by Audrey Glenn
Nathaniel wasn’t impressed. “I know of the Sons of Liberty, and I would not trust a one of them to keep his word, not after what happened in Boston a few years ago.”
“That was unfortunate,” David admitted. “Though most of the merchants did stick to the agreement not to import the English goods.”
Nathaniel took a sip of wine. “I won’t be making any decisions based on the paper promises of that lot. You were still in England then.”
“I think most of them are very sincere, and only a handful of merchants went back on their word. Most of the Sons of Liberty believe in promoting freedom.”
“Aye — freedom for themselves, to make as much money as they can,” Nathaniel replied. “Though perhaps that’s the noblest cause of all.”
Helen watched the debate closely. “You don’t seem to believe anyone can accomplish anything! You must have had a very sad upbringing. Were you orphaned as a small child?”
Cassandra blanched. “Helen!”
“No,” Nathaniel refuted. “I had a perfectly normal boyhood with a mother and father.” He didn’t add that his father died when Nathaniel was only seven, or that his mother had given him to his uncle to employ on a ship shortly after so she could marry a local widower. It hadn’t been detrimental to his development at all.
Helen only sniffed and stayed silent for the rest of the meal.
After dinner, Nathaniel declined to stay for champagne or coffee. “I’ve plans to develop,” he said by way of an excuse.
David walked him out to the street. “I thank you for coming. Will you shake hands with me, or have I done you too great a mischief by forcing you to endure Helen’s company?”
“I will shake, and gladly. No harm was done to me.”
“I don’t know why you bring out the worst in Helen. She’s really a pleasant companion most of the time.”
“All the better she remains in your household,” Nathaniel joked, and he took his leave. A sound made him turn back when he was only a little way down the street. Helen was looking out a window, glaring at him as if he were her bitterest enemy. It didn’t seem to matter how hard he tried to help; she was displeased by everything he said.
He laughed, crammed his hands into his pockets, and made his way down the street. Helen Crofton’s opinions didn’t matter to him in the least. He turned his thoughts towards what he would have to do to get his illegal shipment of tea into the city.
Helen looked over the long line of market stalls. She and Constance had inquired about space to rent at nearly every stall in the most fashionable row at the market. Helen thought it would be best to stay near the other bakers and fine jewelers rather than setting up a blanket by the rag pickers bordering the main building, but they were running out of options.
“Let’s try this one,” Helen suggested. She walked right up to the baker, Constance trailing a few steps behind.
“Would you rent me space in your stall?” Helen asked boldly. She was too tired to mince words.
“What are you selling?” The baker, a stout man with a square jaw, scrutinized her.
“Tarts.” The man gave her a once-over. “Gooseberry tarts,” Helen quickly amended. “For charity.” Explaining what the ladies planned to do with their earnings had turned out to be a bad idea, as many of the merchants who sold in this market held indenture contracts and wouldn’t tolerate a hint of liberation talk.
“Ten shillings a week, and you can use that.” The baker shoved a finger to a rough wooden table behind them.
“Thank you, but that’s more money than we have to spend. Come, Constance.” Helen grabbed her cousin’s elbow and gently steered her out into the main thoroughfare of the market. It was crowded on a workday morning with everyone from servants to fashionable ladies attempting to complete their shopping.
Two pounds a month was the lowest offer they’d heard, but it was still far more than all the money in the society’s treasury.
“Do you not think it would be the most romantic thing in the world for two people to meet at a bakery stall and fall in love?” Constance asked, absorbed in some fantasy.
“I’m afraid I fail to see the romance in that,” Helen admitted. Constance was always half-in, half-out of a daydream on account of Aunt Anne allowing her daughters to read so many sentimental novels. Helen’s own governess had never permitted such vain pursuits.
Helen would have preferred Cassandra’s company, but her sister had promised to spend the morning returning calls with David. Constance might not be much practical use, but Helen liked her dreamy cousin, and she didn’t really need someone to take over. She’d spent hours perfecting the tart plan. Even Captain Carter couldn’t find fault with her now! He seemed to think that just because she was a woman, she was completely ignorant and would be grateful to be instructed by him.
“It is romantic because it would be so unexpected,” Constance explained, a fanciful expression on her heart-shaped face. “A young lady — perhaps an indentured servant — goes to buy the family bread. While there, she chances to meet a sea captain, on leave for a few days only. They look into each other’s eyes, and the captain falls instantly in love with her! He pays off her indenture, and they marry at once.”
Helen managed to turn a disbelieving laugh into a cough. “And then he goes off for months at a time, forgets to send her any money, and she’s worse off than she was before, for now she has a landlord dunning her and nothing to eat.”
Constance stared at Helen in astonishment, seemingly at a loss for words.
“It doesn’t fit with my experience of life,” Helen admitted. “Nothing ever works out so neatly.”
“It did for your sister,” Constance argued.
Helen didn’t bother to hide her laugh. “David was odious to Cassandra and me when we first met. He didn’t want anything to do with us. It was only after he saw how perfect she is that he melted.”
“That was still very unlikely then, wasn’t it? And that proves that two people could fall in love in front of a bread stall.”
