The Christmas Blend

by Veronica Bale

  They left the building together and headed out into the already bustling streets of Spitalfields. Nat could tell that Isobel was uncomfortable with the crowds of unfamiliar people, most of them dirty and poverty-stricken, by the way she shrunk away from passersby. He admired her, though, for her effort not to show it. After all, Nat himself was not all that different than these people.

  “What do you fancy?” he asked, bending close to her ear to be heard over the din.

  “Em… what would you recommend in—in this part of the city?”

  He did not miss her grimace as they passed a toothless woman selling boiled pork trotters—their freshness questionable at best.

  “I’d stay away from the meat unless the monger will let you give it a good long smell.”

  He steered her away from the woman and towards another vendor who was selling decent-looking plum duff.

  “I’ve never had plum duff,” she admitted.

  “Me mother used to make it. Poor Rosie, she tries so hard—and don’t misunderstand me, she’s really filled the gap since Mum died. Come a long way, you know? But plum duff is something she’s never mastered. Not like Mum, anyway. It bothers her.”

  “I’m sure what she makes is delicious either way.” Isobel examined the doughy pudding then tentatively took a bite.

  Nat watched her nibble. “Not as nice as the plum pudding you’re probably used to at Christmas, is it?” he quipped.

  She grinned sheepishly. “It is not bad for first thing in the morning.”

  “Well, you’re lucky to be getting it. You usually only find this here at night.”

  She nodded, taking larger bites and chewing with vigor. “I was uncharitable before. I like it.”

  Nat shrugged. “And you were hungry, I’d wager, by the look of you.”

  “I’m sorry. Where are my manners?”

  “Don’t be apologizing. Not on my account. Enjoy it. Besides, I figure if we’re trying to impress our supplier today, this is better than pickled whelks and bloaters. Don’t want your stomach being upset, now do we?”

  She swallowed the last of the plum duff. “Are you as nervous as I am?”

  “Naw,” he lied. “I mean, I’m excited, of course. But not nervous. He’s just a bloke, right? Just a man. We’re having a little jaw-wag, only the three of us, that’s all. And even if he doesn’t want to work with us after it all, we have other choices. He ain’t the only hops seller around these parts.”

  “Yes, I know. But I can’t help feeling like this is the test. If I can’t undo the damage Charles has done here, what hope do I have that I can undo the rest of it?”

  Nat shook his head. Gripping her shoulders with both hands, he looked into her eyes.

  “Isobel, listen to me. There are many ways to do things. If you can’t repair the damage Charles has done, you find another way to get around it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, let’s say you don’t win over this seller. You don’t win over any seller. You find yourself never able to buy hops again because of Mr. Dyer. So what you do is you find something else to brew. Not all ale needs hops. You make something else, you sell that.”

  She looked back at him with admiration.

  “Let us hope you’re able to bring that conviction to our meeting today. Because to listen to you speak, I almost believe I can do it.”

  “You can do it,” he insisted, giving her a gentle shake.

  She patted his hand. The warmth of her small fingers travelled up his arm and warmed his heart. It was then that he realized he was still holding onto her, still looking into her eyes. Reluctantly he let her go.

  “I suppose we must go back,” he said. “The first shift will be arriving soon, and if they come in to an unlocked door and an empty brew house, they’ll think something’s amiss.”

  Chapter Ten

  It was a fortunate thing that Nat appeared to have his wits about him, because Isobel was a bundle of nerves. She had no idea what to expect of the hops distributor—a Mr. Tevill of Lambeth—but she was fully prepared to receive a tongue-lashing of the grandest kind for the shoddy way her brother had treated him, followed by a complete and irrevocable refusal to ever do business with Duckett and Company again.

  Much to her surprise, when Mr. Tevill arrived, he proved to be the exact opposite of the character she’d been imagining. Instead of the gargantuan figurehead of an industrial dynasty she’d been expecting, Mr. Tevill was mild-featured and mild-mannered. Of medium height, medium build and medium characteristics. Quite non-descript, in fact, in a pleasing way.

