40

Charlotte padded into the kitchen in slippers and a wrapper on Tuesday morning. Between last night’s window-rattling thunder and her own episodes of intense body heat, she had hardly slept.

“Ah . . .” She sighed at the sight of steam rising from the kettle.

Coral, slicing bacon, said, “You’re awake early, Mrs. Kent.”

“I’ve been awake for hours. But you know, inertia is the strongest chain.”

They spoke in low tones, though larder, pantry, and bathroom buffered Mr. Smith’s bedchamber.

“Inertia?” Coral asked.

“The force which keeps you in bed or chair when there is something you need to do.”

“Ah. Please take no offense, Mrs. Kent. This doesn’t apply to you. But inertia sounds a lot like laziness.”

“Well, it’s not.” Charlotte thought for a second. “Though they may be cousins.”

Coral laughed, set down the knife, and went over to the sink to wash her hands. “I’ll have you some tea in a tick.”

“Thank you. I hope you’ll have some too.” Pulling out a chair at the table, she eyed the stack of bacon slices. Mr. Smith’s appetite was a wonder to behold. “Your toast and marmalade mornings are over.”

“But only for a little while.” Coral poured hot water into the teapot and added a pinch of leaves. She brought the pot to the table, then collected cups and spoons, milk and sugar.

“Let’s allow it to steep a bit longer.” Coral leaned closer and lowered her voice even more so. “This is probably nothing. But Mr. Smith asked Sunday why you and Miss Kent and Mrs. Deamer don’t attend church.”

A warning bell rang in Charlotte’s mind. But then, was that not a perfectly natural question? “What did you say?”

“That I couldn’t say.”

“Did he persist?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, then.” She smiled. “I’m sure he was good company for you.”

Coral nodded. “Reminds me of my oldest brother, Jack. Big lumbering giants, they are. It was nice of him to walk with me and not mind going early. I thought Noble’s eyes would pop out.”

“No . . .” Charlotte groaned.

“I’m over him, Mrs. Kent. But I have to admit I enjoyed seeing him stare at us. Poor Amy was practically dancing to keep his attention.”

“Oh my. Poor Amy, indeed.”

“Saving for my bakery is the most important thing now,” Coral said, pouring tea into cups. “Though I would have to leave here, as Owen’s is so popular.”

“I would hate to have you leave, but I do understand. Where would you go?”

“Anywhere. As long as there’s a train station, so I can visit my family.”

“Exeter?”

“That would be ideal. But I look over the notices in the Gazette when you’ve finished, and rents are higher than here.”

After a sip of tea, Charlotte said, “But so would be the wages, wouldn’t they? What if you applied for a position in an established bakery or restaurant?”

Coral tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Where I could bake, instead of having to concentrate on meals.”

“You would gain more practical experience whilst saving and waiting for the right opportunity.”

“But where would I live, then? If I must pay for a room . . .”

Charlotte sighed. “Coral, do you really want this bakery?”

“More than anything.”

“You don’t have to say you do to please me. Truly.”

Eyes watering, Coral said, “Anything, Mrs. Kent.”

“Then you must ask more questions. You cannot assume that all hotels and bakeries don’t provide rooms for staff. Or pay enough to live on and continue saving.”

“You’re right.” Coral added a fourth spoonful of sugar to her tea. “I’ve been waylaid by, what did you say? Inertia!”

“And not laziness. Will you ever drink that?” Charlotte pointed to her tea.

“Oh. Yes.” Coral took a sip from her cup and drew up her lips. “Too sweet.”

“Imagine that.”

From the pantry corridor came the squeak of door hinges. Mr. Smith entered in pajamas and wrapper, his black hair sticking up on one side. He yawned, scratched his face, and looked about, eyes finally stopping on Charlotte and Coral.

“Oh . . . I beg your pardon.” He started to turn.

“You don’t have to leave,” Charlotte said. “I’m in a dressing gown as well.”

He gave them a sheepish smile. “Good morning. I was hoping to make some tea.”

Coral rose. “I’ll freshen the pot, Mr. Smith. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” He pulled out a chair. “The thunder woke you too?”

“It never allowed me to sleep.” Charlotte glanced at the window. “We may be in for more. It’s a pity for your work.”

“Such is the life of a traveling artist. I have some detailing to do. And perhaps I could sketch the cottage between showers. It’s quite unique.”

Casually, Charlotte said, “You’ll not ask us to pose on the porch, will you?”

“Would you care to?”

