“Yes, of course, I know. Miss Popham is a regular visitor,” Mrs. Fair said. “Stay as long as you like. Prissy can make you a cup of tea.”
“Thank you.” Greggory watched as Mrs. Fair took her shawl and hat, then vacated the room. He ventured in and shut the door. Prissy stood by her sewing table in front of the window.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Redcake?” she asked, the picture of feminine grace, a more stylized version of her half-sister.
“I wonder if you’ve spoken to Betsy recently?”
“On Friday, yes.”
“I see.” He sat down on a stool at the large table in the middle of the room. Fabric was neatly laid out in the middle, with paper patterns pinned to it and only half cut out. A mourning gown, probably an emergency, and he’d sent poor Mrs. Fair out of her own home. “I’ll be brief. Did she ask you to make up some new dresses for her?”
“Not since I did over the ball gown. We were planning items for her trousseau.”
He was gratified to know Betsy had been thinking about marriage. “I wonder if I might pay you—or more properly, Mrs. Fair—to make two or three new dresses for Betsy.”
“Something a Mrs. Redcake might wear?”
“Yes, but . . .” He hesitated. “Betsy fainted at work today, and she confided certain fears to me.”
“Ah.” Prissy smiled, a very self-satisfied expression. “So you know what she suspects.”
“Yes, and I am terrified for her.”
“Why?”
“My late wife had a most troubled pregnancy,” he said. “After the third month she was largely confined to bed.”
“Do twins run in your family?” Prissy asked, sitting down next to him.
“No, in hers.”
“Then Betsy should have an easier time. As I recall, twins are harder on the body and tend to be born early.”
“Do you have experience in this area?”
“My grandmother was a midwife,” Prissy said. “I don’t like that Betsy fainted, but it can probably be corrected with precautions. She might not feel like eating or drinking, but she must be made to.”
“I agree.”
“You need to marry her as soon as possible.”
“I know that. too.”
Prissy’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed further. “It is yours. She has no eye for anyone else.”
He nodded. “Can you make the gowns?” He pulled money from his pocket. “Loose, able to be altered. The sort of thing she’ll need over the next several months.”
“She won’t need them at all for at least three months.” Prissy tilted her head at him.
He felt like she was poking fun at him. “If she is feeling up to it, she might want to shop for fabric with you, or choose designs. I’m not saying you have to make them up this week.”
“What about a wedding dress?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. The wedding will be rushed.”
“The more rushed it is, the more evident it will be why you are doing it.”
“She isn’t well.”
“I’m sure she can manage her health. You will drive her mad if you fuss over her because of what happened to your late wife. Why don’t you buy my sister a ring? Make her feel special, instead of pushing a lot of morbid concerns on to her. It’s positively cruel.”
Greggory thought Prissy, her mouth twisted with derision at that moment, looked nothing like his Betsy at all and was grateful for it. Who was she to dismiss his fears about destroying another young woman’s existence while giving life to his child? Why had he ever done this? He should have stayed a celibate widower. But it was too late now. Betsy was having his child and he had to manage the consequences as best he could.
“I will be in touch about the possibility of a wedding dress. Is two and a half weeks sufficient time to make one?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “It would be easier if I have access to those magazines in your parlor.”
He nodded. “You’ll have to come for tea and look at them with Betsy. Thank you for your time. I am sorry to keep you away from your work.” He glanced around for his hat and realized it had never left his head.
She shook her head at him. “Distraction is the price of matrimony.”
“And babies,” he said, scrubbing his hands over his face.
On the way down the stairs, he decided he agreed with Prissy on the subject of the ring. He debated whether he should purchase an engagement band or a diamond ring. He had the money for a fancy ring, but Betsy might think it too aristocratic a purchase, and she was wary enough of his connections. On the other hand, a simple band might be insulting. What should he do?
