Chapter Three
“I
cannot give notice to my manager as he is away,” Ewan said.
“Are you certain I should leave? I am acting manager of Redcake’s now, and I am going to have my own tea shop and emporium when Lady Hatbrook opens the Kensington branch this summer. Things are delayed a bit as she is, err—”
“Due to hopefully birth Lord Hatbrook’s heir any moment, yes?”
“Exactly, but I expect to be managing my own enterprise by summer’s end. That’s a good salary, sir, enough for a house and servants. Should I really walk away from it given your financial concerns?”
“Of course you should,” the earl snapped. “Have you been woolgathering? I will not live forever, sir, and you need to learn your responsibilities. While my father’s direct line has come down to me, my daughter, my granddaughter, and you, my grandfather’s line has left us a passel of dependents, not to mention the tenants, and land stewardship itself. I expect you to write Lord Judah immediately and give notice. He will need to return to his post.”
“I cannot command the brother of a marquess,” Ewan said.
“You can do what I tell you to do,” Fitzwalter snapped.
Ewan wanted to stand up and leave, but this man was family. Regardless of how it was presented, he needed to take responsibility for his birthright. “I shall send a telegram. I do not think he has access to a telephone.”
“Very good. Today is Tuesday. I hope Lord Judah can be back at his office by Monday, which means you should determine whether you want to go to Hampshire or Lancashire in the next few days.”
For the first time since his school days, Ewan had a sore stomach. Bile burned his throat. He had not realized how much independence he really had at Redcake’s until this moment, when he found himself falling under this elderly person’s thumb.
“I will be in touch, my lord.”
The earl nodded. “Speak to Norwich. He has a telephone. You can conduct your business that way, if you wish. Personally, I can’t understand a word any man says through the things.” He pushed back his chair and rose.
Norwich looked at the ceiling. Ewan suspected from the loud pitch of the earl’s voice that he had some hearing deficit. Now that he was standing, Ewan did see the earl’s body stoop. He looked older. Was he ill besides?
Ewan stood as well, holding out his hand, but the earl ignored it.
“Norwich,” the earl said, then walked out.
Norwich rose, too, then gestured to Ewan to close the office door.
“You understand now,” he said, as they both sat down again.
“Understand what?”
Norwich sighed again. “There is no hope of you escaping it. You will be the next earl.”
Ewan waited for the brown bottle to appear, but Norwich had enough self-control to keep it hidden for now. Still, he felt he needed to put the man out of his misery soon. “What do you suggest? Hampshire or Lancashire?”
Norwich snorted. “Neither. The Douglas men always die between the ages of seventy and seventy-two, unless they are killed in battle or taken off by enemies in some fashion. Given the present earl’s age, you have three to five years to learn your responsibilities. You don’t want to be buried on a dairy or a wheat farm.”
“Then you will advise the earl to keep me in London?”
“He can’t afford that unless you live with him.”
Ewan held back his shudder. “What if I go to one of these farms for a year and make it profitable? Will he let me then live on those profits, in London, and learn the rest of my duties?”
“You can’t bargain with earls, Mr. Hales. You must begin as you plan to go on. If you set foot outside London, I doubt you’ll be seeing it again until his lordship’s funeral.”
Ewan ran his hand through his hair. “Are there any London properties? Anything I can properly manage here?”
Norwich clutched at the edge of his desk again. “Nothing that I cannot handle. It’s too bad you weren’t a law clerk rather than a secretary.”
Ewan suspected he could do better than Norwich and his brown bottle, but until he had a look at the files he wouldn’t know for sure. “Could you suggest to the earl that I stay here for the rest of the spring and work with you, to give me a more global sense of where I can best be used? I can pay my own way out of my savings for that long.”
“A clever suggestion,” Norwich conceded. “I shall let you know in a day or two.”
