The baker poked his head in. “Courting at work, Miss Popham? I’d not have thought you the sort.”
Betsy crossed her hands over her striped blouse. “Mr. Hellman was teasing. We’re old friends from the days when he worked with my father at the Bristol factory.”
The baker nodded. “I think he has his eye on you, miss. You ought to have a word with your father if you aren’t interested. He’ll set that bloke straight.”
She forced a half smile. “You are quite right. Now tell me, who in your department is sneaking his lunch in the storeroom?”
Half an hour later, she had the honey culprit identified and had turned the matter over to Mr. Soeur. She couldn’t consider it a firing offense, given that the man was a bit slow and never would have realized his honey habit might bring unwanted vermin into the storeroom. Still, the situation reminded her that she had an unresolved issue in the shop, so she went into the rear hall.
Her foot squelched on the tiled floor. Squelched? She looked down to find her shoe had landed in a dribble of cream. Crouching down to examine the mess, she found drips of chocolate on the wall as well. Her eyes narrowed. They had excellent night janitorial staff. When her finger touched the chocolate, it still felt soft.
She leaned against the wall and pulled off her shoe, then wiped it clean with her apron. Then she put her shoe back on, removed her apron, and tucked it into a bin, before silently entering the shop.
Half a dozen customers perused the glass cases holding an array of spring treats. Fresh rhubarb crumble in individual ramekins was selling briskly, as were flat trifles dusted with coconut and savory pies with a creamed asparagus filling. Betsy wandered behind the staff, looking for telltale evidence of éclair eating. At the far end of the counter, where the glass cases ended against the wall, she found the newest hire, a faint streak of chocolate marring her otherwise spotless apron. Her white cap had canted slightly toward her right ear. Was that gin on her breath? No wonder she was so clumsy.
“I’d like a word,” Betsy said.
The girl blinked in a slow, bovine manner, then started to move to the opposite side of the bakery, ignoring a fashionably dressed customer who’d just come up to them, a hopeful gleam in her eye. Betsy wished the girl to perdition as she helped the customer buy a guinea’s worth of teatime treats. After she’d sent the customer on her way, she found the girl leaning on the wall by a cart. Even worse than her slouched posture, she was munching on a preserved pear tart. Where was she hiding all the food? The girl was slender as a reed, and just as unsteady.
“Miss Brown,” Betsy said. “Did you eat an éclair back here this morning?”
“I had my elevenses,” the girl said defensively.
“I wasn’t aware elevenses was a Redcake’s tradition,” Betsy said. She wiped her forehead. “I could use a wee nip.”
Miss Brown reached into her skirt and pulled out a flask. As her gaze met Betsy’s, her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear, indeed. You know spirits are forbidden in our workplace. As is stealing food. You can keep your uniform, Miss Brown, but I’ll have your badge now, please.”
The girl unclipped it. She started to hand it over, then snarled and tossed it at Betsy’s feet. “You can have the bloody thing. My brother will take care of me, and you, too, for not having the decency to give me a second chance. He’s a prizefighter. I wouldn’t be walking alone after dark after I tell him about you, Miss Perfect.”
The girl spun on her heels, almost falling, then dashed toward the loading dock.
Betsy followed her. “Miss Brown. Eugenia. Let me give you your pay. We need to finish our business.”
The girl ignored her, speeding up. She pulled up the door, showing surprising strength, and moved onto the loading dock. Betsy ran after her, hoping she wouldn’t break an ankle leaping off the dock. But Miss Brown ran down the steps. On the ground, she turned back toward Redcake’s and made a rude gesture, then strode off down the street.
Betsy sighed. She’d need to write a report and check the girl’s shelf for a coat. Who would she send to the girl’s home with her pay and things? It didn’t sound like she’d better go, but she didn’t want to bring the matter to Mr. Redcake’s attention. Somehow, she didn’t feel the story would put her in a good light.
She passed by Grace in the hallway.