Instead of returning to work, he went over to John Barker & Co., but they didn’t have a jewelry department, so he wandered farther afield to Knightsbridge and Harrods, which did sell jewelry. After consulting with a salesman, he purchased a lovely diamond ring, because the man insisted that Betsy would have to get used to her new position, and Greggory wouldn’t want her looking like a less prosperous man’s wife.
On the way back to Redcake’s, ring in his pocket, he reflected that he didn’t feel terribly prosperous at the moment. At least his figures had shown him that the bakery still thrived. It was merely the tearoom that felt the pain of the murder. He had to admit it was the loss of aristocratic customers that hurt him the most. No titled ladies were picking up their own cakes at his branch of the family business any longer.
When he arrived back at work, Winnie Baxter cornered him for a long harangue about staffing in the bakery, and he promised to hire a dedicated manager for the department within the next thirty days. He went back to his desk and crafted an employment notice to send to the papers, then thought about it and wrote a second one for a nanny. By the time he gave them to Oscar to send off, Betsy had gone home for the night.
He went downstairs, planning to speak to her before their evening meal, but Mr. Soeur wanted his attention. He realized he’d been less than visible at Redcake’s recently and had been letting Betsy shoulder far too much of the burden. As that had to stop, he spent two hours listening to his second-best employee pour out his heart regarding the state of his kitchen. Greggory could promise nothing, given the accounts, but swore he would do what he could to improve the business in the tearoom. This led him upstairs to his desk, to work on advertising for the tearoom. He put his thoughts in an envelope to be delivered to Lord Judah for discussion in the morning, then finally made his way home, feeling as if he had put in a solid day’s work for the first time in weeks.
At home, he discovered dinner had already been served to the Pophams. He dined alone on cold meat, bread, and cheese, as the soup had gone cold and Mrs. Roach looked exhausted. After finishing, he sent his housekeeper to bed and went up to the nursery to check on the little ones, and fell asleep in a rocking chair, Sia in his arms.
Betsy sleepwalked through most of Tuesday. Sometime after three P.M., Oscar came to her desk and told her she was needed at home as she had an appointment there. “At Mr. Redcake’s home?” she qualified.
“That is where you live,” he said doubtfully.
“It is a very long story, but my father lives there as well.”
He held up his hands. “It isn’t any of my affair.”
He thought she was Greggory’s mistress, and he wasn’t wrong. Feeling disgruntled, she asked, “Is Mr. Redcake available to speak to me?”
“No. Mr. Soeur asked him to meet with a supplier.”
“Why didn’t Mr. Soeur speak to me first? He shouldn’t trouble Mr. Redcake.”
“They had a meeting late yesterday.” Oscar shrugged. “I don’t know anything more.”
She winced. Her fainting spell, and her fears, had changed her career forever. Greggory was taking charge of Redcake’s and she had no recourse, at least until his own exhaustion intervened. Her heart sped up and she felt lightheaded again. Calm down! The pregnancy couldn’t be affecting her yet. Her fears were getting the best of her.
“Tha
nk you, Oscar,” she said, rising to reach for her hat. “I appreciate your mentioning the appointment to me.”
Fifteen minutes later, she entered the front door of Greggory’s home. Mrs. Roach met her in the front hall and took her hat. “Miss Weaver is waiting for you in the parlor. I’ll bring in tea.”
“Thank you,” Betsy said, confused. Indeed, her smartly dressed sister sat on Greggory’s sofa, paging through ladies’ magazines.
“There you are!” Prissy exclaimed. “Look at this plate. Isn’t the gown fantastic? It would cost the earth, though, and I couldn’t finish the beading in time.” She looked over Betsy’s figure speculatively.
“What?”
“Will you want a train? I’m thinking not. But silk organza definitely.”
“For what? Is Mr. Redcake taking me to another ball?” She couldn’t imagine why, in her state. Why hadn’t he told her he’d made plans for her with Prissy? Was she losing control of her personal life too?
“No, dear girl, your wedding dress.”
“My what?”
