A Week in Brighton (Timeless Regency Collection Book 13)

by Jennifer Moore

  Mary had followed her into the kitchen and was helping her mother prepare the next batches of meat pies. The silence in the room was strained, and Daphne could feel the other women’s unspoken conversation behind her back. She snatched a towel and brushed the flour off her face, then started pulling off the stems and ends from the berries.

  She dropped the berries into a pot as she worked. Typically the repetitive motions would have soothed her nerves, but not today. Not with the reminder that this was all to come to an end, and soon.

  Ruth carried the trays of cooled pies through the doorway to load the display trays.

  “Move the rye buns to the top shelf, Ruth.” Daphne set the bowl of flour onto the preparation table and took the crock of butter from the cooling chest. “Mary, please finish the crust for the tarts. The midday rush will begin any minute.” Of course neither of the women needed to be told—they’d spent more hours in the bakery than Daphne—but the silence was too much.

  Daphne checked that the oven fire was burning steadily, then left the kitchen to help Ruth behind the counter. The pair worked quickly, transferring the pies and arranging the trays in the display case.

  When the bell over the door rang, Daphne smoothed her apron and turned.

  In a delightful surprise, the gentleman from the beach entered the bakery. The older man she’d seen him with earlier accompanied him.

  She smiled, wiping the grease on her fingers onto a towel as pleasant warmth replaced the unease in the shop.

  “It smells marvelous.” The gentleman closed the door behind him.

  “Very nice.” His older companion patted his belly. “I shouldn’t mind a meat pie and perhaps a bun or two.”

  Daphne came around the counter into the dining area.

  When the younger man’s gaze met hers, his eyes widened, then his brows pulled together. He was obviously taken off guard, seeing her so soon after their first meeting.

  “Hello again,” Daphne said. “I see you found a new hat. I do hope it behaves better than the last.”

  The man glanced at his friend, then back at her. He looked slightly uneasy.

  She wondered again if he was taken by surprise.

  “Yes.” He blinked and his smile returned, but it appeared to be rather strained. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed the hat and showed it to her, displaying it this way and that with a flourish so that she might see it from every angle. “I do as well. I particularly asked Mr. Brambles for a hat that did not possess a predisposition for sea bathing.”

  “A wise precaution.” She nodded sagely and couldn’t help but smile at the silly banter. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  He glanced around the bakery. “You . . . work here, miss?”

  She raised a brow and smirked, giving him a flat stare and indicating the flour covered apron she wore. “I do.” She curtseyed. “Daphne Dayley.”

  The man winced, and his friend glanced up at him.

  A sliver of unease moved through her. The men were certainly acting strange.

  “Miss Dayley,” the older man said. “How do you do?” He lifted his hat. “Donald Fawcett.”

  The other man cleared his throat and twisted around the hat in his hand. “And I’m Arthur Grande.” He enunciated the name, grimacing.

  Cold hit Daphne’s core. She stepped back. “You’re Arthur Grande?” She forced out the words, feeling like they choked her throat. She had cursed that very name for months. She’d fantasized about what she would say if she ever met the man, and now here he was, standing in her bakery holding his blasted hat and flirting with her.

  A surge of anger made her skin hot and her sight redden. Every thought flew from her mind as she stared at this man who’d pretended . . . while . . . She shook her head, fighting to keep her breathing calm and took another step back, every muscle tightening as her mind grappled with the realization. She had been taken in . . . deceived by none other than . . . him.

  Mr. Fawcett looked between the two. He cleared his throat, looking supremely unconcerned with the tension that hung in the air like a wet curtain. “Ah yes, Miss Dayley. We do have a matter of business that should come as no surprise . . .” He clasped his hands in front of him. “Just before Christmas of last year, you were sent an eviction notice . . .”

  She folded her arms and scowled at both Mr. Fawcett and Mr. Grande. Thank you for the reminder. What a delightful Christmas gift it was. If she’d been capable of shooting daggers from her eyes, she would have done it gladly.

