Dawson, his butler, was waiting, and as soon as Freddie’s fingers touched the chair, the footmen with the first course appeared. As was the custom, the soup tureen was placed before Charlotte, and the fish—a large eel tonight—was set before him.
The footmen stepped back, and Charlotte gazed down at the tureen with a perplexed look. Freddie was sorely tempted to issue instructions for ladling the soup, but he kept quiet. Once in Society, he would not always be present to smooth her way. Better if she learned now to rely on her own wits. Charlotte lifted the top of the tureen and sniffed. “What is this?” she asked, making a face. Freddie prayed her grimace would not be relayed back to Julian, his cook.
Freddie lifted the carving knife and sliced into the eel. “Soup,” he answered. He placed a portion of eel on one of the Wedgwood china plates and handed it to the footman to carry down the table to Charlotte. She sniffed the soup again.
“As your housekeeper ignores every request I make to see the day’s menu, can you enlighten me as to what kind of soup?”
Freddie hadn’t bothered to look at the menu, so he glanced at Dawson for assistance. Dawson cleared his throat and said in an authoritative voice. “The soup tonight is la garbure aux choux.”
Charlotte nodded. “I see. Sounds delicious.”
To Freddie’s relief, she lifted the ladle and began spooning the broth into a bowl. The footman placed her slice of eel before her and took the bowl of soup to deliver to Freddie. He smiled. Perhaps the chit was not hopeless after all. She waited until he lifted his soup spoon before sampling her own, and as Freddie brought the first sip to his lips, he closed his eyes and inhaled.
“Hellfire and damnation! Cabbage!”
Freddie jumped, dropped his spoon, and soup splattered all over the fine tablecloth, the rug on the floor, and his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches.
Dash it! Wilkins was still in a pet about the soiled breeches from breakfast. How was Freddie to show him this mess?
“Yech. Yech. Yech.” Charlotte had her napkin to her mouth, her complexion almost as green as the broth.
“What is the matter?” Freddie yelled and immediately swore under his breath. He was supposed to be in control. He was the master. “Swearing like a sailor is not appropriate behavior.”
Charlotte dropped the napkin and downed her wine instead. Freddie raised his brows. That was expensive French burgundy—hard to come by with the war on.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped after finishing off the wine. “You didn’t mention cabbage. I have a violent reaction to cabbage.”
Freddie shut his eyes and prayed for patience. “That is what aux choux means. With cabbage.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t speak French.”
The footmen had moved in to remove the soup bowl and spoon as well as dab away some of the residue from his clothing. Freddie brushed the napkin Andrews wielded away from his ruined waistcoat. “No French? Not even a rudimentary understanding?”
Freddie felt his stomach heave, much as it did whenever he boarded a ship. Everyone in the ton knew French. Whole conversations were often held in French, and many of his favorite bon mots were impossible to appreciate without a thorough understanding of both languages. This disastrous turn of events he had not foreseen. There was no means to hide her lack of the language from those who came into even casual contact with her.
Freddie rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head had been steadily drumming since he’d met this Yankee chit, and he had a feeling relief was not in sight. What could he do? Could he teach her French in the space of a few days?
He thought about the precedency fiasco and discarded that idea. Perhaps they could pretend she was deaf. Or maybe he could tell everyone she was insane and locked up in his attic. Hmm. Now that idea had some merit.
“Of course I have a rudimentary understanding of the language,” Charlotte said, interrupting his thoughts.
Freddie brightened. Thank the Maker. All was not lost.
“I know oui, merci, and arrivederci.”
Freddie groaned aloud. Dash it all to hell. He was doomed.
“Now what’s the matter?” Charlotte demanded, and Freddie noted with unease that she poked the eel uncertainly as she said it.
“Arrivederci is not French,” Freddie mumbled. “It’s—what in blazes are you doing to that fish?”
She stopped poking it and looked up at him. “I’m poking it. It seems . . . slimy.”
“It’s not slimy. It’s sauced, and it’s delicious, so stop poking it and eat it.”
She frowned. “What type of fish is it? I haven’t seen a fish like this before.”
Freddie speared a portion and put it in his mouth. He savored it and swallowed. “It’s eel.”
