tinton, noun. The delicious crust made by burnt sugar on a pudding.
and
fimple, adverb. Almost, nearly.
He declared his life complete the day she approached their mother and asked, “Is the apple cream fimple out of the blackbox? You know how much I chime when it gets a tinton.”
Her mother had fainted on the spot. Her father, upon learning the extent of Roger’s preparation, mused that he was not sure he could bring himself to mete punishment for such a well thought-out plan. He’d even opined that perhaps such diligence ought to be rewarded. Indeed, Roger might have received that new epée he’d been coveting had not Mrs. Bridgerton overheard. With strength no one knew she possessed, she smacked her husband on the back of his head and demanded, “Have you heard your daughter? She’s talking to the maids about plumwort and farfar!”
“She’s especially fond of plumwort,” Roger said with a smirk.
Mr. Bridgerton turned to him with a sigh-crossed groan. “You realize now that I have to punish you?”
Poppy was never quite certain just what punishment her father had chosen, but she did recall that Roger smelled remarkably like the chicken coop for several weeks, and, proving that punishment occasionally did fit its crime, her mother had required him to write, “I will not farfar my sister,” one thousand times in his primer.
But he’d only had to do so nine hundred times. Poppy had sneaked in to help him, taking the quill and doing a hundred lines for him.
He was her favorite brother. She would have done anything for him.
She wished she still could. Even now, after five years, it was so hard to believe he was gone.
With a sigh, and then another and another, she wandered aimlessly around the cabin. Captain James had not told her what time he normally took his dinner, but after the clock struck seven, then eight, then nine, she decided there was no point in saving the pudding. Poppy took the larger of the two slices of pie, then pulled a chair up close to the window so she could gaze out as she ate.
“My compliments to the chef,” she murmured, casting an eye back to where the other piece of pie sat on the table. “If he’s not back by . . .”
Ten, she decided. If the captain didn’t return by ten, she’d eat his pie. It was only fair.
In the meantime, she’d take very small bites. She might be able to make it last until—
She looked down at her empty plate. Never mind. She’d never been able to make her sweets last. Richard had been just the opposite, savoring each bite until the very end, at which point he moaned with pleasure, not because the pudding was especially delicious (although it was; their cook had had a particular talent for baking), but rather to torture his less patient siblings. Poppy had swiped one of his biscuits once, as much out of irritation as hunger, and when he’d noticed he’d walloped her.
Then her father had walloped him.
It had been worth it. Even when her mother had taken her aside for a lecture on ladylike behavior, it had been worth it. The only thing that would have made it better was if Poppy had got to do some walloping herself.
“Wallop,” she said aloud. She liked that word. It sounded rather like its meaning. Onomatopoeia. Another word she liked.
Strangely, it didn’t sound like its meaning. An onomatopoeia ought to be one of those crawly things with fuzzy legs, not a literary device.
She looked down at the dish in her hand. “Plate,” she said. No, it didn’t sound anything like what it was. “Bowl?”
Dear God, she was talking to crockery.
Had she ever been so bored?
She was on a ship , for heaven’s sake. Heading to exotic climes. She ought not to feel as if her brain was desiccating. She ought to feel—
Well, what she ought to feel was terror, but she’d already done that, so didn’t she now deserve a little excitement? Surely she’d earned it.
“Yes, I have,” she said firmly.
“Have you?” came the amused voice of Captain James.
Poppy shrieked with surprise and jumped nearly a foot in the air. It was a wonder she didn’t drop her dessert plate. “How did you enter so quietly?” she demanded.
Although honestly, it did sound more like an accusation.
The captain just shrugged. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Yes,” Poppy said, still waiting for her pulse to return to normal. She waved her hand to the table. “I saved some for you. I don’t know if it will still be warm.”
“Likely not,” he said, heading straight for the table. He didn’t sound concerned. “Ah . . .” He sighed appreciatively. “Chicken in brown sauce. My favorite.”
Poppy’s head whipped around.
He gave her a queer look. “Is something amiss?”
“Chicken in brown sauce? That’s what you actually call it?”
“What else would you call it?”
Poppy’s mouth opened, and it hung that way for about two seconds too long. Finally she made a steadying motion with her hands and said, “Never mind.”
The captain shrugged, indifferent to the meanderings of her conversation, and he dug into his food with the speed of a man who had put in a hard day of work.
“Chicken in brown sauce,” Poppy said to herself. “Who could have known?”
The captain paused with his fork halfway between plate and mouth. “Do you have a problem with the food?”
“No,” she said. “No. It’s—” She shook her head. “It’s nothing. I have been talking to myself all day.”
He took a bite and nodded. “As opposed to all those people you’ll never have occasion to meet?”
She pressed her lips together, trying—and probably failing—to look stern. “Now you’re just taking all my fun away.”
He grinned unrepentantly.
“I can see you are troubled by the thought.”
“Miss Bridgerton, you always trouble me.”
She allowed herself a lofty tip of her chin. “Then I can count this a good day’s work.”
The captain took a long sip of his wine, then covered up a belch with his hand. “You do that.”
Poppy tapped her hand against her thigh, trying not to look as if she had nothing to do but watch him eat (when of course they both knew she had nothing to do but watch him eat). She felt ridiculously awkward, so she turned back to the window and pretended to look out. She supposed she actually was looking out, but the vista hadn’t changed for the last two hours, so really, it was more of a staring at the glass sort of thing. “You’re quite late,” she finally said.
His voice came from behind her, warm, rich, and terribly provoking. “Did you miss me?”
“Of course not.” She turned around, trying to maintain a disinterested air. “But I was curious.”
He smiled, and it was a devastating thing. Poppy could easily imagine dozens of ladies swooning in its wake. “You’re always curious, aren’t you?” he murmured.
She was instantly suspicious. “You’re not saying that as if it were an insult.”
“It’s not an insult,” he said plainly. “If more people were curious, we’d be far more advanced as a species.”
She took a step toward him without realizing it. “What do you mean?”
His head tipped thoughtfully to the side. “Hard to say. But I like to think we’d be traveling the world in flying machines by now.”
Well, that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. So she plunked herself right down across from him and said, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
He chuckled. “Clearly you’re not curious enough .”
“I’ll have you know—” Poppy frowned as a contraption with wings, wheels, and maybe some fire shot through her imagination. It was enough to distract her from her initial response, which had been to defend herself.
She’d grown up with four brothers. Defending herself was always her initial response.
“Do you think it’s possible?” she asked. She leaned forward, arms crossed on the table in front of her. “Flying machines?”
“I don’t see why not. Birds do it.”