“Ah, yes. I hadn’t thought about that.” She chewed on her lip. “What about an advert in the daily? A pictorial, minimal reading involved?”
“That’s fine for those that can afford it. More likely it’ll be used to wipe the arses of the general public before it’s actually seen.”
She gave him an exasperated huff. “All right then, Nat. What’s your suggestion?”
She’d given his arm a shove with her free hand, but he was not blind to the fact that she left her hand there. Nor that she’d moved closer to him and now their sides were pressed tightly to one another.
Had he done that, or had she?
He was taking too long to answer. He should say something.
“What about a new recipe? Something special. Christmas is coming up fast, so why don’t we make a special ale to sell for the holiday?”
“A Christmas ale,” she considered, leaning her head on his shoulder as she thought.
“It would only be for a short time, just for the season. But perhaps that can be the announcement—that we’re back and we’ve got a brand new Christmas ale to ring in the holiday.”
“That is a fantastic idea,” Isobel exclaimed, and raised her free arm in triumph. “We’ll convene with the men, the master brewers. Ask them for their input and ideas, and we’ll put it into production.”
Nat chuckled again. “You’re chuffed tonight.”
She tipped her face to his and smiled up at him. Nat could have sworn he was looking into the face of an angel—a slightly drink-addled angel, to be fair.
“That I am, dear Nat. And I’ve you and the stout to thank for that.”
One mile slipped into two, then three, then four. Isobel had not been exaggerating when she said she was an accomplished walker. Nat was not walking fast, but neither was he strolling. Yet she matched his stride easily.
Only her slightly slurred speech gave away the fact that she’d had a bit too much to drink, for she was relatively sure of foot the entire way. Neither did they have any difficulty finding something to talk about. Nat, of course, never had trouble talking, but the stout seemed to have loosened Isobel’s tongue, and together they chatted like they were the oldest of friends. He was sorry when the streets of Belgravia came into view.
Once they reached her front step, she turned to him. The flush on her cheek, made visible by the gas-lit street lamp overhead, was lovely. Wholesome. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. Nat put his hands firmly in his pockets to keep from reaching out for her.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtain in the parlour move. Willcox was keeping an eye on his mistress.
“Thank you for the evening, Nat,” she said. “Should I send for my carriage to take you home?”
“Naw, s’awright.” He shrugged. “I’ll enjoy me a bit more of this lovely night.”
“All right. If you’re sure. Well then—thank you.”
She leaned in, rising to her tiptoes. Nat though she was going to kiss him on the cheek, so he turned his head slightly. But his whole body froze when she caught the edge of his lips. On purpose.
His head turned back to her, just a bit, and his breath caught as her lips pressed fully onto his. It was the sweetest, most tender kiss he’d ever had in his life. He clenched his fists to keep them firmly in his pockets.
He was still reeling when she ended the kiss and stepped back. Her eyes were wide, as though she were shocked at her own behaviour. With a startled little laugh, she mumbled a “G’night,” then darted inside without so much as a backwards glance.
Nat stared at the closed door for several silent moments, before turning and heading home. There was a grin on his face all five miles back to Spitalfields.
Chapter Twelve
The instant Isobel closed her front door, the magnitude of what she’d done hit her. She leaned against the door, pressing her palms to the wood as if barricading herself inside. Her breath came quick and labored, as much from the flutterings in her belly as from her hastened retreat.
She’d kissed Nat. Holy heavens, she’d kissed Nat!
What had gotten into her?
“Madam?”
Isobel yelped, startled by Willcox’s sudden appearance.
“Are you all right, madam?”
She nodded. “You gave me a fright.”
“I am sorry. I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
“Yes, yes. Quite pleasant.”
He stared at her oddly, and for a moment, she was afraid he’d guessed. Or seen.
“Shall I take your cloak, madam?”
“My cloak?” She let out a mad cackle that she immediately regretted. “My cloak. Thank you, Willcox. Yes, my cloak.”
