The Chocolatier's Wife (19 page)

BOOK: The Chocolatier's Wife

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“You’re not quite supposed to be doing that yet, sharing
a
bowl.”

“She’s
making a
point,”
William said,
scooting
a
rather
choice
looking piece of beef to her side. “She’s showing solidarity towards me.”

“But
it’s
…
still,
you’re
not
married, so
you
should
not
be
sharing
like that.
‘Tis
grossly intimate.”

“You
were
too
kind
about
your
brother’s
inclination
to
fussiness
in your
reports
to
me,”
she
said,
pushing
the
meat
back
firmly. To
Andrew she
said,
“Shall
we
use
this
time
to
familiarize
me
with
the
details
of
what has
happened,
or
do
you
wish
to
waste
time
worrying
on
the
off
chance someone besides your good self might actually care how I
choose to eat?”

“If
you
will
finish
feeding
my
poor
brother,”
Andrew
said,
bridling
a
bit,
“then pe
r
haps he can
tell us when he is quite done.”

Her
cheeks
pinked
slightly,
but
she
smiled,
her
eyes
lightening
a little. “That sounds
quite
fair
to
me.
Then we
can
have
dessert.”
At
William’s direction she gave some bread to the neighbor.

And
this is the story,
eventually, that William
told.

It was
well
after
the
middle
of
the
night
when
the
guards
came
to
get him.
He’d
been
fast
asleep
in
their
bed
(at
this
point,
he
paused
to
apologize for
beginning
to
sleep
in
it
without
her, at
which
she
smiled
and assured him
it
was
fine,
especially
since
she
would
be
using
it
for
the
next
few
days without
him. Both
parts
of
this
aside
were,
to
Andrew’s
ears,
quite
beyond
the
pale,
and
he
had
to
be
talked
down
from
a
fit
of
abused
propriety
before William
was,
at
last,
allowed
to
continue)
when
the
guards
pounded
at
his door.

He
went
down
to
answer, worried
that
someone
had
been
trying
to break in,
when
they
grabbed
him
and
threw
him
into
a
prison carriage without another word.

“Where
am
I
being
taken?”
he
asked
calmly.
He
was
not
overly
worried, for
he
could
not
think of
anything
he
could
have
done,
and
that
didn’t change
even
when
he
was
led
up
the
steps
to
the
barracks,
because
he
knew that it was more
than
a
prison
house.

(“Did you think,
at that time of night,
that it was a
social call?”
Andrew asked.

“You asked that the last time,” William
pointed out.

“You didn’t answer me then,
either.”)

He
was
taken to
a
room and
escorted
to
a
chair. “It
was
expensively decorated,
and
I
knew
it
belonged
to
someone
important, or
at
least someone who considers himself to be so.”
He waited, then,
but the waiting did
not
worry
him
because
he
knew
it
was
supposed
to
do
exactly
that, fluster
him
and
make
him
recount
every
possible
sin.
Instead
he
considered whether he wanted to import hot pepper or
not.
Would pe
o
ple, used to the idea
of
chocolate
being
strictly
sweet,
be
interested
in
the
idea
of
hot
pepper being added to it?

(“That’s
what
you
think
of
when
you’ve
been
kidnapped
out
of
your home
at
3:00
in
the
morning?” Andrew
said.
“And
besides,
that
would
be disgusting—a co
m
plete waste of your product.”

“I
think
the
idea
sounds
quite
interesting,
and
I
shall
order
some
as soon as I
get back
to the shop,” Tasmin
said.

“May
I
continue
the
story,
now?”
William asked,
giving
her
a
small smile of thanks,
and
then,
when both nodded for
him
to continue, did so.)

Anyway,
after
spending
about
an
hour
contemplating
the
future
of
the shop, a
man
came in,
one William
had known
from
his days at sea.
He was Port
Admiral
Eric
Lavoussier,
and
he
was
in charge
of
all
martial
concerns dealing
with
Azin
shore.
In
his
short
time
as
Port
Admiral,
floggings and hangings alike had become much more
commonplace.

“Are
you
prepared
to
explain
to
me
what’s
going
on?”
William
finally
asked.

The admiral fiddled with something on his desk and, not looking up, said,
“Can
you explain your whereabouts this evening past, Mister Almsley?”

“
I
suppe
d
wit
h
m
y
famil
y
unti
l
seven-past
,
an
d
the
n
mad
e
m
y
wa
y
home
.
I
di
d
som
e
cleanin
g
i
n
m
y
shop
,
checke
d
th
e
stoc
k
fo
r
tomorrow
,
an
d
the
n
wen
t
upstair
s
t
o
read
.
Soo
n
after
,
I
retire
d
t
o
m
y
bed.
”