The Redcake’s holdings in Bristol were situated in a complex of their own, with multiple redbrick buildings built along a central green. Matilda mostly worked in the building that held administrative offices, though she made an effort to go into the factories and meet workers. She wanted to understand every level of the business. Her father had impressed upon her the idea that surprises were always injurious in business, and she believed knowledge would keep surprises at bay.
Therefore, she knew to be wary when approaching Stephen Hay, the manager of the cake factory. He had accepted her the least of any of the managers. Even her brother had warned her about the man, saying he was excellent at his work but would probably lose his position at some point due to his attitude.
When she walked into his office, Mr. Hay stayed behind his desk, chewing on an unlit cigar, instead of showing her the respect due her either as his employer or as a woman.
“What now?” he barked, an intimidating, bulldog-like presence.
“I’m sure you received the note from Greggory regarding this meeting.” She dropped a cake box on his desk.
“Something wrong at the box factory? I never thought we should have started making boxes ourselves,” Hay sneered.
“The box is fine. It’s the cake. Taste it.”
He patted his bulging waistcoat. “Trying to fatten me up, Miss Redcake? Like a big man, do you?”
“It’s adulterated.” Ignoring his remark, she found a fork in a box on a shelf and scooped up a piece of the cake. “Here.”
He leaned over his desk, leering, and took her hand in his hairy paw, then sniffed. She had the feeling that he sniffed her hand instead of the cake. Disgusting pig.
“The cake,” she said, in her most disinterested voice, the one she’d practiced years ago to fend off inappropriate swains. She’d never had much of a chance to use it because of her misbehavior with Theodore Bliven.
He opened his mouth, his oversized red tongue darting out to lick off a crumb. Her stomach contents seemed to do a full queasy upturn, and she was grateful that she had eaten only a rock bun and some tea for breakfast. After a moment, he opened his mouth and took the full bite of cake from the fork, then sat back, releasing her wrist with a satisfied smirk.
She kept her expression as neutral as possible while he chewed.
“Had to make sure you weren’t trying to poison me,” he said, after he swallowed.
“Yes, because I hope to kill off my employees.”
“You’d probably poison yourself in the process.”
“If I’m dead, I would not be of much use to the businesses.”
“Think you’re of much use now?” he inquired in a mock-casual voice.
She couldn’t help fisting her hands, but she had them behind her back before he could see the involuntary gesture. Her brother had been correct. The first slip in Hay’s performance and he would lose his position, unlike other men to whom she might give a second chance. Stephen Hay was odious.
“I hold your livelihood in my hands, Mr. Hay. You have a family to support, correct?”
He sneered again.
“I hope you keep them in mind when considering your behavior toward me.” She stayed standing to increase her authority. “What is your opinion of the cake?”
“Something has been added to the batter to give it that powdery taste.”
“Redcake’s in London has pulled all of our cakes, from the tearoom at least. We have to fix the problem before Thursday.”
“Come back in two hours,” he said, after staring at the ceiling for a moment. “I will check with the foreman to make sure our recipe hasn’t changed for the shilling cakes. If it hasn’t, I will check our powdered ingredient supplies.”
“Make sure you are checking what was available last week.”
“We order a month’s supply at a time,” he said. “It should be the same.”
She shook her head.
Bad news.
“Would last week’s powders have been the first of the new supply?”
“I’ll check our records. We don’t waste anything.”
“Why wouldn’t anyone have smelled the powder when the bags were opened?” she asked.
“Maybe someone had a stuffed nose. You know how flour hangs in the air. It’s hard to breathe. Well, maybe you don’t. Unlike Gawain, you never worked in the factory.”
There it was, a dig at her more privileged upbringing. She couldn’t change any of that now. “I’ll go with you, so I can learn.”
“No, you won’t, Miss Redcake. You want the truth, right? I won’t get it in front of the governor’s daughter.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Hay. I am the governor. But I will leave and return, because we do not have time to argue the matter. We must have good cakes for Thursday’s shipment.” She turned and left the room, knowing her shoulders would ache that evening from standing so stiffly.