She fumbled with the clasp at her throat, removed the garment and handed it to her butler with a little more grace and composure than she’d shown until then.
“I am off to bed,” she informed him. “Will you please tell Stott she does not need to come up? It is late, I can manage on my own.”
“As you wish. May I send anything up for you? A brandy, or chocolate perhaps?”
She was already heading towards the stairs as he said this.
“No. No, thank you,” she called over her shoulder before mounting the stairs as quickly as she could.
Safe inside her room, she sank onto the edge of her bed to contemplate the evening and her shocking behavior at the end of it. Much of it, of course, had to do with the ale. She’d had quite a bit for her size and tolerance.
The brisk air from the walk hadn’t done much to suppress her growing sense of abandon. But neither of those accounted for her actions entirely. Besides, she wasn’t even that drunk, though she was happy enough to let Nat think she was if it meant she were free to blur the lines of their professional relationship.
The truth was that she’d been wanting to kiss him for quite a while. Her own inhibitions had staunchly prevented any such thoughts from taking root in her consciousness until now. The ale had acted like a numbing agent upon her rational mind, leaving her subconscious desires free to influence her choices.
She could not deny it; the kiss had been wonderful. She could still feel his lips on hers, and the giddiness in her belly when she remembered the way he turned into her slightly—good God, she’d placed such an awkward peck on him, and at such an awkward angle. She still felt light-headed at the memory of how his lips had moved ever so gently to accommodate hers. It had been neither a deep nor a passionate kiss by any means. Yet it had melted her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. Isobel had never been kissed like that before.
She’d likely feel foolish in the morning. Probably would find it difficult to face him. But for now, she didn’t regret that kiss one bit.
A night of sleep, however, changed her mind. She woke feeling foolish indeed.
When she arrived at Duckett and Company for a new day of work, she felt even more ridiculous, for—damn him—Nat was waiting for her by the stairs to her office. And he was grinning at her like a cat that caught the mouse.
Who had he told? Did her entire workforce know about her shameful performance?
She looked around quickly, trying to catch smirks or darting glances. But no one was looking at her except to tell her good morning.
“How’s your head this morning?” he asked when she approached.
“My head is just fine, I’ll have you know,” she said with exaggerated formality. “Nat, I wonder if, in twenty minutes, you might have the master brewers join us upstairs in my office.”
“Us? Me as well?”
“Of course you as well. I would like to inform them that Duckett and Company is moving ahead with its first line of Christmas ale. Since it was your idea, you should be there.”
She turned and climbed the stairs, conscious of Nat’s gaze following her. She was proud of herself. For all her fretting and nervousness about encountering him again, she’d kept her head and recovered what she could of her dignity. Still ahead, however, was the conversation she needed
to have with him about what she’d done and how they might move past it.
For that, she wasn’t so certain she could remain as dignified.
Oh Isobel, you fool. Why did you have to kiss him?
Twenty minutes later, on the dot, the handful of master brewers employed by Duckett and Company trooped into the office with Nat following behind. Over the last few weeks Isobel had developed a sort of camaraderie with the men that worked for her. A comfort with them, as well as a mutual respect.
In that time, they’d learned that she was always open to being approached with a concern, an idea or a suggestion. She had proven herself an employer who listened and who did what she could to appease them. She was also getting better at recognizing what was a necessity for the business and what could wait until they were back to full capacity. That had helped to elevate the men’s respect for her—that she was taking command of her own enterprise. So it was therefore of no surprise or concern to the master brewers assembled in her office that they’d been summoned.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted them pleasantly. She came around the desk to stand in front of them.
Joseph Cotter was the first among the men to speak. “Nat here said you wanted to see us, Mrs. Duckett. What’s the big to-do? We’re eager to know.”
“It’s nothing worrisome, I assure you. In fact, I am quite excited, and I hope you will be, too.”
