Chapter 7:
Monday
Betsy walked to the Honey Moon just before dawn on Monday. She kept a lookout for murderers, but not a very sharp one; the sky was a rich, dark blue and the air was crisp and cool.
Robert smiled at her as she hung her pelisse on the peg, his face mysterious and dear in the dim light from the ovens. He was already clarifying sugar in a copper pot. He leaned over to kiss her as she walked by, but made no move to turn the kiss into anything more.
Betsy wasn’t surprised. She’d seen his list of everything they needed to accomplish today: the custards and compositions for ices and ice creams, to chill overnight before being congealed tomorrow; macaroons for the grand trifle; blancmange and pistachio cream for the temple; molded jellies dotted with cherries and plums; crusts they would fill with sugared strawberries and whipped cream at the assembly.
If they finished it all, maybe tonight there would be time for dalliance, but they both already knew they wouldn’t finish it all. They might not even sleep tonight. Betsy had warned her mother not to look for her.
If I do well today, he’ll see what a good wife I’d make.
Suddenly the familiar thought made her uncomfortable.
All this week she’d striven to be the perfect woman, just as she’d striven for the last year and a half to be the perfect shopgirl. When Robert asked her what she was afeared of, she’d known without hesitation: not being good enough.
But could love really be earned like wages?
The ovens hadn’t yet heated the room. Betsy felt cold and small.
She didn’t want to live for his praise and his approval. She wasn’t a child trying to make her mother smile anymore. If she meant to do this job for the rest of her life, she’d better enjoy it.
And as the day wore on, she found to her surprise that she did enjoy it. She liked the precision of it, and the beauty. She liked the lovely shining picture clarified sugar made when you poured it out. She liked the clinks of spoons in bowls and the thuds of spoons in pots. She liked the copper molds. She was glad she’d polished them to a shine.
She hadn’t even noticed she was happy here, she’d been so busy thinking, Is he happy?
Could she really bring herself to leave, if he didn’t propose at the end of the week?
* * *
When the clock struck one, Betsy was dropping neat spoonfuls of batter onto trays while Robert tended the ovens. She popped a warm macaroon in her mouth, feeling almost smug at how well things were going.
Someone knocked on the back door.
The dismay on Robert’s face matched her own, but he went and opened it, pasting on a smile. “Mrs. Lovejoy! How do you do?”
“Very well, Mr. Moon, and you?”
“Well, ma’am. I can only talk a moment, there’s macaroons in the oven.”
“Of course, of course,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I’ve only a teensy-weensy little change to the menu.”
Betsy’s heart sank.
“What sort of change, ma’am?”
“Well…” Her face brightened. “It’s good news, really. Wonderful news. The new Lord Ilfracombe is coming to our assembly. Just think! A tragedy of course; his father and two older brothers died quite suddenly. Now we have vaccination against smallpox, these things ought not to happen anymore, don’t you agree? They were in a sailing accident, I believe. His lordship was quite good friends with the Dymond boy in the army, so he’s coming here on his way home from the Peninsula. I just spoke to Mr. Nicholas and he said his friend will certainly attend our assembly. Such a chance for one of our girls! I hear he is to have quite six thousand a year. But he absolutely does not eat pineapple, Mr. Nicholas says. His mouth swells dreadfully. So we’ll have to get rid of the pineapple ices.”
Betsy set down her spoon. They had spent hours and quite a few guineas on the pineapple ices. The composition was cooling in the next room in a great copper bowl. Robert had to tell her no.
“I don’t, um…” Robert looked pale and panicked. Silence stretched.
The last time Betsy had said something, she’d only made things worse. But she was the shopgirl, and it was her job to deal with customers. “That’s wonderful! And it was you who invited him?”
Mrs. Lovejoy preened a little. “When Mr. Nicholas told me he was coming, I knew I couldn’t let such a chance slip through my fingers. I owed it to the town.”
“That was right kind of you,” Betsy said. “I can’t imagine how excited all the gentlemens’ daughters will be.”
Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you go talking to him, mind. I won’t have him bothered.”
“Mrs. Lovejoy,” Robert said, exasperated.
And there it went, the little store of goodwill she’d built up in those few seconds to make their explanations go down smoother. Betsy wondered for the millionth time what she had done to make Mrs. Lovejoy dislike her.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” she said humbly. “I’ve got a fellow already.”
Robert, bless him, didn’t do anything too obvious with his face.
“Hmph,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, sounding a little mollified. “Well, I hope you’re behaving yourself, dear. This is a respectable establishment, and you’ve a responsibility to do nothing to tarnish it.”
Betsy almost laughed. If she only knew! “I know, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Lovejoy,” Robert began firmly, ears red, “I’m going to have to ask you—”
“Mr. Moon,” Betsy pleaded.
“Don’t interrupt your betters, dear,” Mrs. Lovejoy said.
Somehow, that knocked the breath out of her. He is not my better, she wanted to say. He isn’t. But she couldn’t speak.
“Betsy, if you would allow me to speak to Mrs. Lovejoy alone,” Robert said.
Betsy hoped he wouldn’t agree not to serve pineapple. She’d ought to hope he wouldn’t read their customer a jobation, but at the moment, she hadn’t the heart. “Yes, Mr. Moon,” she said in a stifled voice. “I’ll just go clean up some things in the front.”
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.