A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13)

by Jennifer Moore

  “I appreciate it, miss.”

  “It will be ready at four. Shall I bring it to the worksite then?”

  “I will come and fetch it.” Arthur said.

  “I would like to deliver it for you.” She blushed, glancing at Mr. Fawcett. “For your workers.”

  Arthur thought he would never become used to the thrill her blush gave. “Thank you.”

  ***

  At four o’clock exactly, Daphne, Ruth, and Mary arrived, each carrying a crate of loaves. The women set the delivery beside the large door of the old furniture factory.

  Arthur thanked them, and Mary and Ruth left.

  Daphne remained. She set the last crate next to the others and brushed her hands on her apron. She hadn’t bothered to put on her bonnet or gloves. Strands of hair had fallen from their pins and hung loosely around her face, glowing in the late-afternoon sun.

  Arthur looked over the crates. Although each loaf was wrapped in paper, the smell still drew glances from workers who passed. He lifted one of the parcels and inhaled. “Cinnamon?” he asked.

  “Some,” she said. “I made ten of each: cinnamon, rye, currant, and yeast.”

  He set the loaf back into the crate. “Daphne, this must have been an enormous undertaking. I didn’t realize you intended to do all the work yourself.”

  She shrugged and gave a shy smile. “I was happy to do it.”

  He reached toward her but remembered they were in a very public place and thought better of it, clasping his hands behind his back instead. “Thank you.”

  “I wondered . . .” Daphne looked up at the warehouse and gave him a sidelong glance. “If you are not too busy, perhaps I might have a tour?”

  He blinked. “You wish to see the building project?”

  “Only if you have the time.”

  Arthur had not expected Daphne to ever make such a request. Especially on the day before she must vacate her bakery. Seeing that she was serious, he grinned and bowed, spreading his arm in an extravagant gesture toward the warehouse doorway.

  She stepped inside, and he came up beside her, making an arch with his walking stick. “Daphne Dayley, I present to you, the future Grande Hotel by the Sea.” He lifted her hand onto his arm and led her forward, then turned them around, dramatically pointing toward the door where they’d entered. “Imagine dark oak doors with inlaid stained-glass windows and polished handles, opened for you by doormen in top hats and tails.” He turned the two of them back around. “Once inside, you will gasp at the enormous gas chandeliers filling the opulent lobby with modern light and making the marble floors and brass fixtures glisten.” He pointed with his walking stick along the top of the warehouse walls. “Above, a balcony surrounds the lobby, with two grand staircases, one at each corner.”

  “It sounds marvelous.” She giggled at his performance.

  “Just wait.” Arthur grinned as he led her forward, trying very hard to contain his excitement, but it was difficult when he spoke about the hotel. “The reception desk will be here, directly in front of you, and on either side, doors that lead out into manicured gardens with flower beds, walking paths, and a pond.”

  The pair turned toward the east side of the warehouse. “Here we will have sitting areas.” He waved around his walking stick. “Plush chair and sofas spread over thick carpets, interspersed with statuary and tables of hothouse flowers.”

  “And leafy palm plants in painted pots?” Daphne said.

  Arthur looked down at her, uncertain of where the suggestion came from. “I hadn’t thought of it . . .”

  “I saw workers delivering tall palms in beautiful Oriental pots to the prince regent’s pavilion,” she said. “They were so elegant . . .” She shook her head. “But perhaps they won’t suit for what you have in mind.”

  “Daphne, if tall palms in Oriental pots please you, then tall palms in Oriental pots we shall have.”

  She gave him a playful push, rolling her eyes and smiling. “Tell me, what is this here?” She pointed to the wall of the warehouse building, or more specifically, the enormous hole where the wall used to be. Beams held up the ceiling, and through the opening they could look into the former dressmaker’s shop. Some workers were moving away the debris from the wall, and others were nailing support beams into place.

  “These beams are only temporary. Eventually pillars will run down both sides of the lobby,” he said. “Through here will be our dining room.” He led her through the hole in the wall, helping her to step carefully over broken bricks, rubble, and scraps of wood. “The engineer tells me the building next door is not in good enough repair, and so it will be completely torn down, and this room expanded.” He pointed to the rear of the shop. “The kitchens will be built further on that way, and the business offices.”

  “That is where you will work,” she said.

  Arthur shook his head. “The plan is for my office to be above, on the first story, so my windows face the sea.”

  Daphne nodded and glanced up at the shop’s ceiling. “A benefit of ownership.”

  “Precisely,” Arthur said.

  He led her back through the demolished wall into the warehouse. “The ceilings of the different shops will need to be adjusted to a uniform height. Of course, the apartments and rooms on the upper stories will be torn down and completely rebuilt to allow for the new plumbing and a suite-style layout.”

  They walked through the building in the other direction.

  “More seating areas here?” Daphne guessed.

  “Yes, and in this corner, a grand piano.”

  “Oh, I like that very much,” she said. “You really have thought of everything.”

  He studied her face, surprised at her enthusiasm for the project. But perhaps she was simply being polite.

  “And here we have the gentlemen’s smoking room.” She motioned toward the broken wall on the west side of the building, through which they could see the empty shop that shared a wall with the bakery.

