A Taste of Honey

by Rose Lerner

  She went through the door to the front of the shop, and then leaned her ear against it.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “I’m sorry, but something about that girl sets my back up.”

  “I’ve noticed, ma’am. But Betsy’s done nothing to deserve it, and I’m hardly her better.”

  “You picked the right profession, that’s all I can say.” Mrs. Lovejoy’s voice was already softening. “You’re too sweet. Not her better! Your father was a shopkeeper, and hers was a workman.”

  Betsy’s face burned, but the funny side of it occurred to her suddenly. How angry, how shocked Mrs. Lovejoy would be if she knew that yesterday Betsy had buggered Robert on the counter she was now leaning against!

  “That’s as may be, ma’am. But I’ve got to ask you to be kinder to her. I’d like her to stay a good long while.”

  Betsy’s heart swelled. He did love her. She knew he did.

  “You aren’t sweet on her, are you? You heard her say she’s got a fellow. No doubt some rough, loutish—oh, dear, if you could see your face! Very well, I won’t be cattish.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Robert said with a surprising lack of stammering. “Now about the pineapple.”

  “Please don’t be difficult about this. It would mean ever so much to me.”

  “Did Mr. Nicholas ask you to take pineapple off the menu?”

  “Oh, no, of course not! He’s a young man, isn’t he? Young men have no consideration for each other. ‘He’s used to it,’ he said. ‘He’ll be fine so long as he doesn’t eat any.’ But I do so want his lordship to be comfortable.”

  “Here’s the way of it, ma’am. We’ve already bought the pineapples from Lord Wheatcroft, and juiced them, and done everything for the ices but congeal them. We haven’t time to make a substitution before tomorrow night. It’s only the one flavor of ice. There’ll be many other things the baron can eat.”

  “I’m sure I don’t want to be any trouble,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, “but I can’t have pineapple at the assembly.”

  “I’ve borrowed fifty pineapple molds from Lenfield. The pineapple ices will even look like pineapples, so there’ll be no chance of mistake. We’ll keep only five out on the sideboards at a time, with the rest hidden in the ice chests below.”

  “I’d really prefer another flavor.”

  “I know, ma’am, and I’m that sorry, but there just isn’t time to make the change.”

  There was a long silence. “You haven’t been very accommodating on this order,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “And it’s a large one.”

  Betsy pressed her fist to her mouth to keep the bitterness in, the endless accommodations they’d made parading before her eyes. They’d closed the shop for a week to take this order.

  “I’ve tried my best, ma’am.” Robert sounded tired. “I truly have. I’m sorry I haven’t satisfied you.”

  “You can serve the pineapple ice at the market this week,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “But it won’t be at my assembly. I’m going to have to insist on this. Mr. Whittle at the Lost Bell told me he could provide the food for less money, you know. I told him no, because it wouldn’t be the same—he always overcooks his roasts, have you noticed? But he could.”

  How dare she? Strangling was too good for that woman! If Mrs. Lovejoy walked out…there would be no more cream. No more butter. The sugar dealer had been rumbling about his bill, and the iceman.

  “Very well, ma’am,” Robert said flatly. “No pineapple. But it puts me out several guineas. I hope you’ll remember that, and pay my bill promptly.”

  “If I’m happy tomorrow, I’ll pay you on the spot.”

  You’re never happy, Betsy thought.

  “What is that smell?”

  Robert cursed, and there was a clatter of footsteps across the kitchen.

  “Language, Mr. Moon!”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

  There’d been only one tray in the oven. They’d have enough macaroons. But Robert so hated to burn things.

  His face must have been dreadful, because Mrs. Lovejoy said, “Oh dear, the poor little things! I’d best go before I spoil anything else. No pineapple, mind,” and a moment later the door shut behind her.

  Robert didn’t even look up from the burned biscuits when Betsy came into the room. Mouth a tight line, he strode jerkily to the door to toss them on the rubbish heap.

  “I’m sorry,” Betsy said, a lump in her throat. “All that lovely pineapple syrup.”