“Mr. Redcake asked me to make your wedding dress. Something rather narrow, do you think? To accentuate that tiny waist before it is too late? It doesn’t come back, you see.”
“Stays can manage it.” She put her hand to her trim waist.
“So you think, but you’re young enough to have a lot of babies. It is hard to put everything back into order when you are having a baby every year or two for years.” Prissy chewed the end of her pencil. “Fair amount of a seamstress’s business that is, letting out gowns.”
“I am very confused,” Betsy said, sitting down. “I’m not engaged, you see.”
“Mr. Redcake didn’t speak to you? I thought he was having the banns called on Sunday for the first time.”
Betsy shook her head. “I didn’t see him last night. He didn’t arrive for dinner.”
Prissy made a speculative noise. “I saw him. At the Fair flat. I have no idea where he went after.”
“He asked you to make me a wedding dress, then went off again?”
Prissy nodded.
She waited for the room to spin, but it stayed the same. Green ivy carpet, blue-papered Grecian urn walls. “He asked you to come today?”
“For tea with you.”
“I had no idea,” Betsy said. “I can’t say I like how these doings are proceeding without us actually speaking.”
“I expect he wants you to do as little as possible. Has he told you about his first wife and how ill she was with the twins?”
“She died of a fever a month after they were born.”
“Before they were born she was all but bedridden. Poor Mr. Redcake thinks he’s done you a terrible turn. He’ll have you tucked in with an improving novel and a box of chocolates for the duration any minute now.” Prissy’s peal of laughter ran merrily. “Won’t that be a change for you, Miss Assistant Manager!”
Prissy didn’t sound malicious. “What happened to Mrs. Redcake?”
“Twins,” Prissy said. “But never you mind. They ran in her family, not Mr. Redcake’s.”
“You are wrong about that. Lady Hatbrook and Sir Gawain are twins. They are Mr. Redcake’s first cousins.”
Prissy laughed again, holding her stays until she had to stop to wipe her eyes. “Aren’t you the lucky one? This house isn’t going to contain the lot of you for long.”
She would find herself married by the end of June. The height of wedding season. With a rushed dress and no opportunity to invite guests, not that she knew anyone outside the teashop really, and would Greggory allow her to spend the hours it would take to make her own wedding cake? She didn’t even have the time to make the cake now and let it age properly. Heavens, she couldn’t have anything less than the best cake for her wedding to a Redcake.
“Narrow,” she said with dignity. “And as small a sleeve as fashion will permit. Mr. Redcake does not like the present sleeve. A detachable bodice for reuse, and definitely not white. Amber, perhaps; something that will look good against my skin.”
“White would not send the correct message, in any event.”
“Now you are simply being cruel,” Betsy said.
Mrs. Roach opened the door and walked through the room with a tray, which she set down in front of them.
“Thank you, but shouldn’t the new maid be doing that?” Betsy asked.
“I don’t mind,” Mrs. Roach said. “The maid is fending off tradesmen at the back door. It’s been one of those days. Double the usual number of sellers.”
“Do we have any idea when Mr. Redcake will be home?”
“No, but I believe he planned to be home for dinner.”
“Thank you.” Betsy smiled politely until the housekeeper left, then grimly poured the tea.
“Anything else?” Prissy asked.
“A ruffle, definitely, at the skirt bottom, so it is easy to replace when it wears out.”
“You are marrying a man with money. You won’t need all of these little economies of dress,” Prissy said.
“I’ve earned a great deal of money with very little to show for it,” Betsy replied. “I have no ability to waste so much as sixpence.”
Twenty minutes later, Prissy had drunk her tea and run out of objections to the simple dress Betsy had declared she wanted. Simple, narrow, to save cost on fabric, and as reusable as possible. She wouldn’t be a society bride, so what was the point? Would Lady Hatbrook even come?
