The Marquess of Cake

by Heather Hiestand

  Alys rubbed her forehead. It was beginning to hurt. Lady Lillian looked at her with confusion. When Alys moved her hand back to her forehead she discovered she’d left a smear of butter.

  “Oh, Miss Redcake,” Lady Lillian said, handing her a handkerchief. “I’m forever doing that. Be careful, or you’ll develop spots like I do.”

  That explained her application of powder. “Do you have hopes of marrying in eighteen-eighty-seven?” Alys inquired.

  “Oh, I’m already engaged,” Lady Lillian said carelessly. “He’s nearly fifty and lives in Yorkshire, but he’s the heir to an earldom.

  Pots of money, but quite the miser, I’ve been led to believe. I’m in no rush to actually marry him.”

  “How did you come to be engaged to him?” Alys asked.

  “He’s my cousin. Third, I believe, which is actually a rather distant connection in my family. We marry in and out of three or four different titles, keeps all the money in the family.”

  “Do you find that to be true of all noble families?” Matilda asked.

  “Is it so hard for someone like us to break in?”

  “If you’re wealthy you’ll find someone who needs your money,”

  Lady Lillian said. “I’d introduce Rose to my brother as he would certainly find her looks appealing, but he doesn’t need the blunt.”

  “Not very romantic,” Matilda whispered.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t look for a title,” Lady Lillian said. “A politician might be wiser. They are often given titles because of their service. And they are often connected to the best families, or at least are very intelligent.”

  Matilda nodded. “I wonder how we would meet such gentlemen?”

  Lady Lillian waved a plump hand. “I’ll help you search. I have all the time in the world. There’s no chance of my fiancé visiting London.”

  “Oh, you are the best of friends,” Rose squealed and gave her a hug.

  “We saw the most distinguished man at the investiture,” Matilda said, when the friends had disengaged and were holding their teacups again.

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “Alys said he’s the Marquess of Hatbrook. Is he attached?”

  Alys sat forward in her chair, desperate for relevant gossip. She remembered his lips with longing, a strange sensation for an avowed spinster.

  “No. He’s an odd sort, completely focused on making money out of his properties in Sussex. Stays down there a great deal. You’d think he’d leave everything to his man of business but he’s not the usual sort of marquess.”

  “Surely he needs to marry.” Matilda smiled.

  “He has a brother,” Alys said, to keep the conversation about Hatbrook going. “The brother knows Gawain, actually. They served together in India.”

  Rose’s eyes widened. “You didn’t tell us?”

  “I didn’t know until today. He was at the wedding.” She felt a thrill of triumph that she had seen him and her sisters had not.

  Rose dropped her head into her hands. “And he saw a Miss Redcake playing the servant? Oh, Alys. You need to leave your position!”

  Her pleasure was trumped by indignation. “I like it.”

  “She’s right, Miss Redcake. You don’t want to hurt your sisters’

  chances for matrimonial bliss.”

  “Matrimony, perhaps, but certainly not bliss. You aren’t anticipating such on your own behalf.”

  “Oh, Monty and I will rub along well enough,” Lady Lillian said.

  “It’s the family way.”

  “But no love,” Matilda said.

  “We love our family. We’ll have children. That’s enough. But I wouldn’t dream of wasting my efforts on someone like Hatbrook.

  He’s very reserved. Not likely to fall head over heels in love.”

  “His mother doesn’t seem the sort to find him a wife,” Alys observed, remembering that most difficult lady.

  “I’ve never been introduced to her,” Lady Lillian said. “She doesn’t move about in the best society circles. Some old scandal from before I was born.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about the marquess,” Matilda said.

  Not nearly enough. The thought had Alys frowning. How silly to find a marquess the least bit interesting. The next thing you knew she’d be as ridiculous as her sisters, and her far too old to make a match, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t.

  “I promise I will attend the musicale, in such spinsterish garb that no one could possibly think me marriage material. That should allow you two to flourish despite my existence,” Alys said. “Now, may I go read my book?”

