Reforming Harriet

by Eileen Putman

  “I am accustomed to flour,” Harriet said. “’Tis quite all right.”

  “Trust me, love,” he growled. “It will be better than all right.”

  “I do, Elias,” she whispered. “I do trust you.”

  The sun rose over the village, shooting joyous rays through the window and bathing them in its blessed light. Harriet and Elias made love on the flour-covered table, and it was better than all right.

  EPILOGUE

  “Told you everything would turn out for the best,” Celestial said. “With Miss Harriet’s way with food and Lord Westwood’s — what is that word you used, Horace?”

  “Olfactory,” the butler pronounced.

  “His olfactory skills,” she continued, “their business will be a great success.”

  Heavenly frowned. “I don’t know if I want to travel all that distance. Jamaica is such a far place.”

  “Nonsense.” Celestial pulled a loaf of bread from the oven and turned it out on the table to cool. “You will love it there. With Miss Harriet’s baby due soon, they will need you more than ever. Besides — if the duke can make the journey, anyone can.”

  Heavenly regarded her sister uncertainly. “It would be better if you were going.”

  “I shall miss you, dear, but in my condition, I cannot travel. Dr. Stinton says I may be carrying twins. Besides, Horace rather likes Worthington. And someone must keep the bakery going until Lady Harriet returns.”

  “Mrs. Tanks — Gibbs could do so,” Heavenly pointed out. “Now that Eustace and the children are helping with the mill, she has more time.”

  “Mrs. Gibbs does not understand dough,” Celestial replied. “Cheer up, sister. You will have Henry to keep you company.”

  Blushing, Heavenly looked away. “I cannot imagine traveling such a long distance with that infuriating man.”

  “Henry’s heart is in the right place,” Celestial said, “but he has a lifetime of bachelorhood to overcome. I would not be surprised if a long sea voyage is just the thing for that. Take this.” Celestial set a small vial on the table.

  “Celestial,” Horace warned, “you are not to interfere in that man’s life.”

  “What is it?” Heavenly stared at the little bottle.

  “Ginseng.” Celestial gave her a sly smile.

  Heavenly lifted her chin. “If a man doesn’t want me on his own, I’m not going to slip something in his ale to change his mind.”

  “It is not for Henry,” Celestial replied. “I have little doubt where his inclinations lie. It is for you.”

  “What?”

  Celestial sighed. “If anyone needs a nudge, ’tis you, sister. He won’t approach you on his own; he’s too proud — and wary.”

  Horace nodded. “Man won’t venture down an unfamiliar road when it’s strewn with thorns that could tear him apart.”

  “Thorns?” Heavenly drew herself up. “There is nothing thorny about me.”

  Celestial and Horace exchanged a glance.

  Heavenly stared at the little bottle of ginseng. She’d never had much faith in Celestial’s quackery, but her sister was right about one thing: Henry had been on her mind. But she also knew he would never approach her.

  It would have to be up to her. And she was not one to rely on false courage. Eyeing the bottle disdainfully, Heavenly left it on the table and strode out of the kitchen.

  They stared after her. “What do you think will happen?” Horace asked.

  “What will,” Celestial said. She handed him a piece of the freshly baked bread. “Try Miss Harriet’s new sourdough.”

  Horace took a bite. “Excellent,” he acknowledged.

  “’Tis better than that, dear.” Celestial grinned. “It is perfect.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Strictly speaking, Harriet did not invent napoleons. (But you knew that.) Some food historians think the pastry was named not for Napoleon Bonaparte but for Italy’s famed Neapolitan bakers. The confection itself is indisputably French, however. As far back as 1758, a Frenchman published a recipe for mille-feuille — a thousand leaves — a sweet, brittle cake with five or six layers of puff pastry and pastry cream.

  Which is exactly how Harriet envisioned them. If you have a mind to try making them, read on:

  Napoleons

  Making puff pastry is labor-intensive. The dough is rolled out, folded around cold butter, then rolled and folded and turned — and that is repeated many times.

