by Audrey Glenn
Sighing, she turned to see the table covered in flour and sticky dough. Peggy would be furious to come home to this mess. Helen scraped and wiped the table over and over until it was finally clean, then went to pump more water so Peggy would not notice the bucket had been depleted.
Hoping it was ready, Helen opened the door to the oven and checked on the tart. It resembled a three-day-old stew — globs of gooseberry jam swam in puddles of greasy liquid, and pieces of the crust had bubbled like dumplings.
Helen didn’t think it should look like that, but perhaps it hadn’t cooked fully. She would go and prepare a gown for Euphemia’s concert that evening while she waited for the tart to finish.
She had difficulty choosing between a green velvet robe and the pink silk she’d worn to David’s birthday dinner. She was about to ask Cassandra’s opinion when the sound of raised voices startled her back into the kitchen.
“What in the name of the Almighty has happened?” Peggy screamed.
“Oh, the tart!” Helen wailed, running forward to throw open the oven door. Black smoke rolled off the surface of the tart in waves. Westing jumped forward and began fanning furiously at the smoke with a cloth.
“Get out of me way!” Peggy yelled, pushing Helen aside and grabbing at the tart with her bare hands. Helen gaped at the cook, who seemed to have hands made of iron.
“What’s going on here?” David appeared in the door, waving smoke and coughing.
“My tart —” Helen began.
David didn’t let her finish. “We must open all the windows.” He and Westing disappeared into the corridor and Helen ran to throw the door to the apartment open. Below, standing at the entrance of his law office, stood Uncle Josiah.
“Is anything the matter?” he inquired.
“Just a burnt tart,” Helen explained, coughing in her sleeve. “We have everything under control.”
Another gentleman stepped out from behind Uncle Josiah. Governor Morley! Helen was mortified.
“My apologies,” she muttered, stepping back into the apartment and hoping he did not recognize her.
The sound of a low moan had her running down the corridor. She burst into Cassandra’s room without waiting to knock. Her sister was kneeling over a chamber pot, moaning and retching.
“You’ve made her very ill,” David snapped. He had a hand on Cassandra’s back.
“I’m sorry — may I —” Helen took two steps into the room.
David scowled at her. “Just leave us alone!”
Helen spun and ran from the room to her own. Her bedroom was very small compared to the room she had occupied on her father’s estate in England, though she knew it had once been shared by several of the Hayes girls when the family lived above Uncle Josiah’s law office. She threw herself on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried to determine what she should do next. Should she admit defeat?
Captain Carter hadn’t thought she could do it.
Helen sat up. Captain Carter was wrong. He might know something about teas and silks, but he was not an expert in tarts.
Euphemia was also supposed to practice baking. Perhaps she had succeeded. Helen would go to her concert and sample a lovely tart, and all would be well.
Nathaniel went back and forth all afternoon and into the early evening, talking himself in and out of attending a concert held at the home of one of his biggest investors. He decided in the end he couldn’t afford to anger the man — particularly when he might not be able to return his investment if this tea business blew up.
He honored his host by changing into the coat he saved for important occasions — black, like his everyday coat, but with embossed silver buttons. Helen would probably find fault with his clothing, if she was even attending the concert, but perhaps he could avoid her.
A servant admitted him into the home and led him to the library, where Humphrey Goodwin and the other male guests were drinking spirits before the musical portion of the evening.
“Ah, Carter.” Goodwin thumped Nathaniel’s back. “I despaired of seeing you tonight, but you’re much too shrewd a businessman to risk offending me! Not that I blame you for wanting to stay away. From what I’ve heard of her lessons, Euphemia has improved since last year’s concert, but sitting through all that nonsense is always a dead bore.”
Nathaniel wasn’t sure how to respond, as affirming his host’s words seemed ungentlemanly.
“Nathaniel.” David joined their party by the door of the library.
“How are the plans proceeding?” Goodwin asked in what he thought was a low voice.
“Fine,” Nathaniel muttered, scratching his neck. He’d been forced to take Humphrey into his confidence against his will when the man had stormed his office demanding what he intended to do about the governor’s order.
“Did you manage to find a route?” David whispered.
“Yes, and a team of men who are used to working silently in the dark.”
David’s eyebrows raised. “Do I want to know?”
“I tried very hard not to inquire too closely about their past activities,” Nathaniel said wryly. He was fairly confident they were pirates.
“Oh-ho, that will show old Morley!” Goodwin exclaimed.
David stiffened and tipped his head. “Remember, the man’s son is sitting just there.”
Nathaniel glanced across the room. Winthrop Morley stared right at them.
“Let him hear,” Goodwin chortled. “Morley’s not a bad fellow, but he’s overstepped this time. The colonies need more leeway than Parliament allows for. If Morley can’t keep the peace, he’ll be replaced.”
David rocked on his heels. “My wife’s aunt and uncle are closely connected to the governor, and I’ve dined with him more than once. He’s a very pleasant man to converse with. He’s seen an opportunity to line his own pocket and means to take it. It really is no different than what we are doing.”
