“Oh!” the young woman says, turning to me. “Ms. Hastings. Yes! I have your table, and we are delighted to have you here. Absolutely delighted.”
“Er... thank you. I am... delighted to be here.”
She laughs softly. “I’m sorry. That sounded a little overenthusiastic, didn’t it? The gentleman who made the reservation told us you’re a distant descendant of our Rosie.” Her brown cheeks darken in a blush. “I mean, she’s your Rosie, obviously. The original Rosalind.”
I smile. “Ah. Apologies if I seemed confused. I know my sis—great-great... great grandmother once owned this shop. I did not expect anyone else to know it.”
“Oh, we do, and we have reserved a place of honor for you both, as our most esteemed guests.”
Not letting us fade into the background for a second, are you, August?
The young woman takes our jackets and then exclaims over my dress.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says. “Wonderfully retro.”
I take a guess at what “retro” means and say, “As is yours.”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not exactly historically accurate. I studied Victorian history when I was in uni, and I’ve suggested tweaks, but this is what people expect.”
I start to say, “You went to university?” but stop myself. I would mean it in a most positive way—imagine being a woman who can easily attend a university!—but it would sound as if I meant she did not seem the type. I must wonder, though, at a young woman with a university education waiting tables in a tearoom. Perhaps the twenty-first century is not quite the utopia I imagine.
The young woman—Suravi, according to a tag on her dress—takes us into the dining room, which is much bigger than when Rosalind owned it. The bakery has taken over an adjoining shop, and the dining room now has more than a dozen tables. All are bedecked with white linen cloths, bright red and green serviettes and sprigs of holly.
Suravi shows us to ours, which is indeed the best in the house. It was also my favorite spot in Rosalind’s bakery, and my eyes tear again as I see it.
The shop is located on a corner, and this seat looks out at the side road. In my time, that road had been less than savory, and Rosalind had kept the window curtained. I’d always opened it and sat with my tea and scone as I watched the truly fascinating tableaus unfold on that lane after dark.
“Is it as you remember?” Nicolas says once Suravi has left the table.
“The view is certainly prettier,” I say as I nod at the window with its holiday decor and falling snow. “I once saw a man stabbed outside this window. It was quite thrilling.”
Nicolas sputters a laugh.
“Oh, he survived,” I say quickly. “Otherwise, I would have to say it was horrible and appalling.”
His lips twitch. “Even if you might have felt it was at least a little thrilling?”
“Precisely. I do recall there was a fair bit of blood. It ran right down the street, the brightest shade of red against the snow.”
“Very festive.”
“I thought so.” I lay my fingers on his hand. “Is this all right? I know this is a treat for me more than you.”
“The treat for me is watching your face,crécerelle. I appreciate the glimpse into your past. Also, I will not turn down a Christmas tea. Admittedly, food is not your country’s crowning achievement, but you do excel at afternoon tea.”
I nod toward the sign in the window. “High tea, you mean.”
“Even I know they are using entirely the wrong word, unless they plan to serve steak-and-kidney pie. But language changes, like everything else, and I trust this will actually be a fulllowtea, complete with sweets and sandwiches.”
Suravi returns with the menu, printed on fine vellum. She tells us that whoever made the reservations has “prepurchased” the full tea service with “prosecco” for us, though we are free to choose anything else in its place.
We say that the tea service will be fine, and she confirms that we do not have any allergies, sensitivities or food prohibitions. I’m not quite sure what that means, though again I can interpret in context, and Nicolas assures her we do not. We select our tea from a second menu filled with a truly wonderful array of choices.
After she leaves, Nicolas lays his menu between us and points at it. “Did you see this?”
I follow his finger as he turns his menu to face me. Then I find myself grinning. All of the pastries with the tea are apparently made from “recipes by the original Rosalind Courtenay née Hastings.”
“TheoriginalRosalind,” I say. “I wonder if I can sneak that into my purse.”