The Christmas Blend

by Veronica Bale

  “Not strong enough?” Nat turned her chin with his forefinger so that she was forced to look at him. “That is the most daft thing I’ve heard. Why just the other day you told that chap from Woolton Shipping where to stuff his piss-poor malt, and you didn’t bat an eyelash. Not strong enough? Me hind parts, I say to that. You’re strong enough to take on the running of a business, strong enough to sell off your country home to keep it going, and strong enough to lead all these men every day.”

  “You really think so?” Her voice wavered.

  “Isobel, I know so.”

  Then, even though his brain was telling him it was probably a bad idea, he leaned in and kissed her. Deliberately. Square on the lips.

  She did not pull away. In fact, after a fleeting moment of surprise when she stiffened under his unexpected touch, she melted into him. Her hands slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, and she moved her lips against his, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Which he did without hesitation.

  Of course, when they parted she insisted, “That can’t happen again. We should not go down this path.”

  And he had agreed readily, not meaning a word of it.

  Then the next morning, Nat found himself pulling her to him in the upstairs corridor outside Mr. Clarke’s office before the man of numbers arrived for the day. Without words or reason, other than that he wanted to feel her in his arms.

  Then it was in the storeroom when no one was about. And just about any time and place where he could steal a kiss from her—although it could hardly be called stealing when, before long, it was Isobel who was seeking Nat nearly half the time.

  Always their encounters ended with, “We cannot keep doing this. This must stop.”

  And always, he would solemnly agree.

  Until the next time.

  It was fast becoming a permanent state, the grin that Nat walked around with day and night. Never in all his life had he felt so light, so happy. And people were beginning to notice.

  “My, you’re in a good state, young Nat,” said Mrs. Tate, his neighbour. “Is the job going well, then?”

  “Nat, my boy. We haven’t seen you in ages,” exclaimed Mr. Slattery, the dock supervisor. “Whatever it is that’s kept you away, it must be worth your while.” And he’d tapped the side of his nose and winked.

  Nat’s father, vigilant as ever, was among those who had noticed the difference in his son’s mood.

  “Do those high spirits of yours have anything to do with a certain Mrs. Duckett?” Joseph Cotter had asked one night after supper.

  Nat, who had turned one of the chairs from the table towards the fire and was warming his hands, looked at his father.

  “I’d say they do,” he answered candidly.

  He prepared for a lecture, for a series of admonishments. Instead, Joseph only nodded.

  “Just don’t lose me the job, Nat. That’s all I ask.”

  “I doubt it would be you to lose the job, Dad. If anything were to go wrong, it would be me that finds meself out on my ear.”

  “Are you serious about her?”

  “I don’t even know if she’s serious about me.”

  “She don’t have to be, boy. She’s the one owns the business. She’s the one with money and a home and a position in society. She’s calling the shots here. It’s you as needs to dance to her tune, to be serious if she says you should.”

  Nat thought about it. “You know, Dad? I think I’m awright with that. I don’t expect as she’ll ever want more from me than a casual snog in the cellar, but if she did… yeah, I think I would be up for it.”

  “Who’s Nat been snogging?” Mary piped up.

  “You, you little imp.”

  Nat launched out of his chair and scooped his sister up into his arms where he planted a great wet kiss upon her forehead. Mary giggled, turning her head this way and that to avoid his rapid pecks that landed on her cheeks, her chin, and anywhere he could put them.

  “Look at that, would you?” said Rose from her spot by the window when Nat had declared victory and put Mary down.

  He went to stand behind his eldest sister. Beyond, in the dark, moonless sky that hung over the city, the first snow of the season had begun to fall.

  “Isn’t that beautiful?” Joseph said from his place by the fire.

  “Yeah,” Nat answered softly, placing his hands on Rose’s small shoulders.

  He wished Isobel was here right now. He would love to share this first snowfall with her. To stand at the window with her in his arms, and watch the soft white flakes float from the heavens.