  But for this recipe, simply buy a box of frozen puff pastry and proceed as follows:

  Dough:

  1 package puff pastry, thawed

  Pastry cream:

  4 large egg yolks

  ¼ cup cornstarch

  2 cups whole milk

  ½ cup sugar

  2 teaspoons vanilla extract

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons butter, diced

  Icing/glaze:

  1 cup powdered (confectioners) sugar

  2 teaspoons corn syrup

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted

  2 tablespoons milk, more as needed

  1 tablespoon unsweetened cocoa powder

  Directions:

  Prepare pastry cream: Whisk egg yolks and cornstarch together until well-combined. Set aside. In a medium saucepan, heat milk, sugar, vanilla and salt until simmering. Slowly add heated milk mixture to the egg yolks, ½ cup at a time. Whisk constantly so the egg yolks do not curdle. When the milk mixture has been completely incorporated into the egg mixture, return the mixture to the saucepan. Cook over medium heat, whisking, for another 2-3 minutes, or until mixture is thick and bubbly. Remove from heat and whisk in diced butter. Put the pastry cream in a bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for 2 hours, or overnight. (Plastic wrap must touch the surface of the pastry cream so it doesn’t form a skin.)

  Prepare puff pastry: Cut a piece of parchment paper as large as the baking sheet you will use. Lightly flour the parchment paper. Roll out each sheet of thawed puff pastry until it’s about 12 x 12 inches square. Using a pizza wheel, cut the square into three 12 x 4 inch strips. Cut each of those strips into three or four pieces, depending on how big you want your napoleons. (Alternatively, you can bake the 12 x 4 inch strips, then cut into smaller pieces with a serrated knife after baking. Whichever method you use, cut before assembling.) Prick the dough all over with a fork. Put the parchment paper and pastry strips onto baking sheets and refrigerate for 30 minutes, or until firm.

  Preheat oven to 375°. Take baking sheets with pastry out of refrigerator. Put parchment paper on top of the pastry strips and set another baking sheet on top of that. Bake until pastry begins to turn brown, 10-15 minutes. Remove baking sheet and parchment from top of pastry. Bake, uncovered, until pastry is golden brown, 6-8 minutes more. Set aside to cool. Repeat process with remaining 1 sheet puff pastry.

  Prepare glaze: In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together powdered sugar, corn syrup, and melted butter. Add milk, 1 tablespoon at a time, until you reach a consistency that is pourable, but still thick. Transfer ¼ of the glaze to a separate bowl and whisk in cocoa powder to create the chocolate glaze. (You may need to add a bit more milk to the chocolate mixture.) Spoon the chocolate glaze into a piping bag fitted with a small round tip or a freezer bag with the tip cut off.

  Assemble: Take one of the cooled pastry strips and flip it over. Spread white glaze over the surface of the strip. Pipe two lines of chocolate glaze lengthwise across the pastry strip. Drag a toothpick horizontally across the chocolate glaze to create a pattern. Alternate the direction you drag the toothpick in each line.

  Remove chilled pastry cream from fridge. Spread some evenly over one puff pastry strip. Top with the second puff pastry strip, pressing to adhere. Spread more pastry cream over this strip. Top with the glazed puff pastry strip.

  Refrigerate for 1 hour to let it set. Some people then slice and serve, but slicing through these after they are assembled can be challenging. Store in refrigerator in airtight container for up to 3 days. M
akes about a dozen.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Eileen Putman’s love of England’s Regency period has inspired her research trips to Britain, Ireland, France and other countries — there being no substitute for stepping on the soil that Beau Brummell and his champagne-polished Hessians once trod.

  She’s also a dedicated baker.

  www.eileenputman.com/

  About the Love in Disguise series:

  In these tales of Regency intrigue, nothing is as it seems: A street wench masquerades as a debutante to fulfill a rake’s wager; an actress pretends to be a vengeful lord’s mistress to catch a killer. A noble war hero disguises himself as a much older man to woo an on-the-shelf spinster. An independent widow forces her disapproving business partner to pretend to be her fiancé — and teach her about passion.

