Chapter 1

Liverpool, October 1867

Patty Jenkins stood on the quayside and watched the SS Royal Standard steam out into Liverpool Bay. The ship’s rails were lined with passengers waving their last farewells, and the quayside was crowded with people waving back, many of them in tears. The ship’s ultimate destination was Australia, and they all knew that the chances of meeting their loved ones again, when they were going so far away, were very slight.

By straining her eyes Patty could just make out one figure among all the rest: a slight, almost girlish form wearing a surprisingly stylish bonnet. She was waving, like the rest, but it was not to Patty. A little distance away, a young man was waving back, his expression distraught. He had shouted something as the ship drew away from the quay, but Patty had not been able to hear what he said. Patty recognised him. His name was James Breckenridge and he was a solicitor’s clerk, a respectable young man with good prospects, but for the last few months he had been keeping company with May Lavender, the girl on the ship. How someone in his position came to be walking out with a milliner’s apprentice, an orphan brought up in the Brownlow Hill workhouse, was a mystery to Patty. May had not made any secret of the relationship but she had kept her friends at arm’s length when it came to any discussion of it. And now, without any warning, without even saying goodbye, she had booked a passage on this new steamer and was off to Australia. The only reason Patty was there to watch her sail away was because one of the sales girls at Freeman’s Department store, where Patty worked in the kitchen, had told her that on the previous day May had been going round the shop with a note from Mr Freeman himself, instructing the staff to allow her to choose anything she needed for a long voyage to a warm country. Then, she had managed to worm out of one of the porters the information that he had been instructed to carry May’s new suitcase down to the docks and see it put on board the Royal Standard.

Patty turned away with a heavy heart. She and May had been friends ever since they were children in the workhouse. They had been separated when they were both sent into service, she to work in the kitchens of Speke Hall, the great mansion a few miles from the city, and May as a maid of all work for the Freeman family.

Patty had thought she was the lucky one to start with, but she had soon learned that being the lowest of the low in a house with a large staff was a miserable position, whereas May had found the opportunity to demonstrate her skill with colour and design and caught the eye of Mr Freeman, who was then just building up his haberdashery business into the first department store to open in the city. He had placed May as an apprentice to his milliner, Nan Driscoll, where she had soon acquired a regular clientele of her own for the hats and bonnets she created. Patty knew she had been less than happy when Nan had retired and was replaced by Miss Jones, who had very firm ideas about the place of an apprentice. But surely that was not reason enough to suddenly throw everything away and rush off to the other side of the world? Patty was mystified and hurt. She was going to miss May very badly.

When she entered the big kitchen, which catered for the employees of Freeman’s store, she was berated by Mr Carton, the head cook, for being late for work. Since, like many of the staff, she slept in a dormitory on the premises, she had no reason not to be prompt. Patty ducked her head and muttered an excuse about waking up with a headache and having gone out for some air. None of the other kitchen staff had known May well and she did not feel like discussing what had happened with them.

She washed her hands and set to work on the pastry for some apple pies. She enjoyed making pastry and cakes, and she was good at it. The one bright spot from her time at Speke Hall had been the chance to work with M. Blanchard, the pastry cook. He had taken pity on her, and in the rare intervals when she was not being hounded. from scrubbing dishes to fetching water to building up the fire in the great open range, he had taught her how to make crisp pastry for tarts and light-as-air sponges. There was little opportunity to try to copy some of his fancier creations where she worked now. It was more a case of good plain fare to feed a large number of people, but at least her work seemed to be appreciated. None of her pies or tarts were ever left over at the end of a meal.

Usually, Patty was never happier than when she was up to her elbows in flour, but today she found it hard to keep her mind on her work. The question kept nagging at her. Why had May gone away in such a rush, and why hadn’t she even said goodbye?

There was only one person who might be able to answer her questions. May must have explained her decision to Mr Freeman when she gave in her notice, and he must have approved, otherwise why would he have given her the freedom to choose whatever she wanted from the stock? He had a reputation as a philanthropist who cared for the needs of all those who worked for him, and she knew he had a particularly soft spot for May, who had been badly treated by his wife and his housekeeper when she’d worked for him, until he’d found out and put a stop to it. Nevertheless, Patty’s memory of her first encounter with him was not a happy one.