  “Yes,” he said carefully.

  Daphne released his arm and stepped through the opening. Boards were piled against the far wall, ready to shore up the ceiling when the workers broke through into the bakery.

  “Use caution, Daphne.” He pointed to a coal stove the workers used to heat the wood varnish. “It may still be hot.”

  She stepped away from the stove and looked at the wall for a moment.

  Arthur watched her closely, worried that she might break down into tears, but she seemed to be simply thinking.

  She turned back toward him slowly. A sliver of light shone through a gap in the boards of the wall, making dust motes sparkle in the air around her. “You must do this,” she said softly.

  He studied her, his nerves on alert as he considered exactly how to reply. Was she preparing to yell? To weep?

  She crossed the room, taking his hand. Her fingers were warm in his palm. “This is your dream.”

  “It is,” he said.

  “And you will make it the most magnificent hotel in the world.”

  “Well, hopefully in Brighton at least.”

  “I am happy for you,” Daphne said.

  He watched, waiting for her anger or her tears. “Are you happy?” he asked slowly.

  “For you.” She looked around the dusty warehouse. “Your passion for this project shows in every word and gesture. I can see how strongly you want this, how you’ve worked for it. I was wrong to be angry.”

  “You were hurt.”

  She nodded. “I don’t want to see you break the bakery wall,” she whispered.

  He pulled her into an embrace. “I know.”

  She held onto him tightly, and he could feel her tension. Her shoulders were shaking. “I need to leave now,” she said, pulling back. “But I wanted you to know I’m not angry. Not any longer.”

  Her face was tight, and he could see she held back tears. She started toward the door, her pace rushed.

  “Shall I accompany you?” Arthur touched his fingers to her lower back as
he walked beside her. He felt helpless, watching her battle with her emotions.

  “You’ve bread to distribute.” She tried for a smile, but her lips trembled. “And if you please, I just want to be alone for a bit.” Her last words came out as a whisper.

  She hurried through the warehouse door and toward the bakery.

  Arthur watched her go, feeling a wave of emotion. If he’d been asked a week earlier to describe Daphne Dayley, he’d have said she was a beautiful woman with a fiery temper and a sharp tongue. But somehow, over the days he’d known her, he’d discovered there was much more. She was kindhearted and thoughtful, with a quick wit and a charming humor. She cared for those around her, even though she might not say it outright; he saw it in the way she worried for his safety, her tolerance of Mrs. Libby’s nosiness, how she’d ensured her employees had jobs when the bakery closed, and that Arthur knew she did not bear him a grudge. Somehow, all of these things served to make her even more beautiful, and there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that he was in love with her. Which made what he planned to do all the more difficult.

  Daphne scrubbed out the inside of the ovens, then wiped her rag over the handles and cast-iron doors until not a speck of dust remained. She scrubbed the preparation table and the kitchen side table, then took down the baking pans and pots and scrubbed them as well.

  As she worked, memories flooded her mind, and her tears fell freely. She remembered the stool she used to stand on as she helped her grandmother roll out piecrusts and the small loaf pan her father bought so she could make her very own bread. She arranged the spices in a neat row with their labels facing outward, just as her mother preferred, and made sure the lid on the flour was sealed. Once she was certain everything was in its proper place, she swept and mopped the kitchen, satisfied that the cleanliness was up to even her grandmother’s high standards. She took her reticule to the dining area, hanging it on a hook by her bonnet and shawl, then moved to work on the service counter.

  She took down the family painting and wiped the frame. Seeing the faces of her parents and grandmother, such a rush of emotion overcame her that she had to stop her work and just allow herself to weep. She sat on the floor, holding the painting as sobs heaved out of her chest, and when she finally stopped, she felt like she was wrung dry. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Knowing how disappointed her family would have been to see their beloved bakery close was physically painful. She winced when she stood, her legs stiff from sitting on the floor. More time had passed than she realized; the night was full dark. She hung the painting back on the wall by the kitchen door and lit lanterns.

  Daphne got a clean cloth and wiped off the counter, making the glass of the display case gleam in the lantern light. She washed the trays and made certain to scrub away every crumb that rested in the shelves’ corners. She wiped the tables and chairs in the dining area, dusted off the picture frames, and swept every inch of the floor, then filled a bucket.

  When she returned into the dining area to mop, she saw Arthur waving at the front window.

  She knew she must look a sight after her bout of weeping, but there was nothing to be done about it, and the thought of his presence was a comforting one. She set the mop head into the soapy water, balancing it in the bucket, then opened the door.

  He winced when he saw her face. “Oh, Daphne, I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, too exhausted for a witty comeback. “Are you here for . . . ?” She tried to remember if she’d committed to something earlier.

  “I just wanted to talk to you,” Arthur said.

  She held the door wide open. “Come in. I’m nearly finished.”

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’d like to do it myself. But I thank you for the offer.”

  Arthur hung his hat on the hook by the door and sat in a chair at one of the small round tables.

  Although he waited, Daphne did not rush. She wanted every bit of the bakery to sparkle. Somehow, she felt she owed it to her family to leave it in perfect condition.

