But as if fate were assisting his pursuit, Miss Charlotte was not only there, she came to the door and opened it.
“Lord Jeffcoat, you cannot possibly want sweets this early,” she said by way of greeting.
She did not accompany this with her usual smile, one he’d thought inviting from the first time they’d met. With her full lips, often bowed, she seemed in a continuous state of happiness, something he’d noticed about her whenever they were near.
As the day before, her chestnut brown hair was up in a tidy bun. Perhaps because it was morning, before the hordes of customers had descended upon New Bond Street and run this pretty miss off her feet, none of her soft curls had yet escaped the pins.
A shame. Yesterday, she’d looked like the subject of an Italian pastoral painting, if he were a man to make such poetic associations. Usually, he was not. Today, she was far too tidy, and he had a visceral image of sinking his fingers into her silky hair and sending the pins flying in order to release her locks. Perhaps when he was about to kiss her.
His cheeks heated at the wayward — and completely unexpected — thoughts. What’s more, he knew she’d seen something in his gaze because she blinked slowly and raised a dark eyebrow. He realized he’d said nothing yet, merely standing like an idiot, more bewitched by her at each encounter.
“Good day, Miss Rare-Foure. You are correct. I am not here for confectionery.”
Before he could say more, an entire army of confectioners came out of the back room, or so it seemed. Leading the charge was Mrs. Rare-Foure, the family’s matriarch. It was hard not to admire the woman who had built this successful establishment on the expensive shopping street, where the rent must be high. And she had done it selling sweets! At the same time, she’d born three lovely girls and taught them to make confectionery.
Pelham’s duchess, an impressive young woman who’d made his friend blissfully happy, appeared by her mother’s side. She was holding tins of chocolates and speaking to a young boy. If Charles wasn’t mistaken, it was the same lad from the day before. The boy held a sack in each hand, staring up at the duchess, hanging on her every word.
Last came the snapdragon, as he thought of the middle sister, Beatrice. A bit tart for his liking, despite being lovely. In any case, she’d managed to snag herself a husband the year before, and Charles remembered the man showing up half-naked at Marlborough House, as if a costume was any excuse to go shirtless. Pelham said the snapdragon’s husband was a good brother-in-law, nonetheless.
All talking stopped when they saw Charles standing in the doorway with Miss Rare-Foure.
“Lord Jeffcoat, what can you be doing here so early?” Mrs. Rare-Foure asked.
He was absolutely determined not to tell them. That much was certain.
“Just passing by when I saw Miss Rare-Foure through the window” — that he’d pressed his face against like a child — “and I thought I would say hello.”
He couldn’t help noticing her sisters glance at one another.
“I can see you are busy, so I shall take my leave at once.”
“Nonsense, do come in and close the door,” the mother said. “We don’t want flies, do we? I would offer tea or chocolate, but as soon as we get the kettle going, it will be time to open. How is your father? Would you like to take him something for Easter? I couldn’t ask yesterday as it was mobbed when you arrived.”
No one ever mentioned his disloyal, wanton of a mother, and he hoped it was because she was long-forgotten by respectable society.
“Indeed,” he began, “I noticed yesterday your business is doing very—”
“Business, yes! I must get back to it. Charlotte, please help Lord Jeffcoat with whatever he wishes while I prepare our new employee to make his first deliveries.”
The boy appeared awfully young to be given such an important task. He wasn’t even holding all the confectionery yet, as the duchess was trying to give him more tins.
“I don’t need anything really,” he said to Charlotte who was still standing beside him, watching her bustling family.
“Edward needs another sack,” Beatrice said. “Or perhaps we should get him a pushcart.”
The females were overwhelming the lad.
“I thought having Edward would make it so none of us had to leave the shop, but maybe I should go with him,” Charlotte said softly, clearly thinking out loud more than discussing it with him. “Otherwise, he may have to make two trips.”