She had lost her job at Speke, dismissed for helping herself to some game pie left over from the dining table of the gentry. As the most junior member of staff, she had been expected to serve all the others when they sat down to eat at the long table in the kitchen and was not allowed to eat herself until they had finished. Often, there had been very little left for her. Perpetually hungry, she had watched dish after dish being sent up to the dining room, so that the ladies and gentlemen had plenty to choose from, and much of it was sent back, untouched. Some of it was then stored away to be served up at the next meal for the staff, but a good deal was scraped straight into the bucket of scraps that went to feed the pigs. One evening, finding herself for a brief moment unsupervised, she had slipped into the larder and cut herself a slice of the game pie. Some of it had been eaten already, so she thought that a small piece would not be missed, but when she came out of the larder, still chewing, she came face to face with one of the footmen, a man who had always treated her as if she was something the cat dragged in. He had reported her to Cook, who had spoken to the lady of the house, and Patty had been summarily dismissed without a ‘character’, and with nothing more than the clothes she stood up in.

Starving and friendless, she had seen no alternative but to resort to prostitution, but even that scarcely gave her enough to keep body and soul together. Skinny and poorly dressed, she had little attraction for any but the most desperate men. The ‘professional’ ladies who occupied the most favourable positions drove her away whenever she showed her face and she was left roaming the back streets on the fringes of the city. She had been standing on a corner, shivering and faint with hunger, when May had passed on her way from the store to Nan Driscoll’s house, where she’d lodged at the time.

For three days May had hidden her in her own room, until Nan had found out. An hour later, she’d found herself in Mr Freeman’s office. It was due to him that she had been sent to a home where she could learn a trade and later been given a job in the kitchens at Freeman’s Store. She knew she had a great deal to thank him for, but still the memory of that first interview made her go hot and cold with shame, and the thought of walking into his office to ask for an explanation of May’s sudden departure was intimidating.

‘Patty? Mr Freeman wants you in his office.’ It was one of the messenger boys.

Patty gasped. It seemed as if her thoughts had somehow transmitted themselves to her boss. How could he possibly have known that she was plucking up courage to knock on his door?

‘When?’ she asked, when she had got her breath back.

‘Now, of course.’

Patty looked at the pies she had been making. They were ready to go into the oven. She turned to the woman working alongside her. ‘Maisie, can you put these in the oven for me and watch them? Mr F has sent for me.’

‘Sent for you? What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing! I don’t know what he wants but I’ll have to go.’

‘’Course you will. Don’t worry, I’ll see to the pies.’

Patty took off her apron and washed the flour off her hands and headed up the back stairs that led to the main part of the store, the part the customers saw. Mr Freeman had an office on the first floor, and Patty knocked on the imposing oak door with a pounding heart.

‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘Ah, Patty.’ He looked up from a ledger. ‘Yes. I want you to do me a small service.’

‘Service, sir?’

‘A week or two ago I asked the kitchen to produce a cake for the birthday of one of my longest-serving staff. I understand that you were given the job.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Patty responded doubtfully. Had someone complained? There had been nothing wrong with the cake; she was sure of that.

‘Don’t look so worried. It was an excellent cake. I tried a slice myself. Do you often make cakes?’

‘Sometimes, sir. If one of the girls in the dormitory has a birthday I sometimes make a few cakes for their tea. But,’ she added hastily, ‘I always ask Mr Carton if he can spare the butter and the sugar first.’

‘Of course. I’m not suggesting that you have been misusing company property.’ Patty was relieved to see that Mr Freeman looked slightly amused. ‘Where did you learn the skill? Did Mr Keogh teach you?’

Patrick Keogh was the chief pastry cook in the Freeman’s kitchen.

‘No, sir. When I was in service at Speke Hall I sometimes worked for M. Blanchard, the pastry cook there. He taught me a bit.’

‘I see. Well, now what I want you to do is this. The day after tomorrow I have invited some ladies and gentlemen to tea, here in the store. That may seem a little strange to you, but I have my reasons. There will be six of us, and I should like you to produce the food. You know the sort of thing – some sandwiches, perhaps something toasted, and some nice cakes. Do you think you can manage that?’

