Edward nodded solemnly, looking daunted.
“But if you can do any of those things passingly well,” Felicity added, “then you will be a tremendous help to us.” She clapped her hands, then brushed them off. “Today is done and dusted. Are we all ready to go home?”
However, after Charlotte and her mother had said goodbye to everyone, including Edward, locked up, and began the short walk home, Felicity surprised her.
“I think you should be in charge of Edward. He was a grand find, and I’m pleased you hired him. You have a good head on your shoulders.”
Before Charlotte could thank her, there was a noise behind them of a window breaking and a crash, both unfamiliar sounds on New Bond Street. They whirled in their tracks.
Chapter Four
“Gracious!” Charlotte’s mother exclaimed.
In front of their shop door, where a moment earlier they’d been standing, was a brass table lamp surrounded by broken shards of glass, glazing, and pieces of the window frame.
“And that’s that!” yelled a female voice from above.
Looking up, Charlotte saw the window that had broken when the lamp went through it. A six-over-eight sash was hanging dangerously askew.
“Extraordinary,” Felicity said.
It was exactly that. For above their shop was a pillow maker. That was all the woman had done Charlotte’s entire life. She took the finest goose down, stuffed it in the most luxurious silk and satin cases, and made pillows that were sold in various shops on Bond Street, in the Burlington Arcade around the corner, and on Oxford Street. Moreover, the pillow woman, as Charlotte thought of her, was nearly always silent. At that instant, she couldn’t think of her real name.
“What should we do?” she asked her mother.
A moment later, the door that sheltered the staircase to the second floor flew open and a man exited in a hurry. With a grim expression, he looked at the mess on the pavement and at Charlotte and Felicity, and then he hurried off.
“I suppose we should look in on her,” Charlotte’s mother stated and marched toward the open door.
In all her years, Charlotte had been upstairs only once, when she was about six, to be introduced to the tenant above their heads. Everything had been clean and tidy in the spacious suite of rooms, one containing massive boxes of down and shelves of beautiful fabric, and one containing the pillow woman, who was also the sole seamstress. She’d seemed old to Charlotte back then and hadn’t been too friendly. While being calm and quiet, focused on her work, she’d told the six-year-old not to touch anything in case she had sugar or chocolate on her hands.
At the top of the stairs, they encountered another open door and entered.
“Hello, Mrs. Hafflen, are you all right?” Felicity called out. “Are you well?”
“Who is that?” came the voice, not soft as Charlotte recalled but sharp. And when they went in farther, nothing was as it had been years ago. It was plainly chaos. The bins were in disarray and goose down was everywhere. In fact, some tiny feathers were floating in the air since the man had recently walked through and disturbed them.
“Careful not to breathe it in,” her mother said, putting her gloved hand to her mouth and nose. Charlotte did the same until they’d passed through the room into the front one that overlooked the street. Amazingly, in the middle of more muddle, Mrs. Hafflen sat by the broken window sewing on her whisper-quiet Singer machine, her foot pumping the treadle under her skirts.
She looked up while continuing to sew at a slow, constant rate.
“Mrs. Hafflen,” Felicity persisted. “I am Mrs. Rare-Foure from the confectionery downstairs. Are you well?” she repeated.
The woman’s eyes appeared glassy, unable to look directly at them. Then she turned back to her work at hand where she was stitching two different colors of satin together, an odd and ugly combination, the fabric not lining up properly to make a pillow case.
They waited in silence a moment until the seamstress yanked the fabric from the machine and held it up, close to her face, before she clucked angrily. Then she tossed it to the floor where there were others already strewn in disarray.
“Damn it all!” she swore. “I’ve sewn it closed again. Did you see? There’s no opening for the down.”
Charlotte looked at her mother, who winced.
“Who was that man?” Felicity tried again to get the old woman to tell her what was happening.
“My son. The fool wants me to stop. If only I’d had daughters. Do you have daughters?” she asked.
Charlotte felt her mother startle beside her. How sad!
“Yes,” Felicity said. “Three.”
Mrs. Hafflen sighed. “He said I had made enough pillows for all of England and had piles of money, to boot. He said I had to go live with him. What if I don’t want to? And then who will make the pillows? So I threw my lamp at him, and the bloody fool ducked!”
Charlotte and her mother took another few steps closer. Beside the pillow woman and her untidy pile of cases, there were empty teacups and the remains of a pie. How long had she been sitting there no longer able to ply her craft properly?
“Can we do anything?” Felicity asked. “It’s closing time, after all, and growing dark.”
“Closing time?” the woman repeated before shaking her head. “No, he’s coming back. The dunce!” Then she peered at them. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”
Charlotte had been silent up until then but drew from her pocket the bag of confectionery she always carried with her in case they met with any children on the walk home, which happened almost every night.
“We came to give you some sweets.”
“Truly?” The woman’s eyes focused for the first time on the bright white bag with the blue shop name. “I haven’t had anything sweet in a donkey’s age.”
Charlotte held it out to her. The woman took it slowly, opened it, and reached in for a chocolate. After inhaling the aroma with closed eyes, Mrs. Hafflen stuffed it into her mouth.