  He slammed the tray down hard on the counter. “The Lost Bell! Damn her and damn Lord Ilfracombe. The whole of yesterday afternoon. And the trip to Wheatcroft. Every hostess in England wants pineapple ices at their parties! They’d have been a roaring success. I ought to have told her no. I ought to have looked her in the eye and said no. Mr. Whittle can’t make food for two hundred and twenty-five afore tomorrow.”

  “If he don’t mind shutting his doors for a day, he can,” Betsy said. “He cooks for two hundred and twenty-five every day in the week. You were splendid. I thought she’d give in, certain-sure.”

  He still didn’t look at her. “I’ll fetch out the sweet preserved lemons. We’ll have to make fifty ices out of them.” At the door the cold room, he paused. “She was wrong. If anything, you’re my better.”

  The compliment didn’t please her; he only said it because he esteemed himself low. But there was no use talking about it. Nothing would comfort him now but getting something done.

  Picking up her spoon, Betsy began scooping out a fresh tray of macaroons.

  Chapter 8:

  Tuesday

  “This’ll be naught but salt water in a minute,” Jemima said.

  Betsy hurried over to show her how to let the water run out the bottom of the sabotiere so she could fill it up with ice again. It was the day of the assembly, and the kitchen was crammed with people churning syrup and custard into ices. Robert was hurrying about offering instructions and putting the finishing touches on his Greek temple.

  They’d been naked here, and now it was a public place again.

  He stirred a pot of hot sugar. The back of his neck and the curve of his ear made a wave of love wash over her.

  It will all come right, she told herself. After this week, they’d be done with Mrs. Lovejoy. They’d have their money in hand, they’d sell the pineapple ices at the market, and she’d tell him she wanted to get married. She didn’t need to wait, any more than she’d needed to wait for him to kiss her.

  Robert picked up the heavy pot in his strong arms and began to slowly pour the hot sugar, tinted with indigo, into the ornamental pool.

  There was an unpleasantly familiar rap on the door. Robert winced, but the thin, even stream of sugar didn’t falter.

  Betsy looked at the door. Oh, why hadn’t she latched it? She always latched it! But there were so many people in the shop this morning. She must have forgotten after Nan went for a cup of coffee.

  If Betsy latched it now, Mrs. Lovejoy would hear. She would never forgive the slight.

  “I can’t talk to her until this is done and I’ve got the fish in,” Robert said tightly. “I can’t stop neither, or it won’t look right. It won’t be but a moment. Take her round the front and tell her I’ll be right there.”

  What could go wrong with that? Straightening her shoulders, Betsy slipped out the door and shut it behind her, blinking in the bright sun. Mrs. Lovejoy looked hot and tired even under her cheerful fringed parasol.

  “Good day, Mrs. Lovejoy.”

  “Good day, child. Where’s your master?”

  “He’s working hot sugar and can’t stop just now, ma’am, but he’ll be round to talk to you in a moment. Let me show you into the front of the shop where it’s cooler.”

  “Oh, he needn’t stop, I’ve only a very small question for him. Just you open that door and I’ll be in and out before you can say Jack Robinson.”

  “I can’t, ma’am, he asked me most particularly to show you into the shop. He’s working hot sugar, ma’am. It isn’t
safe for you.” Betsy was despairingly aware that the cheer in her voice rang a bit hollow.

  Mrs. Lovejoy frowned. “There’s no need to talk to me as if I were an infant, girl. I’m twice your age and I’ve been in a kitchen before. I won’t do anything foolish.”

  Betsy tried to smile. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, ma’am, but he’s my master and those were his orders. Please come this way. It won’t be but a moment.”

  Flattening herself against the wall, she tried to begin leading the way round to the front of the building. But Mrs. Lovejoy was standing rather close, and as Betsy edged along the wall, her head bumped the matron’s parasol. They both reached up to steady it, Betsy’s hand knocked into Mrs. Lovejoy’s, and the parasol went flying.

  Mrs. Lovejoy drew back, clutching her wrist with a red face. “How dare you lay hands on me?”

  Betsy’s heart sank. She rushed to pick up the parasol. There were great dusty streaks. She didn’t dare try to brush them off, for fear of being blamed for stains.