Patty struggled for a response. ‘I’m sure I could, sir. But I don’t think Mr Carton will let me have the time off to do it.’

‘I will speak to Mr Carton and tell him I want you to be relieved of any other duties for two days and given whatever ingredients you need. Does that allay your worries?’

‘Well, yes, sir.’ Patty’s brain was churning as she strove to grasp this extraordinary turn of events. ‘Yes, if he agrees, I’m sure I can do what you want.’

‘Good, that’s settled then. I have arranged to have the tea table set up in the ladies’ fashion department, so my guests can see all the latest creations while they eat. Tea at four o’clock. I am relying on you to do me and the store proud.’

‘Oh, I will, sir. I’ll do my very best.’

‘I know you will. Now, you had better get back to the kitchen and start planning your menu. Ask Mr Carton to come and see me.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Patty made a small curtsy and started towards the door. Then she hesitated. There would never be a better opportunity to ask the question that was plaguing her.

‘Please, sir, can ask you something?’

‘What is it?’

‘I was down at the quayside this morning, watching the Royal Standard sail away – and May Lavender was on board. I was wondering why. It’s so sudden.’

Freeman frowned. ‘My goodness, did she not tell you she was going?’

‘No, sir.’ Patty’s lip trembled. ‘She didn’t even say goodbye.’

Freeman took a long breath and let it out on a sigh. ‘Oh dear. That must be distressing for you. I know you were close friends.’ He thought for a moment and went on. ‘I can’t go into details. She spoke to me in confidence, but I can tell you this much: she received a letter from her brother, Gus. You knew he had gone out to Australia?’

‘Yes, I knew that.’

‘May has gone to join him. The ship was sailing today, so she had to make a very quick decision. But that’s really no excuse for not finding the time to say goodbye to you.’

‘No, it’s not, is it?’ Patty agreed. She thought for a moment. ‘Did you know she was walking out with James Breckenridge?’

‘Mrs Breckenridge’s son? No, I did not. I’m not sure his mother would approve of that.’

‘I bet she doesn’t,’ Patty agreed. ‘I only mentioned it because I saw him this morning, standing on the dockside, waving. He looked pretty upset.’

Mr Freeman considered. ‘That’s understandable, if he was fond of her. But it’s probably for the best. It would never have been a suitable match. But now you mention it, I did wonder if there was more to May’s sudden decision to leave than just the prospect of a new life in Australia.’

‘You think she realised it was never going to work, so she decided to put an end to it?’

‘That seems quite likely, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to talk about it to me. She knew I always thought she was making a mistake.’

‘That’s possible, I suppose.’ Freeman pulled a ledger toward him. ‘Now, I haven’t got time to sit here gossiping, and nor have you. You’d better get on.’

‘Yes, yes, I must, mustn’t I? Thank you explaining things to me.’ She curtsied again and left the room.

Back in the kitchen she went up to Mr Carton, who was standing over a large pot of stew with a spoon in his hand, about to taste it.

‘Excuse me, Chef. Mr Freeman wants you in his office.’

He glowered at her. ‘What, now?’

‘Yes, please, Chef.’

A look of sardonic enlightenment dawned on his face. ‘Oh ho! You really have been up to no good, haven’t you? Am I going to have to look for a new assistant pastry cook?’

‘I don’t think so, Chef.’ Patty kept her eyes demurely lowered so he did not see the triumphant gleam in them.

Carton turned to one of his assistants. ‘This needs more salt. See to it, will you?’ He pulled off his apron and dusted himself down. ‘Right, young lady. Let’s see what you’ve done to cause all this disruption.’

As soon as he had left, Patty tore a strip of paper from a sheet that had been wrapping some cabbages, took a pencil from a collection in a jar on one of the shelves, and slipped into one of the big larders leading off the kitchen. She found a stool and pushed aside some jars of pickle to make a space. Biting the end of the pencil in concentration, she set about making a list of cakes for Mr Freeman’s tea party.

