whose sole job was to feed the family.

If only she hadn’t told everyone she could do it, she thought as she rubbed the butter into the flour—the remaining unsifted flour. It was a slow process, one that made her arms tired and her back hurt, but she persevered. For it wasn’t really “everyone” that concerned her.

She’d told Captain McGregger she’d have the cake baked by tonight. She’d invited him to dinner because of it. What had she been thinking? He already knew that she’d failed once. For some reason she didn’t want that to happen again.

She dragged the wooden spoon through the thick mixture with renewed determination. He would eat wedding cake tonight, and she’d make certain the captain thought it was the best cake he’d ever eaten.

Feeling more empowered, she washed the currants, setting them in the gas oven to dry. She found several cinnamon sticks, smiling to herself as she caught their scent, then began grating them. It really was very clever of her parents—her father really—to name her for the aromatic spice. As it happened, her hair was nearly the same color. And she liked her name so much better than the stuffy names her poor sisters were forever saddled with... “Ouch!”

“What is it, miss?” Biddy, who’d been seated at the table absently making designs in a thin layer of flour, glanced up. “Have you hurt yourself?”

It was only her determination never to raise her voice that kept Cinnamon from screaming at her maid. Instead, she clenched her jaw and stared down at her bleeding finger. “I suppose I should have been more careful.”

“I should say so, miss. Do you want me to bandage it for you?”

“No.” She tore a strip of fabric from her apron and wrapped it around her finger. “That’s all right. As a matter of fact, why don’t you go take out my green taffeta? I plan to wear it tonight.”

“Oh, miss, I couldn’t leave you here all alone. It’s helping you, I am.”

“True.” She emptied the grated cinnamon into the batter. “However, I really do want everything to be perfect tonight, and I think that gown may need brushing.” She remembered the currants drying in the oven, and whirled to open the door, stopping herself at the last moment, and wadding a section of her apron to use rather than her bare hand.

The currants were perfect, plump and fragrant. The sight of them forced any lingering pain from her mind. Assuring Biddy that she really could handle this alone and that she was much more concerned about her gown, she added the currants to the batter.

Candied orange peel was next and the walnuts she’d shelled and chopped earlier. More pleased with herself than she could say, she scooped sugar from a bin, blending the granules into the mix. She added yeast and set the mixture to rise, then settled back in a chair. This really wasn’t so difficult. Of course she wouldn’t let Captain McGregger know that. No, he must think her the most talented of young ladies to create a confection as totally perfect as her cake would be.

Deciding not to make the same mistake twice, she stayed in the kitchen, carefully watching the clock as the cake baked. Wonderful, mouth-watering smells filled the room as she removed her masterpiece from the oven.

While waiting for it to cool, she began the icing. She had a moment’s confusion when she couldn’t recall which was the sugar bin. The flour she could distinguish easily, but there seemed little difference between the sugar and salt bins. A quick taste was all that was needed to tell them apart, which is what she probably should have done when making the cake. But, no, she was certain she’d used the correct ingredient. Yes, of course she had, she thought as she blended the sugar and butter.

Any doubts were dashed as she added rose water, then beat the cream until it peaked prettily. Decorating the cake was not as easy as she had thought. But she decided her cake looked passably good when she finished. Besides, the test would be in the tasting, and she could hardly wait for that. She set the cake in a cool, dry spot away from the window and slowly climbed the stairs to her room.

Priding herself on her energy, she rarely napped during the day, but this afternoon she decided to succumb to the lure of her bed. No sooner had she rested her head on the pillow than she was asleep and dreaming.

Her cake. She could see it clearly, sitting atop a large table in the center of the garden. The scent of roses filled the air, vying with the wonderful aroma of freshly baked cake.

It was her wedding day, and she wore a magnificent Worth gown, similar to Princess Beatrice’s. Ivory satin and Brussels lace, trimmed with orange blossoms, her gown was superb. She greeted her guests as a gentle breeze off the harbor played with the yards of her tulle veiling falling from a crown of flowers.

An orchestra began playing and her heart fluttered, for she knew her new husband would come to her. She felt his hand as he led her to the dance floor for the first waltz. She could hardly wait to feel his strong arms around her.

“Aren’t they divine?” came a comment from the crowd of well-wishers. “Surely they were made for each other,” another said.

She smiled, filled with joy, and wishing to share her happiness with her husband, she lifted her lashes—and froze. Her eyes popped open and she bolted upright, fully awake. Her breathing harsh, she stared around the room,
her
room, assuring herself that it had only been a dream and nothing more. She wasn’t in the garden. She wore no gown of lace and satin. It wasn’t her wedding day. And she most assuredly hadn’t married
him
.

Relief made her weak and she flopped back on the embroidery-edged pillow. But she feared shutting her eyes in case the image returned, for she didn’t even want to
dream
that she was wed to Captain McGregger.

~ ~ ~

“I must have a word with you, Cinnamon.”

Smothering a sigh, she patted her upswept hair, dressed with roses and seed pearls, and adjusted the wispy curls framing her face. She turned on the bench seat before her lace-covered dressing table to face her mother. “What is it, Mama?” she asked, after dismissing Biddy with a nod. She wouldn’t need the girl until later tonight when she undressed.

Her mother waited for the maid to depart, then marched farther into the room, not stopping until she reached the row of windows on the far side. There she turned, faced Cinnamon, and clasped her hands at her waist.

“I understand it was you who invited Captain McGregger to join us for dinner this evening.”

“Yes, I did.” Cinnamon stood, smoothing her green taffeta gown. “I hope you don’t mind but—”

Her mother sighed heavily, making no pretense of hiding her displeasure. “I really don’t think he is the kind of man we should be entertaining, as I believe I mentioned the other night.”