  Both men pulled back, giving her a small amount of pleasure that her glare had been sufficiently potent.

  “And . . . ?” she asked, daring him to continue.

  Mr. Fawcett blinked as if confused by her question, or more likely her tone.

  “And, you are . . . ah . . . still . . . here.” Mr. Grande motioned around the room.

  Daphne clenched her jaw. “One moment, if you please.” She went behind the counter and through the kitchen to the small box where she kept papers and legal documents. After a quick search, she fetched the letter as well as her lease agreement and land-tax receipt. The sight of her mother’s handwriting on the contract made her throat tight, which just added to her fury.

  She returned to the dining room, glancing at the family picture that hung on the wall beside the door to the kitchen. Her parents and grandmother looked at her with painted eyes. Her own much younger eyes watched, her painted figure sitting on her father’s lap, and Daphne felt extremely aware of her own failure.

  The bell over the door rang, and a group of fishermen came inside.

  “Good afternoon to you, gentlemen.” Daphne gave a wide smile. “Chicken pies today.” She knew the men, of course. Until the last few years, when so many people had moved to Brighton, she’d known every person in the town. “Mr. Taylor, how are Sarah and the baby?”

  The fisherman smiled, crinkling his weathered skin. “Happy and healthy, both. Though I wouldn’t mind if that little one slept a bit more.”

  Daphne returned behind the counter. She set down the papers and wrapped a loaf of bread and two raisin muffins, handing the parcel to Mr. Taylor. “Tell Sarah I’ll be by to call on her soon.”

  He tipped his head forward. “Much thanks. She’ll be pleased to hear you asked after her.”

  She chatted for a moment with the customers in an extra cheery voice to make certain there was no question as to the extent of her displeasure when she returned to speaking to the other men.

  Mr. Grande and Mr. Fawcett had taken a small table in the corner. They stood when Daphne joined them and then returned to their seats.

  She sat tall in her chair and turned through the pages of the lease agreement until she found what she was looking for. “If you read the second paragraph of section four carefully, gentlemen, you will see the agreement clearly states that notice to quit must be given half a year before the expiration of the lease. If land taxes are paid and rent is maintained”—she slid the other papers forward without looking up, though she could feel Mr. Grande studying her—“which they clearly are, the tenant is guaranteed possession for six months once acquainted in writing.” She handed the eviction letter across the table. “As you can see by the messenger’s receipt, this letter was received December 5th, 1814.”

  Mr. Fawcett took his spectacles from his pocket, adjusting them on his nose as he studied the letter, then handed it to Mr. Grande.

  He glanced at it, then returned to watching her.

  Daphne gave the lease agreement to the solicitor. “Today’s date, as I’m certain you are aware, is May 29th . So you see, gentlemen, these premises are mine for one week more.”

  Mr. Fawcett read the paragraph she’d indicated. “It appears you are right, Miss Dayley. You are indeed entitled to retain occupancy until June 5th.”

  “Thank you.” Daphne took the papers and stood. “If that is all, I bid you good day.”

  The men rose as well.

  “Miss Dayley,” Mr. Grande said. “If I may . . .”<
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  She tapped her foot. “Yes?”

  “It doesn’t seem . . .” He motioned to the bakery. “You don’t appear to be . . . preparing to vacate.”

  She straightened the papers, tapping them once on the table. “Mr. Grande, right now, my concern is preparing for luncheon customers. If you’ve no other business to discuss . . .”

  “Luncheon sounds delightful,” Mr. Fawcett said, apparently oblivious to the tension.

  “Mary will serve you.” She lifted her chin to indicate the woman behind the counter. “And Mr. Grande, there is a special price for the building’s owner.” Daphne gave a sweet smile.

  He raised his brows. “Oh?”

  “We will charge you double.” She spun on her heel and marched away.

  The effect of her exit was somewhat dampened by the sound of Mr. Grande chuckling behind her.