  More than she already would be, anyway. “I’m that sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy didn’t take the parasol. She was bending her wrist back and forth as if it might be injured, and rubbing her shoulder where the handle had bounced off it. “You may have your master fooled with that cringing air, girl, but I see through you!”

  Hot hate spurted up in Betsy’s heart. Mrs. Lovejoy bullied her, and then scolded her for taking it! But she would look cringing to anyone watching: a fluffy little dog at Mrs. Lovejoy’s feet, fetching her parasol and hoping not to get kicked.

  She dropped her eyes to hide her anger, but maybe she wasn’t fast enough. “You know, I always thought you had something against me,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, light dawning in her face, “but I begin to think you’re only an impertinent little hypocrite. And it is my duty to inform Mr. Moon of your true nature.”

  Robert came round the corner in time to hear this last bit. “I’m that sorry, ma’am, I looked for you in the front of the shop.”

  Betsy drew back against the wall and hoped with all her soul that Mrs. Lovejoy would just ask what she’d come to ask.

  Mrs. Lovejoy drew herself up. “Your girl actually had the nerve to put her hands on me,” she said. “She has damaged my property, and she is pert and two-faced. You may be too kind to see it, but you do her no favors by allowing her to continue in her shiftless ways. I demand, absolutely demand, that you dismiss her at once!”

  Robert blinked, his brows drawing together. “Mrs. Lovejoy—”

  The fussy curls at Mrs. Lovejoy’s temples trembled. “I’m sorry, sir, but it is sack her or I cancel my order. I hate to do it, for I don’t know what I shall do about the assembly, but I cannot in conscience allow myself to be treated in such a manner.”

  She snatched her parasol from Betsy at last; it shook in her hand, the fringe jumping. “Oh, Mr. Lovejoy will be furious with me, and what will everyone eat? But one must have self-respect, Mr. Moon.”

  Betsy looked at the horror written across Robert’s face. If Mrs. Lovejoy cancelled the order now…they could never sell that much food in time. It would spoil, or the texture would go. Even an ice could only last so long. All those gallons of cream bought on credit, for nothing.

  Your worst fear is losing the shop, isn’t it?

  I reckon so.

  His throat worked, and his ears began to burn. Poor kind Robert. She wouldn’t make him find the words.

  Betsy untied the strings of her apron and pulled it off. “Good-bye, then.”

  “Wait,” he said quietly.

  She couldn’t look at him. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  He shook his head. “One must have self-respect, mustn’t one, Mrs. Lovejoy?” She had never heard him sound like that: resolute as a Christian martyr. He looked their customer straight in the face. “I’ve done everything you asked. But I won’t do this. I’d rather go bankrupt.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy looked as horrified as Betsy felt, with none of the helpless, guilty relief. “What will I tell Mr. Lovejoy?”

  “That’s up to you,” Robert said. “Unless you’ll change your mind. Everything’s almost ready. It’s going to be beautiful. Come in and see the temple.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy hesitated. Betsy sent up a quick prayer…but the woman wrung her hands and hurried off.

  Leaving Betsy and Robert standing there, staring at each other.

  “You shouldn’t have done it,” Betsy said, feeling almost shy. “I was ready to go.”

  He shook his head. “The shop’s no use without you.”

  Joy poured over her. “The shop will be fine.” She reached for his hand. “We’ll sell as much of this as we can, and we’ll make enough to pay Mrs. Diplock. We can preserve the berries—”

  He shook his head again, and this time she saw the hopelessness in the motion. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m going bankrupt.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going bankrupt. The shop’s over.”

  Her heart was ice trying to beat. Bankrupt? He was giving up on the shop? What chance did she have, if he’d given up on that?

  “I won’t run up any more debts I can’t pay. If they don’t send me to prison, I’ll go work in someone else’s kitchen. Lenfield House, maybe. I can’t ask you to wait, but in a few years…” He ducked, turning his head away. “Maybe I can save up enough to ask you to marry me.”

  “Why wait? If you want to marry me, why not now?”

  “I can’t ask you that.”

  “You can’t ask me much, seems like.”

