My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “Please, Miss Stadden, this is not the time.”

  “And now he’s begging me,” she proclaimed with glee.

  Meanwhile, her mother looked as if she might hit him with her opera glasses.

  Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Miss Rare-Foure herself.

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlotte could see what was happening. A jealous woman from Lord Jeffcoat’s past — probably an old flame — sought to ruin their evening. Naturally she would like to know more about the pretty creature, fine-boned, fair-haired, and bejeweled as she was. But not at that moment. She wanted to hear the concert.

  Turning awkwardly in her seat, she managed to get her head close to the viscount’s and look back at the woman, who seemed to be accompanied by a fire-breathing dragon, or her dear mama!

  “The concert is about to start,” Charlotte whispered loudly. “According to the program, there will be an intermission, so you can go into the lobby and gabble to your heart’s content. But right now, you are disturbing those around you. It’s rather rude.”

  Stunned silence met her proclamation. Good! She had their attention. Then she rummaged in her reticule and drew out her ever-present white paper bag, glad it had softened over the past day into a less loud and crinkly version. Opening it, she turned down the edges to reveal what was left.

  “Would you care for a sweet? If you tuck it into your cheek and let it melt, it will keep at bay the desire to talk when you shouldn’t. At least, it works well on children. Will you try it?”

  And she held out the bag to the woman who was about her own age. Her offering was met with a stony-face, pursed lips, and a clenched jaw. Then, as if a match had been lit beneath her, she exploded out of her seat, standing with a great deal of gestures and inarticulate noises, and then she said, “Come along, Mother. This place has become far too common!”

  Her mother stood with some difficulty as she’d been wedged between the velvet-covered wooden arms of her chair. Charlotte thought a little butter over her hips might help to release her. Eventually, the woman stood, huffed loudly, glared at everyone around her, and exited the row, followed by her daughter.

  At the last moment, the pretty blonde whirled around and addressed Charlotte.

  “I wouldn’t be too smug if I were you. It’s obvious why he’s with you.” With that, she turned and left, just as the orchestra played their first notes.

  Puzzled, Charlotte turned around. Lord Jeffcoat was fidgeting beside her, smoothing his coat and keeping his face averted.

  “Are you very fond of confectionery?” she asked. “Is that what that lady meant?”

  “We’ll talk after,” he promised.

  Nodding, she held out the bag to him. He hesitated, his thoughts impossible to discern in the darkened auditorium. Then he reached in and took a piece.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, against her ear, making her shiver.

  Inappropriately, she wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and breathe in his fragrance. Luckily, she could catch it anyway. Would she ever smell gingerbread or rum and not think of this man? Or want to be kissed by him?

  WHEN BEATRICE WANDERED in at one o’clock the following day, Charlotte was fit to be tied.

  “Why are you coming in later and later?” she asked her older sister, trying to keep from sounding peevish, but feeling a little desperate. She and Edward were working hard from opening until closing, but they were barely keeping up. And she hadn’t let Edward make any more toffee, not without Beatrice there to supervise.

  “Good day to you, too, sister dear,” Beatrice said.

  Charlotte noticed she wasn’t wearing her regular day gown, but a ... traveling outfit! Nor did she take off her coat or head into the back room.

  “What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, feeling a little leaf of dread unfurl inside her. Plainly, Beatrice was not there to work.

  “I have spent all morning packing up our home. Mr. Carson and I are going to Scotland. There is some emergency with the flock and the well water.”

  Charlotte knew her mouth had dropped open but was at a loss how to clamp down on her burgeoning panic. “You’re leaving town?”

  “Yes. I was going to discuss it with you yesterday, but with the royal request and then your abrupt departure to who knows where, I didn’t get around to it.”

  “But with Amity out...,” Charlotte trailed off.

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” But she shrugged, as if this were a matter of a being out of a stick of butter or a pound of almonds.

  “Can’t Mr. Carson go alone?” Charlotte wished she could take the words back since Beatrice was still considered a newlywed.

  Her sister looked chagrinned. “It might be weeks, and I can’t be parted from him that long. I know it’s selfish of me.”

  “No, I understand.” Charlotte’s thoughts flitted to Lord Jeffcoat. If he were her husband — what a presumptuous thought! — then she wouldn’t want to let him go away for weeks, either.

  “But I’m not simply walking out and leaving you without toffee.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I spent all day with Edward yesterday. He has got the hang of it, I promise you. I even told him about another flavor I wanted to test, and he made it perfectly.”

  “A new flavor?” Charlotte asked with trepidation. It didn’t seem a good time for experimenting.

  “Yes, our new toffee is based on the Everton brand. We’re going to add some ginger essence.”

  “Ginger,” Charlotte repeated, startled at how many times she’d been musing about that spice recently. But everyone knew the famous Everton was popular. “And Edward is going to launch this new toffee without you here?”

  Beatrice grinned. “I told you, he made it perfectly. I even gave him The Frugal Cook to keep in the back, which has the recipe right in it. Where is he, by the way? I brought him something.”