  Arthur arrived at the building site just as dawn broke, and he was pleasantly surprised to find the work crews had arrived even earlier. The buildings that had been silent and dark were now a bustle of activity and noise. Lantern light glowed in the windows, and voices and hammering echoed in the empty buildings.

  He looked toward the sea, watching the emerging daylight play on the waves and enjoying the long anticipated satisfaction of his dream finally becoming a reality.

  Turning back toward the buildings, he glanced at Our Dayley Bread. Light shone in those windows as well, and he imagined the three women were inside rolling and kneading, and Miss Dayley was expressly ignoring the chaos surrounding them.

  The aroma of baking reached him, and his stomach growled in response. He’d taken his midday meal at the bakery again the day before and had found the food—in spite of its exorbitant price—to be exceptional. And the baker—he smirked, thinking of Miss Dayley’s parting shot two days earlier—strong-willed didn’t begin to describe the woman. But he was certain hurt was beneath her anger, and for that, he intended to make amends.

  Bob Simper waved as he came up the road with another man.

  Although Arthur didn’t recognize the builder’s companion, he knew him by reputation, and a thrill moved through him. Today he was to meet in person the gas plumber, Lewis Wells. Interior gas lighting would set The Grande Hotel by the Sea apart, not only in Brighton but in all of England. He knew of only a very few buildings with such a modern feature, the most famous, of course, being the prince regent’s own palace. And Lewis Wells was the man responsible for such a marvelous innovation.

  The men were introduced and joined by the architect and engineer as they escorted the gas plumber into the old furniture warehouse.

  “According to the plans, the reception desk will be located . . . near here?” Mr. Wells looked up from the roll of paper and pointed.

  “Yes,” Mr. Simper said. “This wall is coming down, and a row of pillars will line both this side of the lobby, and the other.” He motioned toward the far side of the room.

  “We hoped to have sconces on each of the pillars.” Arthur pointed to the circles representing the pillars on the plans.

  Mr. Wells nodded and made a note. “What is this area here?” he pointed to the far corner.

  “Kitchens here.” Arthur pointed. “With laundry facilities beneath. And here are the business offices.”

  “Some of the buildings are still separated, and we need to break down walls, set up a support system—arches and beams—and join them all together.” Mr. Simper explained.

  Mr. Wells nodded again. “I see. Somewhere . . . here”—he tapped near the offices—“we will need a closet for the gas valves and coal burner.”

  “Mr. Grande allocated this area for both gas pipes and water pipes.” Mr. Miller, the architect, pointed. “Will that be sufficient?”

  Mr. Wells muttered to himself as he ran his finger along the imaginary pipelines. After a moment, he looked up. “You are to have indoor water closets in every room?”

  “Yes,” Arthur said.

  Mr. Wells nodded his approval. “Yes, this space will be sufficient. And I expect you intend to have gas lights outside as well?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Wells looked back at the plans. “A separate gas source would be wise. Perhaps here . . .”

  The tour lasted another hour, and by the time Mr. Wells took his leave, Arthur was extremely impressed by the gas plumber. He was very attentive to details, a quality that Arthur prized. He’d offered ideas, seen places where extra lighting would be beneficial, and come up with ways to be more cost-efficient. Arthur was confident the job was in the best hands.

  Mr. Miller laid a sheet of plans out onto a wide board that rested between two barrels. The area near the door gave good light but was still sheltered, and it had become the project’s unofficial office. He and Arthur set rocks on the corners of the paper and discussed the addition to the garden shed.

  Hearing raised voices, Arthur excused himself and returned back inside to find the source.

  The barrel-chested builder, Mr. Simper, was standing with a group of workers. He pointed toward one of the small stoves used for heating varnish. Next to the stove was a pile of oil-covered rags. “This cloth is filled with fumes.” He kicked the rags away. “One spark, and this entire place would burn down. How many times do I have to tell you to keep used rags outside?”

  One of the workers hurried to move the cloths away.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” another of the workers said. “I thought Garrick knew better.”