“Are you well, Miss Popham?” the cakie asked.
“Well enough. Could you find someone to wipe up the corridor behind the bakery trays? We’ve chocolate on the wall and cream on the floor.”
“Yes, miss,” Grace said. “I’ve a minute. I’ll do it myself.”
“Thank you. I wish we could find a couple more like you. Do you have any friends who need work?”
Grace shook her head. “I had three girlfriends I grew up with. I’d trust any of them with my life, but they’ve all married.”
“Why didn’t you?” Betsy asked. “You must have had followers.”
Grace clasped her hands together in front of her apron. “I loved a boy, too, but he had scarlet fever when he was twelve and was never well after that. He died in his sleep about two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” Betsy touched her shoulder in sympathy.
Grace sighed. “One of my friends married his twin brother. At least they weren’t identical twins. That would be too much to bear.”
“How old are you?” Betsy asked.
“Eighteen.”
“That’s right.” A year younger than Violet Carter, but she seemed older. “At least there is plenty of time to find someone else.”
“I wanted him,” Grace said softly. “He wrote the most beautiful poetry and he had a lovely singing voice. I could have listened to him for days. You should have heard the weeping when he died. I wasn’t the only girl who loved him. At least as a friend,” she amended. “He was a popular boy.”
“I hope you were able to keep his poetry.”
“I memorized my favorite parts,” Grace said. “But he’d made me a little book of his poems for my birthday, just a couple of months before he died. That’s why I know I was special to him.”
Betsy nodded. “What’s your favorite line?”
Grace’s gaze seemed to leave the corridor where they stood. “I think it is this one. ‘My heart sees, my eyes remember, those slender youthful dreams, your sun-kissed cheek, my sturdy legs, our hearts wee and tender.’ ”
“That’s very sweet,” Betsy said sincerely.
“He wrote it about all of us, the children on the street. But he was the first boy I ever held hands with, the first who kissed me. You never forget that.”
Betsy shook her head. “No.” In truth, for herself, she scarcely remembered her first kiss. Some stripling from the factory had stolen a kiss from her one day when she’d brought her father his lunch. But the first kiss from someone she loved, that she remembered achingly well. Ewan. His warm lips and cool hands. That hair that fell into curls any girl would be proud of. He had asked her to take a walk with him on a Sunday. She’d slipped out of the house without telling her father where she was going, or with whom, and they’d walked the footpath on the Serpentine’s bank. What a perfect day that had been.
“I can see you’re remembering someone special, too,” Grace said.
Betsy forced a smile. “Our lost loves. Thank you for cleaning up the mess. I’ll be sending a memorandum around, but please be aware that Miss Eugenia Brown is no longer employed here.”
“I’ll tell the other girls.” Grace nodded, then strode away.
Betsy squared her shoulders and followed Grace. She needed to notify Winnie Baxter that Miss Brown had been terminated.
Half an hour later, she considered telling Mr. Redcake that he must hire a proper bakery manager instead of simply having a lead salesgirl. She’d felt more like she was having a gossipy coze with Winnie rather than a professional meeting. Anyone who’d been hired directly into the Kensington location had not been treated to the superior environment created by Lord Jud
ah Shield at the flagship emporium. Breeding will out, and Lord Judah was a proper aristocrat, not a mere wealthy mister like Greggory Redcake.
With that thought, she held her head high as she went into his suite of rooms and asked Mr. Redcake’s secretary to inquire whether he had time to speak to her. The young man nodded and rapped on their manager’s inner chamber, then poked his head inside the door. After a moment, he gestured to Betsy and she went in.
Greggory stayed at the window, in a pose he’d adopted since the death of his wife. She could remember when he was always seated at his desk behind a mound of papers, back in the early days. Now he seemed to spend much of his time deep in thought, the habitual slightly purple circles under his eyes giving him a haunted, aesthetic appeal. He looked as if he was a man with a slightly bruised soul. Appealing but out of reach.
