What she lacked to realize her dream were the physical resources—the equipment, the ingredients, and a location to rent. The whole concept was little better than a flight of fantasy, of course. But that daydream, however remote, kept her warm in particularly dark, cold times, whether that meant winter nights under too-thin blankets or during dark times of the soul.
In preparation for closing, young Conrad was already sweeping the front-end floor and wiping down the dusty shelves, which held jar upon jar of colorful sweets. Many were arranged so as to be visible from the street. The result was that the flavored drops, marshmallows, and other treats wooed passersby inside with their siren calls.
The front door opened suddenly, making the bell on its ribbon jangle in protest. Ten-year-old Freddie raced inside and kept going until he reached the kitchen and finally stopped opposite Anne across the counter. Assuming he’d come for the latest order, Anne dusted sugar on top and then handed over the dish with the iced pear. “Here you go.”
She’d assumed that the pear was the final order for the day, but Freddie’s red cheeks and heavy panting told her otherwise, as did the fact that he didn’t take the proffered dish. He didn’t so much as acknowledge it.
“One more . . . order,” Freddie said between pants. “For a man . . . and woman.”
She could have guessed as much; treats for courting couples to share during a carriage ride tended to be the most common orders. Anne set the dish with the completed pear in front of Freddie. “Don’t let that melt before you get it out to the Cavannagh sisters.”
His eyes darted downward and then back up, as if he’d only then remembered the previous order. Anne tried again. “What is the new order?”
“Orange-blossom.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“My favorite.” She turned to the ice chest to pull out that particular tub of ice cream, which was yet half-full while other flavors had run out hours ago. She’d never understand why some people chose ice cream flavored with roses, violets, or jasmine when they could partake of orange-blossom, a taste at once both invigorating and delicious, equally tart and sweet. Worse were the savory flavors, which Anne had tried, and failed, to convince Mr. and Mrs. Argus to abandon—flavors like coriander, artichoke, and Parmesan cheese. So long as patrons requested grated Parmesan cheese in their ice cream, she was told, they’d get it.
She set the container of orange-blossom ice cream on the counter. “Which mold?”
Freddie leaned farther over the counter and whispered, “They’re American.” His tone suggested that he’d have been in just as much awe had he come across a pair of chimpanzees in the carriage instead.
“Are they asking for something treasonous?” Anne asked with mock fear.
“I don’t know.” Freddie’s mouth drew down into a pout as he pondered her question.
She doubted whether the ten-year-old had any fear of Americans because of the War of 1812. He was young enough to not remember it at all. Perhaps he was in awe of Americans who spoke a different flavor of English. His parents might have instilled a fear or a hatred of Americans.
For her part, Anne had never viewed America as her enemy. Rather, she yearned to live there. Not because of any war or other political reason, but because in America, she might be able to take her hidden dream out of its home in a tiny corner of her heart. In America, she could dust it off, bring it into the open, and make it a reality. Societal rules and laws in England bound her to the station in which she’d found herself after her family members’ deaths.
She’d long spent her days thinking of the many if-onlys that would have kept her from this life. If only one of her three brothers hadn’t perished in the Napoleonic wars, she wouldn’t need employment to survive. If only her parents hadn’t died of consumption, she would yet have a monthly allowance. If only she had a living brother to have inherited the family estate, she would still live in the townhouse she’d grown up in—which, though not ostentatious or high class, had been comfortable, familiar, and warm. Now it belonged to some far-flung uncle she hadn’t known existed. The boardinghouse would never be home, no matter how many years she lived there.
Oh, please don’t let me die a gray-haired woman there, Anne thought.
Freddie slapped both hands onto the counter. “Hurry!”
She blinked and returned to the moment. “Whatever they’re asking for, I’ll make their dessert perfectly,” she assured him.
“Will you bring it out to them?” Hope, and a hint of fear, laced each word.
“Why?” Anne almost laughed, but his serious expression kept it in check.
“I’m afraid I’d drop it right there on the street and look a fool.”
Despite herself, the corner of Anne’s mouth went up a little. “The Americans are intimidating, are they?”
“I’d like to bring the ice to them, but I just know I’d trip over my feet doing it.” He cupped his mouth with both hands. “Conrad would never let me hear the end of it.”
Anne couldn’t look into his young, hopeful eyes and deny him, so, despite her aching feet, she agreed. “Very well. I’ll do it for you. Just this once.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Preston.”
Holding back a smile, she reached for a paddle to scoop the ice cream. “Which mold?”
“Er . . .”
Her head came up. “What?”
“It’s . . . the basket.”
“Oh, goodness.” Another reason Freddie was concerned—they’d ordered the most complicated ice. Tripping and spilling a pear or apple would be one thing, but ruining an intricate design like the fruit basket would definitely be another thing altogether. The detail at the bottom looked like a real woven basket. The rim had yet a different texture, like a twisting vine, and the whole was topped with a pile of various fruits. Even the texture-rich pineapple mold was easier to work with than the basket.
Now she was the one who felt uneasy. “Go help Conrad with cleaning up front,” she told Freddie so she wouldn’t have the boy looking over her shoulder and making her even more nervous about ruining the order.
