| |
Greer took a step back as the young woman before him grew red in the face, and he knew he’d made an error. He wasn’t sure whether he’d caused her fury by giving her the gold coin or by presuming she had a gentleman friend, or even by his bold assumption she liked to eat. Who could tell with this crabby miss?
Whatever it was, she was mad as a wet cat, and her hyacinth-blue eyes glittered with flecks of fire — or perhaps that was simply the watery English sunlight bouncing around the white interior of the shop and reflecting in them. Either way, he knew he’d bungled it.
Miss Rare-Foure opened her mouth undoubtedly to give him a sharp dressing-down, he was certain of that, but she glanced past him to the new customers who’d entered the candy shop.
Glaring at him, she snatched up the coin. “Your change, sir.” She held it out and quickly let it drop from her fingers. If he hadn’t caught it, it would have rolled onto the clean wood floor. He did catch it and stuffed the offending coin back into his pocket.
“Well, thank you,” he said to her stiff back, as she walked away to help the newcomers. With no clear understanding of these British folks, he hoped to do better if he was to gain a titled lady, which was his foremost goal, along with a spiffy London townhouse.
“Goodbye,” he added, although she ignored him, already boxing up some chocolates for the young couple who’d entered.
Greer had reached the door when he suddenly heard her call out to him, “You there! American!”
Turning with a half-smile starting to form on his lips, ready to receive an apology for her churlishness, instead he was hit by a half-pound of toffee, catching it and smashing the crinkly paper sack against his chest.
“Don’t forget your confectionery,” Miss Rare-Foure quipped, a smirk on her pretty face. The other customers had turned to watch the buffoonery.
He decided then and there he would return to speak with her again. The way she’d fearlessly handled the aristocratic women — and even put him in his place — gave Greer the idea she would be able to tell him all he needed to know to navigate the peculiar and foreign conventions of the British. Perhaps she could even help him infiltrate the ranks of the nobility.
In any case, while closing the shop door behind him and stepping into the stream of pedestrians, he realized he’d thoroughly enjoyed the unique and abrasive spunk of Rare Confectionery’s toffee-maker.
***
BEATRICE WAS PLEASED as Punchinello when Charlotte felt better a day later and returned to work, her usual cheerful, smiling self.
Her sister was counting the money in the till as they opened for the day. “It seems sales have been down for two days.”
“That’s right,” Beatrice told her. “Ever since you deserted me, leaving me to wait on these wretched people.”
They both laughed.
“Customers, wretched or not, must have come in as usual. Did you manage to drive most of them away before they could buy anything?”
“Some,” Beatrice said with a sniff, as she wiped down the glass with vinegar and newsprint. Then she recalled the American. “However, one of them bought toffee even after I was rude, and I ended up hurling his sweets at him when he forgot them on the counter.” She laughed some more, recalling his expression.
Charlotte was not joining in this time. In fact, she looked horrified. “You didn’t!”
Rolling her eyes at her younger sister’s tone, Beatrice said, “You sound like Mother.”
“With good cause. I told her she should come spend the day with you, but no, she had to play nursemaid to me. What if the gentleman had accused you of assault?”
“Silly girl.”
“No, don’t dismiss me. You always think you can say what you like and do whatever you want without consequence. Only recall what a mess you made of Amity’s life last year, telling off an earl’s daughter and nearly ruining our shop.”
“It all worked out in the end,” Beatrice protested, not wishing to recall one particularly rude young lady who had thoroughly infuriated her. “Besides Mother told off the same earl’s daughter. Why, I think you did as well, didn’t you, at the duke’s party?”
“That’s not the point,” Charlotte said. “Luckily, I’ve forgotten what the point was. I’m turning the sign around, so get yourself in the back room where you belong. Treacle toffee, if you please.”
Gathering the broom and her glass cleaning supplies, Beatrice went happily to the back room.
“Tea?” she called out to her sister. Although their older sister drank mostly hot chocolate, the rest of the family were solidly tea drinkers.
“Yes, please,” Charlotte said, then gave her usual piercing whistle of happiness, guaranteed to make one jump.
