by Unrivaled
“Thank you!” I nearly shouted as I said the words, but I wondered if he even heard me.
“I’m sorry, Lucy.” My aunt linked her arm with mine. “At first glance . . . well, I know we’re not in Europe anymore, but I find myself erring on the side of caution, nonetheless. Though, considering the way he was dressed, I ought to have known it was harmless.”
I tried to glance back over my shoulder, but the brim of my hat blocked the view. “It just . . . it seemed like I ought to know him. As if I’d met him somewhere before.”
“If you haven’t, and he belongs here, then I’m sure you will. We’ll have to ask your mother if any eligible bachelors moved to the city while you were gone.”
I felt like rolling my eyes. Eligible bachelors had been a frequent topic of conversation on our travels. And now that I was back home, I had hoped not to hear about them anymore. Besides, I had no time to think of bachelors. I had to come up with a new candy. And soon!
My aunt and uncle were staying for a week’s visit before continuing to their home in Denver. We all went to church together on Sunday, and then on Monday my mother, my aunt, and I went to Vandervoort’s so I could be fitted for my Veiled Prophet Ball gown. My mother had ordered it several months before, when she had received the news, but only now was it ready for a fitting.
“What kind of dress is it?” I knew my aunt was only making idle conversation, but it brought to mind our fitting sessions at the couturier in Paris.
“It’s a semi-princess.” Mother seemed to answer with a strain in her voice.
“Of course.” Aunt Margaret’s reply was dismissive, but I don’t think she meant it to sound so rude. Everything was a semi-princess these days, with the long, sleek lines of traditional fitted gowns broken only by a seaming of the bodice and skirt together at the waist.
“With a square neck. And mousquetaire sleeves.” Mother seemed very proud of herself.
“Short sleeves?” Aunt asked with a quirked brow.
“Long.”
My aunt frowned.
“But the ball is in October—at night.” Mother seemed to send me a plea as she spoke. “There’s a fichu drapery at the waist. They said it was the very latest in modes.” The words came out as an appeal. As if she hoped I wouldn’t be disappointed.
I smiled, and that seemed to reassure her. I’d noticed, though, since I’d been back, that the very latest modes in America seemed slightly behind the latest modes in Europe. I wondered . . . “Is it . . . white?”
Mother looked at me as if I had suddenly lost all sense. “Of course it’s white!”
I’d traveled so far and seen so much in the past year . . . wearing a white gown seemed like a denial of all that I had experienced and everywhere that I had been. As I walked into the store with them it seemed such a bother to have to concentrate on dresses and balls when there were more important things to be accomplished.
The dressmaker brought the gown out from behind a curtain with a flourish. “Only the finest for the Queen of Love and Beauty!”
Mother hushed him. “No one’s supposed to know!”
He leaned forward, reducing his voice to a whisper. “And no one does . . . except for me.”
“Is that marquisette?” My aunt was craning forward in her chair, evaluating the gown, which had been draped over the counter.
“It’s net. Over satin.”
“Oh. But wouldn’t a marquisette have worked better? It would be much more distinctive.”
The dressmaker’s brows had risen to dizzying heights. “Better for what? A summer gown?”
“A princess style in marquisette would have been much better suited to the occasion.”
Mother broke in to their discussion. “Perhaps in France, but we’re living in St. Louis, if you had not noticed.”
I let my thoughts wander as my mother and aunt exchanged opinions. Sitting in one of the glass counter cases was a sample of watered silk in a delicious shade of green. It reminded me of the pistachios we had tasted in Vienna. Maybe the new candy I created could have a base of pistachios. But what flavoring would go best with them?
Orange flower syrup!
My mouth began to water. Yet . . . maybe that was too exotic. What about . . . honey? I could make a pistachio chew with honey and nougat. But . . . I’d never even seen a pistachio before I’d been to Europe. How expensive were they? Whatever else this new candy turned out to be, it needed to be inexpensive to make and easy to sell.
