by Rose Lerner
“Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist. Please come in,” she said with the same forced friendliness she’d used on him at Thursday night’s party. Was this the Tory election agent?
An even worse suspicion struck him. Was this the man the Tories had selected to be her husband? They would never suit, if so. There was something decidedly oily about his smile.
And if that weren’t enough reason to dislike him, he’d bounded up the stairs, probably two at a time, and wasn’t even breathing hard.
Gilchrist looked around the room. His eyes narrowed for a moment when he saw Nick. “So, was I unjust?” he asked innocently. “Did the Orange-and-Purples’ agent prove more principled than I? Or just handsomer?” The election agent, then.
Mrs. Sparks flushed bright red. “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Nick snapped.
Gilchrist actually looked abashed for a moment before flashing a bright, apologetic smile. He was much younger than Nick, perhaps about twenty. “And more chivalrous, it seems,” he said lightly. “My apologies, Mrs. Sparks, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Shall I come back at a more convenient time?”
Mrs. Sparks swallowed. “No. You were right, the Orange-and-Purples are just as unscrupulous as your lot. But some changes in my circumstances have overtaken my own scruples. Mr. Dymond, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak with Mr. Gilchrist. You said—you said I might.”
Nick gritted his teeth. He hated the idea of Mrs. Sparks having to toady to the little rat when she’d obviously given him an enthusiastic shove-off pretty recently. “Certainly, madam,” he said. “You know where to find me. Good afternoon.”
She nodded briefly, the connection between them snapped as if it had never been. Perhaps it hadn’t. To her, there might be little to choose between him and this smug Tory.
“Be careful on the stairs,” Gilchrist said with showy concern. “They’re tricky even without a cane.”
Nick’s teeth ground together. But as he pulled the door shut, he saw Mrs. Sparks gave Mr. Gilchrist a glare on his behalf. That cheered him until he realized that she might equally well have been offended on behalf of her stairs.
Chapter Seven
“If you would just wait here a moment,” Phoebe said to Mr. Gilchrist. “I need to speak to my sister.”
“Of course.” His bright brown eyes were already going around the room as if planning where to snoop first.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she emphasized, and slipped into the bedroom. Helen was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully sipping cocoa and rereading a fashion magazine from a few months ago—a sure sign something was wrong. Helen was fond of saying that a month was as good as a year when it came to modishness.
“I’m sorry I was short with you earlier,” Phoebe said.
Paper crinkled as Helen glanced up nervously. “It’s all right. I didn’t mean to imply you would be guilty of any impropriety.”
“Oh, Ships,” Phoebe said helplessly, sitting on the bed beside her. “I don’t blame you for what’s happened. I don’t think less of you. Honestly.”
Helen pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white. “How can you not?”
Phoebe sighed. “I slept with Will before our marriage.”
“You did?” Helen snapped her magazine shut without even marking her place.
“We couldn’t wait.” A month while the banns were read and the wedding prepared for had seemed like an eternity, with Will in arm’s reach, solid and handsome and the only thing that had made her feel glad and alive in so long. “It can be hard to resist. I know that.”
“He was hard to resist,” Helen muttered.
“You said he didn’t force you,” Phoebe said through lips suddenly stiff with dread.
Helen shook her head, and Phoebe could move again. “No. No. He was very persuasive, that’s all.”
She couldn’t help asking again. “Helen, who is he?”
“He can’t marry me, and he can’t help me. So there’s no use talking about it.”
What did that mean? Was he married already? Or was he poor, or sick, or dead? As petty as it was, besides her worry she was hurt that Helen didn’t want to confide in her. She was so tired of being petty, of feeling small and mean and angry. She was tired of this tightness around her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to pry. I want to say that—you apologized, and—” I forgave you, she had been going to say. But she hadn’t, had she? Not in so many words.
“I forgive you.” It felt wonderful, the resentment sloughing off like an old, dead skin.
