My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Read online

  “No, I came only to tell you,” she said, gesturing with her hands to show that she had no supplies with her. “When you weren’t here on time, I thought perhaps you had gone with him and I’d been mistaken about the model.”

  Charlotte shuddered again at the notion. She would never do something so rash!

  As she put the key in the lock of Rare Confectionery, Charlotte’s heart ached at the thought of Lionel and his blonde model taking the train from Charing Cross station and then the ferry across the Channel to start a new life. Viola said he’d left their parents a note stating he wanted to practice his art amongst the old masters and ancient ruins of Europe.

  Pushing open the door, she stepped inside and instantly the walls closed around her, leaving her feeling trapped and ... abandoned. Lionel could have simply gone to one of their London museums and set up his easel among their grand collections of Dutch and Flemish oils, not to mention the Elgin marbles for inspiration.

  She would never see him again! That terrible thought stopped her in the middle of the wooden floor, tears pricking her eyes as they’d done all night. How would she bear the loss of him and his kisses? She thought of Viola’s momentary concern that Charlotte had been the one to go with him.

  Despite hearing the bell tinkle behind her, lost in a fanciful game of what-if, she didn’t turn. Deep down in her bones, Charlotte knew she never would have done such a selfish thing to her family. Not even for Lionel.

  “Miss, excuse me, miss?”

  “We’re not open yet,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

  “I know, miss. You said to come back.”

  All at once, she remembered — Edward Percy. Taking a deep breath, collecting herself, she turned to face the boy who’d touched her heart. In that instant, seeing him, hat-in-hand, wearing the same clothes as the day before, with his hair combed under his worn cap, his face obviously scrubbed clean, she recalled life was far bigger than her obsession with Lionel Evans.

  “Hello, Edward,” she began, trying to put her thoughts in order. “You are certainly prompt.”

  “Yes, miss. I wouldn’t take lightly the offer of work.”

  Ah, yes. Her offer of a job. After the heartbreaking debacle at the academy, Charlotte had gone home and directly up to her room. She hadn’t asked her mother’s permission about employing young Edward. Indeed, she’d forgotten all about him. However, it was decidedly Felicity’s shop, not hers nor her sisters’ and not even their father’s. What her mother said was law at Rare Confectionery, and it had always been that way.

  But things had been changing, and quickly. Her mother had left the running of the shop to her grown daughters for the past few years, coming in for a few hours as it suited her. Amity wasn’t there as often since becoming — of all incredible things — a duchess in February of the prior year. And Beatrice, who had married Mr. Carson just last autumn, sometimes kept shorter hours. Only Charlotte’s role had remained the same.

  The truth of the night’s heartbreak crashed in upon her once more. To think, she had brought it upon herself — believing he cared for her when she hadn’t meant a thing to him. It had been all on her side, in her own head. Through the entire Season the year before, she hadn’t truly considered anyone with whom she’d met and danced, because Lionel had taken up all the space in her heart and her mind. All for naught. Just wishful thinking.

  And then he’d started to kiss her...

  Not only that, ever since The Langham, London’s most opulent hotel, had contracted with them the previous summer to provide all their confectionery, others had taken notice. Rare Confectionery now had weekly deliveries to The Grosvenor Hotel at Victoria Station and The Great-Western Hotel at Paddington, as well as at The Albion, a restaurant in Covent Garden, and the Gaiety Restaurant on the Strand.

  Charlotte, her mother, and her sisters hadn’t had a discussion yet, but they would soon need help to fill the orders as the demand was more than the three of them could produce, especially while also keeping the shop stocked—and if they wanted to continue to expand their business.

  Did they? Perhaps her family was moving on to other interests. With Amity due to have a child in a few months, everything would change drastically again. While her sister pledged her continued support of Rare Confectionery and her desire to be their chocolatier, she’d already cut back on her hours. What would they do if she couldn’t make chocolates for an extended period of time?

  And Bea and her husband had found time to go to their country home in Scotland just once since their marriage, and Charlotte knew they were dying to go back and work on the farmhouse.