It couldn’t entail extra fuss and care. Which meant no chocolate.
But I could make a nougat. And so could the confectionery. Nougats were easy. Only water, sugar, and egg whites were needed. And honey and possibly pistachios as well. But . . . nougats weren’t very exciting. And my candy had to be something different. Something special.
My mother placed a hand on my arm. “Which do you prefer?”
They were all looking at me as if in expectation of a response. “Pardon me, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the choices.”
“Next Monday or Tuesday?”
“For . . . what?”
“Your next fitting.”
It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. The important thing was the candy. I needed a candy that would truly stand out. One that would be noticed and remarked upon. It couldn’t be just another white dress worn to another debutante ball. I needed something no one had ever seen, or tasted, before.
My mother would have had me devote all of my time to practicing dances and to going about the city making calls had I not reminded her, nearly constantly, of her promise.
“But you are not to neglect your duties. This is a chance not to be missed, nor to be despised.”
“I don’t intend to miss it.” I was, however, beginning to despise it. But everything depended upon my attending . . . and upon the successful debut of the new candy.
I hurried up to my room after the morning’s calls and exchanged my dress for a shirtwaist and skirt. Then I went down into the kitchen and helped Mrs. Hughes stir up the fire. I slipped on an apron and fastened it about my waist. “I’ll need the big copper pot today, Mrs. Hughes. We’re making candy.”
Our family’s cook had always been a willing participant in candy-making endeavors and our first tester of new sweets. But today she swatted my hand away when I reached for the pot. “Not until I’ve boiled my potatoes.”
“Please?”
“If you’re wanting to make candy, then maybe you should go down to the confectionery.” A hint of regret in her eyes softened the frown on her face.
The confectionery . . . where everyone had witnessed that final argument with my father. Better, perhaps, to wait. I sat on a stool and buttered a tray in preparation, then helped Mrs. Hughes peel the potatoes.
I wanted to try out my idea for a nougat to learn what it would taste like with a flavoring. The trick of it would be to have the egg whites whipped at the same time the syrup was ready. While I was waiting for the potatoes to boil, I found some rose water at the back of a cabinet that I’d once used with my father. It wouldn’t taste like orange flowers, but at least I’d find out if the texture was right. Next, I measured out a small amount of butter and set it on a saucer, sliding it onto the windowsill where it could soften in the sun. Then I separated eggs, collecting the whites into a bowl.
After Mrs. Hughes had drained the potatoes and washed out the pot, I put it back on the range and added sugar, water, and honey, stirring until the sugar dissolved and being careful to wipe away the forming crystals with a damp cloth.
I heard the screen door at the back of the kitchen yawn open and then slap shut. “Someone told me Lucy’s back.”
I felt my face break into a smile. “Sam!” I turned from my stirring.
“Lucy.” He tipped his cap up as he winked at me.
Of all the people I’d missed during my time on the Continent, Sam topped the list. The son of my father’s foreman, he had spent nearly as much time in the confectionery’s kitchen as I had. He delivere
d candy around the city for the company and did odd jobs around the house. Tall and rangy, he still moved with steady deliberation. And his pockets still bulged with packages of Fancy Crunch. At least his wrists no longer stuck out from his cuffs as if stranded there at the end of his sleeves. Or if they did, I couldn’t tell. He’d rolled his sleeves up, exposing muscled forearms I hadn’t known he possessed.
I took another look at him. Where had all the sharp angles and gangly limbs gone? He seemed to have grown into himself somehow. As he approached, I felt shy and rather . . . small. He’d turned into a man while I’d been gone.
I swallowed.
He smiled and that grin made up for all the uncertainty and awkwardness I’d felt at his approach.
“I’m making a new candy. Want to help me?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. Maybe I should come back some other time.” He was backing toward the door.
“Please?”
“How long is this going to take?”
“Not long. Not as long as toffee would.”