“Oh, that’s good. Very good, indeed! Must be careful not to get any on the fabric,” she muttered, helping herself to another one.
“Do you think her son is really coming back tonight?” Charlotte asked her mother in a whispered voice.
Her mother shrugged. “I hope so. I suppose we shall wait and see.”
“How long?” Charlotte asked.
“At least for a while,” Felicity said. “After all, her son looked to be a determined man, so hopefully he will return. If not, I suppose she shall come home to dine with us.”
Looking around, Charlotte’s mother spied a small cast iron stove, a kettle perched atop. “Let’s see if she has some coal,” Felicity said. “We might as well make a pot of tea.”
JEFFCOAT COULDN’T GET out of Lincoln’s Inn fast enough. His thoughts were far from the dry books that made the law seem boring. When he was in court, even as a student in the moot court, observing, taking notes, it was anything but that.
It had been over a week since he’d last seen Charlotte Rare-Foure, deciding after dropping off Edward Percy that he’d better let the busy Easter week finish before approaching her again.
Charles wished he had a reason to go into the shop besides wanting to see her. He didn’t want Waverly to catch wind of it until a favorable reception from the young woman was assured. And that was the worst of it — Miss Charlotte had given him no inclination of any interest.
Charles was no coward, however. He’d never shied away from approaching a woman to whom he felt an attraction. And he’d never been turned down yet. So why had he then waited another entire week before sauntering along Old Bond Street until it turned into New Bond Street? Moreover, why had he been in two shops next door to Rare Confectionery but not yet made it inside where he hoped Charlotte to be?
Actually, he knew from chatting with Pelham’s wife that Charlotte often opened the store and then left mid-afternoon, letting the snapdragon sister close up shop. Since they were no longer run off the
ir feet with Easter custom, he’d hoped their routine had returned to normal. If so, he ought to be able to intercept her smoothly as she strolled out of the shop.
Except she hadn’t. And he was becoming fidgety. Not only that, he knew he looked suspicious. For the past few minutes, he’d loitered in Finnigans, the luxury luggage and trunk maker, staring out their front windows in case Charlotte went by. He hadn’t even realized he’d picked up a leather satchel until a shop clerk came over to stare at him. Hard. With frowning eyebrows.
Slowly, he set it down, glanced at the stack of wicker picnic baskets, imagining taking Charlotte on a picnic someday soon, and then left the shop. With determination, he walked steadfastly down to the confectionery, not pausing to see who or what was inside. He simply entered, hearing the bell tinkle as he pushed open the door.
To his relief, Charlotte seemed to be alone, bent over the counter working on something.
Thus, he startled when a second head appeared. Edward. Before Charles could recover, the boy spoke.
“Good day, my lord,” Edward said, sounding supremely happy. “I’m learning to make marzipan, not the little sculptures. Not yet. But grinding almonds and sugar together with a drop of water. Do you want to see?”
With a glance at Charlotte to make sure it was acceptable, Charles approached the counter to see they had two bowls on a marble slab. Edward tilted his forward so Charles could look into it.
“It looks good,” Charles agreed. “Or at least, I think it does.”
Charlotte, who still hadn’t spoken, tipped hers forward. It seemed to contain an identical substance.
“Yes, I can see you’re doing excellent work,” Charles added. “You’ve managed to match Miss Rare-Foure’s precisely.” He turned his attention to her. “Good day. How is the confectionery business?”
Charlotte appeared unexpectedly dour, greeting him with neither a smile nor her usual exuberance. “Good day, Lord Jeffcoat. It goes well, I suppose. We’re relieved to have a little quiet time.”
He paused. Was she indicating her displeasure at his unexpected arrival? Her heretofore placid face had a gravity to it of a person with problems.
At that moment, the bell tinkled again, and they all turned to see a duo of customers. Charlotte frowned, pursing her lips in displeasure, and that surprised him more than anything.
Two women wandered along the display case, looking at the offerings.
Without moving from her spot, Charlotte called out to them, “May I help you?”
Charles backed away from the counter to give the ladies more space and took up a place on the opposite side of the room where tins, waiting to be chosen and filled, lined the wall.
One of the women pointed at something. “What is this exactly?”
With an audible sigh, making Charles cringe at her rudeness, Charlotte went to the back side of the display, bent down, identified the confection, and then said, “That’s a chocolate with raspberry essence.”
He knew she would offer a sample next. He’d seen her do it during the time he’d stood there with Waverly, to every single customer. And yet, she didn’t. She waited in silence.
“Is it possible to taste it?” the woman persisted.
“When you go to the fishmonger,” Charlotte said, “do you taste his wares ahead of time? Or at the green grocer’s, do you ask to eat one of his apples or pears before you buy?”
“No, but—” the customer began.
“Have you had chocolate before?” Charlotte asked.
“Why, yes, of course,” the woman answered.
“And raspberries?” Charlotte continued. “Have you ever had a raspberry in all your life?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, that particular confection tastes just like that — chocolate and raspberries.”
Charles would have taken the point that Charlotte was in a horrendous mood, but these customers didn’t. The other female asked, “What about the marzipan?”
