The Marquess of Cake

by Heather Hiestand

Alys simply wished he wasn’t correct. She was ready to accept her career was over, but girls did need to learn a trade. What if they married a drunkard, or their husband died? They had to support their families somehow.

  For now though, her concerns were smaller. Michael needed to eat less sugar. An in-house pastry chef, or two, for just their small family, could spell disaster. He wasn’t the man to accept a fruit and cheese course for dessert every night without argument.

  “Your groom’s cake was divine, my dear,” Michael said dreamily.

  “I’ve been thinking of it all week. Do you think you could reconstruct it for our one-week anniversary on Monday?”

  She sighed. “I’ll have to send to London for the special Belgian chocolate I used. Perhaps for our two-week anniversary?” He might have forgotten by then.

  Michael nodded. “Perhaps a sponge then, with a delicate cream. I do look forward to berries in season.”

  “I hope your housekeeper has plenty of jams put away,” Alys said.

  “I can do great things with good jam.”

  The carriage lurched as the horses conveyed them onto the main road. She found herself leaning against Michael. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, then bent his head to hers for a kiss.

  She forgot about menu planning as she kissed him back.

  On Sunday night, Michael pushed back his plate of Stilton and stewed prunes with a frown. “I know it is Cook’s half-day, but surely there is a pudding.”

  His wife smiled at him beatifically. “I quite had my fill of sweets over the holidays. Doesn’t it feel good to eat lightly?”

  “I keep myself trim through hard work, madam,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I do not need to be abstemious at table. Did I not marry a cake expert?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you married me for lust, not cake.”

  Michael was thankful he had told the footmen they could retire.

  “You cannot deny that the cake came first.”

  She looked down her nose at him. “I think I should be insulted by that remark.”

  “But you aren’t, my dear. Cake is important to us both.”

  “You are the veritable Marquess of Cake, my lord. One would think you had no other interests.”

  Michael considered the truth in that remark. The first thing he’d attended to on arrival wasn’t farm or winery business, but the Redcake’s transaction. Still, it was winter and the rest could wait. “I like my sweets.”

  “We have been married nearly a week, no?”

  One of Michael’s eyes began to itch and he rubbed at it. “You know our wedding date as well as I do.”

  Alys leaned forward. “Do you need a handkerchief, my dear?”

  He waved her away. “You were making a point?”

  “You may not like to hear this, Michael, but I’ve noticed something about you.”

  “What is that?”

  “Your hands shake rather a lot. Even your conversation changes at times, when you are underfed.”

  “And then I eat and everything is fine,” he growled.

  “Yes, dear, of course. But when you eat sweets, you are shaking again in an hour, whereas other kinds of food seem to restore you for a much greater period.”

  “And your point, my lady wife?”

  “I think you should reduce your sweet consumption.” She held up a hand. “I would never presume to remove them from your diet. But perhaps we should reserve them for special occasions. Friday night dinners, parties, that kind of thing, instead of a daily indulgence.”

  “You presume greatly.”

  “Wouldn’t your life be easier if you weren’t finding it necessary so frequently to restore your thoughts and hands with food?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again as her words sank in.

  “What do you propose?”

  “Instead of reaching into a box of chocolates, or having a bun, perhaps a slice of cheese or ham. I’m certain upon experimentation we could find other solutions.”

  “I could agree to not reaching for sweets during the day, but I must insist upon a sweet after dinner.”

  She coughed delicately, her face flushing. “I did notice, my dear, that your stamina is improved when desserts aren’t available late in the evening.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Dash it.” He slammed his hands onto the table and stood, striding away before he could even explain his own actions. Didn’t he expect a wife to keep close attention on her husband? But why did he have to marry such a keen eye? Hadn’t he had enough change for one year already?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Michael had not trusted himself to test his “stamina” the previous evening after he had behaved in such ungentlemanly fashion. He’d climbed into his wife’s bed late into the night, long after she’d fallen asleep. Alys was, thankfully, not a light sleeper, so his tossing and turning had not seemed to trouble her.

  When he woke, she was already out of bed. He suspected she still kept bakers’ hours and it would take time for her to be able to stay awake for social events and then sleep later in the morning. Since farmers’ hours were not so different than bakers’ hours, it wouldn’t be a problem in the country. No doubt she had already ordered an earlier breakfast.

  When he arrived downstairs after giving his valet orders, he discovered the sideboard in the dining room held the usual bacon and eggs and rack of toast, but nothing whatsoever in the bun family.

  He bit back a savage curse and dumped so much sugar into his tea that the brew was fouled beyond his ability to drink it. When he pushed back the morning libation to attack his eggs, the cheerful blue-and-

  white china tipped, spilling tea onto the tablecloth. He clenched his hand into a fist to stop the shaking, then realized his fingers weren’t shaking at all. Mere temper had caused the spill.

  Perhaps Alys had a point. Could his physical infirmities, which had slowly been becoming more troublesome over the past halfdecade, be cured so simply? And yet he craved the sweet.

  How could he have married a Redcake baker and be denied the fruits of her trade?

  “May I bring you a fresh cup of tea, my lord?” inquired a footman as he entered.