I gave him charge of the pot of syrup as I took up a whisk and began to beat the egg whites. My time on the Continent had done me no good at all. Though I changed hands, my arms quickly grew tired, and I had to ask Sam to trade with me.
As I lifted the spoon from the pot, syrup trickled from it in a thick thread. Almost ready. Taking the spoon out of the pot, I let a few drops of syrup fall into a clear glass filled with water. Scooping out the ball that formed, I pressed it between my thumb and finger. It was getting hard, but I could still feel it give a little as I squeezed: time for the egg whites. “Can you bring that bowl over here, Sam? Quickly?”
He came over, holding the bowl against his chest in the crook of his elbow.
I grabbed a ladle from a drawer and dribbled a bit of syrup into his bowl. “Keep beating those. Don’t let up.”
“My arm is going to fall off! I thought you’d have given up candy making by now.”
Why had everyone assumed that my affection for candy was something I’d grow out of? “Just keep going.” I dribbled a little more.
“Are we done yet?”
“Not yet.” I took the bowl from him and beat the egg whites until they’d become stiff once more. I thrust the bowl into his arms and went to look at the still-boiling syrup. It needed to reach the hard-crack stage before I could add it to the egg whites.
I waited for the color to change, then dipped a spoon in and dripped some syrup into my glass of water. This time, when the syrup hit the water, it formed spindly threads. As I fished one out, it snapped in two. Perfect!
Wrapping a cloth around the handle, I elbowed Sam. “Set your bowl down for a minute but keep beating. I’m going to dribble this syrup into it.”
He obliged while I dribbled. Then I discarded the pot and set about beating the mixture in the bowl myself. After a while, it began to separate into ribbons as I pulled the whisk through it. “Can you do exactly what I say, when I say it?”
“Haven’t I always?” Though he mumbled the words, I heard them.
“I need you to add a few drops of that rose water to this. Slowly. And then follow it up with that butter that’s on the windowsill. And after that, I’ll need a couple dashes of salt too.”
He complied well enough with the rose water and the butter as I beat them into my mixture. But I pulled the bowl from him when he took up the salt cellar and dipped into it with a teaspoon. “A couple of dashes!”
He set the salt down and took the bowl from me along with the whisk. “If you’re going to be so persnickety about it, then you do it.”
I added a couple pinches and grabbed the bowl back. Once it began to ribbon again, I poured it out onto the tray. After rubbing the saucer that had held the butter across my fingers to grease them, I pressed the nougat into a thin, flat layer. “There! Now we can let it rest the night.”
“The whole night? You mean I can’t have any? After I worked so hard?”
Good grief. “Can you butter a knife for me, then?”
Sam rummaged through a drawer, found a knife, then opened the icebox and plunged it into a bowl of butter.
Mrs. Hughes let out a cry.
“Sorry. Just doing what Lucy said.”
It wasn’t near being set, but I pried out a piece and handed it to Sam. “Try this and tell me what you think.” I gave one to Mrs. Hughes as well.
He took the piece I offered. Chewed for a moment and then stopped. Swallowed. Once. Twice.
“Well?”
“It tastes fine.”
“Fine?”
He shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“I don’t want fine, Sam. I want wonderful. Delicious!”
“It tastes like . . . roses.”
“I know. I used rose water.”
He dug furiously in his pocket for something and came out with a handkerchief. Then he stuck his tongue out and scrubbed at it. “If I wanted to eat roses, I’d have picked some of Mr. Carleton’s when I walked by.”
“So . . . you wouldn’t buy this sort of thing?”
“If I were going to take a lady flowers, don’t you think she’d appreciate the normal kind?”
“You wouldn’t buy any of this ever for yourself?”
“And have everyone down at the confectionery laugh at me? For eating roses?” He sniffed at his fingers. Scowled. Wiped them off on his shirt.
“I think it tastes just fine, Miss Lucy.” Mrs. Hughes put another piece into her mouth. “And it smells divine. My mother would devour a tray of these.” She gave Sam a long look as she spoke.