Helen took a deep breath and smiled, the most relaxed smile Phoebe had seen from her in days. “Thank you, Fee.” She put her head on Phoebe’s shoulder, careful not to disarrange her hair. “I’ll try to stop apologizing. And—be careful. The Dymonds have a bit of a reputation.”
“They do?”
“As heartbreakers. Read the London papers if you don’t believe me.”
Phoebe hadn’t read a London paper in months. It was an unsettling realization. Once, she’d read a dozen every day.
She had no trouble believing Helen, however. “Mr. Nicholas has been out of the country for years,” she said anyway. “I doubt he was included in the gossip. But I’ll be careful.”
Helen relaxed further. “Thank you.”
The cupboard door snicked shut in the next room. Phoebe winced, though there was nothing secret in her house. “I’ve got to talk to Mr. Gilchrist before he starts taking up the floorboards.”
Helen swallowed. “Are you going to tell him about me?”
Phoebe bit her lip. “I think I’ll wait and see if I like the man he’s picked out for me.” The less people who knew, the better. Probably it had been foolish to tell Mr. Dymond.
Helen nodded, standing. “You don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to,” Phoebe said. “He’s obnoxious.” But Helen followed her with a wary, stubborn glance. Well, if her sister wanted to bore herself to tears playing chaperone, Phoebe had no objection this time.
But you were quite eager to be alone with Mr. Dymond, weren’t you? Mr. Gilchrist had been far too near the mark with his dig about Nick’s good looks.
When she opened the door, the Tory agent was lifting the lid of her oak chest. Suddenly Phoebe felt cold and naked, because there was something secret in the shallow drawer at the base of the chest, wrapped up with lavender and wormwood to keep away the moths. The baby clothes for her child that was never born. Her hope and her grief laid out for anyone to see.
Had he seen them? There was no way of knowing. He let the lid fall and turned with a cheeky smile—and his jaw actually dropped when Helen walked in behind her.
He swallowed audibly and straightened his pink waistcoat. “You—” His voice cracked. “You must be Mrs. Sparks’s sister. The resemblance is quite striking.”
Phoebe laughed. He was so persistently oily, it was impossible not to be a little charmed.
Helen threw her an exasperated glance. “Yes, I’m Helen Knight. You’re very perceptive.”
“It comes with the profession.” He bowed low over her hand, much lower than a gentleman should bow to the daughter of a country lawyer. “Of course I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Miss Knight, but”—he faltered, then continued with an heroic effort—“I was hoping to speak with your sister on a matter of some importance.”
Phoebe was impressed at his fortitude. “I have no secrets from my sister, sir. This concerns her as well, since she’s quarreled with our mother and has come to live with me. The fact of the matter is—I am quite without funds and in danger of falling into debt.” She gestured at her tiny, precious rooms, at the bucket under the leak in the roof. “I can’t live like this anymore,” she lied. “I’d like to at least meet the man you want me to marry.”
Mr. Gilchrist smiled like a triumphant villain in a melodrama. “You won’t regret it.”
“I regret it already,” she said dryly.
I made a sacrifice for something I believed in, Mr. Dymond had
said. I would do it again.
“You’ll like the man I found for you. Walter Fairclough is new in town, just come from Lewes where he owns a flax manufactory. He wanted to be closer to London, so he’s bought the gunpowder works just outside town. I don’t mean to run down the Whigs, but their Robert Moon—his little sweet shop is neck-deep in debt. And the debt’s creeping up the chin, if you know what I mean.”
Oh no. That little, well-loved shop. The Whigs must be prepared to pay his debts if he married her. It explained everything.
“If you want to get away from scrimping, I recommend Mr. Fairclough. He’s eager to be part of local society, and a Lively St. Lemeston wife would help enormously.”
“I’m not part of local society,” Phoebe protested. Men who owned factories didn’t want wives like her, did they? “Not even close. If he wants his way smoothed, he’d do better elsewhere.”
Mr. Gilchrist patted her hand soothingly. She glared at him. “Everyone knew and respected your father,” he said. “That means something. Besides, Mr. Fairclough comes from simple stock himself. And he’s a great admirer of your work.”