  If both her sisters moved on with their lives, how would the confectionery continue? One thing Charlotte was certain of — she ought to dust off her skills making both chocolates and toffee. Anyone could run the front counter, but the lessons and recipes they’d learned from their mother to make delicious confectionery were special.

  At that particular moment though, all Charlotte wanted to do was close the shop entirely, go home, and bury her head under her pillow. But here she was, faced with the eager Edward.

  “Do you have a certificate of standard saying you don’t have to be in school?” she asked.

  He hesitated, either because he hadn’t expected such a question or because he was about to lie to her.

  “Yes, miss, at home. Anyways, I’ll be thirteen in six months and then they can’t make me go back.”

  Good enough, she supposed. It wasn’t as if she were trying to force a six-year-old to be a chimney sweep. Charlotte couldn’t contain a small shudder at the dreadful notion. What an awful existence those children had endured before the Chimney Sweepers’ Act passed a mere four years earlier. While many youngsters still worked dangerous jobs in mines, mills, and factories, at least she could offer Edward something better.

  “Very well. At first, I thought you were younger and could only tidy and sweep, but since you’re twelve, I hope I can count on you to handle deliveries. Our confectionery goes to hotels and restaurants around the area. Can you handle that?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. I know London as well as any cabbie.”

  “Good. You might be given tips by any of those establishments, and you’re free to accept them. Plus, I’ll pay you—” With no idea what she ought to give him, she almost said thruppence, then doubled it at the last second. “Six pence a day.”

  His eyes grew wide. “A tanner, miss! That’s a pound, every forty days!” His tone was one of awe.

  “Maybe sooner. We’ll see how you get on, Edward. Shall we?” Plus, she had to ask her mother, and maybe Felicity would say it ought to be a shilling a day, in which case the boy’s eyes might fall out of his head altogether. It also depended on how many hours he put in and what use they could make of him.

  “We’ll have to make you a small apron like I used to have when I was a youngster, but for now, come in the back.”

  Leading him between the counters and into the workroom, she showed him where he could hang his coat and put his scruffy cap on a shelf. Then she hung her own coat beside his, before untying her bonnet, having been unable to care about pinning a stylish hat in place that morning.

  From the drawer where they stored aprons, she pulled out a clean one and tried tying it high up under his arms. It did no good. He would still trip.

  “Never mind, I’ll figure out your apron by tomorrow.” Charlotte pinned and tied her own on. He nodded, staring around the room at the big iron stove and copper counters and across from it, the marble slab where Amity tempered chocolate.

  “Tell me, how did your family like the sweets?” she asked, taking up the bottle of vinegar from another cupboard and a few old newspapers.

  His gaze snapped back to her. “Those are for Easter Sunday, miss, and not before.”

  Restraint—another good trait in the boy, not often seen in children.

  “Let’s have you start by cleaning the glass display cases out front with this vinegar and rub them down with the newspap
ers.” If they got the opening chores done, and if a large enough crowd gathered, Charlotte might turn the sign around early.

  “Take that pail, put in some water from the sink, and then pour in about two tablespoons of vinegar.”

  He looked instantly anxious.

  “Here, let’s do it together today. Put the pail under the tap.”

  She let him fill it half full and place it on the floor. “Now, as I pour, I shall count, one ... two. There, that’s about enough.”

  Edward carried the bucket through to the front.

  “Now, fold up some paper and dip it in. Don’t touch your eyes until you’ve had a chance to wash your hands or it will sting like the devil. Right then, wipe the glass and the fingerprints and smears shall disappear.”

  “They do,” he said wondrously.

  She went back and snatched up the small bristle broom.

  “We do the display cases every day, sometimes twice if children have come in and pressed against them. Or anyone without gloves,” she added, starting to sweep the front floor, working around Edward. “And we do the inside of the front windows a couple times a week. My mother has a man who comes around and does the outside, along with the stores on either side of us.”