Sandwiches – that was no problem. The kitchen baked bread every day and there were always cucumbers. ‘Something toasted’, Mr Freeman had suggested. She searched her memory of afternoon teas at Speke House. Yes! Balmoral cake, baked in a loaf tin and flavoured with caraway seeds. That could be sliced and toasted. Gingerbread, that was easy and always popular. What else? In her free time, when she strolled through the streets window shopping, she often stopped outside bakers’ shops or tea shops to look at the cakes on display. It was not just that they made her mouth water, it was curiosity about what the experts were creating and a longing to try her own hand at something similar. Remembering what she had seen brought new inspiration. Recently many windows had exhibited a sponge sandwich layered with jam and cream. These were often labelled ‘the favourite cake of our dear Queen’. So that would certainly be popular with Mr Freeman’s guests. But she wanted something else, something spectacular that would really impress them.

At a loss, she began to search along the larder shelves looking for inspiration. At one end there was a stack of different shaped baking tins. Most of them were too big, intended for large numbers of people. She sorted out some that would be more suitable. Then, at the back of the shelf, she came upon a dusty mould in the shape of a fluted dome and the sight sparked a memory. Savoy cake! She remembered that M. Blanchard made them for special occasions. With suitable decoration one of those would make a perfect centre piece. But try as she might, she could not recall the recipe.

Giving up, she went back into the kitchen to ask advice. Mr Carton was chopping onions. His expression when she approached him was irritable but he was no longer as threatening as before. She sensed that he was seeing her in a different light. Nevertheless, he was not pleased with this new development.

‘What’s all this new-fangled nonsense about afternoon tea?’ he demanded. ‘Aren’t three meals a day enough?’

Patrick Keogh pricked up his ears and came over. ‘What’s all this?’

‘Mr Freeman has taken it into his head to entertain some ladies and gentlemen to afternoon tea, in the ladies’ fashion department, would you believe?’

‘Has he really? Well, I can see what he’s thinking. From what I hear, afternoon tea has become very fashionable among the gentry. I believe Her Majesty herself is partial to a cup of tea and some cake at about four o’clock. So, Mr Freeman invites ladies to take this fashionable meal and at the same time they are surrounded by the latest fashions in gowns. It makes sense to me. So what are we giving them?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Carton responded grumpily. ‘He’s given the responsibility for the arrangements to Patty.’

Patty looked at Patrick, expecting his face also to express irritation, perhaps even outrage. This was a responsibility that, surely, should have been his. But instead he smiled.

‘Has he, by Jove? Well, it’s a great opportunity for you. Make sure you use it to the best of your ability.’

‘I will!’ Patty said. ‘But really it should be you.’

Patrick shook his head. ‘No, no. That’s not my kind of thing at all. Good plain cooking is my style. If the boss had given the job to me, the ladies and gents would be lucky to get anything more exciting than a rock bun for their tea. I’ve watched you at work and I can see you’ve got a lot more imagination than I have. Make the most of the chance!’

‘Thank you,’ Patty said, and her gratitude was heartfelt. Then she added, ‘Do you happen to know the recipe for Savoy cake?’

‘Savoy cake? Now that’s really out of my league. I’ve seen one or two, but I wouldn’t know where to start making one.’

‘M. Blanchard at Speke used to make them for special occasions,’ she said, ‘but I can’t remember the quantities.’

‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that one or two ladies have published books of recipes lately. You might find what you need there. Why don’t you pop across to the library and see if they can help? It’s only just over the road.’

‘The library?’ Patty hesitated. ‘I’ve never been inside. Would I be allowed?’

‘It’s intended for everyone. That was Mr Brown’s idea when he paid to have it built. Of course you’re allowed. Go and try.’

Patty looked at Mr Carton. ‘May I, Chef?’

He waved her away with a dismissive gesture. ‘Go, go! Mr Freeman says you’re to be relieved of all other duties for the next two days. It’s up to you how you use the time.’

‘Very well.’ Patty braced her shoulders. ‘I’ll try.’

