“It’s this way, my lord. I’m wanting to get married.”
“Good God!” said Hornblower. He had a vague idea that Brown had been a terror for women, and the possibility of his marrying had never crossed his mind. He hastened to say what he thought would be appropriate. “Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Annette, my lord. Jeanne and Bertrand’s daughter. And I am the lucky one, my lord.”
“Jeanne’s daughter? Oh, of course. The pretty one with the dark hair.”
Hornblower thought about a lively French girl marrying a sturdy Englishman like Brown, and for the life of him he could see no reason against it at all. Brown would be a better husband than most — it certainly would be a lucky woman who got him.
“You’re a man of sense, Brown,” he said. “You needn’t ask me about these things. I’m sure you’ve made a wise choice, and you have all my best wishes for your happiness and joy.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“If Annette can cook as well as her mother,” Hornblower went on meditatively, “you’re a lucky man indeed.”
“That was another thing I wanted to say to you, my lord. She’s a cook second to none, young though she is. Jeanne says so herself, and if she says so —”
“We can be sure of it,” agreed Hornblower.
“I was thinking, my lord,” went on Brown, “not wanting to presume, that if I was to continue in your service your lordship might consider engaging Annette as cook.”
“God bless my soul,” said Hornblower.
He mentally looked down a vista a lifetime long of dinners as good as Jeanne cooked. Dinners at Smallbridge had been almost good but most decidedly plain. Smallbridge and French cooking offered a most intriguing study in contrasts. Certainly Smallbridge would be more attractive with Annette as cook. And yet what was he thinking about? What had happened to those doubts and tentative notions about never seeing Smallbridge again? Some such ideas had certainly passed through his mind when he thought about Marie, and yet here he was thinking about Smallbridge and thinking about Annette heading his kitchen. He shook himself out of his reverie.
“Of course I can give no decision on the point myself,” he said, fencing for time. “Her Ladyship will have to be consulted, as you understand, Brown. Have you any alternative in mind?”
“Plenty, my lord, as long as you are satisfied. I’ve thought of starting a small hotel — I have all my prize-money saved.”
“Where?”
“In London, perhaps, my lord. But maybe in Paris. Or in Rome. I have been discussing it with Felix and Bertrand and Annette.”
“My God!” said Hornblower again. Nothing like this had crossed his mind for a single moment, and yet — “I have no doubt you would be successful, Brown.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Tell me, this seems to have been a lightning courtship. Is that so?”
“Not really, my lord. When I was here last Annette and I — you understand, my lord.”
“I do now,” said Hornblower.
It was fantastic that Brown, the man who hove the line that saved the Pluto, the man who silenced Colonel Caillard with a single blow of his fist, should be talking calmly about the possibility of opening an hotel in Rome. Actually it was no more fantastic than that he himself should have seriously debated with himself the possibility of becoming a French seigneur, and turning his back on England. He had done that no later than fast night; love for Marie had grown during the last five days even while his passion was indulged — and Hornblower was not the sort of fool to be ignorant of how much that implied.
“When are you thinking of marrying, Brown?” he asked.
“As soon as the law of this country allows, my lord.”
“I’ve no idea how long that means,” said Hornblower.
“I am finding out, my lord. Will that be all you need at present?”
“No. I’ll get up at once — can’t stay in bed after hearing all this exciting news, Brown. I’ll come through with a handsome wedding-present.”
“Thank you, my lord. I’ll fetch your hot water, then.”
Marie was waiting for him in her boudoir when he was dressed. She kissed him good morning, passed a hand over his smoothly shaven cheeks, and, with her arm over his shoulder, led him to her turret window to show him that the apple trees in the orchard below were showing their first blossoms. It was spring; and it was good to be in love and to be loved in this green and lovely land. He took her white hands in his, and he kissed every finger on them, with a surge of reverent passion. As each day passed he had come to admire her the more, her sweetness of character and the unselfishness of her love. For Hornblower respect and love made a heady mixture — he felt he could kneel to her as to a saint. She was conscious of the passion that was carrying him away, as she was conscious of everything about him.