  “I just sent him out to do an extra delivery. The Langham didn’t have enough chocolates to get through the week, which makes little sense since the order has been the same since—”

  “I can’t stay,” Beatrice interrupted, indicating there was no point in Charlotte’s next tactic, to drop to her knees and begin pleading.

  “But I don’t have Amity either, nor Mother.”

  “Mother should be home soon. How long can they possibly stay at the seaside?” Beatrice asked.

  Charlotte had no idea, but then, she felt as if she had little control over anything anymore. Was there a point in telling her sister about the expansion of their shop if she wasn’t even going to be there? Charlotte didn’t think she could stomach it if Bea said something unkind about the notion, especially as it was now too late.

  “When Amity’s little one comes along, things will get back to some semblance of normalcy,” Beatrice said.

  They looked at one another, neither one of them believing that.

  Then her sister came closer, passed through the space between the counters, and wrapped her arms around Charlotte. It was an unexpected but comforting gesture.

  “I’ll get back as soon as I can,” her sister promised. “And then things will return to how they were with my being insufferably peevish and barking at you from the back.”

  Charlotte tried to smile but failed.

  “And we’ll have Edward so everything will be less work.”

  Yesterday had been more work along with a loss of income, but she didn’t say that.

  “Are you going to see Amity before you leave?”

  Beatrice nodded. “Yes. I’m going there now.”

  “Please tell her I’ll send Edward tomorrow as soon as he’s helped me open. He’ll take supplies with him. Not only must they make more, they must label everything. And tell her—”

  “Oh, my,” Beatrice said. “I don’t think her thoughts are so focused on chocolate-making.”

  “I know they’re not, but she’s still our chocolatier. I’ll remind Edward to have her write down what everything is supposed to be. But I was go
ing to add she must watch him and make certain he doesn’t change the recipe.”

  “I’ll remind her, but she seems as apt to start singing a silly nursery lullaby as to pay attention.” Beatrice tilted her head and fixed her with her serious gaze, a brighter blue than Jeffcoat’s but reminding her of him anyway. “You may have to start making the chocolates, too. You were good at it, I recall.”

  “When would I do that?” Charlotte asked dully, feeling like Cinderella in Perrault’s fairy tale, but with no godmother in sight.

  “You are in charge,” Beatrice reminded her. “Better than any of us, you know the financial state of Rare Confectionery. Perhaps until Amity’s child arrives, you should hire someone to work the counter, freeing you to make chocolates, unless Edward turns out to be as good at that as he is at toffee-making.”

  “I’ve tasted only his burnt batches,” Charlotte muttered.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Bea said. “Here’s what I bought for our apprentice. A little expensive, but I’m sure he’ll be careful with it.” She drew a thermometer out of her satchel.

  “He already understands what to look for while cooking the toffee,” she assured Charlotte, “and I showed him the cold water trick to test it, but this will help him.” Beatrice handed the instrument to Charlotte, who stared at the mercury-filled glass tube.

  “Just stick this end in and read the scale. About 280 degrees should do the trick,” Beatrice said, a bit too casually. “Also, yesterday, I gave him an hourglass and marked it for the right time when he should start to test the consistency.”

  Thank you,” Charlotte said. Her sister had done all she could. They hugged again, and then Bea was gone. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she used the rest of the lull in customers to make as many marzipan sculptures as she could.

  CHARLOTTE WAS THRILLED to turn over the shop’s sign at the end of the day, feeling merely the tiniest twinge of guilt when she made eye contact with a man about to push the door open. Offering him a regretful smile, she turned her back. With her luck, he was probably the wealthiest man in England and had wanted to buy every last sweet.

  That wouldn’t be hard for inventory was woefully low. She hadn’t even allowed Bea to take any to Scotland, as her sister could make toffee when she got there if her new staff was clamoring for it.

  Her staff!

  Charlotte needed a staff, too. Down one and a half confectioners, because Amity was definitely not producing her usual amount, she had but one young boy to assist her. And Bea was probably correct about hiring counter help, except Charlotte had always enjoyed that part of her job.

  Edward had returned from deliveries and gone directly into the back room to make confection. He exclaimed with joy over the thermometer. When customers were in the shop, they couldn’t talk, but when he heard the bell tinkle, knowing they were alone, he occasionally called out a question.

  That made Charlotte smile, recalling when she and her sisters were younger how they would ask their mother for instructions from the back room. Felicity, like Charlotte, preferred to chat with customers.

  How strange to be the only one of her family remaining in the confectionery!

  Edward had completed all his closing tasks and hung up his apron. Donning his coat, he looked weary. Charlotte hoped he didn’t regret working for her. Surely, it was better than a workhouse, at any rate.

  He was at the door when she recalled Lord Jeffcoat’s imminent arrival. Hating to ask, but with no Beatrice there, she had no choice.

  “Edward, can you stay any longer?”

  He turned around. “Sorry, miss. I promised my mother I would go straight home. I have two younger sisters to look after while she takes in piecework. She finishes gentlemen’s shirts.”

  Charlotte felt guilty for having asked him. In comparison to him looking after his family and his mother still facing hours of work, what right had she to try to use him as a chaperone? Besides, she was a grown woman, not a child who needed watching over, as if she or the viscount couldn’t be trusted. It was absurd.