  “Yes, thank you, but have it brought to my study. I’m done here.”

  He pushed back from the table and stalked out of the breakfast room, wondering if he should see a doctor to verify Alys’s claims. Foolish to give up something he enjoyed based on her opinion, but then he’d always considered doctors to be of limited use.

  His mother had called in a baker’s dozen of the fools as his father began to complain of head pain and slowly declined. None of them had done him any good, merely addicted him to laudanum. Though, perhaps that had been the best thing at the end.

  He turned at the door. “Any idea as to the whereabouts of Lady Hatbrook?”

  “I believe she is closeted with Mrs. Hall, my lord. Candidates for the position of her ladyship’s maid are arriving this afternoon.”

  “From where?” Did she apply to a London agency so quickly?

  “Eastbourne, sir. Mrs. Hall said there was a good agency there and her ladyship wanted to keep the hiring as local as possible.”

  He nodded. “Very good.” Feeling dissatisfied, he went to his office, making sure to throw the contents of his chocolate box into the waste can before he was tempted to have a truffle. He set his pocket watch on his desk, determined to ascertain how long it would take for his hands to shake without a morning bun.

  Two hours later, he was pouring over the Redcake acquisition papers again, writing final instructions for his new man of business, when a knock came at the door.

  He stared down at the papers as if awoken from a dream, wondering if purchasing Redcake’s had been a mistake. Alys seemed committed to living here in the country because of her sister’s health. But he’d have to spend time in London until he had a competent manager in place. No suitable candidates had been found as of yet. Redcake’s would be an onslaught of temptations, that, if Al
ys was right, could be considered a danger to his well-being.

  Plus, he needed to focus on the getting of an heir.

  The gentle knock came again, one he didn’t recognize.

  “Come.”

  The door opened and Alys’s copper-bright head poked in.

  “You were up early this morning.”

  “Mrs. Hall had much to show me. What is keeping you at your desk today? There is a sun blazing outside despite the cold. I thought we might take a walk.”

  “I’m working on my London papers.”

  “Oh? Anything of interest?” Alys asked eagerly.

  He looked down and saw her father’s name, and set his arm over the papers. “It’s my business, Alys,” he said more abruptly than he intended. “Yours is the running of the house. Surely you have plenty with which to occupy yourself?”

  Her lips lost their upward curve and tightened. “You will not share your concerns with me?”

  “Not in matters of business. Different spheres, my dear.”

  “I was very involved in my father’s business.”

  He stood. “Not to hear Sir Bartley tell the tale. I understood you’d be occupied with staff interviews today.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “No doubt my father was attempting to make me sound silly enough to be marriageable. Good day.” She turned away from the door and it swung closed behind her, too well oiled to make more than a subtle snick as the lock met the doorjamb. But he knew his wife would have slammed it if she could.

  He looked down, expecting his hands to be shaking on top of the Redcake papers, but they weren’t. Though he didn’t want her wrapped into his business life, especially since he needed an heir from her, not a bakery manager’s skills, he couldn’t underestimate her intelligence.

  He stared longingly at the pitiful heap of chocolates resting on crumpled papers in the waste bin, craving the smooth, deep flavor, the soft melt on his tongue.

  Turning away resolutely, for he needed all his wits about him as he negotiated his new life, he eyed his papers instead.

  *

  *

  *

  Late Wednesday afternoon, as Alys conveyed her final instructions on the hiring of her maid to Mrs. Hall, a footman knocked on the open door of her study.

  “Lady Redcake and Miss Rose Redcake have arrived, my lady,”

  he said.

  Alys nodded. “Thank you.”

  After the footman departed, Mrs. Hall said, “I can have the matter investigated. If Miss Hortense Turner is supporting a child as is rumored in the village, her moral character is thrown into question.”

  “Her references were excellent. And certainly supporting a child is better than abandoning it, or turning to lesser forms of work than service to pay for the child.”

  “The other servants won’t accept a fallen woman.”

  Alys kept her expression neutral. Little did the woman know what kind of past her new mistress had. “They don’t need to know. I can rely on your discretion, of course.”

  Mrs. Hall, stone-faced, nodded.

  “Bring her in for a one-month trial and we’ll see how she does.”

  Miss Turner was the only experienced lady’s maid able to begin work this very week. With Rose being in residence Alys knew they needed more help. Her mother’s maid, Edith, didn’t know the house and would have her hands full.

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll send word to her aunt’s cottage in Polegate.

  Miss Turner will be here tomorrow if not tonight.”

  “Very good.” Alys stood and smoothed her black crepe skirts, then followed Mrs. Hall out of her study so she could greet her mother and sister. At least the new maid wouldn’t have too much clothing to manage for the next few months. Her mother had only had time to procure two crepe mourning gowns, though she probably had brought more along with her, possibly even the black silk gowns Alys would wear once it had been three months since Judah’s death.

  When Alys entered the front parlor, Rose immediately stood and flew into her arms, vibrating with so much excitement that she could scarcely contain her sister within a hug. Within thirty seconds though, her sister had begun to cough.

  “That’s enough,” her mother said. “Edith, take Rose upstairs and help her into one of her new aesthetic garments.”