  She was finally satisfied with the floor, and she put away the mop and emptied the bucket.

  Arthur stood when she joined him. He pulled out a chair, and Daphne sank into it, mentally and physically exhausted.

  He returned to his seat across from her.

  “You wanted to talk to me?” she prompted.

  “Yes.” He hesitated, likely put off by her appearance.

  She smoothed back her hair. “I am all right now,” she said. “I just needed some time to feel sad.”

  He nodded, but his brows were still furrowed as if he was unsure whether she was telling the truth.

  “It’s strange how difficult it is to separate a place from the people who once inhabited it,” she said.

  He glanced at the picture on the wall, then leaned his forearms on the table. “Daphne, what will you do now?”

  She frowned. “That is what you wished to speak to me about? My plans for the future? The bakery isn’t even . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she sighed, unable to hold onto her anger when Arthur looked so concerned. “I don’t know.”

  “But . . .” he grimaced.

  She held up a hand. “I know what you are going to say. I’ve been aware for six months that I would quit the bakery tomorrow. Surely I have thought of something before now.”

  He nodded. “Have you?”

  Daphne sighed again, not caring that she might be considered overly dramatic for doing so. “I’ve tried, Arthur. I’ve considered working for Mr. Cawston. I’ve considered reopening the bakery at a different location. I’ve even considered moving to Cornwall to live with my cousin. But I just . . .” She shrugged. “I just don’t know.”

  “None of the ideas feel right,” he said.

  Daphne nodded. That was it exactly. “I don’t know what I’ll do. What do I do?” She looked out the darkened window in the direction of the sea and whispered the question, not really speaking to him but sending out a prayer to the universe.

  “You should follow your dream,” Arthur said quietly.

  “This bakery is my dream.” Daphne spoke sharply. She looked back at him, then down at her hands, feeling as if her words sounded like a reprimand. She hadn’t meant them that way, but she was so tired of trying to answer this very question. And to be challenged on it today, of all days.

  “Is it?” he asked, his tone gentle. He lifted one of her hands from the table and held it in his own.

  “Of course it . . .” Isn’t it? Now she didn’t know. If not, would she be so upset? But there was another part of her—one she didn’t acknowledge—that felt relieved at the bakery’s closing. “It is all I know,” Daphne admitted at last. Just saying the words made her feel like even more of a failure.

  Arthur took her other hand, holding them both and capturing her gaze. He looked extremely serious and . . . nervous. His shoulders were stiff as if he was bracing himself. “Daphne.” He took in a deep breath. “You should go to France.”

  “France?” She blinked, trying to comprehend what he’d said. “You want me to leave?” Surely she’d misunderstood.

  He squeezed her hands. “To attend culinary school and train to be a pastry chef.”

  Daphne’s heart started to beat fast, and she pulled her hands away. “How did . . . who told you? It was Mary, wasn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter who,” Arthur said. “Listen to me. You have always done what everyone else wanted you to do. Finishing school in London for your father. The bakery for your mother and grandmother. But now it is your turn to decide. You have the chance to choose your own path.” He glanced around the bakery and then looked back at her. “That is why none of your choices feel right. You can’t decide because the thing you really want—it’s too big, and it frightens you.”

  He stopped talking and watched her closely, looking as if he was nervous for her response.

  Daphne’s hands shook. She folded her arms across her chest. Her thoughts were spinning, and her puls
e beat loudly in her ears. “I can’t just go to France,” she said. “What will . . . I mean, I don’t know anyone there.” She rubbed her arms. “And you’re right, I am afraid.” She looked down at the table. “What if I fail?”

  “I know.” Arthur touched her wrist. He took her hands again, leaning toward her across the table. “I felt the same. Investing my father’s money in . . . this”—he pointed with his chin in the direction of the warehouse—“I was terrified. What if it failed? What if the hotel couldn’t be built and I lost not only my father’s and my uncle’s money, but that of the investors I’d convinced to believe in the project . . . in my dream?” He pulled her hands toward him. “But now . . . now that it’s happening . . . Daphne, it’s the best feeling in the world. And it’s what I want for you. To see you follow your dream, learn what great things you’re capable of.”

  Daphne suddenly couldn’t sit still. She stood, moving behind her chair and pacing toward the counter and back. The idea sparked something inside her, as if it had unearthed a long-buried treasure that she’d forgotten she’d hidden in the first place. Her breathing came fast, both out of excitement and fear. She couldn’t do this—could she?

  “But I can’t leave Brighton,” she said, voicing just one of her arguments against the idea from her growing list. “It is my home.”

  “And it always will be,” Arthur said. He’d risen from his seat when she stood, and he rested a hand on the chair back, watching as she paced. “The town will be here when you return, Daphne. Nothing will change.”

  “Except me,” she said. She stopped walking and faced him, nerves tingling.

  “Well, yes.” He smiled softly and stepped toward her, putting one hand onto her shoulder and lifting her chin with the other. “But I do hope you won’t change too much. What if Mrs. Libby should decide that we are no longer suited?”

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he bent close and kissed her. The confused thoughts spinning around her head stilled and dropped away completely, until the only thing left was the sensation of his lips on hers.