  That was not to say he was of pleasant disposition on first encounter, however. His dander was definitely still up over what Charles had done to him. And that was not to say that Isobel and Nat had an easy time of soothing his ruffled feathers. The offenses, as Mr. Tevill began to list them, were grievous indeed.

  “Hundreds of pounds he cheated me out of,” insisted the man, who was perched on the edge of the chair across from Isobel’s desk. “Hundreds. I have it on the books. I can prove it.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Tevill, and I am sorry,” Isobel apologized helplessly.

  “In the foulest of ways, too. One time he told me the ale hadn’t sold as well as he’d been expecting, and that he wasn’t able to pay me the full balance. Quite a pity show he put on, he did. So much so that I felt wretched and extended him more time to pay. Then the next time he came up short, he insisted the reason the ale didn’t sell was because the hops crop was shoddy and it made for a shoddy product. He said that was why he lost money, that the problem was as much mine as his, and that he wasn’t going to pay me full price for an inferior ingredient.”

  Throughout the meeting, Nat had stood behind Isobel, quietly observing the proceedings. He leaned against the wall with his hands folded behind his back and allowed Isobel to take the lead as business owner. But at this last assertion from Mr. Tevill he raised a question.

  “Forgive me, sir. I don’t mean to question your judgment or owt. But I wonder, why is it you continued to deal with Mr. Dyer when you knew he cheated you?”

  Mr. Tevill grimaced. “Well that was my own fault. There’s no room in business for sentimentality, as I well know. But sentimentality is why I kept selling to him. I don’t know if you’re aware, madam, but Tevill and Berkwych has been selling to Duckett and Company since the first generation of both our companies. My grandfather dealt with Mr. Andrew’s grandfather, and I remember Mr. Andrew fondly.”

  Isobel lowered her eyes to her lap. She was ashamed that Charles had taken advantage of a business relationship so well established.

  “And besides,” Mr. Tevill continued. “I had expected that Mr. Dyer would deport himself as a gentleman. He comes from a good family, if you do not mind me saying so, Mrs. Duckett. I had no reason to believe he would not abide by the ideals of the business class to which he was born. Your own father, after all, is a respectable businessman. Is it so unreasonable to think that Mr. Dyer senior would have instilled the ideals by which he operates into his son?”

  “No,” Isobel allowed. “No, it is not an unreasonable assumption by any means. Just a flawed one, for my father and my brother are not the same person.”

  “Just like Mrs. Duckett and her brother ain’t the same person,” Nat added pointedly.

  “I can see that. But there is still the matter that my company has been cheated out of profit. Now, I am not one to line my own pockets. I do not grieve the things I may have bought and the balls I may have thrown. But when Mr. Dyer cheated us out of money, I had to pay my workers from my own private funds, for at that time the crops in Kent were experiencing a bit of a struggle, and profits were down across the industry.”

  “There’s no question that the money must be repaid,” Isobel stated. “But… I wonder, Mr. Tevill. Would you allow me a moment to step into the corridor and speak to Mr. Cotter in private?”

  “Oh—oh yes, of course.”

  Mr. Tevill rose from his chair as Isobel
left the room with Nat close behind. Once they were outside she closed the door.

  “Nat, I don’t have the money to pay him the debt right now,” she said in a hushed tone. “Not if I want to repair the brickwork in the store room and correct the rusting still.”

  Nat nodded, and chewed on his bottom lip in thought. He looked so calm, so sure. Nowhere in his countenance was there even a hint of the growing despair that all but consumed her. She watched him, watched the muscles in his throat as he swallowed, watched his teeth catch the soft flesh of his lip. Just watching him made her feel stronger, like he would know what to do.

  Why was it that she felt so safe, so secure around him? How did he do that?

  “I’ve an idea,” he said at last. “But I can’t tell you now or I’ll bungle it in there with him. Do you have enough to cover supplies for the next while?”

  “Yes. I am not destitute. Not yet.”

  “Right. Then I’ll need you to trust me.”

  “Fine, you have my trust. But Nat?”