  “I regret to inform you that I will be moving to Manchester next month,” Sir John told Michael as they sat in his office on the gloomy Tuesday morning before Christmas.

  Michael’s jaw popped as he ground his teeth together. “Had you planned this all along?”

  The man blushed, despite his mature years. “It seems I will be marrying by special license directly after the holiday, your lordship.”

  He’s gotten the girl pregnant. Michael wondered if she had schemed, once she knew he was being knighted, in order not to lose him. “I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, congratulations, of course.”

  Another gesture was clearly expected, given Smythe’s air, so he stood and shook the man’s hand.

  “I do wish you’d found an apprentice.”

  “I am sorry. But I’ll be happy to pass your affairs on to Mumford and Egglesworth. They are an excellent firm and will serve you well.”

  “Yes, they have a distinguished reputation,” Michael said. “Thank you for smoothing the way.”

  “There is one thing I wish I’d had time to do,” Sir John said. “You have a bit of cash available at the moment, and really should invest it so it works for you.”

  “Absolutely. What is your idea?”

  “At the investiture, it was rumored that Sir Bartley Redcake is planning to sell his tea shop and emporium in London, now that he’s bought that property from the Duke of Devonshire. I believe he intends to be a gentleman of leisure.”

  “Redcake’s, eh?” He would be proud to own such a place. It did a brisk business and sold exactly the sorts of things he liked. He could imagine mentioning it when he saw their cakes and things at parties, horrifying the snobbish aristocrats who thought being in trade was terrible. Being in hock was worse, in his opinion. Besides he needed to do more with his time than spend it in an endless round of sport and parties.

  “Should I ask Mumford to make inquiries? I do suggest you work with him. The senior Egglesworth is quite ill, and the heir is only twenty-five. Very intelligent but not so experienced, whereas Mumford is a solid forty years of age.”

  “Very well.” He had a fleeting thought of lively Alys Redcake’s pride in her wedding cake business, and wondered if she knew of her father’s plans. She did not seem to be the sort of female who craved leisure.

  “Once again, I am sorry.”

  “No, no. Your future is in Manchester. Even a solicitor must follow his heart.” Where would Alys Redcake’s heart lead her if she lost her business? Silly to wonder, but she was an uncommonly pretty girl. Natural for a man to think of it.

  Sir John’s mouth widened into a smile. He had quite lost his businesslike mien since being knighted. “Indeed, your lordship. I wish you the best, and if you ever have any interests in the north, I will be happy to offer my services as ever.”

  “Thank you.” Michael shook his hand again and walked out of the office, bemused. While he had expected something like this, he’d thought he had months before it became a reality. Still, his step quickened as he thought of owning Redcake’s himself. The queen would never keep all the Scotch trifle from him again.

  His left hand trembled, reminding him it was rapidly approaching luncheon. He decided to visit the tea shop, perhaps meet with Sir Bartley Redcake on his own behalf. It would be best to take a more active hand in things while he was in town and didn’t know his new man of business. He
was sure Sir John wouldn’t set up a meeting until after the holidays.

  Chapter Four

  Alys was bringing out a rack of the factory-made Christmas cakes early that afternoon when she heard a plummy, aristocratic woman’s voice say loudly, “I want to speak to that girl.”

  “What girl, madam?” inquired bakery manager Ralph Popham, who was spending the day out front helping, since so many people were buying treats for holiday gatherings.

  “That extremely orange-haired person.”

  Alys saw Popham scratch the back of his head as she turned the corner with the rack. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, madam. We have more than one orange-haired female working at Redcake’s.”

  “You may call me ‘my lady,’ young man. I am the Marchioness of Hatbrook.”

  “Ah, my lady.”

  Alys heard Popham clear his throat as she lifted a cake from the rack, neatly packaged into one of their distinctive pure-white boxes embossed in gold and tied with red ribbon.