“Perhaps, if it’s the boy’s first day, I could accompany him wherever he needs to go.” Charles was surprised to hear himself make the offer. He had a long day of writs and briefs, but when she glanced up at him as if he were a hero, he was pleased he had made it.
Strangely, tough, her usual bright smile was not in evidence.
“That is most thoughtful and kind of you, my lord,” she said. “I cannot imagine any other gentleman in your position offering to do such a thing.”
He was no saint, but he also wasn’t going to accomplish his task of privately asking her out, so he might as well make himself useful before he went to the Inns of Court.
“Edward,” Miss Charlotte said, cutting through the noise of her mother and sisters, “come meet Lord Jeffcoat, a friend of the family.”
That startling introduction gave Charles pause. Was that how she saw him? He wasn’t sure if that was promising or if she considered him to be like an old familiar pair of slippers.
The boy approached. “Lord Jeffcoat,” Charlotte said, “this is Edward Percy.”
“Good day, my lord.” Edward bowed before sticking out a hand that entirely disappeared when Charles engulfed it for a simple handshake.
How old could he be? Ten perhaps?
“Good day, Mr. Percy. I bet you know London well. Would you mind if I accompanied you to see where your deliveries are?”
“Are you new here, my lord?”
Charles smiled at him. “No, but perhaps I can lend a hand. I shall be cooped up the rest of the day, and it would be nice to have a stroll first, assuming you were planning on walking.”
“I was, my lord.”
Charles looked up to see the other ladies watching their exchange. “You had best load us up,” he told them. “With Mr. Percy’s strong arms and my assistance, we shall have no trouble.”
Finally, Miss Charlotte gave him a watery version of her former smile, and he wished he knew her well enough to ask her about her troubles.
“WHAT DO YOU MAKE OF that?” Beatrice asked after the viscount and the boy had left.
“Surprising,” Charlotte said, watching them saunter down the sidewalk, “but nice. Lord Jeffcoat seems a bit serious. Being with a child might do him good, and I’m sure Edward has never walked beside a viscount before.”
When she turned around, her family, all three women, were staring at her. “What is it?”
“Did that young man go in the back room?” her mother asked.
Charlotte wondered at her mother’s question. “Of course, he did. You were back there with him.”
“No, dear girl, the other young man. Did Lord Jeffcoat go into the back room? With you?”
“Mother! Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“No reason,” Felicity said, but Beatrice grinned.
“Because our dear mother thinks any man who goes into the back room with you is destined to be your husband.” Bea laughed a moment. Then abruptly stopped. “Actually, she was right.” Turning to their mother, she asked, “How on earth could you have been right about that?”
Amity added, “Yes, Mother was right. So just take care with whom you go into the workroom.”
Charlotte gasped, raising her hand. “Oh, no! Too late!”
“What do you mean?” Amity asked, and Bea and her mother stared with interest.
“It’s fate. Irrevocable destiny. I was in the back with Edward Percy this morning.” She let them all think on that. “At least he’s off of leading strings.” Then she tried to laugh, but the rock w
here her heart used to be wouldn’t let her do more than shrug at her own jesting words.
“Silly girl,” said Bea, returning to the back to make toffee, followed by Amity.
“I like the young man,” her mother said.
“Now which one do you mean?” Charlotte asked, glancing around the shop to make sure everything was ready.
“Our new employee. I recall he was in here yesterday,” she said.
“Yes, something about him touched me, I confess. I’m glad you let him stay.”
“We certainly have plenty for him to do. Speaking of which, don’t you have marzipan to make?”
Someone tapped on the glass behind her. “And you might as well turn the sign around,” her mother added. “Maybe it won’t be such pandemonium in here if we let the customers start early.”
Her mother was wrong about that. As soon as Charlotte indicated they were open, a steady stream of people came in all morning. She fit in making marzipan bunnies and eggs with chocolate centers when there were lulls that her mother could handle by herself. At some point mid-morning, Edward returned, and when Charlotte glanced up, Lord Jeffcoat raised a hand in farewell outside the shop window but didn’t enter.