“Yes, miss,” Freddie said cheerfully, as she’d lifted a great weight from his shoulders.
She turned to making the ice cream basket, filling the mold with orange-blossom ice cream. The smell always made her smile. When it was time to release the mold, she held her breath and lifted it—oh so slowly. She’d created a nearly perfect basket half. By some miracle, the other half released just as easily. In one spot, the woven pattern lacked the ideal crisp edges, but she hid the imperfection by pressing a few sweet drops into the ice cream, making them look like an intentional garnish. Mrs. Argus might not approve of serving an imperfect item, but Anne had learned that if customers didn’t know what something was supposed to look like, they rarely had any idea that the one served to them wasn’t precisely correct.
With the basket assembled, she carried it to the front of the shop, suddenly glad that the boys weren’t delivering this dessert. If the Americans were indeed influential and important, this delivery needed to be worthy of their station. She knew a sight more than they did about such things, and she’d seen both boys making mistakes as they rushed about like puppies with feet too big for their bodies.
While waiting for a carriage to pass, Anne searched the other side of the street. As suspected, the area had largely cleared for the day. Instead of carriages dotting the place and young women eating their treats while their gentlemen friends casually leaned against the carriages, Berkeley Square Park held only one carriage, though several small groups milled about the paths. She headed straight for the lone, shiny carriage. As expected, the door was open, revealing a young woman in a fine lavender gown. A tall man leaned back against the carriage, one knee up, with the flat of his boot on the side, arms folded. His top hat was tilted forward, covering his eyes as if he slept. This man wasn’t the driver, who yet sat on his perch.
While Society frowned upon a young woman being seen alone with a man
in almost any public place, if that location happened to be Berkeley Square, particularly across from Gunter’s Tea Shop, the situation was usually deemed respectable—fashionable, even. Was that because most such occurrences took place with dozens of others as witnesses? If so, would this situation count against the young lady? Surely not. They’d come to Gunter’s Tea Shop, a most distinguished and proper business.
Does that mean there is something inherently moral about ices and sugar drops? She smiled and shook her head slightly. If I live to a hundred, I’ll never understand the rules of Society.
She could make out the woman inside the carriage, who peered through the opening. Anne had never seen a couple in such an arrangement. Usually men and women came during the afternoon heat when they could use a bit of cooling off, and definitely when the park thronged with others doing the same. Most often, such customers were courting. She’d often seen couples talking animatedly, often coyly on the lady’s part, as the gentleman preened like a peacock. More often than not, they walked together near their carriage, the lady’s arm through his, as they waited for their dessert. Anne had no recollection of ever seeing a woman quietly fanning herself while the gentleman dozed some distance apart.
When Anne reached the carriage, she stopped before the man and held out the tray, but he didn’t stir. The woman inside the carriage closed her fan, reached out, and playfully swatted his arm.
“Wake up, Davis. Surely the day hasn’t been such a bore that you must recover from it already.” Indeed, as Freddie had said, she sounded American. Not that Anne had heard so many Americans speak, but this woman’s accent was assuredly foreign.
Anne’s eyes widened. She’d never heard a woman speak to a suitor in such a familiar tone. She waited for the man to react with shock or annoyance, but he remained so motionless that she wondered idly if anyone would notice a difference were he to stop breathing altogether. How would anyone know?
Unsure what to do next, Anne ground her boots into the sandy path a bit, hoping the sound would rouse him. When that failed, she looked at the woman, suddenly unsure who expected to be spoken to and who would pay for the ices. Not a woman, even an outspoken one. Of course not.
In jovial exasperation, the woman shook her head, then swatted his arm with her fan a second time. “Shall I eat the entire ice cream by myself? I’m quite capable, but I suspect you’d regret the decision.”
The man finally responded, lifting his chin enough to look at Anne through the slit under his hat through barely open lids. “Mmm?”
“Your ice cream?” Anne said, offering it.
“Yes, of course.” He’d spoken but a few words, but he, too, had the same accent. With one knuckle, he nudged his hat back into place and tugged off one of his gloves as he stepped away from the carriage. He reached into a vest pocket and withdrew several coins but didn’t count them. “I’m afraid I haven’t quite figured out your money system—it’s far more complicated than American cents and dollars.”
A tiny thrill went up her spine at the confirmation of them being from America rather than some other country. She wanted to pepper the couple with questions about where they lived and about what life was like there.
He held out his bare hand, palm up. “Take what you need—the cost of the ice cream, plus a little something for your trouble.” At the last, he smiled at her, and she suddenly felt like a besotted maid of fifteen rather than the old maid of twice as many years that she actually was.
“I’m sincere.” Holding his hand out a bit closer, he added, “If you were an unscrupulous woman, I’d never know it anyway.” He chuckled at that, a comfortable sound that made Anne want to wrap herself in his laugh like a warm blanket on a winter night.