William Brown’s imposing library was only a short walk from Freeman’s store but it had never occurred to Patty to go inside. She had been taught to read at the workhouse, though she had found it a chore and resented the time spent in the schoolroom. Miss Bale, the schoolmistress, had been a hard taskmaster and Patty had hated her. But, since leaving, she had realised that there were others of her own age who had never acquired the skill, or had only a shaky grasp of it, and she had come to understand that she was privileged to have had any sort of education. She remembered, as she made her way there, that May had got into the habit of going to the library when she’d started walking out with James, determined to prove herself a worthy wife for him. She had asked Patty to go with her, but Patty had always refused. She was regretting that now.

As she passed through the columned portico, Patty’s knees were shaking, and at the sight of the smartly dressed lady and gentleman behind the reception desk she nearly turned and ran. But she told herself that she could be as brave as May and went forward.

‘Can I help you?’ the man said politely.

‘Please, I … I’m looking for … do you have any books of recipes?’

‘Cookery books? Your department, I think, Miss Smith.’

Miss Smith stepped forward with a friendly smile. ‘Yes, we do. They seem to have become quite popular lately. Would you like me to show you?’

‘Oh, yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Not at all. This way.’

She led Patty up a flight of stairs and into a huge circular room with a domed ceiling. All round the walls, on more than one level, there were shelves laden with books. Patty stared, open-mouthed. She never seen so many books, and she found it hard to imagine who could have written them all. How on earth could anyone find a particular book amongst all these? But Miss Smith led her confidently to a shelf.

‘Is there anything in particular you were looking for?’

‘If you please, miss, a recipe for Savoy cake.’

‘Cake? Well, I think you should find all you want in this book. It’s by a lady called Eliza Acton. I’ve tried some of her recipes myself and they do seem to work.’ She took down a large volume, bound in leather with a tooled design on the front. ‘Now, I can’t let you take this away, I’m afraid. It’s for reference only. But if you find what you want you could copy it out. There’s a desk over there and I can give you some paper and a pencil. Will that suit you?’

‘Oh, yes, very well,’ Patty said breathlessly. ‘Thank you.’

As Patty sat down she became aware for the first time that there were others, mainly men but some women, seated at similar desks all round the great room. All seemed absorbed in what they were studying, and no one paid any attention to her. She began to relax and turned the pages of the great book lying in front of her. It took some time to find the chapter dealing with cake, and at first reading she was disconcerted to find that Miss Acton did not approve of cakes. She called them ‘sweet poisons’ and wished she need not give them so much space in her book. She gave way, however, in the face of general taste and proceeded to discuss methods and recipes, and there, at last, was the one Patty was looking for – Savoy cake. Slowly and painstakingly she copied the instructions and then made her way back to Miss Smith at her desk.

‘I’ve left the book there, miss. I didn’t want to put it back in the wrong place.’

‘That is quite right. I’ll see it goes back on the shelf. Did you find what you wanted?’

‘Yes, I did, miss. Thank you very much.’

‘Good. Remember, you can come here and look up whatever you want to find. That was Mr Brown’s purpose in creating this library.’ Miss Smith smiled. ‘And good luck with your cake.’

Over the next two days, Patty worked harder than she had ever done in her life. She made her way up to the first floor and braved the formidable Miss Clarke, who presided over Ladies’ Fashions. Once again, she expected resistance; surely she could not approve of this disruption to normal routine. But she found Mr Freeman had smoothed her path and Miss Clarke was delighted with the prospect of introducing her latest fashions to discerning customers. Arrangements had been made for a table to be set up in the centre of the room, napery and cutlery had been organised and Mr Freeman was providing the tea service from his own home. Patty remembered May’s stories of the horrible Mrs Wilkins, the Freeman’s housekeeper who had made her life a misery when she was in service there, and wondered how she had reacted to that.

This all satisfactorily settled, she set to work to assemble the necessary ingredients for her list of delicacies. Most of them were easily available, since flour and butter and sugar were staples for any sort of baking. But some of the more exotic items were lacking. She took her problem to Mr Carton, who seemed to have decided that this new venture could only enhance his own standing with his employer, and had given a note to the grocer who normally supplied the kitchen, instructing him to allow her to choose what she needed and add them to his monthly account.

