My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  “Exactly. Heartbreak and humiliation,” he added, thinking the latter destroyed his father nearly as much as the former. “But your parents wouldn’t have to read about it in the morning, afternoon, and evening standard, or hear it whispered every time they walked into a room, or even into the chambers of Parliament.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I wouldn’t treat my beloved husband in such a fashion no matter if anyone ever found out. Even if one could get away with it in perfect secrecy, one would know it deep down and feel its sting the rest of one’s life. Don’t you think? I don’t know how anyone lives with the guilt.”

  “Nor I,” he agreed, staring into her eyes.

  He leaned down and kissed her, relishing the way she turned in her seat and lifted her arms so she could clasp her fingers behind his neck. Already, they were acting with impropriety, but it wasn’t the type of thing that would get into the scandal sheets. The gossipmongers feasted on the type of unseemliness that hurt. It was a blood sport amongst the ton, and if someone didn’t go away wounded and bleeding from the scandal, then they didn’t consider it a proper disgrace!

  How could he make her understand how it would crush him?

  When he drew back and they both could breathe again, she fixed him with her deep-brown gaze.

  “I would never do to you or our children what your mother did.” Her quiet words reached him in the space of a heartbeat and across the span of years from the time he was a child, watching his father’s despair.

  Charles gasped, raising his eyes to hers. He didn’t need to make her understand. She already did.

  “We would win the flitch of bacon,” he vowed. “Be it a year and a day or a hundred years go by, I shall have no regrets marrying you.”

  “We would win the whole pig,” she agreed.

  AS SOON AS CHARLOTTE awakened in her husband’s arms, in her new home, she was ready to tumble out of bed and rush to New Bond Street.

  However, Charles stirred and dragged her back against him for early morning kisses ... and more. A long while later, she stretched and proclaimed herself famished.

  “After breakfast, I shall go see how everything is progressing.” Arising, she wandered to the window to see what her morning view would be. Amazingly, Hyde Park stretched out across the street westward into the distance, with Kensington Gardens at its far end. In her mind though, she was already at Rare Confectionery.

  “What if the stairs collapsed or the tables don’t look right, or someone has painted the peacocks in the wrong colors?” She wasn’t truly worried. Life was too good to borrow trouble. She simply missed the shop and her family.

  “We arrived on British soil yesterday,” Charles protested. “Must you go to work today?”

  “I’ve been idle too long. You didn’t marry an upper-class sluggard.”

  “Watch your words, woman. Not all upper-class people are sluggards.” Jumping out of bed, he chased her as far as her new dressing room, where he let her figure out her clothing in peace. Soon, she hoped Delia would be there, too.

  “Will your father be at breakfast?” she asked through the closed door.

  Her new father-in-law had welcomed them back the night before. They’d been too exhausted from the past days of travel to do more than enjoy a celebratory glass of brandy while he toasted their nuptials before they’d retired.

  “I don’t know,” Charles confessed. “You’ll get used to his ways, sometimes crabby, sometimes ... well, if not exactly cheerful, then at least wryly humorous.”

  “That’s fine, my love. He is your father, and I will love him.” She hadn’t told Charles about her meeting with the earl before she’d raced to Dover tracking her fiancé like a dog at the hunt. She hoped to get her father-in-law alone before she left for New Bond Street and urge him to confess to her husband that his own mother had not abandoned him.

  It was the best wedding present she could think of.

  An hour later, having kissed Charles goodbye, she was in her husband’s carriage, being driven to New Bond Street. The coachman’s cheery face reminded Charlotte she must speak with Delia later that day, not only to apologize for abandoning her on the dock but also to do a little matchmaking.

  And then she sent a fervent prayer that all went well in the townhouse behind her. She’d left the two tall men, father and son, talking quietly. When she got home that evening, she hoped a most important disclosure had been made and Charles’s heart could start to heal.

  The familiar bell tinkled as she pushed the door open. Charlotte couldn’t help the loud whistle of happiness that escaped her at seeing Rare Confectionery re-opened, with customers already at the counter. Every head turned at her loud entrance.

  Her mother didn’t have the heart to look annoyed at her uncivilized youngest daughter. Felicity had written to Charlotte while she was away, telling her they’d had a visit from a Herald reporter, who had praised the confectionery and the décor of the café, so much so that Londoners were chomping at the bit for it to open.

  Even then, her mother was filling a white bag. Beatrice, who a moment before looked sour at being in the front of the store, grinned at Charlotte and nodded toward the staircase. White lacquer with sapphire blue curlicues painted down its skirtboard, it was whimsical and magnificent.