  While she spoke, she finished sweeping any debris into the dustpan, which she dumped into the rubbish bin in the back. Edward finished a moment later, standing back to observe his efforts, before darting forward to clean one spot again.

  “You can dump that in the sink, slowly and carefully please so as not to splash. There’s a rubbish bin in the corner for the newsprint, and then wash your hands thoroughly.”

  “Yes, miss.” He disappeared behind the curtain, and Charlotte pulled the cashbox out from under the counter, confirming she had plenty of coins to make change for any early customers.

  “Now, we make the display shelves look attractive,” she told him. “As you can see, after yesterday, they’re nearly empty.”

  They had two confectionery cupboards with trays of sweets and a coldbox with ice at the top and bottom, keeping such items as their butter and milk. Amity also used it to quickly cool fondant or chocolate when she was making bonbons. While Beatrice’s toffee hardly ever needed its help to harden, in the hottest weeks of the London summer, Charlotte found the coldbox useful to keep her small marzipan confections from becoming unappealing blobs. Luckily, that wasn’t a problem at their busiest times of year, Valentine’s Day, Easter, and Christmas.

  Hearing the door’s bell tinkle, she snatched up a tray and gave another to Edward before hurrying to the front.

  “Good morning,” Amity said, stopping in her tracks at the sight of Edward.

  “Our new helper,” Charlotte said and introduced them. “Mr. Edward Percy, this is my sister, the Duchess of Pelham.”

  The boy looked as if he might fall to the floor in supplication and drop the confectionery. Luckily, Amity was good at setting ordinary people at ease since she’d been one of them all her life, until the previous year’s February wedding.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Edward. I make the chocolates here, and you may call me Mrs. Westbrook,” Amity said, giving the boy her husband’s family name.

  “Yes, missus,” but he sent Charlotte a look of alarm.

  “Have you tasted one of my chocolates?” Amity asked.

  “Yes, missus. It was delicious. It melted in my mouth.”

  “Perfect,” Amity said. “I had best get started.”

  Then Charlotte set him to work filling the display cases, telling him what went where, while her eldest sister began immediately to make chocolates in every shape and size and flavor, plain and milk, some with fruit and nuts. And Charlotte set up her own station behind the counter making marzipan sweets, which she did all day long in between serving customers.

  When Edward had finished stocking the shelves, he wandered into the back and Charlotte could hear Amity explaining what she was doing as she worked. The boy’s natural curiosity, hopefully, would turn him into a confectioner’s apprentice, which would be a most useful thing.

  Beatrice and their mother entered at the same time.

  “If we can get the display glass cleaned quickly, and the shelves stocked,” Felicity began, “then maybe we can open early.” However, she trailed off to see the glass sparkling and the cases filled.

  “How early did you get here?” her mother asked.

  “Now I feel lazy,” Beatrice said, but she smiled. “And relieved. I honestly hate the vinegar job and am unsure how I ever got saddled with it.”

  “Consider yourself unsaddled,” Charlotte said. Then she looked at her mother. There was no point in prevaricating or dawdling. “I haven’t been here too long, but I did hire some help and forgot to mention it to you. Naturally, if you don’t think he’s a good fit for us, then I will send him on his way.” The thought was a terrible one. How would she bear Edward’s disappointment.

  “He!” Felicity repeated. “Hired help! We’ve never had anyone in here who wasn’t family.” She didn’t look pleased.

  “Edward,” Charlotte called out. A moment later, he came through the parted curtain.

  “Yes, miss.” His face was impossibly earnest.

  “This is my mother, Mrs. Rare-Foure. She owns this shop, and she taught me everything I know about making sweets. She taught all of us, in fact.”

  His eyes had grown rounder looking at Charlotte’s pretty mother.

  “Mother, this is Mr. Edward Percy, a capable young man.”

  “Missus,” he said, giving an awkward bow, before walking forward and fearlessly shaking her hand.

  Felicity gave him a good long look, taking time to stare him in the eye.

  “You can work hard, young man?”