  All are daring masquerades, with love is the prize. The books:

  The Perfect Bride

  Firmly on the shelf, Amanda Fitzhugh is far too levelheaded to again fall for any man’s seductive promises and caresses. She had been down that road before and was lucky to escape with her reputation intact. She’s content to chaperon her young cousin’s come-out and betrothal to Simon Hannibal Thornton, one of England’s most esteemed war heroes, now Lord Sommersby.

  But when the iron-willed earl with a haunted castle turns his soldierly skills from winning a bride to conquering her companion, Amanda discovers her own heart in mortal danger amid the ghosts of passion.

  The Dastardly Duke

  Tormented by a dark secret, Julian LeFevre, Duke of Claridge, is a notorious and dissolute rake. His half-hearted attempt to reform his character has left him bored to death. To relieve the tedium, he wagers a friend that he can mold any pretty trollop from the London streets into a lady who’ll pass muster with society’s elite.

  But Hannah Gregory is no biddable lump of clay. She has solemn gray eyes, a rebellious streak — and is deaf from a long-ago accident. And although she conceals her real past, she can’t conceal her attraction to the scoundrel who offers her a small fortune that could pay for a new medical treatment.

  The charade might heal her, but it also might break her heart—if she forgets that this dark and dangerous duke is well past the point of redemption.

  A Passionate Performance

  Lord Linton, a master of illusion as cunning as he is handsome, is out to capture his father’s killer. Taking a page from the bard, he decides the play is the thing to catch the villain. But when he hires an impoverished actress to masquerade as his mistress, even Linton cannot envision the extraordinary performance that awaits. A little magic and a lot of sparks catch this Regency couple unawares...

  A preview of The Perfect Bride, the first book in the series, begins on the next page.

  THE PERFECT BRIDE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Spring 1816

  “My wig, Jeffers, if you please.”

  “The grey or the brown, major — er, my lord?”

  “I believe I shall require the hoary privileges of age for this particular mission.”

  Jeffers nodded and carefully removed the grey wig from a stand on the massive oak chest. “Do you wish a mustache as well, my lord?”

  There was a brief, contemplative silence from the figure in the large wing chair. “The cursed things are a nuisance,” came the response, “but I should not care to chance exposure.”

  From a drawer, Jeffers removed a matching grey mustache that he proceeded to tame into a neat military style. When he offered it for inspection, his employer frowned.

  “Too rigid. Something more casual, perhaps with a bit of a droop to gain the young lady’s sympathy. I mean to disarm the target, Jeffers, not frighten her.”

  The batman smoothed the mustache into a less prepossessing appendage and was rewarded with a nod from the figure in the chair.

  “Perfect.”

  Jeffers preened under the compliment. The man who had commanded his loyalty and service for half a decade dispensed few enough of those.

  “Did you procure the clothing?” his employer demanded in the deep baritone that had compelled instant attention on the battlefield.

  Jeffers opened the mahogany wardrobe and removed a pair of trousers, waistcoat, and jacket. The frayed edges of the dimity twill betrayed its years, but the suit was impeccably clean.

  A rare smile spread over uncompromising features that had consigned many a foe to his doom. “I cannot imagine how I devised my disguises without your assistance in the early years of the war.”

  “It was my good fortune that our paths crossed, sir — my lord,” Jeffers insisted, flushing with pleasure.

  “Nonsense.” Briskly dismissive, his employer dispensed with Jeffers’s heartfelt declaration. “You would have bested that French bastard eventually. I merely hastened his demise.”

  Jeffers kept silent, knowing that above all things, his employer disliked praise. Still, nothing would ever persuade the scrawny batman he could have defeated the Frenchman who weighed nearly twenty stone and who ambushed him that day near Bayonne. Fortunately, the tattered “beggar” who had come along as Jeffers made his last prayers possessed extraordinary fighting skills. The French soldier breathed his last in the pauper’s lethal embrace.

  A rustling of paper from the wing chair indicated that his employer’s attention had moved on to other things. “Three names. That is the best you could do?”

