Henry was silent a moment. “Jeffcoat did suffer severe heartbreak when he was younger. It affected him greatly, although he won’t admit it. I hope he tells you about it as it is not for me to do. Do you understand?”
Nodding, at least she’d had her concerns confirmed, even if all the duke had done was pique her curiosity further. Then she rattled the paper in her hand. “Why is Amity so concerned about an article in the paper? Even a bad one can hardly be that bad.”
His face froze.
“Can it?” she asked, fear clutching at her stomach.
“You had best read it. Amity thinks you may have to start some new advertisements to counteract the effects. Anyway, do not worry. The article is rather bleak and could hurt sales in the foreseeable future, but you have a tidy, economical business here, and even a short downturn in profits won’t hurt too much.” He tipped his hat, nodded, and turned to the door. “We’ll see you tonight for dinner. Come at seven o’clock so you can visit with your sister beforehand. Maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.”
Scarcely listening when the bell signaled his departure, she noticed the paper was folded to reveal the offending story, written by a Miss J. Whittaker. She had never heard of her.
“While the shopgirl tried to help, she clearly hadn’t a clue what was in the confectionery being sold . . . . There was a great variation in quality between one sweet and another, particularly the chocolates, which were a mystery of good and not-so-good . . . . The treacle toffee, heralded by many as superb, may have, indeed, been so in the past, but this writer found it to be sadly below anyone’s notion of what is tasty. Its flavor could best be described as distinctly unpleasant. In a word, it was inedible . . . .”
When she finished disparaging the sweets, the writer went on to malign the shop: “It was not as clean as one would wish. Granted, the day was a rainy one, but then with our London weather nearly always containing a few raindrops, that cannot be used as an excuse for a grimy, slippery floor . . . . Understaffing was the reason given for the shop’s appearance . . . . The shopgirl, while attentive at first, seemed to lack focus, unable to keep track of which customer she was helping.”
That last sentence stung as much as any of them, and they all, in fact, hurt Charlotte’s pride. And the reporter’s conclusion, stated in the paper for all to read, was plainly the reason for the sudden lack of customers: “While Rare Confectionery has been relied upon in the past for quality treats, it has clearly fallen into disorder and ignominy. For the same cost of their sweets, or even cheaper, delicious Cadbury’s and Fry’s confections can be found conveniently in many a shop in the form of fancy boxes and bars, without having to take a special trip to New Bond Street to be sold overpriced, inferior confectionery.”
For goodness sake! Even Charlotte wanted to rush out and get a Cadbury bar to take the nasty taste of the article out of her mouth.
Overpriced, inferior confectionery!
The duke had said they had an economical business and thought they would weather this little downturn easily. But Charlotte had just doubled the size of their space — and their monthly rent. And the shop’s bell hadn’t tinkled all morning. Tonight, she would finally tell him and Amity what she’d done.
Sending Edward out on the deliveries, she had time on her hands to get ahead by making fresh marzipan and starting to create the pigs people enjoyed with cherry juice blush to their skin.
By noon, they’d had a few customers, people who hadn’t read the paper and a couple regular patrons, but it hadn’t been their usual flow. Edward had been busy making toffee, which Charlotte tasted at every stage. It was satisfactory. She wasn’t even certain she could tell the difference if pushed between his and Beatrice’s. He was following her sister’s recipe to the letter. If that awful woman returned — and naturally, Charlotte now knew precisely who had written the article — the reporter would find it not merely edible but delicious.
She shook her head at the realization that one scathing review in a popular paper could do so much damage. Then she had a thought. Certainly that meant a good review could restore their reputation. The best thing would be to entice Miss Whittaker to return, stuff her smug cake-hole with delicious sweets, and make her recant.
However, that seemed unlikely. Not to mention dangerous. If something went wrong — and Charlotte had learned literally anything could go wrong at any moment — that might mean disaster. And it would be writ in the Evening Mail for all to see.