  “Yes, missus.”

  “And you don’t mind taking orders from females?”

  “No, missus.”

  “And your parents know you are here?”

  Perhaps only Charlotte sensed the slight hesitation.

  “Yes, missus. I told my mum last night.”

  Then, Felicity nodded. “He shall need an apron by tomorrow,” she proclaimed and sailed past him into the back room to hang up her coat and don her apron. Charlotte would speak to her later, in private, about his wages. Meanwhile, Beatrice still stood there, already removing her coat.

  “And this is my sister, Mrs. Carson. She makes the toffee.”

  “Truly, miss?” he said, shaking her hand. “I haven’t tasted yours, but toffee is an excellent sweet.”

  Charlotte hoped Beatrice wouldn’t laugh at the boy and his serious ways.

  “Thank you, Mr. Percy,” she said. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “Please, missus, call me Edward.”

  “All right. First of all, let’s remedy your terrible lack of experience. Charlotte, please,” she said, holding out her hand. “A piece of plain toffee.”

  She handed her sister a piece on a square of paper, which Beatrice held in front of the boy. “Take it, suck it a minute, don’t try to bite it right away. Then tell me what you think, Edward. I can trust you to tell me the truth, I’m sure of it.

  “Yes, missus.” He popped in the whole piece and worked it around his mouth. He closed his eyes and sucked hard, then worked it some more, before tucking it into his cheek.

  “It’s delicious, missus. The best toffee I’ve ever had.”

  “It’s the treacle,” Beatrice said, not able to keep from gloating. “If you are a cautious sort of person, then I will teach you how to create it.” She paused. “But make no mistake, it is a dangerous business, making toffee.” She winked at Charlotte. “Like working with molten fire. One needs the constitution of a dragon-slayer to make toffee.”

  “Really, missus?” Edward said in a thin voice. Then he coughed and said more firmly, “I would like to try.”

  “We shall see.” Beatrice passed him by, ruffling his hair as she made her way into the back.

  “You’ve tasted both my sisters’ confectionery, but not y
et mine,” Charlotte said. “Would you like to try marzipan?”

  He nodded, and she fetched a sculpted leaf, waiting until he’d swallowed the last of Bea’s toffee.

  “Marzipan, some call it marchpane, is made from ground almonds, and honestly, it’s not to everyone’s taste. I shan’t be at all offended if you don’t like it.” With that, she handed him the leaf.

  “It’s cleverly done, miss,” he said, examining her artistry. “It looks almost real.” With that, he popped it in his mouth, worked it around on his tongue and swallowed.

  “It’s good,” he said.

  “But not as good as chocolate or toffee,” she amended.

  His cheeks turned pink.

  She laughed. “It’s fine. Most of the customers who adore it are older than you. I can make it in a variety of ways, and I can bake it, too. Sometimes Amity puts it inside her chocolate, and sometimes I put her chocolate inside my marzipan.”

  He took it all in with thoughtful eyes. “It tasted a bit like a flower, miss.”

  “That leaf had a little rose-water in it, a recipe from the late-sixteenth century, if you can believe it. Now, let’s see if Mrs. Rare-Foure will allow you to make our deliveries today.”

  She sent Edward to the back room to speak with her mother, but, as soon as she was alone again, Lionel’s face popped into her thoughts. Her heart squeezed with pain. Was he even then in sunny France, planning his grand art tour? They’d had a discussion about the museums on the Continent once, since her family had been abroad thrice. However, as the Evans never had, Lionel had been envious, she recalled, and a little sullen with her. She’d never brought it up again.

  Suddenly, a tap on the door snagged her attention. Looking up, she was surprised to see Lord Jeffcoat’s visage pressed against the glass.

  “Robin Hood,” she muttered, going around the counter to let him in.

  Chapter Three

  Charles was pleased to see Miss Rare-Foure in the front of the shop. He knew he was there early. The streets were practically deserted except for delivery men and the gangs of sweepers. And he had planned on simply walking by if he hadn’t seen her.