She waited dramatically while they shuffled in place, their curiosity roused.
“Last night Mr. Nat Cotter and I were speaking about what we could do to revive the business once we were ready to start shipping our latest ales. It’s one thing to begin producing quality ales again, but quite another to reignite the public interest in Duckett and Company we once enjoyed.”
The men nodded and murmured to one another.
“That’s true, madam,” agreed one of the master brewers, John Eddowes. “Duckett and Company had more than good ale. We had a good reputation. When we lost that, we lost our name in the pubs. People don’t think to ask for a Duckett ale anymore, and that’s a problem.”
“That’s right,” she said. “We need something to spark their interest in us, and Nat here came up with the notion of brewing a special ale—a Christmas ale. Of limited quantity, of course. The Christmas season is almost upon us, is it not? What better way is there to announce Duckett and Company’s grand return than to offer a celebratory brew that has been crafted specifically for Christmas?”
The idea impressed the men. Joseph Cotter turned to Nat and, grinning proudly, ruffled his son’s hair. Nat shooed him off, patting his mussed strands back into place. His eyes met Isobel’s, and the quick flash of a smile nearly knocked the rest of what she had to say out of her head.
My goodness, that young man was charm personified even when he wasn’t trying.
“What I wanted from you, my master brewers,” Isobel continued with determination, “is to develop a recipe. What will we brew, and what will make it special? What will give this celebratory brew the flavour of Christmas?”
“It’ll have to be a stout,” Joseph Cotter stated. “I told Nat last night. Didn’t I, Nat? I said the stout is good for filling the belly. Takes the nip out of the air, it does.”
“Yes, stout’s a good one, I’d agree with that,” said Walter Potts, a fellow brewer. “A stout, or perhaps a porter. Something heavy and dark. No skimping on the malt.”
“Chocolate malt,” put in William Stye.
“You and your chocolate malt,” teased Ed Peddle, giving William a shove in the shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah. Me and me chocolate malt. You have to admit, though, it makes a richer flavor than the barley.”
“Good, yes. That’s a good start, gentlemen,” Isobel said. “A stout, then. Heavy on chocolate malt. What else?”
“What about juniper?” suggested John Eddowes. “Juniper always feels like Christmas to me. Me old mum used to add it to her plum pudding, she did.”
“If we’re putting juniper in, why not add plums? The small kind.”
“Plums, cor! That’s brilliant. It’ll add something sweet to it.”
“And spice. What about cloves or cinnamon to set the juniper off?”
“That could be getting expensive, it could.”
“Yes, but if this is the brew what’s going to make the punters want Duckett brew again, we shouldn’t be looking to profit from it. It needs to be good, but cheap enough the punters will want to buy it before they know what it is,” Nat threw in.
“Maybe just the cloves, then. Cloves will bring out the juniper well enough.”
Their enthusiasm was thrilling, and Isobel’s glimmer of hope began to grow. By God, if the men thought it were as good an idea as she did, they might just pull this off.
By the time they were finished discussing, they’d settled on stout, heavy on chocolate malt, unhopped, and flavoured with juniper, small plums, cloves, and a hint of pepper. In short, it would be the decadent dessert of the ale lover’s feast. Excited about the prospect of this new recipe, the five master brewers of Duckett and Company traipsed down the stairs to get to work.
“Nat,” Isobel called as he trailed them out. “I wonder if you might stay behind a moment.”
Nat hung back as requested. Isobel did not miss the look his father gave him. Either he had told his father what happened last night, or Joseph Cotter had guessed something might be developing between them.
Once Mr. Cotter was gone, she crossed the office and closed the door so that Mr. Clarke would not hear.
“I wanted to—” she began. “About last night. About what I did.”
“What did you do?”
His innocent expression made it difficult for Isobel to maintain her tenuous affectation of professionalism.
“You know perfectly well what I did. And I would like to apologize. I was out of line, and I shan’t be making any such bold overtures towards you again. I would appreciate it if we could resume our working relationship and forget it ever happened.”