Phoebe felt her cheeks warming. “He’s read my work?”
“He loves to read, and so does his daughter.”
Phoebe’s breath caught in her throat. “His daughter?”
Mr. Gilchrist smiled like a fox in a henhouse. Had he seen those baby clothes after all? “He’s a widower. His daughter is a lovely little girl, eight years old. Mr. Fairclough quite dotes on her. Do you like children, Mrs. Sparks?”
A daughter. A little girl who liked to read. Phoebe tried to keep her face blank. “Most people like children, Mr. Gilchrist.”
Mr. Gilchrist’s smile widened. “If you’d like to meet him, he and I will be dining at the Drunk St. Leonard tomorrow at noon. We’d be honored if you and your sister would join us.”
She took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “We’ll be there.”
She went back to the Honey Moon at three, alone this time. Helen had offered to accompany her, but Phoebe felt obscurely embarrassed at the idea of Helen watching her try to make small talk with a man she might be married to in a couple of weeks. She carried only two books, since four of the ones she’d chosen last night had seemed suddenly ridiculous when she looked at them again.
Betsy was measuring out candied apricots for a customer, but she gave Phoebe a bright smile. “Mr. Moon will be glad to see you. I’ll take you back as soon as I’ve finished here.” She was good at her job, Phoebe thought; the man she was helping clearly liked her, and not only because her striped apron hugged her small, curvy body. She was friendly and genuine and knew to ask after his mother, who had had the ague last month. That was in Mr. Moon’s favor, that he hired good people to work for him.
Soon the customer was on his way with his candied apricots and a few currant pastilles Betsy had given him gratis to see how his wife liked them. “Come on into the kitchen. Mr. Moon’s preserving nectarine chips, but he’ll be glad you’ve come back. He was that sorry to have missed you.”
Did everyone in the shop know their fate depended on her goodwill? “I was sorry to have missed him as well.”
“It’s only that we can’t do without butter.” Did Betsy’s little laugh sound forced?
Phoebe felt exhausted, suddenly. She wanted to go home and take a nap. But Helen was at home, counting on her to be strong. When she had lived alone, no one knew if she chose to take a nap in the middle of the day. She gave a forced little laugh of her own. “I’m very fond of butter myself.”
Betsy’s gaze flicked to her generous bosom and waist. Phoebe braced herself, but Betsy just smiled gratefully and said, “So am I. This is the kitchen. Isn’t it splendid?”
The first thing she noticed was the overpowering smell of burnt flour and charcoal, underlaid with fruit, peppermint and a morass of other things. It wasn’t altogether awful, just very, very strong. She breathed through her mouth and looked about her.
The kitchen was a narrow, high, charcoal-blackened room with a row of low ovens and stoves along the left wall. It was very close despite the open windows near the ceiling, but after the October chill outside and in her own rooms—she couldn’t afford to keep the fire very high—Phoebe rather liked it. The right wall was lined with wooden tables, a wide marble slab lying on the nearest. Shelves were mounted on the wall above, filled with pots, pans, rolling pins, and molds of all shapes and sizes.
Mr. Moon stood at a table paring and slicing a crate of bruised hothouse nectarines with great speed and efficiency. She could smell them as she got closer, a heavenly scent. She rarely allowed herself the luxury of a nectarine. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He set down his knife and fruit with a start. “Mrs. Sparks! I’m so glad you’re back.” He reached out to take her hand, realized that his own was covered in nectarine juice, and flushed. “Pardon me. And pardon me for being out earlier. I wouldn’t have missed you for the world—”
“Please don’t apologize,” Phoebe said fervently. “Betsy told me about the butter. I don’t mind at all.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Mr. Moon smiled in relief, and Phoebe’s chest felt tight. Here was one more person whose happiness was now her responsibility. She was almost tempted to accept him at once and spare them both the agony of uncertainty, this impossible weight on everything they did and said. But he turned away to wash his hands, and thankfully the moment was lost.