“Morley won’t suffer if this business doesn’t come off in his favor, but I will,” Nathaniel argued. “He can’t expect to suddenly open his eyes to the smuggling that has gone on for years under his nose and have everyone submit meekly to new restrictions.”
“I just can’t like this business of smuggling. I fear it will end in disaster.”
“Smuggling is so common in the colonies that it’s practically patriotic,” Nathaniel retorted.
David shrugged. “It’s gotten too dangerous. I believe there’s another way.”
Goodwin broke in. “Say you don’t mean relying on the Sons of Liberty! They plan to make a demonstration, but it will come to naught just as it always has. Besides, I don’t mind depriving the king of a few pounds, but I draw the line at rebellion. These colonies are English land for English people and English rule.” He stuck his finger in the air at each utterance of his mother country’s name.
Nathaniel couldn’t risk offending the man by saying what he thought of King George. While he had no trust in the Sons of Liberty, he also felt no allegiance to a king he’d never seen.
“I daresay you look terribly suspicious there,” a voice drawled.
Nathaniel stiffened. Winthrop Morley dressed in a ridiculous manner that Nathaniel could not imagine being in fashion anywhere, and certainly not in Philadelphia. He wore wigs that had more rolls and curls than the king himself if the cartoon images printed in the newspaper were anything to go by.
“We are merely talking of the weather,” David lied.
Winthrop smirked. “Of course; there’s much to say. How cool it has been, and how characteristic of October.” He turned to Nathaniel. “How nice to see you again,” he said, making it clear it was anything but nice. “I thought to drop you a little hint. My father wants to discourage any disloyalty to the crown. He’d hoped that merely confiscating the ill-gotten goods of would-be smugglers would suffice, but he’s heard rumors that not everyone finds that sufficient motivation. Tomorrow he’ll make an announcement.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Anyone caught smuggling will have all his assets s
eized on behalf of the crown.”
Nathaniel and David exchanged a glance. Previously, the cost of smuggling was a fine and the loss of that ship’s cargo. Losing everything was a significantly harsher penalty.
Goodwin snorted. “Your father should take care not to strike a match that will send the whole tinderbox up in flame.”
“My father is loyal to the king, and the king will reward that loyalty.” Winthrop took a sip of his drink.
A servant appeared at Goodwin’s side.
“Miss Euphemia says she means to come down soon, and she’d like all the gentlemen to be seated.”
“I am loyal to my king, gentlemen,” Goodwin said, “But I obey my daughter. Follow me!”
Helen arrived early to Euphemia’s concert and was immediately led up to her friend’s bedroom.
“Right through here. Miss Euphemia says you’re to come in.”
“Oh, Helen!” Euphemia called. She ran over to hug Helen. “I can’t wait to show you what I made! Isn’t it wonderful?” She gestured towards the middle of her dressing table, where her tart sat amidst ribbons and pins.
Helen stared at Euphemia’s tart in dismay. It looked like a dry biscuit spread thinly with jam.
“Do you wish to try some?” Euphemia offered.
“Not right now,” Helen managed to say.
“Yes, I should probably finish getting dressed. I had no notion I could make something like this with my own hands! I see you are quite touched as well.”
Euphemia mistook Helen’s tears as admiration. “Take this away,” she motioned to a maid, holding her arms wide so her lady’s maid could finish robing her. She’d already donned an impressive set of panniers that would have been suitable for an audience with the queen.
Distraught as she was, Helen could not help but admire the gold petticoat as her maid lowered it over Euphemia’s head, taking care not to disrupt her elaborate hairstyle.
What was Helen to do? Euphemia’s tart was no more edible than hers. She was certain Verity Hayes could produce edible specimens, but could she be relied upon to make all the tarts for the sale? How was Helen to go before the society and explain that she’d failed?
“How many tarts do you suppose I’ll need to make each day?” Euphemia asked, patiently waiting for her robe to be pinned in place. It was also gold, but embroidered all over with large golden harps.
“I —” Helen began, distracted by the clothing. “What a remarkable gown.”
“I had it made especially for this evening! Do you like it?”
“Very singular. I can’t recall how many tarts we’ll need; I have it recorded somewhere . . . .” Her mind was too disordered to give Euphemia an exact number. Should they call the whole thing off?
“I had no idea how much I would love being in the kitchen. I’m prepared to drop everything to make as many tarts as you need. Music lessons, dancing lessons, carriage rides, morning visits — I’m willing to sacrifice it all for our noble cause!”
“Admirable,” Helen muttered. She managed to excuse herself to go find a seat.
Euphemia beamed. “Wonderful! I’ll be down soon.”
Helen walked slowly down the Goodwins’ wide wooden staircase, heart sinking further with every step. She was starting to wonder if there was any way to recover the operation.
In the drawing room, most of the guests were already assembled waiting for Euphemia to arrive. Elegant gilt chairs faced a large harpsichord at the front of the room.
David had just returned from wherever the men were congregating. He sat down on the other side of Cassandra without greeting Helen.
Cassandra had difficulty speaking without coughing. “How was the tart?” she croaked, clutching her rounded stomach gently.
Helen was unsure how to answer. “She made a sincere effort.”
