Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Holliday’s Confectionary and Patisserie Shop stood on Strawberry Street, within a stone’s throw of the wharves along the Delaware. It was close to the vendors on Market Street, and just far enough from the river to avoid the worst smells in the summer. The front of the shop was dominated by a huge curved window with three dozen panes of glass (an expensive addition, but well worth it). The glass often had fingerprints all over it, as people tended to gawk at the goods displayed within.

In the cold months of the year, the glass was quite often fogged up, thanks to the interior of the shop being so warm and the outside air so bitter. (One of the shop assistants’ tasks was to wipe the windowpanes whenever the glass fogged up enough to threaten obscuring the delicious wares from the view of passing customers.)

And what wares they were! Tender pastries drizzled with thin streams of chocolate. Tall cakes with alternating layers of cinnamon-flavored sponge and creamy coffee-laced filling. Bonbons dusted with sugar, each hinting of the tastes within: orange, mint, lemon, lavender, praline, crème de violette, and pure, rich chocolate. Nut tortes, currant-studded scones, cream puffs. There was something for every taste at Holliday’s.

Beatrice Holliday opened the shop less than a year ago, and its fame grew quickly among the well-heeled in Philadelphia. This was a town eager to prove it was just as cultured and cosmopolitan as any city in the old world, so customers were hungry for whatever treats the Paris-trained Beatrice could create. And they were willing to pay for them, which was fortunate, since Beatrice could rely on no one but herself for her income.

She never dreamed she’d achieve this level of success when she first arrived in the young United States, and certainly not so quickly. She hoped her first holiday season would herald many more—the wealthier citizens certainly loved to entertain, and in November and December they hosted endless parties in honor of the season. Such parties required desserts and treats of the finest quality.

Of course, all that business meant that Beatrice was in the kitchen all day, nearly every day. On Sundays, when the shop was closed, she usually developed new recipes and tallied up the costs of flour and honey and fruits in her head. (Bea did this in the seclusion of her small apartment above the shop. She didn’t think the city’s influential Quaker population would approve of anyone working on the Sabbath.)

She lived in a cloud of sweetness, but she lived in it alone. For over the years, whether she was in her native England, or in France, or in the New World, Bea had learned over and over that no one wanted her. It was a bitter series of lessons, and perhaps that was why she was so fixated on creating treats filled with sugar and honey.

Though it was now chilly autumn, the heat of the stoves and oven combined made the kitchen feel as hot as a sunny day in July. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, but she ignored it. She had no time to sit and rest. There was the caramel to stir, the vanilla cake to pull out of the oven, the walnuts and pecans to toast, and, of course, the chocolate to melt. She looked down at her dress and sighed. She’d managed to spill cranberry purée over the skirt.

“Why do I even bother to wear an apron?” she asked out loud.

Her gown had seemed so pretty in the dressmaker’s shop. Granted, no matter how pretty a gown was in a shop, it still contrived to make Beatrice look like a ship under full sail. Even as a younger woman, she had been plump, her breasts swelling over low-cut bodices and her wide hips destroying the lines of a fashionable skirt. Over the years, largely as the result of living in a kitchen for all her waking hours, she’d not lost a pound. But if she didn’t taste each batch, how would she ensure quality? At least the high waists of the current style of gowns were more comfortable.

“God forbid the full corset ever comes back into fashion,” she muttered.

She was happiest in a kitchen, where she could do her best work. Her assistant, Ivy Shepherd, took care of much of the business at the front. Hiring Ivy was the best decision she’d ever made; the young lady was as polite and well-spoken as Beatrice was tart and reclusive. Ivy was the face of the shop and Beatrice was the hidden genius. And that’s exactly how Beatrice wanted to keep it.

“Ivy!” she called out. “Come here, please.”

“One moment, ma’am!” And indeed, one moment later, her assistant put her head around the doorway. Ivy was taller than the admittedly petite Beatrice, and slender despite the number of broken pastries she tended to “save” from an ignominious end in the dustbin. Her yellow gown was plainly cut, but the lines fell in such a way that she looked cool and elegant, with the light fabric contrasting against her deep brown skin. She wore a cap and apron as well, and both were still clean and pleated even at this hour of the afternoon.