Patty had never had to shop for food. She had passed her life in various institutions where the meals, however meagre, had been provided for her. She lived in at Freeman’s, in common with quite a few of the staff, and ate in the communal canteen. Walking into the grocer’s shop was like walking into some magical eastern bazaar. Her nose was assailed by a symphony of different odours. There was the heady scent of spices, cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves, and the more down to earth scent of herbs, sage and thyme and mint; there was the sharpness of cheeses and the tang of hams hanging from the ceiling and the sweet smell of sugar and chocolate from open barrels of biscuits.

When her turn came to be served she presented her list. The caraway seeds for the Balmoral loaf were readily available, as was the ginger for the gingerbread, but she wanted something special with which to decorate her Savoy cake. On a high shelf she spotted exactly what she needed; candied rose petals and crystallised orange slices. Delighted with her purchases, she headed back to the kitchen.

The Balmoral cake was to be toasted, so could be made in advance, and the gingerbread would benefit from maturing for a day, but the sponge sandwich and the Savoy cake must be made fresh. She rose next morning with a quiver in her stomach that was partly fear and partly excited anticipation. The sponge turned out well and could be filled at the last moment and she turned her attention to the Savoy cake. The basic recipe was for a simple fatless sponge. It was the use of the mould and the decoration that made it special. She remembered from watching M. Blanchard that the preparation of the mould was crucial. She melted some kidney fat, better as a grease than butter, and swirled it round the mould to coat it. Then she added some caster sugar and finally some potato flour. Then it was time to make the batter, and soon her arms were aching from beating the mixture, but that was only the start. She added a fine grating of orange zest. Then she had to beat up the egg whites. She soon understood the meaning of the term ‘elbow grease’. She folded the whites into the batter and poured the mixture into the mould. Then all she could do was put it into the oven and hope.

An hour later she took the mould out of the oven, but it had to be left to cool completely before it was turned out. When the moment came she held her breath. She set a decorative plate on top of the mould and turned it over. For a terrible moment nothing happened, then she felt the cake slide onto the plate. It had turned out perfectly and the outside had a crisp, shining sugar coating, exactly as she had intended. The mould had a central funnel, which left a hollow down the middle of the cake. Patty filled it with sweetened whipped cream flavoured with orange zest. The shape of the mould produced a domed structure with a small ledge halfway down. On this, Patty arranged rosettes of candied rose petals interspersed with slices of crystallised orange. She put more of both around the base and crowned the top with a small pyramid of orange slices. Then she stood back, eased her aching back, and gazed at her creation. It was exactly what she had hoped for.

She had been given a small corner of the kitchen for herself and the other staff had been too occupied with their own jobs to pay her an attention, for which she was grateful. But now she called Patrick Keogh over.

‘Look! What do you think?’

He gazed at the cake. ‘My word, that’s a right bobby-dazzler of a cake, and no mistake! You’ll knock them sideways with that.’

Patty felt a glow of pride, but there was no time to stand around admiring her handiwork. There was still the sponge sandwich to be filled and the cucumber sandwiches to make, and she had less than an hour until four o’clock. She managed it just in time and enlisted the aid of one of the kitchen porters to carry most of the food up to the first floor. She carried the Savoy cake herself, trusting it to no one else. A curtain had been erected to screen off a small area near to the door leading to the back stairs and a trolley had been provided from which to serve. Patty arranged her sandwiches and cakes on it and peeked round the curtain to check that all was in readiness there. The department had been closed to general customers and a table set up, covered with a pristine white cloth on which Mr Freeman’s bone china was laid out. The silver teapot waited on the trolley to be filled. With a gasp, Patty realised she had forgotten all about the boiling water for the tea. She raced back down to the kitchen and as luck would have it found that one of the big kettles that stood always on the hob was full and boiling. She lugged it back upstairs, just in time to hear Mr Freeman’s voice as he conducted his guests to the table.

Patty waited a few moments until they were settled, then she pushed her laden trolley out from behind the curtain. There was a small murmur of pleasure as the guests reviewed the spread on offer – but Patty had kept back her pièce de résistance for later. Peering through a small gap in the curtain she watched the proceedings. The models, who had been organised by Miss Clarke, had begun to parade around the table. Attention was focused on them and she heard several ladies commenting favourably on the new designs. She knew that it was considered impolite in good society to discuss the food, but then to her delight she heard one lady say to another, ‘Isabella, do have another piece of this delicious gingerbread.’ ‘Thank you,’ that lady replied, ‘I have already had two, but why don’t you try a slice of this sponge. It’s so light I could eat it all!’