She considered the pile of shiny coins, which to her represented so much more than shillings and pence and pounds. She was so used to thinking in terms of months of rent and days of food that at first her mind went there. He held nearly a year’s worth of rent in his palm. But that thought was quickly displaced by another: she could rent out a shop for that amount, at least for a few months, and possibly equip it, besides. Suddenly, images of supplies fluttered through her mind like so many birds passing by—copper funnels, pewter freezing pots, large wooden tubs, design tools, molds of all shapes and sizes . . .
What would it be like to have so much money that you wouldn’t mind being vastly overcharged on your luxury dessert?
She raised a hand and counted out the correct amount for the ice cream, plus a standard tip of thruppence. She could have taken three half crowns, and he wouldn’t have been the wiser, but her conscience would never have allowed that. With the removal of each coin, she felt sharply aware of her work-worn fingertips touching the warm, soft skin of his hand.
His was not the skin of a servant. She’d known as much upon first seeing him, of course, aside from the obvious fact that servants did not have the resources to buy ices. But something about being close and seeing the truth herself made his position in life a reality. Hands could not lie, and this man’s showed quite clearly that he did not work with them for a living.
With the coins tucked into her apron pocket, she looked up at the American and took in his features clearly for the first time. He had a strong nose and jaw that could have been intimidating were it not for his genuine smile. She couldn’t help herself from smiling back in return, even as her middle flipped about. So handsome. And not so young. He’s married, no doubt.
She ripped her gaze away and stared at the ground, but a hair too late; heat was already rising up her neck and would soon color her face red. He had nice boots, but though newly polished, they bore signs of wear. Not at all what she would have expected from a rich man who could, no doubt, buy a wardrobe full of the most expensive boots if he had a mind to. She’d have guessed that he bought multiple new pairs of boots each year to stay up with the trends.
“Have a nice day,” he said, tipping his hat.
She looked up again to acknowledge him—it would have been rude not to—and admired his handsome face before she bobbed a curtsy and headed back across the street.
Rich, but not so young, she thought as she entered the tea shop once more and remembered the faint signs of gray hair at the sides of his face and the lines about his eyes made from a mature life and much laughter. And American.
After entering the tea shop, she closed the door and then stepped into some shadows near the front windows so as to not be easily visible from the outside. She watched the man—Davis, he’d been called—hold out the iced basket to his companion, who’d exited the carriage, and the two of them partook of the orange-blossom treat.
I should have asked them something about America, she thought. And I should have asked for her name. Is Davis his family name or his Christian one? No Englishwoman would call even a close associate by his Christian name while in public, but did America have similar conventions?
She had so many questions about America.
Any one of them would have been most improper coming from someone of her station, but as she stood in the shadow of the shop and watched through the window as the man and woman ate spoon after spoon of ice cream, she couldn’t help but hope that this Davis fellow would stop by the tea shop again.
Is he married? She did not care to examine the question closely, as such a path of thought inevitably would lead to happy ideas of matrimony for herself—something long since out of her grasp. At one and thirty, she might as well wish for the late Napoleon to ask for her hand.
With a sigh, she went to the door and hung the sign that read CLOSED.
Chapter Two
Days came and went, but Anne simply could not keep her thoughts on her work. Every time the bells on the tea shop door jangled, her heart leapt to her throat. She didn’t think the American would actually step into Gunter’s Tea Shop, but the slim possibility existed, and her frayed nerves insisted on assuming that he would materialize before her, and that it would happen the one time she didn’t look up at the sound of th
e bells.
He never appeared, of course. Not in the tea shop, and not in the park, either. While she couldn’t see across the street from her post in the kitchen, she’d made sure that the serving boys knew to alert her in a trice if they saw the American again. As a reward, she promised a sweet to both boys if either one brought her news of the man.
Once more, she was closing the shop without buying the boys sweets. She drew the drapes and locked the front door.
Despite the shop’s closure to the public, the day’s work wasn’t finished. Mrs. Argus had left half an hour before, and the serving boys would finish tidying up front before going home, per usual. Anne would stay at least another hour, decorating a cake to be delivered to the Millennium Hotel in Grosvenor Square. She usually enjoyed decorating cakes in the evenings, when the bustle of the workday quieted, when she wasn’t in the noisy boardinghouse, and when she could be alone with her thoughts.
She plopped a copper tip into a canvas piping bag, which she filled with icing. Each sound seemed amplified by the empty silence of the shop. As she worked, piping rose petals on a flower nail and sliding them into place onto the cake, her mind kept trailing back to the American and the moment she first saw him leaning against the carriage with his hat tilted over his eyes. His height when he straightened. His voice and contagious smile. The soft warmth of his hand when she plucked the coins from his outstretched palm. She did her best to banish every resurfaced memory, but they kept returning.
We exchanged but a few words over the course of perhaps a minute, she thought, frustrated with herself. She’d spent more time than that bartering with a seller at a flea market over an old ring. She had no memory of that man’s voice or what he’d worn, yet she could remember every detail about the American, down to the navy stitching on his coat. Her mind homed in on the man’s eyes—dark. Not brown, and not blue, but dark gray, like storm clouds or fog on the Moors. Her insides flipped at the memory, and then she promptly berated herself for conjuring the image at all.
A Night in Grosvenor Square Page 9