After Prissy departed, Betsy leaned her head back against the seat cushion and tried to remember the girl she had been back when Lady Hatbrook was Alys and never put on airs, and she favored Ewan Hales dreadfully but was still a silly virgin who had no notion of real womanly problems. When her father seemed like a God to her, instead of a mere man with feet of clay.
And she’d never heard of Greggory Redcake, who frustrated her terribly and had the messiest of lives to offer her, but who she found impossible to resist when he turned those dark, deep Italian eyes on her.
She fell asleep, cuddled against the sofa, still upright. Or maybe she dozed, because it seemed as if she was still awake, yet her mother was there, or maybe it was Prissy, holding her hand. No, it must be her mother, because she was talking about the baby coming, asking her to name her Sarah if she were a girl. She frowned in the dream. Why would her mother want to be remembered, after the terrible things she’d done? She said no, and her mother continued, suggesting, even worse, Jonah if it were a boy, after her first murdered husband. Betsy flailed out, striking her mother, then was torn from the dream, sweaty, panting, and shuddering.
She found Greggory sitting next to her, a slight smile on his face.
“Hello, my darling,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
Betsy, dazed from sleep, knew she should smile at Greggory, but something told her another reaction would also be appropriate. The dream, probably. It had been so completely unpleasant. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, her stomach cramping slightly. Her hand went instinctively to the area.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“Nothing too unusual,” she said. “I do not have anyone to speak to about what to expect.”
“I know what to expect,” he said. “I understand you would prefer a woman for these things, but the truth is that Letty and I moved to London together and we were mostly on our own. Lady Redcake was her midwife of course, and she’s brilliant, but every evening, here we were, newlywed and home alone. Over time, Letty lost any shyness she might have had and shared everything with me.”
Betsy didn’t want to hear about his perfect closeness with his perfect first wife. “I don’t think I like you turning to Prissy with your concerns about me. You’ve known me more than two years and her less than a month.”
“She’s your sister.”
“Sometimes she still feels like a stranger. I wasn’t prepared to plan my wedding dress today.” Tears welled up in her eyes and she was angry at her weakness.
“This isn’t h
ow I wanted any of this,” he admitted. “I wanted to propose properly. But we didn’t see each other last night, and I’d already invited Prissy, never realizing you might see her before me.”
She swept the tears from her eyes. “You are so busy because you are trying to do my work, Greggory. But you must understand I want to do my work.”
“I don’t want you taxed.”
“Do you think I’m pregnant with twins?” The words burst out, her new secret fear exposed.
“I have no idea. It’s unlikely, and it doesn’t matter this soon. I expect you’re having the early issues many women suffer from. Often women feel quite well in the middle of their time. Letty had an unusually difficult experience.”
She sniffed. “So, in a few months, I shall feel quite normal again for a while?”
“It is very possible, but of course your shape will be changing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And as a business owner, you won’t want me around our customers.”
“It would make them uncomfortable,” he agreed. “I think I can get by without you, to be honest.”
“You can’t afford to have an assistant manager.” Her heart rate had increased. She twisted her fingers together, her fingernails denting her palms with the effort of keeping her voice calm.
“Not if I hire a bakery manager and spend money on advertising,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Let us start fresh, shall we? Betsy Popham, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
He smiled at her as he opened the box. A ring box. She glanced down, then up at his beaming face, then back at the expensive ring. A diamond ring, like something an earl’s daughter might receive.
He couldn’t afford to pay her salary, but he’d bought that ring. He’d probably spent a year of her salary on it. She saw her life disintegrating, Betsy Popham no more, only Mrs. Greggory Redcake.
“I can’t do this.” She struggled to her feet. “Oh, Greggory, I just can’t.”
Even as she ran up the stairs, she knew she had no choice. His baby was already inside her, a murderess’s grandchild and a Redcake, making all the decisions, stealing her life away. Was there nothing of her in the child? She couldn’t help running, as if she could leave her fate behind.
Trifling Favors (Redcakes Book 7) Page 23
