All the while, he watched Magdalene laboring over an intricate lacework design on one of Monday’s wedding cakes. Despite all of the commotion, her hands never faltered.
“Can you help me stack the tiers?” she asked. “It works better when there is someone to spot a bad aim.”
“Of course.” He had no difficulty keeping a deliberate eye on her slender arms while she lifted a tier after she had placed her dowels. She had developed some strength. He couldn’t imagine the usual Society miss hoisting heavily decorated cakes about. Still, every movement she made was graceful.
He’d seen women at their work before, servants cleaning, washerwomen married to soldiers who did laundry for officers, mothers with their children. Grace had never been his first thought until now.
She picked up a smaller layer, using her hand and a spatula. “Is it correct?” she asked. “It doesn’t feel quite right.”
He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder. “You need to pull it a little toward you.”
She picked up the cake again and pulled it a little closer. “Oh! I hit the lower level.”
“How do you fix the dent?”
“With a towel.” She took a piece of clean linen and massaged the damaged edge until it was unblemished.
“Amazing.” He spotted for her as she placed the third and fourth layers. After that, she measured the cake and found a wooden rod of the correct size.
“How are you going to get that in?”
“With a hammer.” She pulled a stepladder over to the table. “Would you like to do it?”
“Looks like fun.” He climbed the stepladder and took the hammer and dowel from her hands.
“Down the middle,” she instructed.
“Just like a tent.” He put the sharp edge to the unblemished cake and hammered it home until he felt the base underneath the cake.
“Thank you. Now, buttercream down the hole.” She handed him a spoon with a bit of frosting and a flat spatula.
“You haven’t let me frost any cakes today,” he mentioned, as he smoothed, careful with his handiwork.
“We can’t frost cakes that aren’t cool.”
“I should come in tomorrow and help you.” He handed her the spatula and stepped down.
“I hope Betsy will be here.”
“I think it is best to assume she will not. But if she is here when we arrive, we will discuss the situation with her.”
“At least we will have enough cakes.”
“Let us hope the apprentice can do the job.”
She stepped back to get a full view of the cake. “Betsy likes to stack before she decorates, but I like to focus on each layer individually. It does make the stacking a bit fraught, however.”
“I do not see any damage.”
“Nor I.” They shared a triumphant grin.
While she minutely inspected her artistry, he found himself amazed by how little a Society miss she was. Here was someone who understood his desire to work, the need to take action rather than exist on the money someone else had provided. She was his female counterpart.
He had no sooner been struck by this when the door opened and Irene and the apprentice came in, to do their work of changing out cakes.
“We will run out of room soon,” the cakie said cheerfully. “Where do we cool the rest of them?”
Magdalene’s attention turned to them, and Judah murmured that he’d fetch them both some lunch, since Magdalene was going to stay much later than normal. He walked out of the Fancy bemused, wondering if she was the solution to his quiet home. He might never find his father, but the cure to loneliness might be much simpler.
Magdalene woke late on Sunday after her busy Saturday, surprised by the stillness of the house. George had gone twenty-four hours without drama, and had even slept in his own bed. Could the worst be over?
At breakfast, Manfred handed her a letter from their uncle. “It came yesterday.”
“Thank you. I was hoping he would call, but a letter is good.”
“Asking for more advice about George?”
“For me, actually. Cousin Lillian wrote me to say she’d found me a husband.”
Manfred lifted his teacup to his lips. “In Yorkshire?”
“Yes. The usual distant relative. A fifth cousin.”
“Go on then,” Manfred said with a smirk, imitating the long vowels of Yorkshire. “Open it and tell us what his lordship says.”
She glared at him and perused the letter. Her heart sank just a little, but really, what could she expect? The earl had married his young daughter to a man nearly fifty. The match for her would not be a perfect one either. “Sir Octavian is deemed suitable.”
“A knight?”
“A baronet.”
“Ancient?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Ancient,” Manfred said to his oatmeal.
“I suppose he is old enough to be your father. And he is a father, to a ten-year-old boy. His wife died in childbirth with her second child, seven or eight years ago.”
“He took a long time to remarry.”
“He does live in Yorkshire.”
Manfred smirked. “Are you going to accept him?”
“I think I must consider it very seriously, now that I have the earl’s approval.”
“What about your position?”
“Now that Uncle is paying for the boys’ schooling, it is less necessary that I work.”
“We don’t have to feed them, either.”
She made a face. “I’d rather feed them than pay for claret.”
“I’d hate to see you go, but it is best,” Manfred said.
“Thank you, Freddie. I cannot tell you how much I have valued your support recently. I will miss you too.”
“You are going then?” Manfred’s voice drained into a squawk. He coughed. “To Cousin Lillian’s?”
“I think I will go for Christmas,” she said. “Uncle says he will take the boys to his country seat for the holidays. You should go too.”
“Yorkshire for Christmas?” He swallowed wrong and coughed, the remains of his cold rattling his chest.