  It would never happen, though. Whatever his father said, Nat knew that Isobel would never be serious about him. They were from two different worlds, and the likes of her would never lower herself to take up with the likes of him in any meaningful way… however much she may like to kiss him when no one was looking.

  But if that was all he’d ever have from her, then Nat was prepared to accept it.

  And to enjoy it while she was willing to grant him her affections.

  Chapter Fourteen

  November slipped quietly into December, heralding the arrival of the Christmas season with a gentle breath of winter. Even in the lowest parts of London’s East End, the doorways and windowsills of shops and homes were beginning to be decorated with whatever kind of greenery could be found in the city. Following the traditions set forth by Queen Victoria and her large family, the scent of spices hung heavy in the air from the bakeries offering mince pies, plum pudding, and other such festive treats, and shop windows displayed a growing stock of toys, books, and other presents.

  Nat had never been able to afford any of these luxuries before. But this year, with everything going so well at Duckett and Company, he was able to bring home a few things here and there for the children. Mary and Oliver gazed longingly at the small collection of paper-wrapped presents in the corner of the Cotters’ tenement flat, and squealed with delight when he brought home bits of candied peel or jelly babies. Rose delighted in the sweets in a more reverent manner. Where the children nearly inhaled their treats, she took small, furtive bites, ensuring that each mouthful was completely removed from her palate before the next so that each nibble would bring renewed enjoyment of flavor.

  For the first year ever, Joseph Cotter was able to contemplate purchasing a goose for the family’s Christmas Day meal.

  At Duckett and Company, the Christmas ale was just about ready. Samplings by the master brewers had yielded positive initial results, and everyone was anxious to find out how the final product would turn out. The pubs had all been notified of the forthcoming recipe, leaflets had been distributed to pubs and businesses to announce the new addition to the Duckett and Company line, and festive labels had been printed for the small selection of bottled brew that would sell in the middle-class shops like those along Shoreditch and Columbia roads.

  Finally the day was here. The ale was ready. Nearly all the men working the day shift had stayed past their time to sample the hailed brew and to give their verdict. Even Mr. Clarke had remained, hovering at the fringes of the gaggle and not saying much of anything, but looking excited nonetheless.

  As the bells of Christ Church cathedral tolled seven, everyone, including Isobel and Nat, gathered around one of the many caskets that had been brought up from the fermenting cellar.

  “Who should take the first taste?” shouted Ed Peddle over the din.

  The men all looked to one another, each of them wanting to volunteer themselves, but none of them brave enough to step forward and claim the honor.

  “I think it should be Nat,” Isobel stated.

  “Me?” Nat said, surprised.

  “Yes, you. This was all your idea. If this works as we’d planned, Duckett and Company will once again be the industrial force it was in this area. Who better to take the first taste than you?”

  “Indeed,” Joseph Cotter was quick to put in. “Nat should be the one.”

  The others easily agreed, and Nat found himself b
eing pulled along to the front.

  “Here then, don’t be shy,” William Stye told him.

  Uncorking the casket, he held a good, thick glass underneath. The men crowded forward to watch the stream of ruby-black liquid thicken and foam. Nat accepted it hesitantly, feeling exposed under the eager glares of his father’s coworkers. His coworkers.

  “Bottoms up, then,” he said, and tipped the glass back.

  All at once, the flavors hit him like a symphony. The malt was bitter and heavy, but offset the sweet spice of the clove perfectly. The juniper, too, added a unique note that lingered at the back of the tongue. And the alcohol profile was strong enough that it could be tasted, but not so strong that it was overpowering.

  In short, it was the best stout he’d ever had.

  His face did not betray one iota of his feelings, though, and he enjoyed the way the men leaned in, waiting for his opinion. He took another sip to prolong the tension.

  “Well?” It was Mr. Clarke, all the way at the back. He watched on in wide-eyed fascination, his hands clasped to his breast.