  Jeffers bowed. “Your requirements were exceedingly stringent, my lord.”

  A mercurial gaze held his. “You believe I demand too much from my future bride?”

  Jeffers took note of the warning tone. “It is not my position to express such a view.”

  “But it is your opinion, is it not?”

  The batman had long ago learned that a strategic retreat could be more valuable than a frontal assault when dealing with his employer’s unyielding nature. Silently he returned the worn suit to the wardrobe, making a great show of arranging the garment so as to avoid wrinkling it. Reaching for a polishing cloth, he donned a preoccupied air as he rubbed the ancient suit of armor that stood next to the wardrobe as if in a constant state of battle readiness.

  An impatient sigh filled the chamber. “Your silence does not fool me, man. I know what you think of my methods.”

  Jeffers stared at the ancient broadsword that hung on the wall along with all manner of fighting implements. “I merely find them...methodical, my lord,” he replied carefully.

  “Method has served me well enough in the trenches and out of them,” came the brisk reply. “I defy you to think of a better way to select a bride.”

  Jeffers cleared his throat. “Some allow the heart to be their guide,” he ventured.

  “The same people who marry in haste and repent in leisure, no doubt,” scoffed his employer. “I do not think it is the heart that guides them as much as another part of their anatomy.”

  Jeffers bowed. “As you say, my lord.” “Enough of this idle chitchat.”

  “How do you mean to begin?”

  “As with any mission, Jeffers,” came the impatient response. “Reconnoiter and reconnaissance. A wife is no different from an enemy target. Both must be chosen carefully and taken from a position of strength.”

  “Yes, my lord.” As his gaze settled on a particularly lethal-looking cudgel from the twelfth century, Jeffers cringed.

  ***

  “What a masterful figure! It is too bad you did not have more of his gumption, Edward.”

  “You know that Edward has not spoken to us in nearly five hundred years, my dear.”

  “Hmmph. He always could hold a grudge.”

  “Be reasonable, Isabella. We had him deposed. And roasted alive.”

  “I still say five hundred years is too long to nurse a grudge. It gets lonely up here.”

  A hurt silence followed this remark. “You used to say that I was all you needed, Isabella.”

  “After five hundred years, even your presence becomes wearing, Mortimer. I need somethi
ng to occupy my time.”

  “Time is meaningless when one has eternity to atone for one’s sins.”

  “But do you not see, Mortimer? Time is all we have.”

  “What are you planning, Isabella?”

  “We must do something about our tenant. He is missing the passion to which he is entitled in his lifetime.”

  “I would prefer not to get involved, if you do not mind.”

  “But I do mind, Mortimer. Our hearts have always beaten as one, have they not? Or so you always said.”

  “Yes, Isabella. That is what I have always said.”

  ***

  Felicity Biddle, daughter of Sir Thomas Biddle, adjusted her spectacles. “Only think, Amanda! The fearless warrior rescued the princess from the phantasm without a care for his own safety.” She sighed. “I cannot imagine any of my admirers braving an apparition in the name of love.”

  Amanda Fitzhugh regarded her young cousin with a critical eye. “Since phantasms exist only in your exceedingly fertile imagination, it is not necessary to put any prospective suitor to such a ridiculous test.”

  Felicity pursed her heart-shaped mouth, which had already provoked several eager young swains into declaring undying love. “You would rob the fairies of their fairy dust, Amanda. Is there not a fanciful bone in your body?”

  “No more than there are fairies.” Amanda walked over to the hearth in the Biddles’ parlor and briskly stirred the fire. “I have lived long enough to understand that fairy tales and dreams derive from wishes, not fact. I am most thankful for the exceedingly practical nature I have developed over the years.”

  Miss Biddle closed her book, put aside her spectacles, and studied her cousin with brilliant violet eyes that had captivated those same besotted suitors. “You speak as if you are past praying for, when you have but twenty-eight years. You are still a remarkably handsome woman, Amanda. You could have your pick of husbands.”