  “Yes?”

  She searched his eyes. “Please, whatever you have on your mind… try to avoid bankrupting me.”

  His lips quirked with humor. “No guarantees, love.”

  Together they returned to the office. Mr. Tevill was leaning over the desk, examining a rather unique gold paperweight. When he heard them, he hastily put it back in its spot on the desk and rose.

  “Lovely paperweight,” he said, guiltily.

  “Yes, it is,” Isobel smiled as she sat down. “Mr. Tevill, I think we have come to a conclusion. A proposal, as it were. It was my colleague’s idea, though, so I will let him present it to you.”

  She held her breath as Nat perched himself on the edge of her desk in front of Mr. Tevill, and crossed his arms over his chest. For a moment, she worried that the supplier might take offense to such familiarity. Certainly the men of her social sphere would. But Nat’s easy stance seemed to put Mr. Tevill at ease also.

  “Now sir,” he began. “Like Mrs. Duckett said, the debt will need to be repaid. Of that there ain’t no doubt. And Duckett and Company apologizes on behalf of Mr. Charles Dyer. I promise you, we didn’t know what he was about. Had we discovered his foul practices, we would have put a stop to it much earlier.”

  “I appreciate you saying so, my boy.”

  Nat shifted, moving a fraction closer, which then prompted Mr. Tevill to move closer. Isobel was fascinated by the calculated move on Nat’s part, clearly one designed to pull the businessman in, make him feel as though he were part of some great secret.

  Isobel, on the outside of the transaction, saw it immediately. Mr. Tevill, on the other hand, didn’t. He was too wrapped up in what Nat was saying and the way he was saying it.

  “The thing is, sir, that Mr. Dyer has caused harm to more than just the company’s relationship with your firm. He’s put off a great many suppliers, and saddled us with more debts than just yours. Our accounts at the bank are, as they say, a bit light.”

  Isobel nearly balked. What was Nat doing? Surely this was not the kind of thing one should be sharing with one’s supplier if one wanted to return to that supplier’s good graces. She wished she could stamp on his foot. Throw something at him. Halt his tongue before he did any more damage. But while she was considering how she might accomplish that without looking like a complete lunatic, Nat had gone on.

  “Instead of paying the debt outright, I would like to propose an alternative. Duckett and Company will pay twenty percent above your selling price until such time as the debt is repaid. With interest.”

  “Interest?” Isobel exclaimed. “Nat, I do not think—”

  Nat waved her off. “With interest, sir. However, once the debt is repaid, Duckett and Company wants your product at thirty percent below your selling price. Guaranteed for at least ten years.”

  Mr. Tevill’s brows drew together. “Thirty percent? That is no small amount. Why should I cut my prices so, sir, for a company that has cheated me in the recent past?”

  “Because,” Nat leaned in even closer and, as predicted, Mr. Tevill followed suit. “Duckett and Company will make Tevill and Berkwych its exclusive hops supplier. Think about that, sir. There are other hops sellers, bringing in crop from other parts of the country, and we do use them now. But we will end our relationship with them in order to provide you with our exclusive patronage.”

  Isobel could only stare, mouth agape. So that was what he had up his sleeve, was it? Why, it was… it was… brilliant! At thirty percent lower than the selling price, Duckett and Company would be paying only slightly more than they paid for hops of poorer quality. But it would mean a better ale. And for Tevill and Berkwych, the increase in demand more than offset the reduction in price.

  She sat back and watched Mr. Tevill make the same mental calculations she had. And she watched Nat wait patiently for his answer. He’d won, and he knew he’d won. The pride was there in the set of his mouth. But he was not smug. Somehow, Isobel knew that Nat Cotter would never be smug about anything.

  Her heart nearly leapt from her chest when Mr. Tevill stood, stuck out his hand, and gave Nat’s hand an energetic pump.

  “I believe we have a deal, sir.” Then he held out his hand for Isobel, offering her a more ladylike grip. It was a solid agreement.

  “Madam, I look forward to renewing our business relationship with Duckett and Company. I shall have my office draw up the paperwork, and will send it along to you shortly.”