“I’m shy. And fat.”

He winked at her. “You’re not exactly Humpty Dumpty, Mrs. Kent. But no, the cottage alone will suffice.”

Coral brought over the teapot. “We’ve some bread pudding left over from last night, if you can manage sweets this early.”

“None for me, thank you,” Charlotte said.

“I would enjoy some,” Mr. Smith said. “It’s a wonder you had any left. I daresay I had three dishes last night.”

Four, Charlotte thought, smiling to herself. “Miss Shipsey plans to have her own bakery one day.”

“I endorse that plan heartily. You’re an artist with flour and sugar.”

“Oh now, you flatter me,” Coral said, setting a dish of bread pudding before him. “Mrs. Kent advises me to apply somewhere in Exeter where I can gain more experience.”

He set his teacup into the saucer. “Don’t just apply. Promote!” Forefingers drawing a square in the air, he unfolded his plan. “Fill a half-dozen flat boxes with samples, and carry them to the best hotels and restaurants there.”

“Why, that’s an excellent idea, Mr. Smith,” Charlotte said.

They both looked at Coral. All animation had left her face.

“Miss Shipsey?” Mr. Smith said, fork raised to his mouth.

“Mrs. Hooper,” she said. “She does some business in Exeter and knows everyone from miles about. If she learned I was applying elsewhere, she would give me the sack.”

This was no surprise to Charlotte.

Mr. Smith chewed, swallowed. “You need a promoter. Allow me that honor. I would reveal your identity only to those who are interested in hiring you.”

“You would do that for me? But I can’t allow you to take time from your work.”

“I wouldn’t be. I’m to meet my editor, Mr. Kaye, in Exeter on the twenty-eighth of June, returning the day after. I could catch the early train and deliver your boxes. That would give you nearly three weeks to plan.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Charlotte said.

He ducked his head modestly but then said, “I gained my book contract with tenacity. Muscling my way in to see the right people . . . with utmost courtesy, mind you. I would be representing the head baker at an esteemed lodging house in Port Stilwell.”

Coral laughed. “Mr. Smith! I’m not—”

“Is there any untruth to that?” he asked, holding up the dish of half-eaten pudding.

“Well . . .”

Charlotte had to smile and wondered that he had not found his way into the theatre business.

“I would ask for appointments. That way, when you go up there on your own, you won’t be facing some great unknown. We could rehearse your interviews so that you’ll have the confidence you need. Just as if you were to be in a play.”

“Rehearsing would be good,” Charlotte said. Her confidence in Mr. Smith’s genuineness became more solid. If he knew who she was, he would never have made the theatre reference.

He pushed out his chair. “I’ve enjoyed our visit. But I must dress and finish some detailing before breakfast.”

Breakfast? Charlotte thought.

Coral smiled at her as if to say that it didn’t matter. And why should it, when he was so willing to help her?

That gave Charlotte pause.

She asked to speak with him on the porch after lunch, while Rosalind was reading in the parlor, Mrs. Deamer upstairs, and Coral in the kitchen. The rain had lightened into a mist that blurred the trees on either side of the lane like an impressionist painting.

“Is something wrong?” he asked with a worried expression.

He was young enough to be her son, so she gave him what she hoped to be a look of motherly concern.

“You must get quite lonely in your travels.”

“My work dominates so much of my energy that I don’t notice,” he replied, but the sadness in his dark eyes said she was not far off the mark.

“Coral . . . Miss Shipsey . . . she’s a wonderful girl.”

He nodded. “You’re concerned that I’ll hurt her?”

“She’s been hurt before.”

“I’m not interested in having a girl in every port, Mrs. Kent. I feel a bond with people from humble beginnings. I would have done the same had she been a man.”

Charlotte let out a breath. “I’m so happy to hear it. I hope I’ve not offended you.”

He shook his head. “It’s good that you look out for her.”

“I feel that bond with her too, Mr. Smith. I’ll leave you to return to your work.”

“Allow me.” He stepped over to take the door handle, pausing to give her the tenderest of smiles. “If I were to have romantic notions, Mrs. Kent . . . they would be for someone else.”

You can’t possibly be saying . . .

She had known of young swains who pursued much older women, but always wealthy ones. Silly, wealthy women. The theatre world was full of such cases.

“But she has a beau,” he went on. “I hope he knows how fortunate he is.”

She felt fortunate herself, for the years of training that had kept her from revealing her ridiculous thoughts. “I believe he does, Mr. Smith.”