The new jacket turned out exceedingly well—beyond Blythe’s expectations, in fact. The fit was perfect, the cut comfortable and quite flattering, and the material of a richer stuff than what he’d long been used to.
“You look like a young gentleman,” Molly said with sincere pleasure as she made him turn around, his arms held up and out, while she critically inspected every inch of the jacket.
“Are you going to treat Bertie to the same thing?”
“Bertie earns his keep, and he’s free to do what he wants with his share as long as it isn’t drink, gambling, and whoring. Well—not too much drink, anyway. As long as he sticks to what we agreed on with regard to his earnings’ portions, he can do what he wants with his percentage. Someday, Blythe, you’ll be doing the same thing.” Molly paused, frowning as she cocked her head thoughtfully. She reached out to brush dirt off while tugging at the jacket’s hem. “Besides, I’m making good one of the promises I made to Papa.”
Blythe looked at her, surprised. “Promise? To keep me clothed, you mean?”
“Lord, don’t be silly!” Molly laughed, lightly slapping his backside when he turned around again. “This is all about looking after my baby brother after what he’d gone through in his childhood. A new jacket here, good pudding there, and lots of time spent grounding some good work values into you.”
“I’ve yet to see the good pudding.”
“I’m working on it. I never managed to wrap my head around the process of making one, no matter how many times Mama showed me. I suppose it’s not a natural talent of mine.”
Blythe clucked. “Shepherd’s pie, then? Is that hard?”
“Oh. That sounds terrifying.”
“What about easing the strain of cooking and just paying someone else for her cooking? Like, well, Mrs. Stringer, for instance. I’m sure we can pay her for an entire day’s meal. I can even pick up the food during my daily route since Periwinkle Cottage is one of my loyal customers.” Blythe regarded his sister hopefully. “You must admit, that’s a pretty clever scheme. Just think—you won’t have to fret over cooking, and you’ll have all the time to bake. Oh, and do the laundry once a week.”
Molly chuckled, blushing. “Oh, I don’t know, Blythe. That’s an awful imposition, even with money involved. I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“I’ve got no shame when it comes to good food. I can negotiate with her if you won’t.”
“Tut, tut—no more talk about proper cooking, or you’ll make me think that you can’t stand my cooking. All right, go on and take that jacket off.”
Blythe bit back a too-blunt response to the first part of her statement. “Am I expected to wear this on market day? Come to think of it, am I expected to dress up again on market day?”
Molly stood up from where she sat, brushing her smock vigorously. “It’s your jacket, so it’s your decision to make. That said, seeing as how looking good seems to be working, I insist that we all keep at it on market day.”
“And the reputation of your cakes has nothing to do with good sales?” Blythe scowled at his sister as he shrugged off his jacket.
“Of course it does, but seeing as how I hear nothing but compliments about Bertie’s looks and yours as well—it’d be madness not to pursue it, don’t you think?”
Blythe blew air out of the side of his mouth as he carefully set his jacket down on his bed, giving it one last, admiring look before rejoining Molly in the kitchen area. “If that’s so, shouldn’t you at least raise the price of your cakes? You’ve done that extra step of wrapping them individually, and now you’re insisting on making us look good. I think you deserve to make more money from those.”
“Oh, I don’t want to charge people more than what those cakes are worth,” Molly replied as she busied herself with gathering potatoes from the old vegetable bin. Blythe noticed, with a disappointed little sigh, that the potatoes weren’t colored blue or purple, and he readied himself for yet another evening of indifferent stew. Or soup. He couldn’t even tell at this point what was slated for that evening’s enjoyment from their two-item menu.
“But shouldn’t they be worth more now that you’ve made those additions?”
“The wrappers are only wrappers in the same way our dressing up is nothing more than a method of catching people’s attention. The real prize is the cake inside. Besides, Mrs. Brainswell told me that’s the best way to approach things as a vendor.”
Blythe sat down and picked up a carrot and started peeling it. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Mrs. Brainswell said she uses that method to sell her own cakes and pastries, and she’s doing incredibly well. She owns a bakery in the good part of town, selling her cakes to wealthy patrons. It only stands to reason that she knows what she’s talking about, aren’t I correct?”
Blythe shrugged and took a bite of the carrot that was so far halfway peeled. “I don’t know. I suppose. It depends on how long it took her to go that far.”
“Of course she’s right! Good lord, child! Anyway, think about it. If our luck holds, I’ll be able to open my own bakery like hers, and you won’t need to get up and sell those loaves anymore,” Molly said, carrying an armload of potatoes to the table. “Imagine that—our own bakery!”
Blythe picked up another carrot and worked on it. As Molly went on and on about this new dream of hers, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take them to reach that point. He might be undereducated, but even with what little mathematics he knew, common sense insisted that a corresponding increase in price to offset Molly’s new expense would be the key to achieving that goal.
“When did you start thinking about owning a bakery, anyway?” he asked at length. “I thought you were happy with market day.”