“I made a few different kinds of sweets for you. Well, I made six. But this morning I saw that most of them were much too sugary for you, so I only want you to try two. They’re in the pastry room through here. Would you like to see?”
At her nod, he led her through a swinging door into a narrow room the twin of the first, but far cooler. Barrels and casks lined the left wall, shelves of supplies above them. Along the right, farthest from the heat of the ovens, were low wooden ice chests. More shelves held jars of preserved fruit, candy and pastilles. That wall, too, had a swinging door in it. “What’s through there?” she asked, for something to say.
“The ice room. We keep the ice there.” He flushed. “I suppose that was obvious from the name.” He opened one of the ice chests and pulled out a china plate. “I call this one a raspberry dozzle. Dozzle, you know, the folk hereabout use to mean—”
“A small amount, I know.” Lord, did he think her some sort of great lady? Of course her mother would consider him even further below her than Will, but not everyone could be a lawyer. “I’m Sussex born and bred, just as you are.”
“I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend.” He held out the plate uncertainly, indicating two pale puffy biscuits cemented together by a thin layer of red jam.
She took it and bit in. To her great relief, it was delicious. The biscuits were a light, nutty meringue, and the jam had a tart flavor that counterbalanced the sugar perfectly. She chewed slowly, making sounds of sincere pleasure. “Mmm, splendid.”
He smiled, but he kept his eyes on her face as she ate the rest. It was delicious for two more bites, but by the third, she had had enough. She swallowed the last of it hastily, wishing for some tea or milk to wash the taste out of the back of her throat. Instead, he presented her with another pastry, a wedge of layered cream and dough. “This is puff paste with pistachio cream.”
Don’t make a face, she told herself. Just don’t. But as her teeth sank through the perfect pastry into the smooth, flavorful custard, her lips contorted despite her best efforts.
His face fell. “You don’t like it.”
“I don’t like custard,” she said miserably. “I don’t like whipped cream or jelly, either. I hate the way it feels when I bite into it. It’s the texture, that’s all. It tastes lovely. I love pistachios. You’re a wonderful baker.” It was so cold in the room. Sugar clung to the roof of her mouth. She would have given half a crown for an olive or a pickled oyster.
He shook his head. “Don’t trouble over it. I’ll find it. There’s a pastry for
everyone, that tastes as if it was created by the Lord just for her.”
“What’s yours?”
He smiled. “Lemon cheesecakes. I could eat a dozen trays and not be quotted. I make them by my mother’s recipe.”
“She must be proud.”
He shrugged, leading her back to the main kitchen. The warmth was a relief, as was no longer being alone with him. “I suppose.”
She laughed. “My mother taught me to write, but she isn’t always happy with what I do with it either.”
They shared a quick look of perfect understanding. He had nice eyes. Perhaps she would find him handsome, in time. He was tall, at least. She’d always liked tall men. “You brought books for me?” he asked.
She plucked them off the counter and dusted flour off the covers. “Ye-es.” She cradled them, feeling suddenly protective. “Robinson Crusoe. Maybe I could read it to you while you work?”
“That would be nice,” he said, more as if he hoped it were true than believed it. “Would you like a nectarine?”
“I’d love one.”
He dug in the crate for a mostly unbruised fruit and handed it to her. She bit into it with relish. Juice ran down her chin. Smiling self-consciously, she wiped it off with the end of her sleeve.
He smiled back. “You like that better than the dozzles, don’t you?”
She nodded apologetically and opened the book, careful not to drip juice on the pages. “I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull,” she read. “He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York…”
Oh God. She had chosen it as the most exciting and manly of her books, but now it sounded terribly dull and long, and what, after all, did it matter where Robinson Crusoe’s father had lived?
Not knowing what else to do, she struggled gamely on. Mr. Moon look up earnestly from his nectarines every now and then to show he was listening, while Betsy and the kitchen boy tried to pretend she wasn’t in the way as they reached around her for the sugar, the walnuts and a hundred other necessities.