  Nat grinned. “We’ve a beauty, me boys. Oh—and lady. Sorry Izzy. It’s better than I ever imagined it could be.”

  There was a resounding cheer, and the men crowded forward to pass out the drinks so they could all have a small sample.

  Given the enthusiasm, as well as the size of the party, one sampling wasn’t enough. On Isobel’s orders, a casket of ordinary porter was brought up, uncorked and passed around liberally. There was laughter and excitement, and it was not long before off-key singing and dancing broke out spontaneously.

  It was truly an exciting night, and Nat couldn’t be more pleased with how everything went. Isobel joined in on the celebration, singing and dancing with the men. This time, she only had one glass of the porter. She winked at Nat and held her glass up to him when she caught him watching.

  “I’ll be good,” she mouthed over the noise.

  Unfortunately Isobel’s coach arrived shortly after the celebrating had started.

  “I’m not ready to go home,” she complained to Nat. “This is all so much fun.”

  “Then stay,” he said. “We’ll hire you a coach. Or I could always walk you home again if you’re up for it.”

  She thought for a moment. “What about an inn? I could take a room, could I not?”

  “Oh, I don’t think you want to be taking a room at an inn ’round here.”

  “It can’t be so bad, can it? If the door locks. You must know the ones that I should avoid and the ones that aren’t half bad.”

  She was so eager. And why shouldn’t she be? It was her night as much as theirs. Besides, Nat was eager to spend more time with her.

  “Yeah, awright. I know one.”

  “Oh, good,” she exclaimed. “Come with me. We’ll let Bolton know.”

  Bolton, as Nat suspected, was even less pleased about leaving his mistress at an East End inn than he was about letting Nat walk her home. Nat, however, did have respect for the man when he insisted on bringing Isobel to the inn to ensure that it was habitable, safe, and that she had secured a room ahead of time.

  Happily, Isobel stepped into the carriage. Nat hopped up into the driver’s seat with the coachman, and led him the short drive to the Crow Stone Inn on Brevit Lane.

  It was a shabby but honest inn, the Crow Stone. He knew it because he had worked for the proprietor and his wife several times when he could find no work at the docks or shops. His job was to keep the fire warm and make sure the guests didn’t steal anything when the innkeeper and his wife were forced to go up to Coventry at the last minute (for reasons Nat preferred not to know).

  The establishment was small and poor, but it was tidily kept. And while it was inexpensive, it was still too costly for the more deplorable of London’s populace, which made it relatively safe.

  Reluctantly, Bolton agreed that it was an acceptable place to leave Isobel for the night—after inspecting the lock on the door of the room she took—then drove them back to the brewery.

  “I’ll hold you directly responsible if anything happens to Mrs. Duckett,” he warned Nat before Isobel left the cab. “I know where to find you.”

  “I’d expect nothing less,” Nat answered appreciatively.

  “Thank you, Bolton,” Isobel called cheerfully up to him as she opened the coach door. “I shall see you tomorrow evening. Please tell Willcox not to fret, and please ask Stott to mend my blue dress. I put a tear in it yesterday, and I think I may have forgotten to tell her.”

  Bolton bobbed his head once. Then he snapped the reins and the carriage was off.

  Once he was out of sight, Isobel looked left and right to make sure no one of importance was looking. Then she pulled Nat in tight for a quick but torrid kiss and darted back inside. Nat was left standing in the street with his head spinning from want of her.

  The celebration, when he returned to it, was still in full swing.

  “Do you really think it will work?” asked Mr. Clarke who, to Nat’s surprise, had become quite lively under the influence of the ale.

  “Oh it will work, Mr. Clarke,” he assured the little man. “I’d say I’d stake me reputation on it, but I s’pose I am staking me reputation on it already, ain’t I?”

  “And what are the pubs saying? How did you manage to convince them to sell Duckett and Company again?”