She patted him on the back. “The train shouldn’t be too bad. I might as well see the countryside at its harshest. Then it will seem very pleasant later.”
“You have a friend there too?”
“Yes, Constance.” She was surprised he remembered.
He shrugged. “You do send and receive letters to Yorkshire regularly.”
“Should I tell Uncle you will join him for Christmas?”
“No. I have commitments here.”
“Must you?” she whispered. “If I am to change my life, why do you not do the same?”
He glared. “You do not know everything, Magdalene.”
“I do not wish to meddle in your affairs, only to see you happy.”
“I am happy enough.” He spooned a large bite of oatmeal into his mouth and chewed vigorously, far more so than hot cereal required.
Steps shuffled across the threadbare runner outside the parlor door, and George walked in on stocking-clad feet, though he did have on clean clothes. He dropped into his usual seat, eyes half closed. Magdalene poured him a cup of tea and took the cover off the oatmeal bowl.
“Dry toast, please,” George said in a ragged approximation of his voice.
She pulled the rack toward him and put two slices on his plate. Manfred quirked the side of his mouth at her. She allowed herself to hope that things might get better for all three of them, and basked in a moment of nostalgia for the way things had been a year or two ago, with Nancy presiding over the teapot. Could they all find a measure of serenity again?
Judah did not walk to Trafalgar Square on Monday morning. Instead, he left early and went to Magdalene’s house by hansom. He arrived a few minutes before he assumed she normally departed, fighting the brisk November wind when he opened the carriage door and stepped down. After telling the driver to wait, he walked up the step and knocked smartly at the door. Unde
r his gloves, his hands felt slimy with perspiration. His collar felt much too tight. Nonetheless, he felt the rightness of the question he was going to pose. A marriage proposal, yes, to Miss Magdalene Cross.
He had not queried his brother, or mentioned his plans to Gawain, or really, even, thought about it that hard. Still, she had been there in his dreams these past three nights. He imagined her filling his rented house with feminine geegaws. With all his money having gone to the ship, he had not done any collecting in India, so she would have a blank canvas on which to paint a proper English family home.
Not only that, he would be rescuing her from an unpleasant home. As an earl’s niece, she was a suitable choice for a marquess’s brother. It would have been better to marry money, but he did not really plan to live as a gentleman, even when he was in funds. They both liked their positions. He also knew she would be a good mother, thanks to her concern about her nephews. Yes, a cozy domesticity would soon repair his life from these long, lonely nights. He also knew she found him attractive and his nights would transform into sensual idyll.
Magdalene even knew his secrets, yet still treated him with respect. He could imagine the scene now, as he offered his hand to her in marriage. Her pale face would be transformed by a maidenly smile and blush, her fingers trembling as they met his. And then, a tender kiss that would turn into something warmer.
Just after Christmas, a wedding. They could start the new year together. He would build a family of his own, a true family. His wife, children of his own blood. No fashionable Society shenanigans with bed-jumping, gambling, or other dissipation. Just a nice English family.
The Crosses’ maid-of-all-work opened the door when he knocked, looking very confused when she recognized him.
“I thought we’d take a hansom instead of walking,” he explained.
She peered outside. “Well, it ain’t raining, but it’s cold enough.”
“Exactly.” He pointed at his muffler.
“Ye came from India, didn’t you? Must be hurtin’ yer bones.”
“Indeed.”
Behind the maid, he saw Magdalene coming down the stairs, caught a flash of slim leg above her half boots as her skirt swirled. He waved at her.
“You had an early start this morning.”
“I thought you deserved a treat after such long days Friday and Saturday.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her, though she hardly seemed to notice him as she covered her beautiful hair with her bonnet and her splendid form with the ill-fitting coat. He would cover her in silk and fur when his ship came in, and throw out the cheap clothing she’d been forced to wear. George Cross had a lot to answer for, dressing his beautiful sister this way.
He supposed all of Magdalene’s hardships had preserved her for him. If she’d had money, she’d probably have been snapped up during her first Season, rather than looking forward to what was probably her fourth.
He would save her from all that, and the censure involved with being a Scandalous Cross, tucking her into the warmth of the home she would make for them.
“You are smiling like a saint,” she observed.
“A saint?”
“It’s a peaceful, heavenly kind of smile. I do not think I’ve ever seen you with that expression.”
“Certainly not while frowning over frosting.”
She laughed, the sound reminding him anew of holy bells. “I was not pleased with the idea of the mechanical frosters at first, but now I think they will be an excellent addition.”
“Mr. Noble promised the first of them for midmonth.” He cleared his throat. How had business crept into this conversation? He had better things to discuss. “You look lovely this morning, Magdalene.”
She didn’t look at him. “It’s still Miss Cross outside the Fancy, Captain Shield.”
“Right, yes, of course,” he said quickly. She had been Magdalene in all his dreams.
“We should go so we are not late.”
“I have a hansom waiting outside.”