He turned to her. “I understand Simon Hellman was in. Any chance we can poach the flagship delivery manager for our location?”
Betsy shivered. “I should think not, sir. Our man is fine.”
Greggory frowned. “Do you have a chill? Should I have a fire lit?”
“No, no. A goose walked over my grave,” she said. “No, I think Mr. Hellman is dedicated to his current position. And he lives south of the river.”
“Of course,” Greggory murmured. “You do have such a memory. I believe your brain is a veritable filing cabinet of employee facts.”
Pleased, Betsy said, “I’ve been with Redcake’s since the beginning, sir. There are not so many who can say that.”
“Simon Hellman is one of those,” Greggory said.
“Yes, of course.” She wished he would drop the subject of that odious man and resolved to move the conversation along. “I had to let Miss Brown go today.”
“Still too slow?”
“For stealing, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. Good riddance, then.”
“Yes, but I must tell you she made threats. Nothing serious, I think, but I wanted to make you aware.”
“Thank you, Miss Popham.” Mr. Redcake set his hands behind his back and paced the short walk between one wall and the other.
“I thought we might send Grace Fair over to the shop side. She has a good head for figures.”
“Which leaves us a position open in the tearoom?”
“Exactly. That girl you saw me comforting? Violet Carter?”
“The one with the dead mother.”
“Yes.” Betsy sighed. “I’m sure we have other candidates, but we’re so busy, it would be nice to take on someone I know is available immediately. I can make it clear she’s here on a trial basis, and that we can terminate her at any time if she doesn’t pick up the work quickly.”
Mr. Redcake nodded. “Best to make that clear, because she has very little experience. I would suggest you find time to interview, however; a girl as pretty as Miss Carter is as likely to find a husband as stay with us even until the end of the year.”
Betsy thought about how Violet was used to being coddled and agreed. “You may be right. I will find time to consider other applicants.”
“Why don’t we take a look at the files right now? Many hands make light work,” he suggested. “My secretary has a file of letters.”
“Of course.” Betsy wondered why the manager had nothing more pressing to do, but she wasn’t about to question him.
They spent two hours in a pair of armchairs in front of his desk, going through letters requesting employment, and identified three likely candidates for the shop positions. Betsy found one person so highly qualified that she broached the idea of hiring a bakery manager. Mr. Redcake set the letter aside, saying he’d consider the matter if they had good sales for the month of May.
No one had any waitressing experience. Few restaurants hired women for such positions, so most women had experience tending children, or sewing, or waiting in shops.
“Miss Fair might best be kept in the tearoom,” Mr. Redcake said. “She probably makes more money there because of tips. We can hire one of these girls for the bakery.”
“She has more opportunity for promotion on the bakery side,” Betsy said.
“Why? Don’t you think she’ll marry? A pleasant girl like that.”
“Not every girl marries.”
Mr. Redcake perused her slowly. “Why have you never married, Miss Popham? I’ve never thought to ask.”
“I keep house for my father,” she said.
“Yes, I learned your father is a widower, but still, you must have had followers, a girl like you.”
She wondered what he meant. Did he think men liked her? “I had someone I loved once, but it didn’t work out.”
“I’ve heard rumors about you and Simon Hellman,” he said in a casual tone. “Is that why he came here, rather than to inquire about a transfer? Are you engaged?”
This time, she mastered herself enough not to shudder. “It is true we kept company for a time years ago, but I don’t love him. He has discussed marriage with me, but I would never marry him.”
“Not him, or not any man?”
Mr. Redcake was her employer. She wished she knew what he wanted to hear her say. “I am sure any heart can be persuaded for the right person. But I am an independent woman with a father to care for. I would not take just any man as a husband.”
“Nor should you. I’d hate to see you end up one of those unfortunate women with a houseful of children and a lazy husband who lived off your wages.”