  “Yes, please do, Mr. Tevill,” she said.

  Once he had been shown out of the building by Mr. Clarke, who had no idea of what had transpired except that the gentleman was in much better spirits than he’d been in upon arrival, Isobel whirled around to face Nat.

  “Nat, you great codswallop, you did it!”

  She couldn’t help herself. She threw her arms around his neck.

  Nat laughed, and returned her embrace. “Steady on.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” She stepped back, red-faced.

  “Naw, s’awright.”

  “I just… this is the first victory I’ve had. And I owe it to you.”

  “Well…” he drawled, jokingly brushing his knuckles on the collar of his shirt.

  “I just wish I knew what difference hops makes in the quality of the ale. I don’t often drink it.”

  Nat tipped his head to the side, fixing her with that same contemplative look he’d had minutes ago when he’d considered the proposal he’d make to Mr. Tevill.

  “How about I take you out to a pub this evening?” he suggested. “I mean, I know you’re a lady and all, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to develop a taste for the stuff. I could help you.”

  “I’ve been in a pub before, I’ll have you know,” she protested with mock offense. When he raised a brow in disbelief, she added sheepishly, “Although I haven’t had the ale. You’re on, Nat.”

  And to seal the deal, they shook on it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Though it made entirely no sense to him, Nat was more nervous about the prospect of taking Isobel to the pub that night than he’d been over the pending meeting with Mr. Tevill. He hadn’t planned on asking her—it had just sort of slipped out. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.

  Nat liked ale a great deal, as did any other man in London’s East End. More than most men in the East End, to be fair. He was a brewer’s son, after all. That wasn’t to say he “liked the drink.” He was not a slave to it the way some men were. He did not put his love of ale above the wellbeing of his family as too many did in these parts.

  It was more about the quality of ale. About all the different kinds that could be brewed. He often visited pubs that were slightly above his social standing, travelling a little farther to find those that catered to men with steady jobs and steady, working-class reputations. In these pubs, the barrels were labeled Stout, Best Bitters, and India Pale. Not Beer, Gin, and Slops.

  While he’d always appreciated ale, in his short time at Ducke
tt and Company Nat had also learned to appreciate the process of making ale. He understood why his father enjoyed it now. It was a heady thing indeed to possess the knowledge of what certain grains did to the flavor, the subtlety of what hops and sugar added, and how the conditions of fermentation affected the outcome.

  He wanted Isobel to like it as much as he did. Duckett and Company was her brewery, but Nat felt that it was on him to make her truly love the product her business offered. That she could appreciate it, he had no doubt. But could she love it? Could he help her to love it?

  That was one reason why he was nervous, but Nat was not fool enough to convince himself it was the only reason. The truth, if he were to admit it, was that he liked Isobel. He liked her more than he did any other woman of his acquaintance. More than any other man of his acquaintance, come to that. She was small and delicate, and if a strong wind were to come up he wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t snap in two. But beneath that fragile exterior was a constitution of iron. And it was being tested and strengthened as the days went on. He admired her tenacity, her grit, and he enjoyed watching as she discovered her own strength.

  That she was exceptionally pretty certainly threw an inconvenient kink into his new job, but Nat was going to do his damnedest not to let it affect his performance.

  He was beginning to suspect that no less than his damnedest was going to be required to ignore the fact that he was attracted to Mrs. Isobel Duckett.

  At seven that evening, when the workday was done for Isobel and Mr. Clarke, and the shifts were changing from day to the minimal crew of night, Nat waited for her at the bottom of the stairs at the back of the building.

  “You coming along then, son?” his father asked. He gave Nat a curious look as he slipped his arms into his worn waistcoat.

  “Naw, Dad. You go on today.” Teasingly he put in, “I’ve a young lady I’m taking out.”

  Joseph Cotter’s tired eyes widened, and his bushy white brows drew together.

  “You mean to tell me you’re stepping out with Mrs. Duckett? Oh, Nat, that ain’t at all wise. Not considering how you can be with women.”