“Don’t be silly, you silly thing. Yes, I used to be content with nothing more than a stall, but Mrs. Brainswell changed my perspective completely. ‘Don’t settle for what’s clearly below your abilities,’ she said in that firm, superior tone of hers, and I understood—no, I realized—that I’ve been cheating myself by setting modest goals.” Molly gave Blythe a sheepish little smile. “I’m so pleased to have met her. Honored, even. If anything, the way our first meeting went, it was as if she sought me out on purpose, saying that she’s heard quite a bit of good things about my cakes and bread.”
Blythe set down the carrot he’d just finished peeling and took up another. “You’re lucky to have found someone who sincerely cares about you and your success.”
“I am. And to think—there are others at the market who’re like me, and yet Mrs. Brainswell chose me to take under her wing. It’s because I’m the most successful of the novice bakers, she said, and she’d hate to see talent spoiled by inadequate goals.” Molly blushed and shrugged, practically glowing as she recounted her new mentor’s praise.
Blythe grinned as well. He always found Molly’s good humor infectious as long as it wasn’t at his expense. “She’s blessed with good instincts, then. I’m glad she advises you now.”
“Yes. She’s even invited me to see her bakery and have lunch with her, in fact.”
“Oh? When?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t wait.”
* * * *
Afternoon hours were designated idle hours, and Blythe always spent those in Jack’s company. Given his earlier hellish time with his friend, Blythe wondered if he valued his sanity enough to spend more hours with Jack. For better or for worse, he realized that he was also bored out of his mind and so relented, though he dreaded his friend’s mood.
“I never thought I’d ever hear it, but Mama said that she was proud of me for what I did this morning,” Jack said, his mood no less sour than it was earlier. He walked around looking the way he did as well—hunched shoulders, bowed head, hands in pockets, feet dragging and scoring two deep tracks in the dirt.
“Shouldn’t you be glad?”
“Glad? What on earth for? It means she expects me to be productive and find work! What’s to be glad for?”
Blythe sighed. “Well, it was worth a try, I suppose.”
The two walked toward the river, intent on whiling away their time in the shade, lost in conversation, while sharing commentaries on the traffic that moved along the dirt road across the river. It had been a while since they last spent time there; Blythe calculated around two days, but he could never be so sure, given his busy schedule.
“Mama’s forcing my hand in this.”
Blythe glanced at Jack. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s trapping me in a situation where I’ll be forced to agree to her original demand. She knows very well how much I despise work.” Jack paused and looked at Blythe, who continued to regard him in confusion. “She’s forcing me to sell our cow, fool! And I don’t have a choice but to do it.”
“That’s an odd choice,” Blythe said. “How would a cow equal work? I hardly think Sarah will be worth much, command enough money to sustain you and your mama for a month, let alone a year or so.”
“Selling her would get Mama to stop her daily nagging, and that’s good enough for me. Damn, I’ll miss that cow.”
Blythe eyed his friend warily. “You sound like you’re in love. I never thought you had it in you, Jack.”
Jack grimaced before cuffing Blythe roughly on the head. “Oh, lord, I must’ve died and gone straight to hell,” he spluttered, stopping dead in his tracks and grimacing again.
“What now?” Blythe waited for the stars to fade as he rubbed the back of his head. He stopped at Jack’s fresh round of mutterings.
“It’s those damned Vicary people—they’re ahead of us. Let’s turn around and go somewhere else.”
Blythe’s head shot up, and he blinked. “Vicary? Where? Oh.”
Several yards ahead of them stood four people—two men and two women. They appeared to be talking, probably about the scenery, because they gesticulated emphatically before them, often indicating the river. Someone suddenly laughed, and his voice carried beautifully in the silence of the general area. Blythe recognized the voice as Edrik’s, though he was surprised by the other boy’s energy and lack of restraint in the company of others. Blythe squinted and didn’t recognize Edrik’s companions. They must be friends, then.
“Come on, let’s go.” Jack gave Blythe’s arm an insistent tug. “I don’t want to cross paths with anyone from that family anytime or anywhere.”
“What—why? Because of the carriage incident?”
“Carriage incident? Oh, that was theirs? Good lord, no wonder they almost killed you!”
Blythe rolled his eyes as he allowed himself to be led away. As much as he’d like to talk to Edrik again, he continued to feel painfully self-conscious about his inferiority to the other boy. Being seen by people who were obviously close, personal acquaintances of Edrik deepened his mortification. No, he could afford to wait another time, when Edrik was alone.
“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted, panting a little as he tried to keep up with Jack’s relentless pace. “What got you running away from them? They’re not ghouls pretending to be human, are they?”
“Oh, shut up. No, Mama washes for them, and I’ve been in their house once because Mama’s become great friends with the housekeeper, and we’ve been invited to have supper with the maids and all. It was all very irregular. I’ve never heard of such a thing being done in proper households.” Jack paused and cast a resentful glower at the still chatting group they were leaving behind.
