Their Mistletoe Matchmakers. Keli Gwyn
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could be. The fact that he was enjoying himself immensely was a bonus. He embraced any excuse to spend time cooking. His opportunities to do so were few and far between, but one day...
No. He wouldn’t be opening a restaurant after all. He’d been granted the privilege of caring for the children, and working well into the night wouldn’t fit with his new role in their lives.
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” Lavinia’s words lacked conviction, and her smile appeared forced, which was puzzling.
Marcie bounded up to him. “I’m going to eat lots, Uncle Henry.”
“Me, too,” Alex added.
Henry shifted Dot to a more comfortable position on his hip. “How about you, Dimples? Are you going to fill your plate?”
She nodded so enthusiastically that her curls bounced.
“And what will be on it?” Henry asked.
“Food.”
Laughter erupted all around him, but he managed to keep a straight face. “What kind of food? Turkey? Stuffing?”
“She doesn’t like stuffing,” Marcie informed them. “But I do. Mama’s stuffing tasted so good.” The normally exuberant girl’s shoulders drooped, and her voice took on a sorrowful tone. “I wish she was still here to make it.”
“I miss her, too, sweetie, but I know she’d want us to be happy.” Lavinia wrapped an arm around Marcie and drew their niece to her side. “I think a cup of cocoa would be just the thing to cheer us up, and I heard your uncle say he’ll have it ready for you soon. Why don’t we get you out of your coats so you’re ready for it?”
The children trooped after Lavinia and returned shortly—without her. “Where’s your aunt?”
“In the parlor,” Alex said, “putting another log on the fire.”
“Very well. If you’ll take a seat at the table, I’ll serve you.”
They clambered into their chairs on the side opposite the pies and awaited their treat. He prepared the drinks with his back to them, carried over the steaming mugs and set one in front of each of them.
Dot clapped and squealed. “It has whipped cream and chocolate curls.”
Marcie smacked her lips, and Alex nodded appreciatively.
“I made a cup for you, too, Gladys.” He handed her one.
“Why, thank you. It’s right fancy.”
“What about Aunt Lavinia?” Dot asked. “She likes cocoa, too.”
“I’ll take her some while you stay here and keep Miss Gladys company.”
Moments later, he entered the parlor, mugs in hand. He held one out to Lavinia, who was seated in Pauline’s favorite chair, gazing at the fire. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” She took the cocoa and stared at it. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
“What do you mean?” He sat in Jack’s wingback armchair and sipped the tasty beverage.
“This isn’t an ordinary cup of cocoa.”
“I thought the children would appreciate that.”
“I’m sure they do, but...” She set her mug on the side table and turned to face him. The sadness he’d seen all those years ago had returned. She must have been thinking about her sister. “You could have told me you know how to cook.”
So that’s what this was all about? “What difference does it make?”
“You said you know your way around a kitchen the way a bachelor does, but it’s obvious you know a lot more than that. I saw the pies you made. They’re not the work of a novice. Have you worked in a restaurant or something?”
He’d spent as much time as possible in the one inside his hotel, but he didn’t advertise that fact since many men thought of cooking as women’s work. The miners he served appreciated a man who could broil a steak or whip up a mess of beans, but they didn’t come west expecting to eat white fricassee chicken or ragout of onions. If they knew he was a trained chef, he would become a laughingstock.
“I don’t see why it matters, but I received some instruction.”
“Where?”
She was certainly persistent. That trait could serve her well when she encountered obstacles. He’d have to remember that, since she seemed to consider him one. “Back in Philadelphia. I made some wrought iron railings for a widow who’d been a student at Mrs. Goodfellow’s cooking school when she was young. She paid for the materials, but I offered her free labor in exchange for lessons.”
“Why did you want to learn? Few men would.”
He rubbed the chair’s smooth wooden arms. “I happen to enjoy cooking.”
“It’s certainly a useful skill. You’ve proven that.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. A bit of the whipped cream remained on her upper lip, but she swiped it off with a finger and popped it in her mouth. She pulled out her finger, stared at it and blushed. The heightened color did nice things for her fair complexion. “Forgive me. That wasn’t very ladylike.”
“We’re practically family. You don’t have to pull out the company manners for me.”
She gave him a look that made him wonder if he was sporting a whipped-cream mustache himself. “Although we share the same wonderful nieces and nephew, you and I are most definitely not related.”
Her formal tone, the same one she’d used at the wedding, grated on him. “I realize I’m not up to Crowne standards, but I’m a decent fellow.”
She took a sudden interest in her mug, running a finger around its rim. When she finally looked at him, the stiffness was gone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it as an insult. Like you, I’m aware that we come from different worlds—and different places. That’s put us at odds, whether we like it or not. But I meant what I said yesterday. I’ll work with you to see that the children are as happy as possible throughout the holidays.”
“They’re looking forward to Thanksgiving.”
She nodded. “You’ve seen to that.”
Her statement sounded more like an accusation than a compliment. Could it be she was jealous of his relationship with the children? If that was the case, she had no cause for concern. He would see that they wrote to her once she returned to Philadelphia. In the meantime, he had to do something to make her feel more welcome. “Gladys shared your menu with me, but is there anything special you’d like me to make?”
His request earned him a hint of a smile. “Since you ask, did the woman who gave you lessons teach you how to make lemon meringue pie?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Goodfellow had been known for that particular pie. “I’ll whip one up right away.”
Lavinia stood, mug in hand, and he shot to his feet. “I’ll go see how the children are doing.” She crossed the room, paused in the doorway and turned to face him, wearing a warm smile. “Thank you, Henry.”
“My pleasure.” He liked seeing her happy. She would only be here a few weeks, but perhaps he could add a little joy to her life—before she faced the future and the difficult parting that was to come.
* * *
A tempting assortment of savory scents filled the air the following afternoon. The dining room table, although much smaller than the one at which Lavinia had eaten her Thanksgiving dinners back home, was groaning under the weight of the dishes already on it as Henry carried in yet another.
Clad in a black cutaway coat, white shirt and white silk cravat, he looked as fine as any waiter in her father’s restaurants. He’d even draped a white linen cloth over his arm. The