Like her mother’s first husband, the first man her mother had killed. Not only had he not worked, he’d drunk away any profit to be found from the boardinghouse her mother had brought into the marriage. He’d beaten her mother regularly, too. He’d knocked half the teeth from her mouth before her mother had poisoned him. Or so her father had said, his face screwed into an expression of sympathy for his dead wife. Betsy knew her father hadn’t known the truth when he’d married her. At what point had he learned what sins the woman he’d loved was capable of committing?
“I would like to avoid that,” she told Mr. Redcake. “Luckily, my father is a good man, and I think with his example in front of me, I will be able to choose a good man of my own.”
Mr. Redcake nodded. “I’m sure you are right, Miss Popham.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s late. We should have noticed the light changing.”
“It’s light so long at this time of year that it’s easy to lose track of time.”
“We’d best be going. I don’t want anyone to think I’ve been compromising your virtue.”
She felt her body tighten at his suggestive words, in an almost sexual response. How inappropriate. She blinked, wondering why, for the second time, Mr. Redcake had gone to thoughts of intercourse in her presence. He must need companionship, even though he obviously was still mourning his dead wife. And she wasn’t wearing her apron, but a fitted purple blouse and gray skirt. At least her stays hid the evidence of her plumped nipples. She rubbed her palms together, feeling their dampness.
“We may be the only people here,” she said. “Doesn’t your secretary come in to say good night?”
“When he remembers. Oscar is an absentminded lad. Reminds me of myself ten years ago.”
“I should be going home, then. Dinner for my father.”
“Might be some soup left downstairs,” Mr. Redcake suggested.
Something about those words made her glance at his mouth. Thoughts of spoon-feeding him luscious, creamy soup came unbidden to mind. The thought made her think of that full mouth on parts of her anatomy that hadn’t been touched in four years.
“Soup?” he prompted, an adorable look of confusion on his handsome face.
She forced herself from her reverie. “I could hardly carry a crock of hot soup on the omnibus.” She forced a laugh.
“Mmm, I suppose you are right. It wouldn’t do to slosh it on the other passengers. I’ll escort you downstairs.”
“Thank you.” She struggled to her feet. Her body didn’t seem quite pre
pared to hold herself up. All this talk of husbands was reminding her of the physical benefits of marriage. She didn’t want to leave her father, but she also wouldn’t mind having a lover again. Few men, though, were as discreet as Ewan Hales had known how to be. He’d had a private room in a quiet house with a landlady who never troubled him. And he never talked, never gossiped. She’d always wondered how Simon Hellman had found out they were lovers. He’d threatened to tell her father if she didn’t break with Ewan and take up with him and, shamed, she’d done as he demanded. Ruin.
“What? Ruin?” Mr. Redcake said. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud.”
He put on his hat. “Still, that’s quite a word.”
“I was just thinking about how easy it is for a reputation to be ruined,” she temporized.
“In what context?”
“Oh, perhaps it is just that I fired a girl today. She deserved it, of course. I wonder if she had done such things with other employers.”
“It’s something to be careful about when you research our new candidates,” he agreed.
They walked through the front of the office and to the stairway.
“Oh, I should get my things,” Betsy said.
“I’ll wait.” He put his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall, whistling.
Bemused, Betsy went down the corridor to her own work space and gathered her coat and other possessions. A man waiting for her at the end of the day? It felt like courtship. A man like Greggory Redcake, however, was not for the likes of Betsy Popham. At twenty-eight, he wouldn’t look for an experienced woman, which in his world meant a widow; he’d find another blushing virgin. She hoped his second wife would be a practical sort, with those motherless babies to raise.
Her secondhand coat had never seemed so shabby before. The light black wool appeared to have an uneven dye and one part of the hem had somehow come down since the morning. She found a pin in her drawer and tacked it up, debating if she should just drape her coat over an arm instead of wearing it. But then, he’d want to help her put it on, and he’d see it up close. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the fantasy of his large male hands on her shoulders as he helped her with her coat. He might offer to do up the buttons on the front, his fingers brushing the slopes of her breasts.
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 4