Perhaps she could entice another reporter into the shop. She supposed if she went to place an advertisement, she could ask to speak with the paper’s editor and determine if he would send out someone to review the shop. On the other hand, she was about to cut a hole in the ceiling and would have to close for a few days. She had to hold off until that was finished before she invited anyone in.
Perhaps a simple written rebuttal was in order. Wandering back around the other side of the counter, she looked through the paper again. As expected, there were letters from the public printed for everyone to read. Most were grievances and criticisms — about the water pressure in the East End, trash blowing into shops on Oxford Street, even a horse carcass left to rot north of Hyde Park, as well as the ever-present complaints about the stench of the Thames. A letter protesting a bad day at a confectioner’s shop seemed futile. Irksome as it was to let the article go unchallenged, writing a letter to the paper’s editor would be a watery defense.
With the hours stretching endlessly and passing slowly, Charlotte welcomed the return of Edward’s uncle.
“Here I am, miss, ready to do an honest job for honest pay.”
He slid a piece of paper across the counter toward her. Poor penmanship made the words hard to make out, and she realized they were mostly misspelled once she recognized them as street names. Below these were what she assumed were people’s surnames, all jumbled together.
“All them’s work I’ve done and done well. Now, about the price.” And he went on to discuss the cost of lumber and nails, balusters and a handrail, posts and newels, risers and —
“Perhaps if you could write all that down,” she asked.
His face soured. “I already wrote all of that,” he protested, pointing to the single sheet. “I haven’t got time to compose a novel for you.”
Fair enough. “What’s the final cost, Mr. Tufts?”
“Not too dear, not too cheap, you’ll find it perfectly reasonable.”
“What is it?” she asked again.
He named his price, and she did think it fair since she had no idea what the price of a set of stairs should be, but his cost wouldn’t empty their account.
“How long will it take? I’ll have to close the shop, and I want to do that for as brief a time as possible.”
“Yes, miss, of course. I’ll need the money up front to buy the supplies, and I can start as soon as I have them and finish as soon as I’m done.”
She stared hard at him. Was he giving her any real answers?
“An estimate of how long once you start, please, Mr. Tufts.”
“Shouldn’t take longer than three days.”
She nodded. That was quicker than she had hoped. “Do you work alone?”
He hesitated. “Yes. If I had another man with me, I’d have to charge you more.”
“Of course.” That made sense. “Give me a little time to think about this,” she told him. After all, she needed to follow up with some of the places he’d given her, and she needed to gather the funds. The only thing that gave her some assurance in this new endeavor was that the man was Edward’s uncle. Since she’d given his nephew a job, he would do right by her.
“Can’t wait too long,” he interjected quickly. “I’ve got other work to do. Getting busy, you know. So if you don’t hire me now, you may have to wait longer, and I don’t know when I will be able to fit you in. I was doing this quickly and so cheaply as a favor, being as how you hired Edward.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Tufts.” But she wouldn’t
be rushed. “I’ll let you know,” she added firmly.
“I’ll come back tomorrow for your answer,” he said, just as firmly, turned, and left, without even asking to say hello to his nephew.
Well!
“Edward, do you feel comfortable handling the front while I run out on some errands?”
He appeared through the blue curtain. “Yes, miss. It doesn’t seem as if I’ll be run off my feet.”
No, it certainly didn’t. Grabbing her jacket, hat, and gloves, Charlotte set off in a hackney to see some of the places Mr. Tufts had listed, and hopefully, speak to some of his previous employers. Also, as she was no ninny, she would drop into the offices of two of the builders she’d gleaned from the newspapers.
After all, she wasn’t trying to get a mansion built, just a simple staircase. How hard could it be? She and Edward could probably manage it themselves. That made her giggle as she directed the driver to the first address.
CHARLOTTE WAS A LITTLE early to arrive at her sister’s house on St. James’s Place. Amity had turned the massive antiquated home into a modern and welcoming one over the past year with bright, cheerful wallpaper and soothing paint, new rugs, and some soft furnishings.