  “May I inquire as to where you encountered the orange-haired person?”

  “At Viscount Manater’s daughter’s wedding,” she said. “The girl said she had designed the cake and made the pastry order. My son, the Marquess, is excessively fond of the tarts that were offered there.”

  Alys dropped her cake. Lady Hatbrook was asking for her? Oh no! She couldn’t waste the cake. She fell to her knees and delicately untied the ribbon and checked the cake. Good. The box had protected it. She switched it for another cake at the bottom tier of the rack and picked that one up instead.

  “Ah, you must be referring to Alys Redcake, my lady.”

  “Redcake, you say?”

  “Yes, she’s a daughter of the family.”

  Alys took a deep breath and stepped out from the back room, holding the cake box as a kind of armor. Please, don’t let her have found a hair in her cake slice or something of the sort. “My lady.

  What a pleasure to see you again.”

  Lady Hatbrook sniffed. “I thought your father was wealthy. Why ever are you employed?”

  Alys heard a little gasp from one of the girls working the counter on the opposite side. “I like what I do, your ladyship. I love making cakes.”

  “Did you make that one?” The marchioness indicated the box that she held.

  “No, ma’am. This was made in our factory up near Bristol. I did work there when I was young, before we moved to London. This is a shilling Christmas cake.”

  Lady Hatbrook sneered. “I hope you can do better than that.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “For my ball.”

  Alys tried to follow. “You’d like Redcake’s to supply your ball, your ladyship?”

  “Yes. December thirty-first. About three hundred people, I think.

  I’d like a tiered cake appropriate to the occasion and pastries, the kind the marquess likes.”

  “He likes trifle best,” Alys said.

  The marchioness raised an eyebrow.

  “Your ladyship. But I’ve seen him eat scones as well. And you said he liked tarts.”

  “Were you listening to my conversation with this employee from somewhere secret? Not a very attractive quality.”

  Alys swallowed. “I was around the corner performing my duties, ma’am. I’m sorry if I overheard part of the conversation.”

  She waved a thin hand. “Can you do it?”

  “Oh yes, my lady. Let me get my book.”

  Popham moved behind her and started unloading the Christmas cakes into the display case while Alys discussed the cake with the marchioness. They decided on four tiers, three of which were very large and one small decorative one at the top made of chocolate batter, while the rest were fruitcake.

  “That way my son can offer chocolate to his cronies if he wishes,”

  she said.

  “An eight-inch round will serve about twenty guests. Will that be enough for his lordship?”

  “Yes, I think so. The majority will accept what they are given.”

  “And the rest of the cake should serve about two hundred and ninety,” Alys said, after figuring the sums in her head. “Now, let us discuss the cake topper.”

  “Not Christmas or wedding,” the marchioness said with a sniff.

  “Of course not. I could design the year in marzipan.” Alys sketched quickly, showing how she should anchor them upright.

  “I like that,” the marchioness said. “Now, about the pastries.”

  She had strong thoughts on that, making sure the marquess would have all his favorites. Alys felt faintly alarmed at the list because he seemed to eat a great deal of pastry for one who wasn’t portly. Did his clothing hide stays? She wondered if she would hear creaking when he moved.

  No, she couldn’t believe that. He moved with too much ease, too much intensity.

  “Is that everything then?” Alys inquired, scribbling notes on the order, trying to push thoughts of the handsome marquess aside.

  “Quite. You may send the bill to my son’s man of business.”

  “Yes, your ladyship. Are there any further instructions?”

  “No, simply have everything delivered that afternoon. We have plenty of staff so you needn’t be present.”

  Alys nodded. “That is the usual way. I shall put this on the delivery list for the afternoon of the thirty-first. Thank you for your order, ma’am.”

  Lady Hatbrook sniffed and turned away, then stepped back. “Before I go I think I’d better have one of those cakes.”

  “Which ones?”

  She pointed to the case holding the shilling Christmas cakes.

  “Those.”