  Edward came down the stairs carrying some tins, giving her a happy smile and nod by way of greeting. He had to duck under a blue satin ribbon that blocked anyone from going up to the second level. They’d been as good as their word, promising not to open the café without her.

  She went through the opening between the counters.

  “Greetings, My Lady Marzipan,” Beatrice exclaimed. “We’re so glad to have you back.”

  All Charlotte could do was smile as she hurried into the back room for her apron. It was good to be home!

  The End

  Author’s Note

  In this story, I’ve made mention of the popular Aesthetic mode or movement that flourished in Britain in the late-nineteenth century. As best I understand, it grew naturally out of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, which started about 1848, blossoming into a collective of likeminded, rather privileged artists and poets who believed in art for art’s sake and in depicting the natural world sensually and colorfully. Most of us are aware of Rossetti’s luscious-lipped, red-headed models from which he created the epitome of a pre-Raphaelite painting.

  Strangely, while art critic and philanthropist John Ruskin vigorously defended and championed them, he took great offense at Whistler’s looser, impressionistic paintings that came later, particularly, as mentioned in this book, his nocturnes. The Aesthetic movement, with Whistler and Moore, among others, was greatly influenced by Japanese art and culture, especially in the furnishings using lacquer and bamboo. And Charlotte’s beloved peacocks were a great favorite of the era.

  While artists were living a somewhat rarefied, esoteric life, many in the Victorian era were struggling simply to survive, with art far from their minds. The Aldgate pump, mentioned in this story, also called The Pump of Death, was not the only water pump to poison people in the Victorian age. Much closer to Mayfair and Rare Confectionery’s New Bond Street was a cholera outbreak in 1854. It was traced to a water pump at the intersection of Broad and Cambridge Streets (now Broadwick and Lexington Streets). This occurred during the greater pandemic of cholera between 1846 and 1860.

  In that area, however, the illness rate plummeted drastically when they closed down the pump after famed physician John Snow created a map of dots to show the prevalence of illness near the pump. Finally, he proved his theory that cholera came from water not from particles in the air, something he’d been trying to verify since at least 1849. (Fun fact: He is also the doctor who first administered anesthetic to Queen Victoria for birthing two of her children.)

  Another danger in this period, and indeed through much of the eighteenth century, was thievery, scam artists, and pickpockets. As Edward and his mother started to mention, there are numerous words for criminals, particu
larly thieves in Victorian slang, particularly cockney rhyming slang. Here are just a few more than I mentioned in the story: cracksman (burglar or safe cracker), mug-hunter (street robber, like a modern-day mugger), dragsman (steals from carriages), gonoph (minor thief), roller or mutcher (steals from the inebriated and from prostitutes), sneeze-lurker (throws snuff at one’s face then robs while the victim is sneezing), snoozer (steals from hotel rooms while guests are sleeping), and many more crime-related words: area diving, babbling brook, barkers, beak-hunting, bearer up, betty, bit faker, blag, bludger, buster, cly faking (or to fake a cly), crack a crib, or ply the crooked cross. (I cannot even get through the letter C.) This didn’t necessarily mean it was a more dangerous society than today. Perhaps only that they had a more colorful and descriptive vocabulary.

  On a lighter note, I found a photo of a woman who had spread almonds on a piece of cloth, covered them with another, and whacked them with a rolling pin. Reputedly, the almonds came out to be the perfect consistency for making marzipan, as if they had been put through the grinder. Nevertheless, I decided Charlotte probably wouldn’t do that in the front room of Rare Confectionery, so I gave her the gentler method of grinding. If you decide to try making marzipan and you don’t have a grinder, you can still find some satisfaction using this alternate method.

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  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Sydney Jane Baily writes heartfelt historical romance with engaging characters and attention to period detail.

  With degrees in English literature and history, she has spent her entire professional career in publishing on both the editing and writing sides of the desk. She is also a world-renowned cat and dog snuggler, and mother of two extremely kind human beings.

  A first-generation American daughter of Brits from either end of London, Sydney resides in New England with her family — human, feline, and canine. The rest of her extended family live in the U.K. where she spent many happy childhood summers. She loves shandies, Maltesers, Cadbury chocolate, fish and chips, and anything from Harrod's food hall or in a Fortnum and Mason's basket.

  You can learn more about her books, read her blog, sign up for her newsletter (and receive a free book), and contact her via her website at SydneyJaneBaily.com.

  Connect with Sydney on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/sydney.jane.baily/) or follow her on BookBub (https://www.bookbub.com/authors/sydney-jane-baily) to learn about her new releases.

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