“There’s my lovely girl,” Amity said, not getting up but dropping her knitting project onto her lap and holding out her hands.
Charlotte ran over, grasped her sister’s hands, and took the space beside her on the pretty rose-colored sofa.
“You look wonderful,” she told Amity, whose cheeks had filled out along with the rest of her. “The picture of health.”
“Thank you. I do feel good except for being tired. Anyway, I’m so glad you came.”
“Where is your dashing duke?” Charlotte asked.
“Around somewhere. He’ll be in shortly. What do you think?” Amity held up the knitting needles with cream-colored yarn and a mass of tangled wool.
Charlotte couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “What is it?”
Amity didn’t bother to look miffed. “First, I thought I would knit the baby a bonnet, but rather quickly, I decided it had best be something straight, like a blanket.”
“What changed your mind to making a spider’s web?” Charlotte asked, lifting one edge of the disaster. They laughed together.
“I shall buy you a soft, beautiful bonnet and a blanket for the baby,” Charlotte promised. “Please don’t inflict this disaster on my little lambkin, be it a boy or a girl.”
Picking up the knitting, needles and all, Amity tossed it into the chair across from her as the door to the drawing room opened. The duke entered followed by Lord Jeffcoat.
At once, Charlotte knew the viscount was the surprise her brother-in-law had mentioned.
“Have you given up on the knitting?” the duke asked. “But you had me buy you a cart load of wool for that bonnet.”
“It was a blanket,” Amity corrected, as Lord Jeffcoat nodded in greeting and moved forward to lift the snarled wool from the chair before sitting.
“Was it truly?” he asked. “I think you’re both wrong. I think it’s a...,” he paused and lifted it up, then held it out, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, it is like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
Charlotte smiled at the viscount’s attempt to placate. He looked particularly handsome in dark gray, with a cream cravat.
“You are all having fun at my expense,” Amity said. “And I don’t mind a bit! Give the wool away to someone who has more patience.”
“Don’t give up, dear sister.” Charlotte patted Amity’s hand. “Many find knitting to be entertaining. Why don’t I find you an easy pattern to try. You have loads of time on your hands now that young Edward is nearly as good a chocolatier as you are.”
“Whoa!” Both of the men exclaimed at once, as if reining in a wayward horse.
Charlotte chuckled. “My sister knows two things, gentlemen. One, that I think the world of her and believe her to be the best chocolatier ever, no matter that we tease each other. And two, she knows we need Edward to become as good as he possibly can so we don’t offer our customers inferior confectionery.”
“Which brings us to the newspaper article,” Amity said. “It sounds as though you had a particularly bad day.”
“What article?” Charles asked, and the duke filled him in before either of the ladies had a chance to.
“In my defense,” Charlotte said, “I was unaware that the confectionery I was selling that day had been made almost exclusively by Edward. Bea never said a word.”
Amity shook her head. “Nor did I. I am truly sorry. I had him here for a couple days of experimenting. I had no idea what he made would end up on the shelves. I should have paid more attention.”
“My duchess is a little scatter-brained of late,” the duke said, looking fondly at her. “I find it utterly charming.” He crouched down beside her, lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it.
Charlotte and the viscount exchanged a glance and a bemused smile until the duke took his seat.
“Be that as it may,” Charlotte said, “the reporter was not in the least bit charmed by anything at Rare Confectionery. I really cannot blame her. And I must hope I can find another reporter to give us a glowing review and undo the damage.” She took a deep breath. “But that will have to wait until after the construction starts.”
Three faces turned to her, although the viscount knew about everything.
Amity placed her hands upon her burgeoning stomach, and repeated, “Construction?”
Chapter Sixteen
“Yes,” Charlotte declared. It was time to tell her. “I am expanding Rare Confectionery.”
“You are expanding...,” Amity began and trailed off. “But I don’t see how that’s possible. Where are you expanding it to?”
“The only thing we need is a staircase,” Charlotte assured her. “I’ve signed a lease for the second floor.”