  “Mother!” exclaimed Rose between coughs.

  “We agreed you would wear them at the Farm,” her mother said.

  Rose hung her head, but Alys, seeing her pallor, tilted her head toward the door. Edith opened it and Rose followed her out.

  “I cannot understand that girl. We found some lovely silk twill dresses at Liberty, and Edith fit them perfectly. So much more comfortable for her than those constricting fashions.”

  “She has definite opinions of herself.”

  Her mother’s arm fluttered gracefully. “She should throw them out the window after what has happened to you. And Matilda, for that matter. Who would have thought you would do so well for yourself and pave the way for Matilda besides. I expect we’ll have a second engagement to announce in the family by summer.”

  “Things are moving that quickly for Matilda?”

  “Why shouldn’t they? How long did you know the marquess before you married?”

  “About two months.”

  “Exactly. It doesn’t take the right man very long to decide.” Her mother leaned forward and took her hand. “My dear, I am so happy for you. You couldn’t have done better for yourself.”

  Alys knew her mother was right, but she was living Rose’s dream, not her own. If it wasn’t for the heat between her and Michael, none of this would ever have happened. How long would that heat last if the friction between them continued?

  In the two days since Alys had drastically altered the menus and they had quarreled in his study, they had scarcely spoken. She knew he’d been busy with affairs of business. Telegrams had been leaving and arriving steadily over the past two days.

  He hadn’t avoided her bed at night either, though he hadn’t made advances. Since she’d already been asleep when he retired both nights, she supposed he was being considerate.

  At her mother’s expectant look, she said, “I thought I would invite the Dickondells to dinner soon. Will you be staying for a while?”

  “I thought I would stay a month, until I feel certain Rose is on the mend.”

  “Then perhaps I can invite them in a couple of weeks? That will give her time to find her bloom again.”

  “I’m not sure we need to announce a third engagement this year,”

  her mother said uncertainly.

  “I’m sure Rose wouldn’t accept anyone until she’s investigated all

  the eligible men in the neighborhood, at least, but I should invite them soon.”

  “I shall be happy to meet them,” her mother pronounced.

  A maid brought in a tea cart and Alys poured. She and her mother were just sitting back with their milky tea and a low-sugar seedcake Alys had prepared when a knock came at the door and a footman entered.

  “The Dowager Marchioness of Hatbrook and the Lady Elizabeth Shield,” he announced.

  A hunk of buttered seedcake fell into Alys’s tea. Hastily, she set the mess down as Michael’s family swept into the room.

  Lady Hatbrook looked jaundiced despite the cheery sun streaming through the large windows. She could have been Beth’s grandmother rather than her mother, though Michael had told her his mother was only forty-seven. The mourning gown did her complexion no favors. She had aged in the past two weeks.

  “I was not expecting you, my lady,” Alys said, rising to greet them.

  Lady Hatbrook nodded stiffly but Beth flew to give her a hug, her healthy glow undiminished by the black crepe she wore.

  “I have had no satisfaction from the War Office and my nerves could not take another day in London,” Lady Hatbrook announced.

  “You have had a most trying time,” Alys agreed. “I do not know if my husband has learned anything more.”

 
; Lady Hatbrook sniffed. “It is unlikely. We shall not stay for long, but a few days of fresh air will do us good. Will you pour?”

  Alys went to the bell pull, but the staff knew the routine when Lady Hatbrook descended and were bringing in a tray before she could touch the tassel.

  Lady Hatbrook sniffed as Alys offered her seedcake. “I would have thought you could do better. I hope you aren’t trying to reduce when you have an heir to produce.”

  Alys’s mother hid a smile behind her napkin at the lady’s inadvertent rhyme.

  Alys didn’t want to discuss Michael’s health concerns, especially since she suspected his mother had similar issues, so she merely said, “We are experimenting with the menu.”

  “You must have a cake about here somewhere,” Lady Hatbrook said. “I’ll ring for one at once.”

  Alys sighed as her mother-in-law took the initiative. She supposed there might very well be cake in the house, prepared for the servants, but when the maid who came shook her head, Lady Hatbrook demanded Mrs. Hall.

  Alys refused to create a scene, so when the housekeeper arrived she agreed that cake would be available for the next day’s tea. Pudding wasn’t mentioned, nor breakfast, but she wasn’t going to bring that up. They’d simply have fireworks at each meal. Perhaps twentyfour hours without sugary foods would soften her ladyship’s temper.

  By Friday, pastry had been added to all menus again, but Alys was gratified to see Michael refusing to partake of most of it, patting his stomach whenever his mother made rude remarks. She felt quite in charity with him as they retired together that night for the first time in days.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked. “I imagine it is difficult to have all these guests when you are scarcely accustomed to your new role.”

  “My family is no trouble, any more than your sister, who is a delight.”

  “But my mother is another matter.”

  “She looks so unwell,” Alys commented. “I cannot help but think ill health troubles her disposition.”

  “She was never pleasant,” Michael said.

  She hadn’t been looking at him, but she turned, surprised by his bald statement. “That must have been hard to deal with as a child.”

  He shrugged. “In aristocratic households, servants raise children.”