“How did it go?” she asked the boy.
“Well, miss. Everyone was ever so nice, although it could be because of the company I kept.”
Smart lad! It was hardly surprising he’d been treated well when strolling into a hotel or restaurant with a viscount. It had been a grand idea of Lord Jeffcoat’s. When Edward made his next deliveries, they would recall the likes of whom he associated and act accordingly.
“Why don’t you ask my daughters in the back if they need anything?” her mother said. “Supplies and whatnot, and then we’ll see what else you can do.”
“Yes, missus. One thing I wondered,” Edward added. “Since the deliveries are in two different directions, perhaps I could go one way, then come back for the rest of the sweets and go in the other. Also, the manager of The Albion — oh, miss, what a place to have a bang-up meal! — he said he would like a dozen more marzipan swans tomorrow and a dozen more rabbits, as he’s putting them atop his raspberry sponge-cakes.”
Then Edward darted between the counters and disappeared through the heavy, blue velvet curtain.
“That was well done,” Charlotte’s mother said. “He did the job and remembered an order.” Turning her attention, she asked, “May I help you?” to the first customer who approached the counter.
Charlotte was pleased with Edward but couldn’t help frowning as the next wave of customers washed over the threshold. When was she supposed to make twenty-four more marzipan sculptures? Maybe they should have hired an experienced confectioner, not a delivery boy.
“Now that he’s made his deliveries,” Charlotte mused at the same time as making change for the customer in front of her, “what more can Edward do until closing?” Suddenly, she doubted her actions. “I should have asked you first.”
Felicity glanced at her. “He’ll do fine. He can fit back here with us to restock the shelves in the mid-afternoon, and at closing, he’ll help clean. And perhaps, if he’s the right sort of person, he can learn how to be a confectioner. Isn’t that really what you saw in him?”
Charlotte recalled the moment Edward ate the chocolate the day before. “I suppose I thought he had the patience and the...,’” she trailed off. What made Rare Confectionery sweets extraordinary?
“The spark,” her mother finished. “I do see that in the boy, too.”
At least Charlotte’s judgment hadn’t been so disastrous in hiring as it had with where she placed her affections.
After that, the shop became so busy Charlotte didn’t have time to think about Lionel, which was a good thing, nor to make any marzipan sculptures, which was not good. Edward restocked the display shelves and the tins on the shelves on the other side of the room, and occasionally, he opened the door for a customer. In the late afternoon when they could see the day’s end in sight, Charlotte went into the back room to make tea and found Edward standing beside Amity, watching her stir the fondant.
Taking a cup of tea out to her mother, Charlotte waited for the next lull and said, “You know, ever since we started supplying confectionery to The Langham, we have been growing.”
“True,” Felicity said. “Which means you’d best make more marzipan before we run out, and the swans and bunnies, too.”
Charlotte took up her position behind the counter where she had a sturdy cast iron grinder for grinding almonds and a cool marble slab for creating her little sculptures.
“I was thinking,” she said casually, “that we might want to expand the shop.”
“Expand the shop?” Felicity exclaimed, her tone shocked. “How on earth would we do that? Cheaper and easier to add another case if we had time to fill it.” She pointed to the opposite wall. “And then move those tins into the back.”
Charlotte frowned. That was simply more of the same. “How about a little café?”
Her mother sipped her tea then shook her head as if already dismissing the idea.
Charlotte persisted, “Something like Gunter’s.” Often their parents had taken her and her sisters for ices at Berkeley Square before wandering over to Hyde Park for a stroll by the Serpentine. As an adult, she still thought the café with nothing but sweet treats, custards, cream ice, and frozen mousses to be a magical place. “I love that place, don’t you?”
In response, her mother tapped the book on the shelf behind them. Gunter’s Modern Confectioner sat alongside Le Confiturier Royal and The Art of Spinning and Casting Sugar.