“What now?” Beatrice asked, lighting the flame under the kettle on the stove, as well as another under the large pot to which she quickly added brown sugar, treacle, vinegar, butter, and milk. Her basic recipe for treacle toffee, she could practically create it in her sleep.
“Nothing, I’m simply happy to be back.”
Thank goodness for her sisters! Amity had made their shop into a gold mine as a renowned chocolatier before marrying the Duke of Pelham a few weeks earlier. And Charlotte, an artist with her delicate marzipan creations, thoroughly enjoyed working in the front of the store while engaging with their customers.
Beatrice’s toffee was very popular, but it lacked the skill of her sisters’ creations, and she made for a poor shop girl indeed, abiding neither the snout-nosed aristocrats who came in with their silent servants to get free samples despite having more money than God, nor the foolish people who asked her question upon question, as if sweets weren’t simply uncomplicated treats of enjoyment.
“Just taste it,” she’d hissed at one curious fellow the day before.
Her family accepted she was a bit of a bookworm, happy to spend her evenings reading, mostly because doing anything else involved other maddening people. And she did not thrive upon the novels of sentiment generally considered acceptable for young women. She preferred books of facts and history, biographies, scientific improvements, explorations.
To that end, her father paid for a subscription to the London Library on her behalf, and she’d also been known to frequent the British Museum Library during the hours women were admitted. Sometimes she attended what was loosely termed “a lecture” at the London University in the evening. However, these often turned out to be more entertainment than educational and, thus, somewhat disappointing. She didn’t care for the meetings of the Literary Society for Women, as they were too esoteric. Instead, she had a subscription to the practical and idealistic Women's Suffrage Journal, right alongside her favorite magazine, The Athenæum, and she greatly admired women who were making advancements.
Truthfully, though, Beatrice was equally impressed by the accomplishments of men, and rather unsure what she would achieve by being allowed to vote upon things she usually had no interest in. As for herself, she wondered if a life of making treacle toffee was enough and suffered occasionally from the doldrums, as her father called it if he caught her moping at home.
Along with Amity, she had declined an official coming-out party at their home on Baker Street, while also knowing she could never be presented at the palace before the queen. That was not for the likes of a shopkeeper’s daughter. Thus, she eschewed a wardrobe of useless ballgowns for more books of her very own and the chance to travel with her family to the Continent. They had done so thrice already.
The bell tinkled above the door as the copper kettle started to boil, and Beatrice was very glad she didn’t have to attend the customers. Pouring water over the loose leaves in the bottom of their ugly but efficient brown-Betty teapot, she considered her next tray of toffee. She was going to add sultanas for the enjoyment of added texture.
“Beatrice,” came her sister’s voice, summoning her. Adjusting the knitted cozy onto the teapot, she parted the velvet curtain and went out front.
“This gentleman wishes to speak with you,” Charlotte said.
To Beatrice’s surprise, it was the American. Strangely, her spirits lifted. He was as good a remedy for tedium as any.
***
“THE PLAIN TOFFEE WAS the best.” Greer decided to tell Miss Rare-Foure immediately. “Without nuts,” he added, in case she’d forgotten. Although, by the look upon her face, she remembered their encounter only too well.
“Thank you,” she replied, and he thought it might have pained her to be nice since her tone plainly did not match her words.
“I found assorted flavors of boiled candies right where you said they’d be, all along Oxford Street.”
Her mouth drew into a thin line, and he was sorry to have mentioned them.
“Why do you despise them so much?” Greer couldn’t help asking.
The sisters — for by their appearance, they were obviously related — turned to one another, and they exchanged a glance.
Then the toffee-maker said, “They need very little skill to produce, except to take care you neither burn the sugar, nor yourself. And any number of nasty things can be put in them to make them colorful and for children, no less.” She emphasized the word in such a way as to let him know she disapproved of adults eating the hard sweets.
Greer considered the bag of brightly colored candy residing in his pocket. “Such as what type of nasty things exactly?”
“Ha!” she exclaimed. “You are from America and likely haven’t heard of the Bradford humbug poisoning of more than two hundred people. Twenty died from eating the sweets containing arsenic from a market stall in Bradford, Yorkshire.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat, thinking of the boiled candies he’d eaten since the day before. “Surely that was an aberration.”