  “Would you like to see how they are decorated?” Alys pointed to a displayed cake on a stand inside the glass case. “They all look like this, then we can personalize them.”

  Instead of responding, Lady Hatbrook opened her reticule and pulled out a shilling and dropped it on the counter. “I believe this is the price?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Alys took a box from the rack behind her, opened it to make sure the cake was in perfect condition, then handed it over.

  The marchioness sniffed again, took the box and turned smartly, then marched away without another word.

  Alys wondered if her ladyship was as addicted to cake as her son was to Scotch trifle. And if so, how did she manage to stay so thin?

  She didn’t look healthy. In fact, her skin hung loosely at her neck and her rose gown didn’t appear to fit properly, loose in some places and stretched in others. Perhaps she meant to give the cake to her maid.

  The next afternoon, Ralph Popham found Alys piping “Holiday Wishes” on a fancy Christmas cake order.

  “Your father sent word that you’re to come up and see him,” he said.

  “I have to finish this,” she said, not taking her eyes off the red frosting.

  “I’m told Sir Bartley is in quite a mood,” the bakery manager said dourly.

  “He is always terribly concerned that we won’t sell out of the shilling cakes each year, but is so jolly at home on Christmas when we do,” Alys confided. “Can you believe it is only two days away?

  The season has passed quickly.”

  “I don’t know if it is that,” Popham said. “Word came down that he’s in one of those red-faced rages he has.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope one of Mr. Hellman’s apprentices didn’t tip over the delivery wagon again.” Alys set down her pastry bag and rubbed at an itchy spot over one eye. “Betsy, can you finish for me, please?”

  Betsy Popham closed a box lid over a cake and came over eagerly.

  Alys knew she wanted to learn cake decorating so she could leave being a cakie behind.

  “It only needs an ‘e’ and an ‘s’ there at the end,” Alys said. “You can see the lettering I did. Just match that and it will be ready to pack up.”

  “I’ll be very careful, Miss Redcake,” Betsy promised.

  “Good girl,” Popham said. “Now, Alys, you’d better get upstair
s.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Popham.” Alys removed her apron and unfolded her sleeves, then rebuttoned her cuffs. One thing that had changed over the years was that she had to appear the lady in front of her father, instead of as an employee. He had yelled at her on the factory lines just like any other young person when she’d been a child; there had been no special treatment then. Not for Gawain or Arthur either, but unlike Arthur, she and Gawain had been good at their jobs.

  Frosting had been her assignment and no one had ever done the job faster. Her brothers, however, had worked the batter mixing line.

  She remembered the bruising on their hands. Arthur had even broken a finger and somehow it had become infected, preventing him from working for a time. At least he’d had a family who wasn’t desperate for the income, unlike so many of their fellow workers. Now her cousin, Lewis, had invented machines to simplify the process, helping to make her father wealthy.

  Alys climbed the staircases to the third floor where her father’s offices were. Certificates naming Employees of the Month lined the wood-paneled walls. Redcake’s and her family had come far from those early days, when her father inherited a mill mired in debt.

  “Miss Redcake.” Ewan Hales, her father’s secretary, stood. A man of about her age, though rapidly balding, she suspected he had romantic notions about her.

  She nodded. “My father wants to see me?”

  Ewan stepped out from behind his desk. “Yes, miss.” He opened the heavy, paneled door for her.

  “Hello, Father,” she said cheerfully, stepping in. “I haven’t seen you downstairs. Normally you are all fired up during Christmas week!”

  Sir Bartley looked up from the papers he was perusing on his large, untidy desk. His hair, so like hers though faded, matched the mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it. The difference was his sack suit was clean. Not a bit of flour nor sheen of butter darkened • the coat or vest. His tie was knotted and tucked perfectly, not askew like usual.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Alys had a sinking feeling, and wished she could remain standing.

  Her hands moved behind her back and she clutched her fingers together. Now what? Had her sisters complained about her?