  In the moment her thoughts were churning, Edward’s expression had fallen. “I am sorry to let you down, miss.”

  “Oh, no,” she reassured him, “you haven’t. Don’t give it another thought. Everything is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Please give your mother my regards. I hope to meet her someday.”

  He nodded, albeit without enthusiasm. He’d told Charlotte in the past that his home was not for the likes of her to visit, but he would bring his mother in if ever she could spare the time.

  The boy had scarcely disappeared from the shop when she heard a rapping on the glass. And there he was, her new friend, the viscount.

  IN A FEW MINUTES, CHARLES found himself exiting Rare Confectionery and entering through a doorway between it and the shop next door. Truthfully, he’d never even noticed the door, and now, as Charlotte had not procured a chaperone, he followed her quickly inside. The less time anyone saw them alone together, the better.

  Shutting it firmly behind her, she locked it. Then, in the tight confines of the narrow utilitarian stairwell, she passed him, her light citrus and floral fragrance instantly entering his head. As she proceeded him to the next floor, she gave him a splendid view of her ankles.

  Charles sighed. He had to stop thinking of her in those terms particularly at that moment when she needed a friend. She’d already explained how Bea had left London for her husband’s country estate and that Edward had needed to go home.

  Upon hearing of their impending inappropriate seclusion, Charles had nearly begged off the favor. He ought to tell her they would go upstairs another time when she had a companion. Except Charlotte seemed a little sad, and the only thing that brought a smile to her face was the notion of showing him the new space for Rare Confectionery’s café.

  After she unlocked a door at the top of the stairs, he followed her into an empty room with dull floors in need of polish. The walls, though, were freshly painted, and the windows at the back, overlooking the mews, were sparkling. Not a cobweb in sight on the plaster ceiling either. In the center of the empty room, Charlotte turned to face him.

  Somewhat shyly, she asked, “What do you think?”

  He chose his words carefully. “It is a good, clean room with plenty of space.”

  She nodded, satisfied by his declaration. “Come see the front room overlooking the street. I can practically imagine it furnished, although I’m torn between faux bamboo tables or something with inlay and a hint of gilt accent.”

  “Why not both?” he asked, engendering an odd look from her. Obviously he had betrayed his ignorance in all matters of decoration and furnishings.

  Following her toward the front, he passed through a wide arch. “It’s a good thing there isn’t a wall and door here. I like how this whole floor seems almost to be one space.”

  “Exactly my thoughts,” she agreed, and he regained some pride. “Though depending what we end up serving,” she added, “we might need to build a little kitchen in the back.”

  He swallowed. Did she have any idea how much it would cost to put in plumbing up here if there were no pipes for taps and a drain? He had no notion of the cost, either, but it was probably considerable.

  “Perhaps you should use the kitchen downstairs in the back room until you start to show a profit.”

  “I am rethinking this,” she said, giving him a start. After all, she’d signed a contract. “We should have soft cushioned chairs in here so ladies will stay longer, drink more chocolate, and eat more confectionery.”

  He smiled at the image of her customers growing larger as they lingered in the dining area eating sweets. But it was no joking matter that she was focusing on the details of decoration and not the great expense of putting in a sink and an oven.

  “With your current revenue from the shop, will you be able to do everything you wish to do up here?”

  She was staring toward the front windows, lost in thought, and he could admire everything about her in silence
for a long moment. At last, she turned.

  “Wool gathering,” she said with an apologetic tone. “I was imagining those three-tiered serving dishes, not silver but porcelain, with our confectionery and some biscuits on all three plates. I wonder if we ought to hire a pastry chef, a pâtissier if I am to be specific, to make proper desserts or if Mother will think that strays too far from our primary purpose. Would people expect to buy the pastries in the shop downstairs the way they do our confectionery after they eat them up here?”

  He thought she was asking a rhetorical question as happened often in the courtroom, but by her attentive expression, he realized she was awaiting his response.

  “I suppose you could offer in your dining area more than what you sell downstairs. If I am in a restaurant or café, I never expect to be able to buy anything on the menu to take home with me.”

  “That’s true. So our shop could remain as it is below, with perhaps another sales counter up here.”

  She turned around and went through the arched opening. “I think the stairs from below will come out somewhere about there.” She gestured to the right-hand wall, then she clapped her hands. “It is so exciting.” In the next instant, she looked practically distraught.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, taking a step closer.

  “To think, not one of my family even knows about this yet. Only you.” She glanced at him. “I know it’s not your place to say,” she hesitated, “but you don’t think I’ve made a mistake, do you?”

  His heart sank. God, he hoped not!

  “I think you have a good head upon your shoulders, and if you think your shop has the necessary funds to expand, then it probably has.”

  Probably. He took another step toward her. She ought to back up. She didn’t, so he veered away to pace the length of the room and come to a stop where she’d indicted the stairs would be.

  “It’s a very good idea to have a staircase put in, not simply for the ease of your customers in the shop below, but also in case of fire.”