The Christmas Blend

by Veronica Bale

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  “Nothing untoward. Only that the girls fall for you too easily. You’ve the charm about you, son. Sometimes I think you treat it a little carelessly.”

  “Aw, Dad. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only having you on.”

  “So you’re not taking her out?”

  “I am taking her out, but it’s only business.”

  “Is that so?” Joseph Cotter looked doubtful.

  “I’m taking her to a pub. She’s not an ale drinker, so she says. Don’t know about the different varieties and what goes into making them. So I’m set to show her what’s what.”

  “Oh.” His father nodded, considering. “All right. Yes, I see. Well then, make sure she tries a stout. Best stuff for this time of year. Fills the belly and takes the nip out of the air.”

  “I’ll do that. ’Night, Dad.”

  “See you soon, son.”

  Not long after, Isobel came down the stairs. Instinctively, Nat stood taller, and his face brightened just a bit. As Joseph Cotter reached the doors, Nat turned to see his dad glance back. Even from that distance, the old man saw the look on his son’s face, and he narrowed his eyes in warning briefly, before his scowl softened into a look of begrudging sentimentality.

  Well, his father need not worry. Nat had no intention of being as casual with Isobel as he was with the girls of East End London. The difference was that he had never really liked any of those girls. Making them blush and giggle every now and again was nothing to him. It had never done any harm. He’d never broken any hearts, not seriously, and he’d certainly never had his own broken. It was all in fun.

  Isobel was different. It was not just her social standing, or her grace and poise. It was that he genuinely respected her. And not just because he was required to as her employee. He respected her too much to treat her so casually.

  “Are you ready?” she asked when she reached the bottom step.

  “I’m always ready for the pub, me.” When she raised a brow, he added, “That didn’t come out right. But you know what I mean.”

  She laughed. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Shall we, then?”

  He offered his arm then immediately wished he hadn’t. Did he not just tell himself he would not fall into his way of casual charm with Isobel? But he couldn’t withdraw his arm, and when she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he didn’t want to.

  Perhaps there was more to his father’s concern than Nat had originally credited.

  Together they walked out of the brewery, with more than a few sideways glances from the men coming and going.

  “So where are we heading to?” she asked when they stepped outside into the sharp autumn air.

  “How does a little place called the Oat Whistle sound?”

  “Is it around here?” She edged closer to him as they eased into the throng of bodies that bumped and jostled each other out in the streets.

  “Not far,” he allowed, and tightened his arm reassuringly over hers. “It’s on the edge of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green. Perhaps it’s not so fine an establishment as the ones you’re used to, but they serve a good selection of ales and spirits. Better than what’s served ’round here, that’s for sure. Our lot tend to like whatever’s going cheap and whatever’s strong. And in most cases, that’s gin.”

  He hadn’t meant to say “our lot,” hadn’t meant to point out the differences between her and himself. But it was true enough. On his own, Nat was more than aware of the differences between himself and Isobel Duckett. But when he was around her it was all too easy to forget. After all, they worked together so closely for much of the day. And also, Isobel was unlike any other toff Nat had run into before—and he’d run into his fair share of toffs over the years. They were proud, pompous, and disdainful of the East End’s poor.

  Isobel was not. She treated Nat like a person. He even believed she liked him as a person.

  Cor, forget accidentally charming the woman. Nat himself was in danger of losing his head over her if he wasn’t careful.

  Outside the brewery, Isobel’s coachman was waiting for her. The children of Spitalfields, accustomed to the sight of the fine carriage by now, no longer bothered to crowd around it in awe. But still a few beggars held their blackened palms up to the man in the driver’s seat. Swiftly so as not to draw unwanted attention, the man slipped a coin into the tallest boy’s hand. Amidst gasps and whispers, the small gaggle of beggar children fled with their prize.

  Isobel appeared not to notice her coachman’s benevolence. Or perhaps she did and, like the man himself, was pretending she hadn’t so as not to draw unwanted attention.

  “Just a moment,” she told Nat, and detached herself from him.

  Approaching the carriage, she spoke quietly to the man, who leaned down to hear her. Nat hung back. From where he stood he could not discern what they said to one another, but he recognized the suspicious look the coachman tossed in his direction.

  “That’s correct, isn’t it?” she said to Nat. “I can hire a sedan chair to take me home this evening, can I not?”

  Nat could see that this was no reassurance to the coachman, and he knew well why. The men who hired their services out for this kind of transportation were not always to be trusted. Especially in this part of London.

  “Sir, I shall personally see to it that Mrs. Duckett is brought home safely,” he told the man. “Even if I have to walk her to her doorstep meself.”

  His promise seemed only to deepen the coachman’s mistrust, but since Isobel was happy with the solution, the coachman had little choice but to comply. Tipping his shiny satin top hat to his mistress, he snapped the reins for the two black horses and the cart rolled away along the cobbles.

  “He ain’t keen on leaving you with me,” Nat noted.

  “No, he’s not, but I do not fault him for it. Bolton is concerned for my well-being, that’s all.”

  “He don’t trust me, and why should he? He don’t know me from that man there.” Nat pointed to a particularly unsavory character passing by.

