Just Desserts

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Little Dorrit

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC

"Oh no," was Amy Clennam's first reaction when Affery brought the chocolate cake to the table. "Thank you, but I couldn't."

"I thought you liked chocolate cake," replied her husband, smiling at Affery as she cut a generous slice for him. "Aren't you hungry? I didn't see you eat much of the chicken."

"I - " She blushed and looked down at her empty place setting where, a few minutes earlier, she had left nearly half of her main course on the plate.

"I'll finish it for supper," she said. "It will keep until then, won't it?"

"As you say, ma'am," said Affery, but the dubious lift of her thin gray eyebrows said otherwise. They had not known each other well at the late Mrs. Clennam's, but now that Amy was married to Affery's beloved master, the old woman had become almost as protective of her as he was.

"And as for the chocolate," she explained, "I don't mean to slight your work, Affery. I'm sure it's very good. Only – I know it's your favorite, Arthur. I don't wish to take it away from you."

Her heart pounded in her ears as she remembered her earliest lessons in table manners: the best food went to Father. It was no less than he deserved. Taking chocolate cake, or anything expensive, for yourself – unless he gave it to you – would be inexcusably selfish.

The fragrance of the fresh-baked cake and its creamy frosting made her mouth water. She swallowed hard and kept her face impassive, looking across the table at Arthur for any sign of disapproval. To her dismay, he was frowning. His blue eyes, normally so warm, were cold as ice.

"Take it away?" he repeated.

"I'm sorry – "

"Amy, what do you take me for? What makes you think I would begrudge you the enjoyment of a meal. I'm not your – "

She knew what he was about to say, and she was glad he did not. Nobody, not even the man she loved, should speak a word against William Dorrit. At least, she understood now, his anger was not directed at her.

"Please," he said, making a visible effort to speak softly and with patience. "Please try it. It might bring a smile to your face, and you know how much I love to see you smiling."

"It's a new recipe, ma'am," Affery chimed in. "I … I need you to tell me if I've got it wrong."

Two pairs of blue eyes, middle-aged and ancient, appealed to her with kindness and concern. For their sakes, how could she not give in?

She picked up the carving-knife herself, according to habit, put a modest triangle of cake on her little plate, and raised the first bite to her lips. It melted on her tongue, rich and exotic, sensuous and sweet. Like the coffee Arthur had once bought for her when they first knew each other, it tasted of hope.

"It's … perfect," she said to Affery. "Please don't change a thing."

For Arthur, she could only smile, as he had asked. The smile he gave her in return was soft as summer rain.