There was a brief interlude in the clothes show while the models changed and Patty judged this was her moment. Proudly, she carried in her Savoy cake.

‘Oh! Oh! My goodness. Look at that! Isn’t it beautiful?’ It was the lady called Isabella.

‘How lovely!’ said her friend. ‘It looks almost too good to eat.’

Patty set the cake down in front of Mr Freeman and caught his eye for a fleeting moment. He smiled and gave her a quick nod and she knew she had done all he’d expected.

When the guests had gone, and Patty went to clear away the dishes, there was very little left on the table. She was glad that they had enjoyed what she had worked so hard to create, but a little disappointed too. She had been looking forward to tasting some of it herself, and perhaps sharing it with Patrick. But there was still a sliver of Savoy cake left, and feeling rather guilty she ate it herself before she took the dirty dishes down to the kitchen.

Next morning Mr Freeman sent for her again, and this time she went without misgivings.

‘Patty, you did Freeman’s proud yesterday,’ he said. ‘Well done!’

Patty curtsied. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad you were pleased.’

‘That Savoy cake was a tour de force. I did not know you were quite such an accomplished pastry cook.’

‘I went to the library to find the recipe,’ Patty explained.

‘Did you?’ He studied her for a moment. ‘That shows initiative. Now, let me get to the point. Yesterday’s tea party was not just a passing fancy of mine. It was in some ways a trial run for a much bigger idea. I am thinking of opening a tea shop within the store, for all our customers. One of the chief attractions of a department store like Freeman’s is that it is place to which ladies can come without requiring to be chaperoned or accompanied by their husbands. It is a place where they can not only buy all they need under one roof, but meet friends and socialise. Now, it’s generally recognised that the longer someone spends in a shop the more she is likely to buy, and what better way of detaining them than to provide an opportunity to chat to friends over a cup of tea and some really nice cakes? Does that make sense to you?’

Patty was wondering why she was being treated to her employer’s thoughts at such length and was surprised to be asked her opinion. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a very good idea.’

‘Good! So how would you feel about taking charge of the venture?’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes. You’ve proved what a good pastry cook you are. I wouldn’t expect you to concern yourself with the general running of the tea shop. I shall have to advertise for a manager or manageress to see to all that. But you would be in charge of providing the food. I don’t think we should expect something as spectacular as your Savoy cake, except on special occasions perhaps, but I’m sure there are plenty of other little delicacies you could produce to vary the menu. What do you think? Will you give it a try?’

Patty swallowed and drew a long breath. This seemed almost too good to be true. ‘Oh, yes, sir. If you really think I’m up to it. I should like that very much.’

‘Excellent. You will need an assistant in the kitchen. Is there anyone you can suggest? Someone you could take on as a sort of apprentice?’

Patty thought hard. ‘There is a girl, Maisie. She’s only been with us for a few weeks, but she helped me out a bit yesterday. She seemed to be interested in what I was doing.’

‘Well, try her for a week or two and see if she’s the right person for the job. Now, there’s no need for you to concern yourself about the practical arrangements. I already have an area in mind on the ground floor and I will see that all the necessary furniture and equipment is procured, and, as I said, I shall look for someone to take care of the day-to-day running of the place, and deal with the financial side. Once it is organised I will let you know how many customers we may expect. All you have to do is produce enough cakes and other such things to satisfy them. Is all that clear?’

Patty felt breathless. ‘Yes, sir … I think so. Does Mr Carton know what I shall be doing?’

‘He will, soon. I shall make it clear to him that you have important responsibilities and he needs to facilitate your efforts in any way you require. Oh, and there is one more thing: with added responsibilities comes added remuneration. You can expect a pay rise at the end of the month. Any further questions?’

‘No, sir. Not that I can think of.’

‘Good. I expect to be able to open the tea shop at the beginning of November, so you had better get back to the kitchen and start making plans.’