  “Perhaps not. But I trust you, and that is what matters.”

  Offering his arm once more, they walked away from the brewery towards the Oat Whistle in Bethnal Green.

  The pub was lively when they arrived. Bethnal Green was predominantly a textile district, and the mill workers were enjoying an hour of respite before having to return to their families or boarding houses. They were rough, unwashed, and uncouth, but they were far more civil than anything likely to be encountered in the pubs surrounding Nat’s tenement.

  “Ah, young Nat Cotter. Good to see you again,” said the tall, rotund barman when he and Isobel approached.

  “And you, Pete. Always a pleasure to visit your fine establishment,” Nat returned jovially.

  “We ain’t seen you in a while. We thought you’d fell off the face of the earth.”

  “Naw, mate. You know me. If ever I were to fall off the edge of the earth, I’d bounce right back up again.”

  The barman let out a hearty laugh. “That you would, boy. That you would.”

  Nat led Isobel to one of the empty tables that was closer to the bar and by a small window. It was an ideal seat, since the livelier of the congregation of patrons were set up on the opposite side of the room.

  He watched Isobel as she took her seat. She looked like a startled bird, glancing around the unfamiliar atmosphere. But there was also an edge of excitement to her wide-eyed gaze. It was captivating. So was the blush on her cheek from the brisk walk. When her gaze fell on him, he couldn’t help but grin.

  “What are you smiling so devilishly at, sir?”

  “You, madam. Now, I know we’re here to sample the ales, but I do think we should have a meal before we get stuck in. It’s always good to line the stomach with food when you’re out to drink. Besides, they do a fine mutton stew here, they do.”

  “More food? You will make me gain a stone. First the plum duff this mo
rning, and now stew? If my mother were here, she would have a fit.” She straightened, and in an unflattering falsetto, mocked, “Waistline, Isobel. A corset can only correct the waistline. It cannot correct the chin.”

  “She don’t say that,” Nat laughed.

  “Oh, but she does. And worse. She’s set on finding me a husband, after all.”

  “What does your father say to that?”

  She pursed her lips. “He says nothing, for my mother says enough. But he agrees with her. A daughter’s duty is to be obedient.”

  “That’s a bloody shame.” Nat shook his head. “Me own father dotes on Mary and Rose.”

  “I would have liked that. It sounds like your house is full of love.”

  “Never a lack of it. Ollie was always the apple of me mother’s eye, and I was her cherished first-born son. We were happy. We are happy.”

  “You have it all, then, Nat Cotter,” she noted, somewhat sad.

  “Now you do, too,” he countered in an effort to cheer her up. “You have your own business that you’ve taken to like a duck to water. You have men working for you who respect you more and more every day. And you have that posh house over in that posh toff neighbourhood of yours. Cor, if you ever grow tired of it, you can always take off to that country estate up north.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I have a country estate in the north?”

  “Don’t you? Toffs always have country estates.”

  She laughed. “All right, that is true. But as it happens, I do not have a country estate. Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean by ‘anymore’?”

  She looked at him flatly. “I sold it.”

  “Sold it?” Nat thought about it for a moment before making the connection. “That’s where you got the dosh to keep the business running.”

  “It is.”

  “Oh, Isobel. I’m sorry.”

  “It is nothing to be sorry about,” she said, though the regret in her eyes said otherwise. “It was a lovely house, yes, and I enjoyed going there when The Season was done. But I shall live perfectly fine without it. It belonged to Andrew’s family, you see. And now that he is gone, there will be no other in his line to pass it on to.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the gaslight on the wall. “I think he would have wanted me to sell it, to be perfectly honest. He was never sentimental. And the brewery needed the funds more than I needed a country house.”

  Nat’s heart clutched in his chest. A month ago, if he’d had to sit and listen to a toff talk about how he or she had lost the family’s country estate, he would have answered with an unflattering retort. But now, listening to Isobel speak about it, he was sorry that she’d had to give it up.

  “That was a noble thing,” he said.

  She raised a brow. “Noble? To sell off my excess possessions to keep myself in frills?”

  He chuckled at the way she threw his own words back at him. “Noble to sell it off to keep all us working lot in a job.”

  She sat back in her seat and looked at him for a moment. “Well, as it happens, I agree with you—although I wouldn’t call it noble. Anyway, enough sad talk. I’m eager to get to this lesson of yours.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll fetch us some supper and our rounds, shall I?”

  “There is to be more than one round? I fear I don’t have the head for drink.”

  He winked. “I’ll make them half-pints.”

  Nat left to put in their orders with Pete the barman. He returned shortly, balancing two steaming bowls of mutton stew with bread, and four half pints of drink in varying hues.

  “The food looks good,” she noted as he placed the items on the table and sat down.

  “The food is always good here. The barman’s wife, she’s a wonderful cook. Used to be in service for a family over in Hyde Park until she met her husband and moved here to Bethnal Green.”

  “Is that so?” Isobel looked impressed.

  “Here.” Nat nudged the first glass with pale yellow liquid forward.

  “I’ve had something like this before,” she commented, inspecting its color.