“Oh? Is the weather very bad?” She walked into the parlor and peered out the front window.
He followed. “No, I wanted a little time so I could ask you a question.”
“What was that?”
“Could we sit for a minute?”
She turned back, her dark eyebrows raised quizzically. He sat on the settee and patted the seat next to him. She tilted her head in censure, given the inappropriate nature of the gesture, and took the armchair next to him.
“What is it? I hope you are not going to ask me to serve at a party again. Or has Betsy given her notice?”
“Heaven forbid. No, neither of those things.”
“That is good, because I have something to discuss with you as well.”
He swallowed. “Do you want to go first?”
“No, Captain Shield.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I am all attention.”
His heart was beating faster than it ever did before a skirmish with the mountain tribes of India. He would rather lead a company into battle with nothing but a rusty bayonet than say what he had come to say. But of course she would accept and that gave him strength.
“Miss Cross, Magdalene . . . I know I should have spoken to your brother first, but under the circumstances, I would like to ask if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
He reached for her hands but her gloves remained clasped, one over the other, on her lap.
“Captain,” she exclaimed, blinking rapidly. “This is a surprise for a Monday morning.”
His mouth had filled with saliva. He swallowed, wishing she had accepted his touch. She did not behave as he had imagined. “A happy one, I hope. I will speak to the earl if you think it proper.”
“No, no.” She shook her head. “That would not do at all.”
What was her meaning? “We are so compatible,” he told her. “You understand the joys of hard work, and you know how to live on very little. Your life will be easier with me. I keep two servants. I think I can afford another next year, a maid for you, or even a nursemaid.”
Her mouth set firmly and he had the sense he was digging his own grave, but he couldn’t stop speaking. “We are such good friends, you and I, and we both have felt the want of a warm, family home. I wish it for us both, a cozy domesticity.”
She remained still, not gracefully bending toward him as he’d hoped. “I had thought you unready to wed, with the confusion of your parentage.”
“I am tired of being alone in this world,” he stated. “I have been ruled by my fears, but if my parentage is unknowable then I must move on. I am sorry I cannot truly offer a marquess as my father, but you and I, we live on Society’s outskirts. I hope you think, as I do, that remaining on the outskirts is best, regardless of our income. We can forge something new for ourselves.”
“I do not wish to,” she said, unsmiling. “I like Society. I like pretty dresses and dancing and the opera. Flirtations and card games now and then.”
“You do?” He could not understand the appeal of such pastimes.
“Yes, I do. Economizing is not a pleasure.”
He pulled at his muffler. “But your home, it is not safe. I can provide better, possibly much better, in time.”
“I do not mean to stay here.” She shivered, too cold when he was too warm. “That is what I meant to tell you. I am going to leave Redcake’s at the end of the year, and go to Harrogate. I believe I have a husband waiting for me there. A family connection. A baronet.”
“You want a title.” His heat turned to ice. He sat back in the settee, tucking his hands into his greatcoat pockets.
“I want the lifestyle I would have had if my brother and parents had been more circumspect,” she said. “My birthright.”
“I see.”
“Also, you come from womanizing stock. I do not want a marriage like my brother’s. I do not want to be an embarrassed wife.”
He could not deny it. “And this baronet, he is the sort for you?”
“He was m
arried before. His wife died. By all reports it was a good marriage.”
“He is older?”
She hesitated. “Yes. I shall become a stepmama to one boy.”
“Is the Society in Yorkshire good?” he asked, hearing the sarcastic tone in his voice.
“My cousin is there, and a dear friend. It is a spa town, not the desolate moors.”
He was going down quickly, but he rallied one last attack. “Men in my regiment, they are known for being steady and reliable, and never giving up. I expect to have money soon, and I have connections. I could try Society, for your sake.”
“You never lived in London. You do not fit into Society. You are a good man, Captain, a very good man, and I so appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I have made other plans for my life.” She paused for a moment. “To be honest, I am aware your family does not approve of mine, especially my cousin, Lady Bricker. I do not wish to be forced to take sides against my own family.”
Each phrase tore a fresh wound through him. Could he deny the tension between their families? No. He cleared his throat, gathered himself up. He saw no point in abasing himself. The lady had made up her mind. “I had best get to Redcake’s. Will you be joining me?”
“I have no intention of leaving until just after Christmas. I have not even told George of my plans.”
He bit the inside of his lip until he tasted the rich pang of blood. “I take it the earl knows?”
“He approves, yes.”
“Then I wish you happy.” He opened the parlor door and held it out for her.
She swept in front of him, graceful in her sad coat and sensible shoes, but far more genteel than he could ever hope to be.
His charge had failed. He would not win the battle today.
She turned back to him, just before opening the front door. “I am sorry, Captain, and I do wish you well. It is just that I have different ideas for myself.”
“I did not know,” he said. “I want you safe above everything. Again, I wish you happy.”
One Taste of Scandal Page 19