Holding her son would make her feel better. His chubby arms around her neck usually fixed all her woes. For one evening, at least.
Ewan returned to his office and automatically reached for his clipboard so he could gather the reports. This week, all the information was for his use rather than for Lord Judah’s, but he would still take the time to keep careful records. With all of the turnover they’d had in management before Lord Judah came onboard, the historical record had become even more vital.
He turned around to walk down to accounting and found Betsy Popham waiting for him just inside the doorway. She held a tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of orange cakes.
“I thought you might need a midmorning treat,” she purred, setting the tray down on the credenza on the wall opposite his desk.
Betsy was one of the few women with the bosom to fill out her otherwise shapeless cakie uniform. On her, the black dress looked almost tailored. Maybe she had done something to it, though the neck and hemline looked like everyone else’s. Had she taken it in at the waist or something? Ewan didn’t know much about women’s clothing. But he did know Betsy’s hourglass figure didn’t need enhancements of any kind. She had the full breasts and rump of a pagan goddess. They had been lovers once. She’d enticed him away from the copy clerk he had been courting, mostly respectably, in accounting, and into her bed. She’d been a virgin at the time, he thought.
Then she, in turn, had been enticed away by Simon Hellman, the delivery manager. She’d come back to him after two months, tearful, saying she hadn’t been Hellman’s lover. Ewan had lost his faith in her, though, and hadn’t taken her back. Periodically, she made an effort to return to his good graces, though their romance had been over for a couple of years now.
“Do you think I’m going to walk over there to pour a cup of tea?” he snarled.
“You never like me setting it on your desk.”
“That’s because you like to brush up against me when you do it.”
“I do not!” Her large, thick-lashed eyes blinked slowly.
“Maybe I was just imagining that part,” he muttered.
She came over to his desk and perched on the edge, then leaned toward him. He took a deep breath. She smelled of fondant and almond paste. Once upon a time, she’d smelled like spilled tea and currant buns, but that was when she was a cakie, before Lady Hatbrook had taught her wedding cake artistry. Rumor had it she wasn’t actually a very good decorator, but the department turned a nice profit, and that was due to her.
“Why won’t you ever forgive me?” she asked.
“You left me without a word.”
“I’ve been good as gold ever since. You are the only man I’ve ever been with.” She toyed with his lapel.
He sat back. “Still hoping I will propose? It will never happen.” Especially not now, when he’d have to marry someone suitable to be an earl’s wife.
“Haven’t I proven myself?”
“I would not know. I have not paid that much attention. But you know; you left me once. You might leave me again.”
She pursed her full, sensual lips. “Fine; you will never entirely trust me on a personal level. I suppose I will continue to focus on my career, as I have done.”
“Or find a husband.” That would rid him of her.
“I am very good at my work. Will you take me with you when you go to Redcake’s Kensington?” she asked.
“Is that what this is about? Not romance at all?” He stopped the search for his clipboard and sat down. When had he become disorganized? He always knew exactly where everything was.
“I gave up on you at least a year ago. I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed.”
He put his fingers to his forehead, rubbing away the pain there, then ran his fingers over his scalp. If he cared, he’d be irritated by her manipulation, but at least she recognized him as a man with a future. Ironically, it was very different from what she imagined.
“Your hair has been looking very mussed these last two days. Uncharacteristic of you. Has the idea of the new shop put you under a lot of stress? Or is it Lord Judah’s vacation?”
“There is a problem with the cakes,” he said, rubbing his forehead again.
“That is Bristol’s problem.” She shifted her torso, undulating slightly.
He attempted to ignore her sensual movements. “You can’t be serious, Betsy. Our customers will stop coming here. They wouldn’t care that it’s Bristol’s fault. I don’t want to lose half of our tearoom business the week Lord Judah is gone.”
“In Lord Judah’s place, I’d have gone to Bristol myself, brought them the cake, instead of making a telephone call. Something this important requires immediate action.”
“I’m sorry, were we having a job interview?”