  “This is what’s called small beer. Take a nip.”

  She leaned over the cup and peered in. Then, gingerly, she picked it up and took a sip. Nat had to laugh at the face she made. It was clear she didn’t like it, but was trying valiantly not to let it show.

  “It’s not to your taste,” he chuckled. “Try it again, and here’s what I want you to do. Take another nip and hold it on your tongue.” She did. “Can you taste that bit of sour in there?”

  “Yes, somewhat. Like lemon peel... only not as nice.”

  “If I knew what lemon peel tasted like, I could say yes or no, but I don’t. For now, we’ll pretend like it is, so we’ll say that’s the hops. Beer’s made with a large quantity of hops. The better the hops, the more pronounced the sour. By the bye, this is called ‘small beer,’ meaning it don’t keep long so it has to be drunk right away.”

  “Do we make small beer at Duckett and Company?”

  “Me dad said we used to, but Mr. Dyer didn’t see the point in making it anymore since it stopped selling as well as it once did.”

  She gave him a wry look. “I am embarrassed that I don’t know as much about this as you do.”

  Nat shrugged. “I’ve just spent a great deal of time on the floor talking to the men.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  He smiled, and their eyes lingered for a moment.

  “Er… so why was the small beer not selling?” Isobel pressed.

  “It’s all down to the quality, I’m afraid. That damp ruined the hops in the storeroom and it went moldy. But it was still used. Them punters didn’t like it in the pubs, so the pubs stopped buying it. Here in the Oat Whistle, they used to buy Duckett and Company small beer, but now they’ve switched over to Adey and White.”

  “Hmmm,” Isobel considered. She took another sip, wrinkled her nose then put the cup down.

  “No need to finish it.” Nat took the rest and chugged it down. Then he moved the next one forward. “Now this here is what’s known as a bitter.”

  He watched her examine the glass with care.

  “I like the colour,” she noted. “It’s deeper. Almost amber.”

  “Go on. Take a nip.”

  She did. “This is better than the last.”

  “This kind of bitter don’t have as much of the hops, although some bitters do.”

  The next he had her try was a deep brown in colour.

  “A brown ale,” he explained.

  “It’s sweeter.”

  “Less alcohol in that one.”

  The last was a deep brown, almost black. Isobel looked at it as though it couldn’t possibly be a drink.

  “Tar?”

  “Stout. Stout, by the way, is our best seller. One thing the men managed not to let Mr. Dyer ruin is the roasted malt used.”

  Isobel put her lips to the glass, and her eyes widened.

  “I like that,” she declared.

  “Really?” Nat was surprised.

  “What is that? That bitter, nutty flavour?”

  “That’s the malt. Or this, actually, I think is oats. This here’s made right in the pub. Pete has a special licence to brew on the premises.”

  She took another, longer sip. “It’s thick. Very heavy.” Another mouthful and the half pint was half gone.

  “Shall I order you a full pint of that?”

  “Please.”

  Indeed, Isobel liked the stout quite a bit. One pint turned into two, then into three. And one bowl of mutton stew turned into two at Nat’s urging. There would have been a fourth pint if he hadn’t put a stop to it.

  “You’ll have a sore head in the morning,” he warned.

  By the time they left, Isobel was visibly tipsy, and Nat was beginning to regret that he’d let her have that third full pint. He should have known better, given her small stature and limited exposure to drink. He’d never met a girl that was so affected by th
ree and a half pints.

  “How about we find you a coach for hire,” Nat suggested once they were outside. “A coach would be safer than a sedan chair in these parts.”

  “I’d rather walk,” she said.

  “Walk? It’s five miles to Belgravia from here.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at him playfully. “I’m an accomplished walker. Are you?”

  The way her face was upturned to his was adorable. Nat had to stop himself from throwing an arm around her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. She was his employer, for God’s sake.

  “I like to walk, me,” he answered.

  “Well then, off we go.”

  She put her hand out, waiting for his arm, which Nat readily gave.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said after they’d crossed the street and turned a corner. “To bring back the business we’ve been spending our time and money fixing the mistakes Mr. Dyer made. But once Duckett ale is good enough to sell again, we’ll need to do more than just talk to the pubs.”

  “I’d considered that as well,” Isobel agreed. “It is not enough to quietly re-enter the world of drink, we need to announce it somehow. We need something to catch the punters’ attention.”

  Nat chuckled and gave her hand a pat.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “The way you talk,” he said. “Your words are a little foggy ’round the edges.”

  “Oh.” Isobel laughed herself. “I did like that stout. Mother would be appalled if she could see me now.”

  “You sound pleased by that thought.”

  She tipped her head. “You know what? If she were to walk right up to us, right now, I think I’d tell her to go stick her head in the dishwater.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “But you know,” Isobel continued with their previous conversation. “I had thought about what we could do to announce our… oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Resurrection. That’s it. Should we distribute leaflets? Do you think it would shock and intrigue the crowds to know that a woman was running the brewery now?”

  “No so much as you’d think. Besides, a good number of the people in East End pubs can’t read, so your leaflets won’t be seen by more than half the people you’ll want to see them.”