  “It wasn’t so hard, really, and it was mostly Isobel. She was quite repentant with all of them—I thought a little too much, but I let her do what she felt she needed to. She explained to them all what Mr. Dyer had done, and put the blame for it on herself.” Smiling to himself, he added, “You know, I always thought those toffs protected their own no matter what. But she didn’t protect him. She was honest, and spoke so well of all of us. To tell you the truth, mate, she says I’m s’posed to be the talker ’round here, but she did a lot of the talking herself.”

  “I have not known her so well until recently,” Mr. Clarke admitted, “but I have always liked her. She has a genuine quality about her, does she not? She may not have been interested in the business before, but she was always interested in the men she met from the business, when she had occasion to meet them. Including myself.”

  Nat studied the clerk, who was considered the dregs of his glass. “How long you been here, Mr. Clarke? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Oh, many, many years. More than I want to admit. I was here in old Mr. Duckett’s day. That’s Mr. Andrew Duckett’s father. I remember when the place was at its best. It was hard to watch it go the way it did.”

  “What was Mr. Andrew Duckett like?”

  Mr. Clarke gave Nat a knowing wink that actually made Nat blush.

  “He was a good man. Beneath her, class-wise. Bet you can imagine that made Mr. and Mrs. Dyer quite angry. But she loved him and he loved her, and they married despite the difference and the opposition.” He paused, watching Isobel from across the floor as she poured and handed out another round of drinks. “She was so sad for so long when he died. But now she’s running her business, and she seems happy doing it. It’ll be a grand thing when she falls in love again, eh, Mr. Cotter?”

  He nudged Nat in the shoulder at the same moment that Isobel glanced over at them. The smile on her face and the sparkle in her eyes made Nat’s heart leap.

  “Let’s hope she don’t go too far down the ladder to find love,” he remarked.

  “You’re not so down the ladder, my boy.”

  Nat snorted. “And how do you figure that one?”

  “You’re swift becoming merchant class yourself, are you not? A top position in a well-established company. Don’t matter where you come from, it’s what you make of yourself that counts.”

  Nat hadn’t thought of himself in that way before. He always imagined himself one of the wretches of Spitalfields, just like everyone else. But Mr. Clarke was right—at least as long as Nat had this job. And if anything ever happened to it, if Isobel was no longer in need of his golden tongue an
d powers of persuasion, at least it would be easier to find a better job than the docks with the practice of having had this one.

  “Thank you, Mr. Clarke,” he said sincerely.

  “Thank you for what?” Isobel queried as she approached.

  “Nothing at all, madam,” Mr. Clarke put in quickly with a glance to Nat. “If you’ll excuse me, I find myself in need of the privy.”

  “Will you have another drink?” she asked when Mr. Clarke had gone.

  “Naw, I’ve had my fill. What about you? Enjoying the porter as much as you did the stout?”

  Isobel laughed, and leaned into him playfully. Nat glanced around, anxious that someone might have seen the familiar gesture. No one had. The men were too busy enjoying the occasion.

  “It is similar, and I do like it. But I’ve had my fill, too. I wish to keep a clear head, for the next few weeks are going to be busy.”

  “They are indeed. Are you ready for them?”

  “I think so. We’ll certainly find out, won’t we?”

  “I’ve no doubt you are more ready than you think,” he told her.

  Nat wanted nothing more than to mark the statement with a thorough snog, but he didn’t dare. There were too many about. From the look in her eyes, Isobel, too, was disappointed that they were not alone.

  They stayed until the bells tolled eleven. By then, the men who remained were quite drunk. Most had left for home already, and those who hadn’t were the ones that had to stay to keep on working. Mr. Clarke was asleep on a crate in the corner.

  “Someone should wake him,” Nat observed.

  “You do it,” Isobel said. “I don’t have the heart. He looks so peaceful.”

  Nat watched the sleeping man snore gently for a few moments then he pulled one of the men aside and told him, “If that man doesn’t wake by midnight, rouse him and send him on his way. Then tell him he does not need to be here until noon tomorrow.”