“Perhaps.” Helen adjusted her gray wool cloak and continued on, though she was not precisely sure what to do.
“It would be just the thing for a romance!”
Helen thought she recognized the man standing at the end of the row.
“Oh, no!” she muttered.
“I say it would,” Constance replied, wounded.
“No, not your story. Quick, walk this way.”
Captain Carter’s broad shoulders encased in his customary stark black coat stood out even in the crowded market. For the moment he was busy writing in a little notebook. They might be able to slip by him without notice.
Helen steered Constance around him, striding purposefully, as if she had a very important destination ahead.
“Good morning,” a deep voice said.
Helen sighed and turned around. “Captain Carter.” She supposed her fetching cap ribbons had drawn his attention. She shouldn’t have fed her vanity by keeping her hood down.
“Oh!” Constance looked up at him like he was a character who had stepped right off the page of a romance.
Even Helen would admit he was very handsome. He had a form like a classical statue, and his full head of hair made the absence of a wig seem no matter. It was a shame that his outward appearance did not match the inner person.
Constance elbowed Helen hard in the stomach and cast her eyes repeatedly towards Captain Carter.
Helen begrudgingly obliged her cousin. “This is Captain Carter. Captain Carter, this is Miss Constance Hayes.”
Constance beamed at him and curtsied deeply, while Helen’s curtsy could have been mistaken for a small spasm in her leg.
A man as rude in spirit as Captain Carter had no business bowing as elegantly as he did. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Do I guess correctly — you are doing the work of the Young Ladies of Philadelphia?”
Helen prayed silently for patience. “Philadelphia Young Ladies Charitable Society,” she managed to sa
y.
“Yes, we have been walking to and fro quite as much as the adversary himself trying to find a place to sell our gooseberry tarts,” Constance quipped. Helen hadn’t had occasion to notice such a broad smile grace the captain’s face during the entire three years of their acquaintance.
Constance seemed much more attuned to the conversation than she had been all day. Helen wondered if her cousin was fixing Captain Carter in her mind as the hero of the romance she was dreaming about. This was not to be borne.
“We really must continue on. Good day.” Helen started to proceed onward, but Constance did not follow.
“The owners who sell in this part of the market hold their spaces very dear. How much have you to spend?” Captain Carter sounded as if he were truly concerned, but Helen guessed he was searching for another opportunity to offer the benefit of his advice.
“Less than a pound,” Constance confided.
Helen sniffed. Constance seemed perfectly willing to give away all of the business of the society to a perfect stranger. Would that he would mind his own business and that her cousin would mind her tongue!
“The only place that would give you space at that rate would be in the fish market, but of course you wouldn’t want that.”
“That’s exactly where we’re headed, incidentally,” Helen lied.
Nathaniel laughed outright as if she’d made an excellent joke. “Nobody is going to buy slices of gooseberry pie surrounded by the stench of fish, even if you could convince the Charitable Ladies to stomach it long enough to hawk their wares.”
“Everyone likes tarts,” Helen retorted. She didn’t appreciate being made sport of. “Once our reputation for selling the best-tasting pastries in Philadelphia grows, we’ll have customers lined up for miles, fish or no fish!”
He stared at her incredulously. “Ah, well, you are certainly the expert. A lowly businessman such as I could not dream to teach you anything about business you do not already know.” Nathaniel swept another bow and started off in the other direction, shoulders stiff.
Constance stared after him. “I think you’ve offended him.”
“Come. It’s rude to stare at a gentleman.” Helen glanced back at Captain Carter. “Well, a man, anyway. I’m not certain you could call Captain Carter a gentleman,” she muttered to herself. What did he have to be offended about?
The cousins hurried two blocks to the fish market. The odor was overpowering long before they could see the stalls.
Constance pulled her kerchief over her nose. “Are you certain about this?”
Helen was determined not to gag. “Of course. I barely notice the smell.”
Blood soaked the tables while flies buzzed around entrails in swarms, so Helen nearly despaired of finding a suitable spot as they walked down the long rows.
She was about to give up when she spotted a small, empty hut at the end of a row. “Excuse me?” she called into the next stall over.
“Aye?”
“Do you know who owns this stall?” Helen pointed to the empty hut.
“Aye.”
A long silence ensued. “Might you tell me who?”
The sound of retching made her turn around. Constance was losing her last meal onto the pavement. Helen thought she was in danger of doing so herself, so overpowering was the fishy odor.
“’Tis mine.”
“Would you rent it to me?” Helen managed to croak.
The man stared at her as if he did not understand what she was saying. Helen was horrified to realize he had fish bones and gore in his long beard.
She took one step backwards. This had been a terrible idea.
“Two shillings. Roof leaks when it rains.”
“Oh, that is an excellent price! I mean, it seems very fair.” Helen had a feeling she should just leave as she’d intended, but this price was too good to pass up. They would still have funds left over for ingredients!
“We’ll start on Monday. I’ll bring the money with me. Good day!” She had to get Constance out of here — she could not seem to cease vomiting.