“Yes, I do, but they are not on New Bond Street,” Felicity pointed out, “and we don’t know anything about running a café or providing anything other than confectionery. We would have to have servers and a pastry chef and whatnot. I cannot even think about how much work that would be, not to mention the cost.”
Nevertheless, she thought she saw excitement in her mother’s eyes.
“You always wanted one of us to learn the art of patisserie.”
That induced a smile. “True,” Felicity said, “mostly so I could eat such desserts right here for free, rather than having to go all the way to Maison Bertaux.”
Charlotte giggled. “All the way?” It was a mere fifteen-minute walk to Greek Street and one of the few London bakeries selling the authentic French pastries her mother adored. If they went as a family, her father would skip the patisserie and pop in next door to The Coach and Horses pub for a pint.
“Truthfully, dear one,” her mother continued, “I have considered, even dreamed about, a small establishment selling the highest quality of a very limited offering. Tea from the freshest leaves, the richest coffee beans offering their heavenly aroma, our confectionery, and the addition of some decadent pastries. A place for women to gather and chat in style and comfort.” Her expression took on a faraway look.
Charlotte could easily imagine it, too. Then her mother dashed it away with her next words. “But I don’t want to move from New Bond Street and risk losing our current customers, and I don’t want two separate places to run. What a nightmare! No, we must be satisfied with the best confectionery in Mayfair, and on the best street, too. Nothing to quibble about. We are blessed.”
Her mother was right on all points. Besides, as it was, her sisters had no interest in running the shop, so it was going to fall further upon Charlotte. She would remain behind the counter in the same spot for the rest of her life. That thought had never bothered her before because she loved everything about Rare Confectionery — the look of it, the aroma, the customers.
Now, all because Lionel Evans was gone, and she’d been left behind — and because his twice-a-week kisses had been exciting — that insidious notion of dissatisfaction had worked its way inside her, as inextricably as when she pressed fine sugar into ground almonds to make her marzipan paste. She had become restless paste!
Sighing sadly as the bell tinkled over the door, she let he
r thoughts become occupied with work. Customers streamed in all afternoon until the shelves were practically empty again. Her sisters had stayed all day making confectionery with Amity coming out twice to take first their mother’s place and then Charlotte’s, so each could have a few minutes to eat cheese and bread and their cook Lydia’s cold sliced beef in the back. They’d even brought in another chair during their busy week to amend the normal singular stool that only Beatrice favored.
After that week, things would return to normal, and they would bake a meat pie or, at the least, warm up Lydia’s food from the night before. Sometimes it was a cheap and cheerful treat to buy ham sandwiches from one of the sandwich boys who sold up and down the street.
At last, it was time to turn the sign to “Closed.” Edward began to sweep at once, while the rest of them stared at one another in mutual exhaustion. Charlotte could put her head down on the counter and sleep right there.
“Your sister is right,” Felicity said to Bea and Amity. “We are growing, and we do need help. I think we shall start by training this boy on whichever confectionery he would be most apt, maybe all three so he can help out with anything at a pinch.”
They all looked at Edward who blinked back at them. It seemed like a lot to put on a twelve-year-old’s shoulders, but it might be his best chance for a lucrative future if he had no other prospects. He smiled and nodded reassuringly.
“I would like to learn, missus.”
Their mother nodded. “That’s settled then. When you’re not cleaning or delivering or stocking shelves, you’ll be learning the trade from each of my daughters.” She sighed. “And whenever I can get away from the counter, I shall teach you myself.”
Charlotte sent a knowing look to Amity, who sent it on to Bea. Felicity might sigh over doing so, but she’d been a wonderful teacher and had always said she enjoyed it.
“All my girls can make every confection in this shop, don’t let them fool you with how they’ve divided their chores. But it’s true that some have a special talent for one thing over the other. No one can blend flavors into chocolate fondant like our duchess, nor curl a marzipan pig’s tail like Miss Charlotte, and no one can take the toffee off the stove at precisely the right moment like Mrs. Carson.”
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 4