“Someone got greedy and didn’t want to pay for pure sugar,” her sister pointed out. Unlike the blue-eyed Miss Rare-Foure, she had warm, brown eyes and darker brown hair. Moreover, she looked ... friendly—a distinct difference! “It could happen again,” she added.
“It could,” the toffee-maker agreed. “Adding cheap ingredients, or ‘daft,’ as it’s called, is often harmless plaster powder or limestone. Terrible to put in your food but not deadly, until some idiot used arsenic by mistake. They used to put stuff into cocoa, too,” she added, casting a glance over the chocolates on the shelves in the display, “before they figured out the best way to refine it. Although since it was usually starch to soak up the cocoa butter in a cup of hot chocolate, it didn’t kill you.”
“Would you care to sample something, sir?” asked the friendly sister, who seemed to realize it might not be the best idea to mention poisoning and death to a customer while trying to sell confectionery.
However, the crabbier Miss Rare-Foure continued undaunted. “It’s only since they abolished the sugar tax a few years back that you can be fairly certain sugar is what you’re getting in anything.” She nodded at her own words. “But you still have to worry about boiled sweets made with lead, mercury, chalk, and copper for the red, yellow, white, and green colors.”
Greer wasn’t too certain about the health risks, but had a feeling he didn’t want to eat copper or any of the other things she’d mentioned. He reached into his pocket and drew out the plain brown paper sack, looking extremely shabby compared to the bleached white bags Rare Confectionery used.
“I think I shall toss these in the trash heap,” he admitted.
For some reason, this caused Miss Rare-Foure to start laughing. At him! She laughed until she snorted. Her sister, noting his discomfort, did not join in, but simply stared at her sibling with quiet disapproval.
After a moment, she said, “Beatrice usually stays in the back,” as if by way of apology.
Beatrice? Beatrice Rare-Foure, a pretty name for a pretty female. She could probably get away with her tart tongue and rude comments, and even laughing at customers, because of her high cheekbones, brilliant blue eyes, and generous lips.
The aforementioned Beatrice eventually got hold of her rampant humor and asked him, “Are you back to buy more toffee already? If so, my sister will help you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and started to leave. He sent a glance to her sister, who offered him a small shrug along with a congenial smile.
“I will,” she said. “Help you, I mean.”
Greer nodded. Unfortunately, he felt driven to prod the serpent, compelled to speak further with the sharp-tongued Beatrice. That was why he had returned, after all.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” he said to her back, but she didn’t turn around, apparently thinking he was addressing her sister.
“You,” Greer tried again, “the toffee-maker one.”
At this, she whirled around to face him as her sister muttered something that might have been a warning. Returning to the counter, the formidable young woman leaned over it, looking up at him with a direct glare.
“I am working,” she said, biting out each word sharply. “What exactly do you wish?” Her words ended on a long hiss of annoyance. Serpent, indeed!
“I was hoping we could have a chat, perhaps over a cup of tea, if that’s your drink of choice.”
Her sister gasped. At the same time, the toffee-maker reared back, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed. Finally, Miss Rare-Foure glanced over at her sister as if to ask her opinion. Neither spoke, then she turned back to him.
“I know you are from another country, so I must ask you this: Do you understand I am an honest shopkeeper’s daughter?”
Greer wondered what she was getting at. “Yes, of course, and you make delicious toffee. It is quite superior to what I’ve eaten at home.”
She nodded, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you also understand I do not provide any other services?”
Her sister gasped for the second time in under a minute.
Greer considered her words. Other services? What on earth...!
“I am asking,” the young woman continued, “because first you tried to give me a half-sovereign.”
“What?” exclaimed the other Miss Rare-Foure, and then she blinked her big brown eyes at him with interest.
“And because now you seem to think it proper to ask me to be alone with you. To chat. Over tea.”
The way she said the words almost made them sound lascivious. Greer couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh. Then he slapped the counter, right where she’d slapped it the day before over the infernal coin. Then he doubled over and continued to laugh. If she knew how far off the mark she was!
