what their favourite foods are.’
‘And what would you guess mine would be?’
‘Rosbif is what any Frenchman would immediately say, but you are very far from being a typical Englishman.’ She studied him, her hazel eyes gleaming like gold, her chin resting on her hand. ‘I’d say you prefer breakfast to dinner. Eggs, coddled or perhaps scrambled with cream, delicate but delicious. A ham, boiled in spices and served cold. Fresh rolls and salty butter. Coffee. Am I right?’
‘Even if you were wrong, you make it sound so delicious that I would change my preference for a dinner of venison stew immediately’
‘Now it’s your turn. What do I like to eat?’
He took the opportunity to study her as she had him, struck afresh by her lush beauty, which so perfectly complemented her charm. ‘Supper,’ he said, smiling, ‘definitely supper, at the end of a long day when you have finished serving dinner to your clientele. Asparagus with a hollandaise sauce and perhaps a lightly poached egg, and a glass of champagne. Essentially English, but with a soupçon of French flair—though I know you’re Irish. How am I doing?’
She laughed. ‘I shall return the compliment, Mr Harrington. Even if you are quite wrong, you make me long to have it. You see, it’s a good game, isn’t it? I can while away hours playing it and don’t mind at all sitting by myself to do so. I love the fact that no one knows who I am, far less cares. In Paris, for the first time in my life, I can be completely myself without having to consider anyone else—on my Sundays off, at any rate.’
‘You wander Paris alone?’
‘Yes, and I love it. Pascal spends his Sundays either experimenting with dishes or catching up on his sleep. Even if I wanted company, I have no acquaintances outside the kitchen, there’s been no time to make friends. But I don’t need them. It is—it is liberating, being alone after always being Estelle’s other, younger half. That sounds terrible, I love my sister—both my sisters—with all my heart and I know they are only being protective but they smother me a little and patronise me just a little too.’
‘So you want to cast off the shackles?’
‘Yes! Exactly! You do understand.’
‘I do indeed. I was thinking something similar just before I stumbled upon this café. And I’m very glad I did stumble upon it. Very glad too—if you will forgive my saying—that Monsieur Solignac is so tardy.’ Monsieur Solignac, who by the sound of it was more than just a friend to the beguiling Miss Brannagh, Owen thought, his animosity towards this maverick genius increasing.
‘I take it he does not have the wherewithal to set himself up in business?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Miss Brannagh answered sunnily, entirely unaware of his scepticism. ‘Pascal has the reputation, I have the financial means. That is what I call serendipity.’
Almost too good to be true from the Frenchman’s perspective, Owen thought as she took out her watch again, frowning at the time.
‘He has clearly become absorbed while practising a new dish. It is only after service has finished that he can try out his ideas. Though the dishes he serves are exquisite, they are in essence traditional receipts tweaked with his own flourishes. Classic cuisine with a twist, so to speak, but when we have our own establishment, we will serve food such as the world has never imagined, never mind tasted.’
‘And while he creates, you must wait here patiently?’
‘Genius must be indulged,’ she said, bristling slightly. ‘And nurtured too.’
To be nurtured by Miss Phoebe Brannagh was an appealing prospect, Owen thought, regretfully. He had not felt so drawn to a woman in a long time. If only they had met under different circumstances, he’d have made a concerted effort to get to know her better. Captivating, that was the word he’d been looking for, not only in her looks, but in her outlook. She had a true joie de vivre, as if she was reaching out and embracing life—a feeling he had lost. He felt jaded, and had travelled abroad to rediscover a sense of purpose, a zest for life, a freshness. She was brave and she was bold. He admired her audacious attitude.
‘I wish you every success,’ Owen said, raising his glass. The words were a hackneyed toast, but he found that he meant them.
‘Thank you.’ Miss Brannagh touched her glass to his. He noticed her hands for the first time, the nails cut brutally short, the skin work-roughened, scored with tiny cuts and burn marks. Catching his eyes on them, she snatched them away, hiding them under the table. ‘Testament to my trade,’ she said, clearly embarrassed.
‘Testament to my lack of purpose,’ Owen said, holding up his own.
‘Goodness, you have a sculptor’s hands. Such beautifully long fingers.’
‘I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I prefer more physical pursuits.’
Miss Brannagh sipped her wine, smiling. ‘It is so nice to converse in English, and though I love being in Paris, I do miss chatting with Estelle and Eloise and Aunt Kate. But I have talked far too much about myself. Tell me what brings you to my adopted city, Mr Harrington.’
‘Let me see if I can attract the waiter’s attention first and order us another pichet. The man seems determined to ignore me. Excuse me, but I think it might be quicker if I go and buttonhole him.’
* * *
Phoebe watched the Englishman cross the room and accost the waiter. Had she been indiscreet? Had he guessed that she and Pascal were lovers? Her affaire was so very recent, so much part of her new life here in this exciting city, she hadn’t thought how it might appear to anyone else. Had she betrayed her feelings for Pascal in her enthusiasm for him? Mr Harrington had said nothing, but now she wondered what he’d thought of her, sitting alone drinking wine in a café in the early hours of the morning. He had treated her with perfect courtesy. He was certainly surprised to discover her reasons for being here, but he seemed intrigued rather than shocked.
Most people would think her affaire was scandalous. It was why she’d been very careful in how she described Pascal in her letters to Eloise and to Aunt Kate. She had been much more frank with Estelle, thinking that her twin would understand, but to her astonishment, Estelle had taken the very same attitude that she’d guessed Eloise would, if she knew the truth. Instead of lauding Phoebe’s daring, she had been appalled, drawing some very unflattering parallels with Mama.
Poor Mama. Phoebe had always known that Eloise didn’t understand her, and to be fair, their eldest sister had borne the brunt of Mama’s rather careless attitude towards her children. But Mama was a free spirit. Eloise couldn’t see how trapped she must have been, by the bonds of matrimony and the expectations of society. It was tragic, for the terrible mismatch that was their parents’ marriage made both Mama and Papa very unhappy, and it could not be denied that their children suffered too, but Mama was such a very bright and particular star, it was quite wrong to judge her by the usual standards. To keep such a glamorous, wild creature confined was like imprisoning a beautiful butterfly in a bell jar. Eloise had never understood this but Phoebe had, and she’d assumed that Estelle did too though they never discussed it, out of respect for their elder sister’s views.
But Estelle’s response to Phoebe’s shy confession of her affaire with Pascal had made her position very clear. She imagined Phoebe was in thrall to Pascal rather than in love with him, as if she was blind and had no mind of her own. And she had been rather scathing on the subject of Pascal’s involvement too, to the point where Phoebe had even begun to doubt whether he could really be in love with her. She had never in a thousand years expected Pascal to notice her, yet from the first he had seemed to rate her in the kitchen, and he’d made it clear that he found her attractive. She had been hugely flattered, had expected his interest to wane with time, but it had increased. Estelle was wrong. The bond between them was special. It hurt, that her twin didn’t understand that, but Estelle obviously hadn’t inherited any of Mama’s free spirit, so there was no point in trying to sway her. When she came to Paris