Helen managed to get Constance home. To her relief, the Hayes family did not seem terribly surprised to see her cousin’s pale face, saying she’d always possessed a weak stomach. Perhaps the other girls would manage to overcome the fish scent after getting used to it. After apologizing profusely, Helen retreated to her own home.
The day had not ended auspiciously, but setbacks were to be expected. As long as she persisted, all would be well — and if she could keep certain interfering persons from preventing her.
Nathaniel tried to shake off his irritating encounter with Helen. He’d been civil to her and offered sound advice, yet she’d responded by scorning him — again. He couldn’t remember anyone, not even his fiercest competitors, treating him such. Even her dreamy cousin had attended more closely to his words than Helen had.
Her behavior defied logical thought. He must cast her from his mind.
The sign over the door of the Devil’s Punchbowl was so dirty he walked past the tavern a few times before finally recognizing it as his destination. The entrance required a step down into an establishment reminiscent of a dungeon.
With no windows, and smoke rolling out of the fireplace, it was nearly impossible to make out who anyone was. He hoped the infernal character of the place was not an ill omen. Previously he’d been able to hire any number of day laborers to bring in his cargo, all legal and aboveboard. Now that the governor was putting his foot down, he had to find men who knew how to evade the constabulary.
“Carter?” a voice rasped.
“Aye?”
“Matlack.” The man didn’t offer his hand before planting himself in the chair opposite Nathaniel. He was grizzled from too many days in the sun, with dirty white hair and several long scars across his face.
“I need delivery of forty chests from my ship in Chester to a warehouse in the city,” Carter ventured. Best to get to the point and leave this awful place as quickly as possible.
“The kind of delivery that takes place at night when no one else is around, I presume?”
“Aye,” Nathaniel confirmed.
Matlack leaned forward. “And you’re prepared to pay?”
“Upon delivery.” Nathaniel had been in business long enough to know not to trust the man sitting before him with as much as a penny before the goods were safely in his warehouse.
Matlack pulled out a large knife and started cleaning under his nails. “My men won’t be too keen on putting their faith in you.”
Nathaniel inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I won’t pay until the tea is delivered.”
“My men will want to know if you’ll talk all over town and bring the governor on our heads.”
Nathaniel snorted. “Hardly; I’ve no desire to be caught smuggling.”
“You’ll ride along with us,” Matlack insisted.
“Very well.” That suited Nathaniel fine: he’d be able to see that his tea didn’t disappear.
“And you’ll have one of your men at the docks to signal all clear,” Matlack added. “Two lanterns if it’s safe and one if it’s not. If it’s not safe, we dump the cargo and speed back to Chester before the constable can round us up.”
Nathaniel paused. He didn’t really have many employees that worked for him consistently besides his captains, who hired their own crews. Captain Jones was in town, but Nathaniel would have to pay him very well to keep quiet about this.
“Problem?” Matlack leered at him, and Nathaniel suppressed a shiver.
“No problem.” He would find someone.
Matlack spat into his hand and extended it to Nathaniel, who omitted his own secretion but shook nonetheless.
He wandered out into the street and pondered what to do about the man at the dock.
Perhaps David was right that he should just forget about the tea. He could simply dump it and send the Good King George to Europe for a legal product. Every day the ship sat in the harbor at Chester he was losing money
.
The potential profit was enormous if he could avoid getting caught. The newly taxed legal tea imports hadn’t even arrived yet, so shopkeepers were already running low on tea and were willing to pay more than usual. He stood to make a nice profit for himself and his investors. If he could only pull this off one time, he wouldn’t have to attempt it again.
He was certain he could do this. He’d managed to work his way up from cabin boy to captain to owner by the age of twenty-nine. After securing his first position, his uncle had not interceded in his life again, and Nathaniel had learned to rely on himself, to stay alert to the way others achieved success and copy them.
He’d thought to help Helen by offering her advice that would’ve helped when he was starting out. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Still, he couldn’t help but admire her spirit. In a way, she almost reminded him of himself — at least in her determination to succeed, though she was going about it all the wrong way.
Ridiculous. They were absolutely nothing alike. He pushed her firmly out of his mind and started back to his office, pondering who he could ask to help him at the docks.
Helen invaded the apartment kitchen the moment Peggy left to take her half day, seizing the perfect chance to attempt to decipher Mama’s receipt book and produce a fine tart.
“What’s a ‘goodly’ amount of goose fat?” she wondered aloud. She picked through the cabinet where Peggy kept all the ingredients. This looked like the goose fat she remembered, but she couldn’t be sure. She dipped one finger in. It smelled like animal. She took a long wooden spoon and scooped a large amount into her mixing bowl.
“Add a good measure of flour,” she continued. She shoveled in several heaping spoonfuls of flour and tried to mix the ingredients together with the wooden spoon. The mixture was thick and difficult to stir. She attempted to roll it into a circle, but it was too sticky to hold, so instead she pressed the concoction into a shallow pan.
After digging a few minutes in the pantry Helen managed to locate gooseberry jam and spooned all of it over the crust. She picked up the pan and carried it over to the beehive oven in the corner only to realize it was cold. It took several attempts to get the fire to stay lit, but as soon as a blaze was going, she placed the tart inside and closed the wooden door.