“You’ve signed a lease,” her sister repeated, and Charlotte wished Amity would stop doing that.
“I don’t think it’s an optimal time,” the duke pointed out. “I believe you said your business was down already.”
Amity looked alarmed, but Charlotte didn’t want her sister getting the least bit upset.
“As I said, another article, favorable this time, can bring it back up again, and all the problems that the reporter encountered have been solved. Except for being a little short-staffed.”
“Your staff is rather short,” Lord Jeffcoat pointed out. They all looked at him. Charlotte believed it was the first jest she’d ever heard him speak. While she appreciated the attempt at levity, her sister still looked concerned.
“Edward may be short, but he does the work of a full-grown man, and he’s picked up on making confectionery like a duck takes to water.”
“But ... but ... what will we do with the upstairs?” Amity asked. “How many more chocolates and trays of toffee and marzipan pears will we need? And what happened to the pillow maker.”
“Her son took her away,” Charlotte said. “I thought he was harsh at first, but he was a good man looking after his mother. Just as any of us would do. The duke for the dowager, us for our mother, and,” she paused and looked at Lord Jeffcoat, who was frowning. The duke shook his head. She continued, “And so we have all that room to create a café.”
“A café!” Amity exclaimed.
“Will there be coffee?” the duke asked, a well-known lover of the rich brew.
“Yes, naturally,” Charlotte said, “and our confectionery and pots of chocolate served just the way Amity likes and tea.” She decided to keep talking until someone said what a good idea it was. “I was thinking it would be lovely to hire a pâtissier, but he or she would need a place to work. There is a kit and cargo worth of space upstairs, but as Lord Jeffcoat reminded me, we shall need plumbing and an oven if we are to have a kitchen. A pity the pillow woman never put one in. All she had was the tiniest coal stove for making her tea.”
“In a pinch, that small stove is all yo
u need to make coffee,” the duke mused. Then he turned to his friend. “Hold on. Jeffcoat, you knew about this?”
The viscount nodded. “It was not my news to tell, Pelham, so don’t become huffish with me. You’re like a brother to me, but a woman’s secrets are her own to disclose, or not.”
Charlotte liked him all the more for saying that.
“Plumbing and an oven,” Amity echoed. “And Mother is pleased with all this?”
Charlotte pursed her lips.
“Oh,” Amity said. “I thought it was only me who didn’t know.”
Shaking her head, Charlotte explained, “Beatrice doesn’t know either, because she left for Scotland and the lease had to be signed immediately. Elsewise, our landlord might have put any type of business above our heads.”
“But now sales are down,” Amity said.
“That won’t last. And we have money in savings to create a beautiful space upstairs.”
“You and young Mr. Percy won’t be able to handle all that.”
“That’s true. We will have to hire more employees. At least one. A server to take the orders to the tables.”
“Look at her,” the viscount said. “Miss Rare-Foure, you have grown radiant with excitement.”
She put her hands to her cheeks. “I admit, I find the challenge of creating a new experience for our customers at Rare Confectionery to be beyond thrilling. Maybe we’ll even have ices like—”
“Gunter’s,” Amity filled in. “You always loved that place. We all did, but you the most.” Then she tilted her head. “But do you know anything about hiring a server?”
“No,” Charlotte said, “nor a builder.” She made a decision to put her sister’s mind at ease, even though, until that second, she hadn’t made her mind up about Mr. Tufts. “But I managed it. We now have a builder with references who gave us a good price, and he can start immediately. I think he will treat us well because he is related to Edward.”
As she’d hoped, that information caused both the duke and Amity to relax. After all, they all had acknowledged she’d done well to hire the boy. There was no need to mention she’d been unable to speak with anyone whom Mr. Tufts had worked for. She’d seen some impressive residences but had no idea what work he had done at any of them. She could hardly knock on doors — yet, in fact, she had done that at one townhouse, and the housekeeper said she thought she recognized the builder’s name. The woman had been unable to say for sure, nor did she know the scope of the work.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 17