  “Betsy…”

  She gathered up her courage. “I want to be your wife,” she said. “Your helpmeet. I’m not going to change my mind. I don’t mind not having money.”

  “I can’t bring a wife to Lenfield with me.”

  “Don’t go bankrupt,” she couldn’t help saying. They could come round. She knew they could. “We can—”

  He turned his head away, showing her only that monklike profile. “Don’t.”

  “Then I’ll live in Lively St. Lemeston while you go to Lenfield. I don’t mind waiting, if we’re married.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her eyes stung. “I’ve waited so long,” she said around the lump in her throat. “I thought you’d come round eventually. But I was stupid. I can’t earn your love. I can’t demand you repay mine, like a debt. Either you love me or you don’t. Either you want to marry me or you don’t. But I won’t wait anymore.”

  She took his hand, despite his sound of protest. “I’m good enough to be happy, and so are you, Robert. Let’s—let’s be happy.”

  “I do love you.” He gripped her fingers. “I do want to marry you. Of course I do. But I can’t ask you—do you realize, if we were married, you’d be liable for my debts?”

  Betsy tried to be stoic. After all, she’d been ready for it all week, hadn’t she? Jemima would be disgusted if she broke down now.

  Tears streamed down her face anyway. “You care so much whether I like your cake, and now I tell you I love you and it doesn’t matter to you at all! I thought of the Honey Moon as ours, but of course I was just fooling myself. One must have self-respect? I’m sick when I think how little self-respect I’ve had.”

  She ripped her hand out of his, crumpling her apron into a ball. “Your shop, your happy home, your self-respect, your nerves that need soothing. What about my nerves? What about my heart that’s breaking? I might as well have poured my love into a stone as into you and this blasted shop. You should have sacked me.”

  Betsy threw the apron at him. “Send my wages when you have them. If you ever have them.”

  Hand on the wall for balance, she went blindly toward the street, leaving her mother and sister and best friend inside still working. They were helping for free, because even though none of them had said anything, they all thought of it as an investment in the rest of Betsy’s life.

  Let Robert explain to them. She went home and crawled into her and Nan’s bed
and cried and cried.

  * * *

  Robert sat in his empty kitchen, tears leaking down his face. He might as well put out the fires entirely. He shrank from it, though. An oven without hot charcoal at the bottom of it was dead.

  Everything was over. The shop and Betsy, and all because he didn’t have the patience God gave a grasshopper. He’d rushed everything. He should have waited to sell his father’s bakery and saved up something. He should have taken on less debt, started on a quieter street, sold fewer kinds of candy, told Mrs. Lovejoy he wouldn’t shut the shop for her order, told Betsy not to kiss him.

  He definitely shouldn’t run after her now and beg her to marry him.

  He knew all of that was true. And yet when he thought, I should have told Betsy not to kiss me, every last drop of blood in him dug in its heels. He just…couldn’t really believe that.

  He’d made a great many mistakes. But maybe…maybe he’d just made the worst of them.

  He washed his face, banked the fires, and ran out the door.

  * * *

  Robert knew which house she lived in, but not which room. He didn’t want to embarrass her. He hesitated for half a minute, and then gave it up as a bad job.

  “Miss Piper!” he bellowed. “Miss Piper!”

  It was July; all the sashes were open. He knew she must have heard him. Curious faces poked out of windows all up and down the street.

  Face burning, he shouted again, “Miss Piper, I need to talk to you!”

  A minute or two passed in silence. He was gathering breath to shout again when someone came round the back of the house.

  It was Jemima Midwinter, scowling. He tried to decide if this was better or worse than no one coming at all. Better, he decided. “Let me see her,” he said, trying to sound commanding.

  It was no good. She crossed her arms. “Why should I?”

  “It’s not your affair.” Oh, why had he said that? Her glower heated by a few hundred degrees. He shrank back.

  “I think people hurting my bosom friend is my affair, and I think you’d better get out of here before I’m on trial for bashing your head in.”

  He’d always suspected that Miss Midwinter’s fascination with murder was bloodthirstier than Betsy’s. He swallowed. “I want to marry her.”