“Here.” I passed the tray to her. “You can take these home to her, then.” I wasn’t interested in creating a candy for old ladies. I wanted to make a candy that everyone wanted to eat. Something unrivaled. Something like Royal Taffy, the candy I wasn’t supposed to mention, let alone eat.
But it was a candy that haunted me, the same way it haunted my father. He had spent the last ten years of his life trying to create a candy that could top its chewy sweetness, match its glossy sheen, and surpass its creamy texture. And I had lived those same years wanting to help him. Even when I had tasted the finest confections Europe had to offer, Royal Taffy lurked in my thoughts.
Everyone loved it. Standard claimed it was the bestselling candy in America. Though I didn’t trust them for one minute, I had to believe they weren’t lying about that. Certainly, it had the broadest appeal. Newsboys spent their hard-earned money to buy it. Schoolgirls saved their pennies for it. I’d even seen men eat it without any apparent embarrassment.
I needed a candy that could compete with creamy, chewy, melt-in-your-mouth Royal Taffy. Not even our sweet, colorful, candy-coated nuts could do that. And rose-water nougat wasn’t going to be able to do it either. I nibbled at a piece and closed my eyes as I analyzed the texture. It was light and chewy, dense and airy, just as I’d hoped.
It was perfect.
But it didn’t compare to Royal Taffy. I’d have to come up with something else.
6
I wished that girl would run into me again. The one down on Olive Street. She was the best thing I’d seen since I’d been in the city. And when I’d smiled at her, it was the first time I’d felt like myself in a long time.
And then that woman had accused me of being some thief.
Not in so many words, of course. She’d been much too polite for that. Those fancy people always were. And God knew I’d done worse. Still, I wished I’d gotten the girl’s name. Then I’d know who it was I’d been daydreaming about.
I sighed.
Better not to think about her at all. When that girl had gone on down the sidewalk without me, it was all for the best.
I looked over at Mr. Mundt, my father’s secretary, but he was trying hard to ignore me. I crossed my legs at the ankles and folded my arms across my chest as I sucked on a piece of candy.
It was already Tuesday, and though my father had mentioned placing me on his personal staff, I had no idea whether he intended t
hat I work for him at the house or from his office. I’d never yet overslept, but I hadn’t woken early enough to join him at breakfast either. And aside from some winks and a pat or two on the back as he and Augusta went out in the evenings, I hadn’t really seen him. I asked Augusta if there was something I should be doing, but she only told me that I would be sent for the moment he wanted me.
I might have wandered the city, but my new clothes didn’t fit the places I normally would have gone, and I didn’t know where rich people spent their time. Besides, I didn’t want to stray too far from my father. After another day spent waiting, I asked Nelson to take me to the factory.
I couldn’t say for sure that I surprised Mr. Mundt. Truth be known, I don’t think anything ever surprised him. Pale to a fault, he might have been thirty or sixty or anywhere in between. He only blinked as I walked in, then held up a box filled with candy. After taking a couple pieces, I’d sat in an uncomfortably stiff leather chair reading the newspaper and examining the company’s brochures. But my father never came out of his office, and he never rang the secretary. I’d been waiting my entire life for him, in one way or another, and I was tired of it. If I was going to work for him, then I needed to learn about his business. I finished off the candy, balled up the wrapper, and pitched it toward the dustbin. “Mr. Mundt?”
After marking his place in a ledger with a finger, he looked up at me. “Yes, sir?”
“I wonder if I could have a look around. Over in the factory, maybe?”
He blinked, offering blessed relief from his pale blue eyes. “Now, sir?”
I shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
He frowned. “The boss never goes over there.”
I winked at him. “The boss brought me here to help him, so I figure I should know how things work around here.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll telephone the superintendent and have him come up to escort you.”
The superintendent appeared not five minutes later. He came in through the door, red-faced and panting. “The boss wants me?”