One corner of Nat’s mouth turned up. “Awright. It’s forgotten.”
“I mean it, Nat. Please do not make me feel worse about it than I already do.”
“Never,” he agreed with exaggerated solemnly. “I would never make you feel worse about it.”
“All right, then. It’s forgotten.”
“Forgotten. Of course.”
Uncertain whether or not she’d been taken seriously, Isobel opened the door for him to leave. As he walked out, he winked suggestively, sending her stomach into a series of somersaults.
Well bloody hell!
Chapter Thirteen
No, Nathaniel Cotter had no intention of forgetting about what had happened that night. Nor had he any intention of letting Isobel forget it. And so, even though the rational part of him argued that it was unwise, he allowed himself to be in closer proximity to her than he needed to be.
When she would pass a document to him to look over, he would let his fingers brush against hers, enjoying the blush that stained her cheeks even though she refused to react in any other way. When he found himself walking in a direction that would put him directly in her path, he playfully made it difficult for her to step around him. Their days were filled with lingering glances and hidden smiles that increased in frequency as time went by.
Of course it was no surprise to Nat that their first kiss outside her house in Belgravia was only the first of many.
It began when Mr. Entwhistle, Isobel’s financial advisor, arrived at Duckett and Company one cold, blustery afternoon in late November. With a satchel clutched in his hand and an enthusiastic greeting for everyone he passed, the kindly man of business had gone up to the office.
He spent a mere ten minutes there.
Nat had watched from the floor while he helped clean out the stills—their first batch of India pale made with Kentish hops from Tevill and Berkwych was ready. He was so preoccupied by what was going on in the office that his father had to cuff his ear to make him focu
s on his task. From what Nat could tell, the meeting between Isobel and Mr. Entwhistle was not a good one. The elderly man left shaking his head, and soon after, Isobel left her office and retreated to the fermenting cellar.
When, after a further ten minutes, she’d not come back up, Nat grabbed a lantern and went down to check on her.
“Isobel?” he called into the cellar.
“I’m here,” she answered from somewhere in the dark.
“Why are you down here all by yourself?”
He descended the rickety wooden stairs and edged along the long, narrow cellar. She was sitting at the far end, on an upturned crate, with her chin in her hands and her elbows propped on her knees.
“Isobel?” he repeated. “Why are you sitting all by yourself?”
“I’m thinking,” she answered.
Nat motioned for her to move over. When she did, he sat down next to her and placed the lantern on the stone floor between them.
“I take it the meeting didn’t go so well.”
She sighed. “No, it went fine. Rather, it went as expected.”
“Do you mind me asking what it was about?”
Isobel didn’t speak for a moment. She twined her fingers together, examining the backs of her hands in the weak lantern light.
“It was my mother. She wants me to turn the brewery over to someone else to manage, and she wants me to remove myself from the running of the business. She ordered Mr. Entwhistle to begin finding suitable candidates, and he’s brought me his preliminary list.”
Nat’s stomach dropped. “You ain’t thinking of going ahead with that plan, are you?”
“No, I won’t do it. But Mother does not seem to understand that. Or, more likely, she does not wish to acknowledge it. I told Mr. Entwhistle he must abandon his work, as I would not be considering any of his candidates, and now he has the unpleasant task of informing my mother of that.” Contemplatively, she added, “I do feel sorry for him. She is rather awful when thwarted.”
“Well… awright then. You put a stop to that. Why do you sound so down?”
She shrugged. “I put a stop to the hiring of a man to replace me. That does not mean the predicament is over. Mr. Entwhistle will report my decision back to my mother, and I will have to speak to her at some point about it. It is likely to be an unpleasant conversation. One which will likely have no effect on her single-minded effort to see me removed from the business and married off again. I’ve never been able to assert my will when it goes against her own, you see. I’m not strong enough for that.”
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