“What about it?” Charlotte asked, folding her arms across her generous bosom, which he wished he wasn’t staring at. He averted his eyes at once.
“Is it all the same?” the woman asked.
“The same as what?” Charlotte responded, being difficult.
“I mean, does it have flavors and centers?”
“Yes,” Charlotte answered with another sigh.
Charles glanced at Edward, who caught his eye with a grown-up expression of chagrin.
“What are the flavors and the fillings?” the customer asked. “It would help if the confectionery was labeled.”
“It has never needed to be labeled before,” Charlotte pointed out, as if these customers were particularly obtuse.
Charles nearly put a hand to his forehead. It had never needed labeling, he would wager, because a helpful shopgirl had always explained the confectionery and given samples.
An unpleasant scrabbling noise overhead, followed by a woman’s cry, caused the hair on his head to stand up, or so it felt. The customers looked up, too. Charlotte and Edward ignored it.
The whole encounter was so unpleasant that the three turned for the door without purchasing anything.
“Would you like a sample?” young Edward called after them, but they left, one of the women muttering about Chatman’s Chocolates on Regent Street.
Charlotte returned to the bowl of marzipan. When Edward settled in beside her, he said, “You used to always give out samples.”
She shrugged noncommittally and said nothing. Charles dreaded the entrance of any more customers as it was painful to watch her treatment of them.
“Would you like to taste the marzipan, my lord?” Edward asked.
“Hm.” He glanced at Charlotte, wishing she would offer him that smile he found so captivating, but she didn’t. As serious as a gravedigger, she fixed him with her deep-brown gaze.
“Some people don’t like marzipan,” she said softly.
“I like it,” Edward said, looking from Charles to Miss Rare-Foure, but she merely shrugged.
Where was the young woman who’d exclaimed in delight over swan-shaped pastry filled with meat at her sister’s reception dinner? Or the happy female who’d excitedly twirled to show off her Turkish costume at the fancy-dress ball? This Miss Rare-Foure seemed as bland and uninteresting as cheese.
Nonetheless, she reached beside her to the display case, withdrew a cream-colored leaf, and handed it to him. With her bare hand!
“My hands are clean for making confectionery,” she said when she caught him staring.
Taking off his gloves, he let her drop it onto his palm. Bringing this to his nose, he sniffed it.
“The scent makes my mouth water,” he confessed. And then he bit the leaf in half. “Sweet,” he said, “and with such a delicate flavor. Oranges, I think?” He said it as a question, hoping she would appreciate his effort.
She nodded without enthusiasm, nor did she look particularly pleased.
“Sometimes, Miss Charlotte adds rose-water and sometimes orange-water,” Edward explained. “You can buy marzipan paste already made, but she grinds the almonds herself and mixes in the sugar. Now I know how to do it.”
She nodded at the boy’s words.
Charles looked in the display case at the various shapes of her marzipan. “You’re truly an artist,” he said.
She stiffened. “If you’ll excuse me.”
With that, she disappeared swiftly into the back room through a heavy drape of blue velvet.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked softly, so she wouldn’t hear, then realized the inappropriateness of querying a child.
“Miss Charlotte is moody sometimes,” the boy responded.
Suddenly, there was a loud thump from upstairs, and then another.
“They’re moving out all the seamstress’s things today. Poor old lady. She gave me a pillow.”
“Did she?” Charles was starting to think the confectionery was a bit like Bedlam. On the other hand, he thought of how lovely Charl
otte’s smile used to be and how sparkling her eyes and enthusiastic her temperament — the opposite of the law clerks at Lincoln’s Inn.
How desperately he wanted her happiness in his life! That startling realization was followed quickly by a question only he could answer: Was there a better time than the present?
“Carry on,” he said to the boy, with a nod at the bowl, and then deciding to beard the lion in its den, he passed through the space between the counters and followed Miss Rare-Foure through the velvet curtain.
Chapter Five
Charlotte whirled around upon hearing the footsteps, knowing as she did that they didn’t belong to Edward and instantly wishing she’d kept her back to the curtain.
Too late, she faced Lord Jeffcoat while she was still wiping at her tears. His surprised, discomfited expression probably mirrored her own.
“I apologize,” she said, knowing it marked her as an emotional female to be found crying in the workroom. What’s more, people didn’t come to a confectionery to encounter sadness, and she’d tried desperately to tamp down her sentimental feelings over the past two weeks. In most cases, holding her misery at bay had caused her to be dispirited and uncharacteristically crabbed, as she felt that day.
“My fault entirely,” the viscount said, not taking another step closer. “You have nothing for which to apologize. I said something to upset you out there.” He gestured behind him to the front of the shop. “And then I barged in here when you were indisposed. I am extraordinarily sorry. My actions are unforgivable.”
He probably thought her a mawkish ninny. She could hardly tell him that any mention of her being an artist felt like an arrow to her heart.
“Truly, my lord, I’m glad you liked the marzipan, and it was good of you to notice the subtle hint of orange blossom.”
“But neither of those things were what upset you,” he pointed out.
She considered his intelligent face and decided to tell him something of the truth.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 5