  “He does know.” Mr. Simper said. “I reminded him yesterday. And the day before.” He looked around at the group. “Where is Garrick?”

  “Believe he’s out back, sanding the new beams,” one of the men said.

  Simper stormed off, presumably to have a word with Mr. Garrick.

  The idea of a fire destroying the building was terrifying. Arthur walked through the entire worksite, ensuring that none of the other stoves was near to rags or buckets of varnish or anything flammable. He spoke briefly to the head engineer and watched for a moment as supports were fixed into place in preparation for a wall to come down.

  When Arthur returned to check on the architect’s plans, he found two worried-looking workers at the makeshift table with Mr. Miller.

  “ . . . sent us away, sir, ’fore we could get the measurements,” one of the men said.

  “I’m not going back there,” the other added.

  Mr. Miller shook his head. “Miss Dayley is a small woman. I hardly think she warrants this level of fear.”

  “She threatened to call a constable.”

  “What is happening?” Arthur asked.

  The architect hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the bakery. “I sent these two to take measurements for your smoking lounge, sir. Per Mr. Wells’s recommendation, the east wall will need to be adjusted for extra piping.”

  “And Miss Dayley . . . ?” Arthur prompted the workers.

  “She yelled at us, sir. Threatened us. Said we’re not to disturb her customers.”

  “She had a rolling pin, sir.” The other man looked at the bakery with a frightened gaze. “Think she’d have pommeled us if we’d been slower.”

  Arthur quickly covered his mouth and looked toward the bakery as if contemplating what they’d said. After a moment he thought he had control enough to talk without laughing. “Shall I speak to her?” he asked with a voice that came out choked.

  “Don’t know if that’s wise, sir, you bein’ a dandy and all.”

  He tipped his head, thinking it was the first time he’d ever been considered in that light. Perhaps he should look into joining the local gentleman’s pugilist club. “I think I shall be safe. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Good luck, sir.” One of the workers removed his hat as if giving a solemn farewell.

  Arthur took up his walking stick and strode toward the bakery, chuckling at the thought of Daphne Dayley frightening the dickens out of the workers. He felt very pleased for an opportunity—or an excuse—to see the young lady again. Thr
oughout the past days he’d thought of her often. He had walked along the beach yesterday morning hoping to see her and had eaten a meat pie for luncheon, but he had yet to see her since their encounter at the bakery.

  He pondered why it was that he wished to find someone who so obviously wished to avoid him. Perhaps it was guilt at the situation he’d unknowingly put her and her business in. While that may be part of it, the majority of the reason was something deeper. He’d felt a connection at their first meeting. And he thought she’d felt it too. For those few moments on the beach, she’d been unguarded and happy. The image of disheveled hair blowing about her flushed face while she laughed at his broken hat had entered his thoughts often over the past days.

  Rather than guilt, he thought it was knowing that if he were not the man forcing her from her place of business, she might like him. But was a friendship with Miss Daphne Dayley even possible when he was Mr. Arthur Grande?

  The bell rang when he opened the door, and the aromas of baking surrounded him. Arthur’s stomach reacted as it had each time he’d entered the shop—with a loud growl.

  He closed the door, and when he turned back around, his path was blocked by a very angry Daphne Dayley. And she was indeed holding a rolling pin.

  Arthur let out a dramatic sigh. He removed his hat and hung it on a hook by the door. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Miss Dayley.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Come to what?”

  “It appears we shall have to duel.” He grasped the walking stick in the middle and tipped the end toward her. “Very well then; en garde.”

  She rolled her eyes, blowing out her breath in a huff, and turned back toward the kitchen.

  Arthur caught her arm. “I am only teasing, miss.”

  “Well, it is not at all funny.” She pulled away her arm and watched as he lowered his walking stick back down to the floor. “I suppose you’re here on behalf of those . . . witless clods?”

  He fought back a smile, pressing a finger against his lips. “Well, that is rather harsh.” He cleared his throat. “Apparently you . . . ah . . . threatened Mr. Simper’s workers?”