David harrumphed. “Bad as yours, then?”
“All will be well,” Helen insisted, though she scarcely believed this.
“It’s hardly to be believed that some people have the sheer effrontery —” David began.
“Helen, is your fichu coming loose? Perhaps we should go tuck it in,” Cassandra interrupted.
“No need to get up; I’ll go by myself,” Helen nearly ran from the room, barely managing to sneak behind Captain Carter, who was talking to her uncle. He was the last person she wanted to see at this time. He’d probably tell her exactly how she’d done everything wrong, which she already knew well enough.
Why had she agreed to serve as president? Was she really so delusional to have believed she could organize this? She would fail, and that poor indentured girl would be doomed to total ruin. All because Helen was just as inept as Captain Carter thought she was.
She felt the tears starting and ducked into the first unoccupied room she found in order to cry.
Nathaniel had accomplished what he came to do — speak to his host — and now he wondered if he needed to wait for an intermission to slip out or if he could manage it sooner.
He bowed to Josiah Hayes as the man entered the drawing room behind him. He didn’t know the man very well, but they had met a few times since David’s wedding a few years ago.
Hayes bowed in return. “Mr. Carter. It’s good to see you. I won’t ask you how business is going, for I know this is a troublesome time for men in your line.”
Nathaniel could not resist replying, “As it’s a lucrative time for men in your line.”
Hayes chuckled. “Young man, it’s always a lucrative time for those of us in the law. Human nature dictates that men are forever cheating and fighting each other.” He patted Nathaniel on the shoulder and sought his seat next to his wife and daughters. One of the Hayes daughters — Nathaniel didn’t know them well enough to know which — appeared to be enacting a stage show maneuvering to sit next to Winthrop Morley.
Euphemia swept into the room once everyone was seated. A hush fell over the assembled guests as she sat down at the harpsichord. She bowed her head as if in prayer and then threw her hands on the keys.
She had admittedly improved since last year, but Nathaniel had to agree with Humphrey that this kind of music was not to his taste.
A minute later David made his way down the aisle supporting his wife. Nathaniel decided to see if he could be of assistance — and possibly leave.
“Everything all right?” he asked, once a servant closed the door off behind him.
“Cassandra’s not feeling very well, so we are leaving. May I trouble you to see Helen home? She’s disappeared somewhere in this house.”
“I can manage —” Cassandra said weakly, before breaking down into a coughing fit.
“Your sister nearly murdered you! I think she’s the one who must manage.”
Attempted murder? Nathaniel hoped that was an exaggeration. He didn’t want to spend any more time than he had to in Helen’s company but felt he couldn’t refuse. “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly.
David flashed a small smile. “I won’t forget it.” He ushered his wife outside.
Nathaniel had seen Helen dash from the room while he spoke to Hayes. If he could find her, perhaps she would also want to leave early when she heard about her sister and he could escape from the party by escorting her home.
He made his way down the corridor of the main floor. He knew from previous experience that the dining room was behind a pair of ornate double doors, but it seemed unlikely Helen was there.
Perhaps she was in the library? He turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open. Helen sat, head in hands, on the couch Winthrop had lounged in earlier.
For a moment he considered turning to leave. She would probably find this just as awkward as he did. Then he recalled his promise to see her safe and rallied his courage.
“Are you —” he began.
Helen sat up quickly. “Oh! It’s you. Probably here to laugh at my downfall.” Her face was swollen.
Nathaniel couldn’t decipher her meaning. “Laugh at your downfall?” he repeated.
Helen
drew a shaky breath. “There’s no chance the society will succeed with me as president.” She hid her face in her hands again, shoulders shaking.
Nathaniel had no experience with this many tears — not even the cabin boys who had worked on his ships cried like this. Probably best to take a firm hand.
“Nonsense,” he tried. “It can’t be as bad as that.”
“Oh, it can’t, can it? Today I discovered I’m a terrible cook when I nearly burned down our apartment and killed my only sister. Then I pinned my hopes on Euphemia’s tart, but hers was just as bad!”
“So — you have a product deficiency?” he translated.
Helen nodded, trying to wipe her eyes on the edge of her sleeve.
Nathaniel offered her a handkerchief which she accepted without comment. At least she didn’t refuse it. “Why don’t you ask your cooks to produce the tarts?”
Helen dabbed her eyes. “We want to do all the work ourselves to show we are able to manage the whole business on our own.”
“I don’t produce the goods I sell,” Nathaniel pointed out. “I don’t believe anyone has questioned me.”
“You’re a man,” Helen retorted. “You could have no employment at all and yet men would not question your worth.”
Nathaniel shook his head, thinking of Winthrop, but he did not want to bring him into the conversation.
“I doubt any of your customers are like to inquire much into the origins of the tart so long as the taste is good,” he pressed.
“Perhaps. But that leaves the matter of the stall. Constance was made so ill by the smell she didn’t recover for days.”
Nathaniel couldn’t hide a grin. “I did warn you.”
Helen looked up at him, eyes flashing. “Why mention the fish market at all if you did not intend to bait me to go there?”
Nathaniel was puzzled. “You speak as if we are in competition.”