Blythe sighed. “And?”
To his surprise, Jack pulled him closer, stealing cautious glances back at Edrik’s group as though he were in danger of being caught gossiping about them at what seemed like a million feet away. Blythe was forced to admit that there was something morbidly enthralling about the moment for all its absurdity.
“We saw Mr. Vicary walking outside in the dark,” Jack whispered, “on our way home. He was having a conversation with himself—or someone who’s invisible, possibly a ghost. He didn’t stop until someone came out for him.”
“Idiot. I heard they’re a family of artists, and that’s what artists do—be eccentric and halfway terrifying to people who aren’t like them.”
“The servants keep odd hours like the family, Mama said, and everyone’s treated like friends, not hired help.” Jack’s eyes blazed, and Blythe couldn’t tell if it was outrage or shocked respect.
“They’re also wealthy, and I’m guessing that rich artists keep the strangest hours—worse than regular gentry or titled folks with no talent to speak of.” Blythe pinched his lips in a tight line. “And here I thought you’d be admiring the Vicarys for being strange, moneyed types.”
Jack snorted. “I don’t trust rich people, artists or no. They always hold themselves up above everybody, and they never let you forget who your betters are.”
Blythe fell silent, glancing back at the group. He felt a bit torn because he’d grown up sharing Jack’s views on the privileged class, but since Edrik sauntered so carelessly and charmingly into his life, criticisms of the wealthy and powerful were turning into a knife stab in his side. To be sure, ever since he started his morning bread route, a good many things that used to be so clearly defined in black and white had now turned into baffling shades of gray, and he was beginning to yearn for the good old days despite his fifteen years.
“How did you know they’re from the family?” he prodded, indicating the group with a jerk of his head. Jack paused, thankfully, for it gave Blythe time to recover from their earlier frenetic pace.
“That braying dandy over there was the fellow who came for old Mr. Vicary, and unless ‘papa’ has changed meaning recently, I’m quite sure that Mr. Vicary’s his father. Now let’s get a move on.”
Blythe scowled at him even as he obeyed. He didn’t quite appreciate the humor, if any, in Jack’s use of “braying dandy” in reference to Edrik.
“I think you’re letting your prejudices cloud your judgment,” he said, fighting the urge not to glance back one more time. “Old Mr. Vicary and his family haven’t done anything to you.”
“They’re rich, and they almost ran you over.”
“It was an accident, and I was partly to blame for it.”
“Their driver’s an arse head. I’ve met him. He is.”
Blythe laughed now, shaking his head. “I can’t talk to you when you’re being an oppressed peasant. You’re both sensible and stupid at the same time, and your arguments and criticisms make my head hurt.”
“Shut up. Since when did you turn into a defender of rich people, anyway? You used to agree with me every time, and you added your own brand of spite when you tore them down,” Jack retorted, giving him an incredulous look.
“Because I’ve met them,” Blythe said without skipping a beat. “At the market—they bought some cakes from us and were very nice and polite the whole time.”
“That’s what they’ve been taught to do, you blockhead. They’re supposed to be kind and generous and downright patronizing to their inferiors. Lord, I wouldn’t be surprised if they fed your sister’s cakes to the dogs and laughed about it.”
Blythe blinked, now put out at what he was hearing. “That’s utterly ridiculous,” he snapped.
“I don’t think so. In fact, if they really are a family of artists, they might have used the cakes for their so-called art. Carved them into small sculptures or colored them with paint. Maybe set them on a table and talked to them the way old Mr. Vicary talked to no one.”
They’d reached the town’s borders by then and paused there. Blythe’s earlier excitement at seeing Edrik Vicary—even for a mere moment and at a distance—had evaporated under Jack’s ongoing verbal assaults, and Blythe couldn’t decide if he was irritated or depressed. In the end he settled for feeling the urge to kick Jack Wicket so hard that his shoe would get lost inside his friend’s bowels.
“Well, I believe it’s good to think the best of people, especially if you haven’t met them like I have,” he said after a moment’s thought. “I don’t care if they have enough money to buy all of Upchurch. I still think Edrik and his family are nice people.”
Jack was silent for a moment. “Edrik? You know his name?”
“Yes, I do—he introduced himself to me.”
Jack simply nodded and looked around them, his attention divided again. “There’s no hope for it, I suppose,” he said. “I should go home. There’s still this abominable matter regarding my poor cow.”
Blythe shrugged. “All right, then. Good luck with Sarah.”
Jack scowled, turning to regard him as though he’d just remembered something. The scrutiny was a little unnerving, but Blythe met his gaze without blinking. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you talked about Edrik Vicary.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I recognize that look. Have a care, Midwinter. People like him are trouble.” Jack saluted Blythe smartly before turning around and walking away, the black cloud of bitterness and envy still swaddling him. It was so palpable, in fact, that Blythe could swear it materialized for a few seconds and then vanished.