The two women were silent as he had his own fit of good humor. It felt good to laugh so hard. Obviously, he and the toffee-maker knew how to amuse one another. The notion he would be so brazen as to make a lascivious proposition over tea tickled him. If he were going to make any kind of untoward offer to a woman, it would be over a glass of wine!
Strangely, even though he’d been in London a mere few days, this was the second time someone assumed his thoughts were improper. A cabbie had told him where to find a strumpet if he needed one, and all he’d wanted to ask was where to get a good meal.
What was it with these Londoners? Was it because he was American and they thought him uncivilized?
When he straightened, he realized Miss Rare-Foure’s face had reddened, perhaps with embarrassment. He had probably committed all sorts of offences by laughing at her and her outrageous assumption.
“Not that I don’t think you are worth ... chatting with ... over tea,” he said lamely, as his levity turned to chagrin. “You are pretty, and I’m certain any man would be lucky to ... to ... chat with you. However, I’m not interested in you in that way.”
Her mortification seemed to be growing along with his, and he looked to her sister for help, but that one simply smiled and shrugged. Then the bell behind him tinkled gently, and he turned to see three well-dressed women entering with a gentleman, making the store shrink in size.
The friendly sister moved away from the scene of humiliation to help the customers, and when he turned back, he saw only the swishing of the blue curtain.
Now what? Dammit! He squared his shoulders. He was Greer Carson, son of an impoverished petroleum heiress and a dead war hero. He would make this right, even if he had to break a few more rules. Slipping between the counters, he parted the velvet curtain and strode into the unknown.
It wasn’t a dark, seedy back room as he’d feared. A window to the alley behind the row of shops brought in the sun, shining daylight upon a cast iron stove with copper counters on either side of it, a marble countertop, gleaming pans, a spiffy cooling box, shelves of what he assumed were candy-making supplies, and one extremely irritated toffee-maker staring at a pot of something black and smoking.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” he began.
“Out,” she ordered, pointing back the way he had come, before she snatched up a large metal lid and slammed it on top of the bubbling mess. Then she grabbed for a thick cloth and used it to grab the pot handle.
“Allow me,” he said, not thinking it right to stand idly by while she took care of this kitchen disaster by herself.
She started to protest, but this young lady was not going to heft a heavy, smoldering pot while he was there. Practically shoving her aside, he asked, “Where do you want me to set it?”
She hesitated, and Greer thought she might balk once again, and the handle was starting to heat through the cloth.
“Set it on the flagstone over there.” Beatrice pointed to the far wall between the window and a slim door, where stones indicated a hearth for a fireplace that no longer existed.
Having set it down, he stood and turned. “Please, if I could explain.”
“Out,” she repeated as before. “And by the time I count to three, if you haven’t left not only this room but the shop as well, then I shall be forced to flag down one of the Metropolitan police force.”
“I’ve heard of your bobbies. I would very much like to see one in action.”
“You may very soon get your wish. One,” she said, tapping her foot.
He glanced down to see what kind of footwear she wore. His uncle always said you could tell a lot about a man by his choice of footwear. Greer wasn’t sure that applied to women as well. The best he could tell, Miss Rare-Foure wore short boots, plain leather, dyed gray. Although, they might be shoes. He couldn’t quite tell.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded.
“Your feet,” he explained. “If I could just see your ankle—”
“Two,” she said in a severe tone with her hands on her hips.
“It’s no matter. Even if I knew whether you wore shoes or boots, I don’t know what that would say about you. I guess boots are more the footwear of a woman who gets things done and has to be on her feet much of the day. I suppose regular shoes could also do that, but not those fancy slippers I’ve seen in the shop window up the street. They look as though they’re thin as paper.”
“Those are for dancing,” the toffee-maker told him, “not for wearing on the street. Surely, you’ve been to a dance and seen them worn.” Then she shook her head. “Do you really not know how improper it is to try to see a woman’s ankles? Are you so uncivilized in America?”
“I had an inkling,” Greer confessed. “Not that I’ve spent much time going to dances. None in fact. Nor, quite frankly, am I much in the company of genteel women.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you?” she asked him in her surly manner.