“How do you do it?” Beatrice asked, not for the first or last time. “You look like you just stepped out of a modiste’s. I look as if a cart overturned on me.”

Ivy smiled. “I guess I’m just lucky, ma’am.” She paused, then added, “Also I just changed my apron.”

“Aha! I knew it couldn’t all be magic. Close up and come back here to help me. I need to assemble the cakes for the Brauns’ wedding breakfast.”

Ivy frowned. “So soon? It’s not yet five. What if another customer comes in?”

Beatrice knew exactly which customer Ivy was thinking of. A certain Emmanuel Marley had come in every day for the past week. At first, Beatrice assumed the well-dressed young man was inventing excuses to speak with Ivy. But he kept buying chocolates! And the size of the orders kept increasing.

After the third day, Bea was curious enough to leave the kitchen and ask the young Mr Marley more questions. “Are these confections for you, sir?” was her opening salvo.

“I wish such treats were in my budget,” he replied with a smile. “They are for my employer, Mr Noel Forrest.”

Beatrice contemplated the size of the order. “And his whole family, I presume.”

“He’s a bachelor.”

“So these are gifts for the holiday season,” she said next. Yes, that was logical. She should have guessed that right off.

“No, ma’am.”

“Miss,” she corrected distractedly. “Are you telling me the previous orders…he ate all that on his own?”

“And more,” Marley said, “which is a blessing, considering Mr Forrest’s health.”

“Oh, is he ill? I am sorry to hear that.”

“He was very ill,” Mr Marley explained, “and his recovery has been arduous. Getting him to eat enough has been a chore. After trying your confections, though, he finally wants to eat again—everything from soup to nuts, provided he had Holliday’s to look forward to at the end of the meal. The chocolates might well be saving his life.”

Beatrice laughed out loud at that.

But Mr Marley remained earnest, and then said, “I am glad you came to the front of the shop today, ma’am. Mr Forrest hoped I could forward an invitation. He would like to meet you.”

Beatrice stiffened at the mere idea. “No!”

He looked surprised at her vehemence. “Won’t you at least consider it? He is most impressed. He’s instructed me to invite you to Northwind—that’s Mr Forrest’s home. Name the day and time most convenient for you.”

She frowned. “There is no convenient time.”

From where she stood behind Mr Marley, Ivy was frantically gesturing that Beatrice was saying the wrong thing. But Beatrice couldn’t stop herself. “You may tell Mr Forrest that I am pleased he is feeling better, and I hope the confections are indeed aiding his recovery. But this is a very busy season and I simply cannot take time off to meet anyone.”

Following that exchange, Beatrice practically fled into the kitchen, leaving Ivy to deal with the aftermath. She wasn’t sure why the idea of meeting this Mr Forrest alarmed her so. She had met many of her customers before, particularly in the early days of her business. But none of them ever credited her food with healing powers! She wondered if Mr Forrest was expecting an accomplished French pastry chef he wanted to hire. Or worse, did he think her some fairy tale enchantress who would be as beautiful as her creations? In either case, Beatrice was quite sure the reality would be a disappointment. She had plenty of experience being a disappointment to others, and did not wish to go through the humiliating emotions of it again. Ever.

Shortly afterward, an irritated Ivy informed her that she likely insulted one of the city’s best-known war heroes. She said, “Didn’t you recognize his name? Mr Forrest served valiantly before he was captured in 1813. And even as a prisoner of war, he was known for his gallantry and character. It’s said the British officer who was responsible for him even wanted to marry his daughter to Mr Forrest. And that was when the war was still going on!”

Beatrice made a face. “No doubt people will say I snubbed him because I’m English, taking petty shots at the humble American. The fact is that I don’t want to meet him…because I just don’t!” Hearing that Mr Forrest was a war hero only reinforced her decision. He was probably dashing and noble and charming…not the sort of man who looked at Beatrice for more than an instant.

She paused at the doorway to the kitchen, turning back to Ivy. “You may keep the shop open until your Mr Marley comes. I suppose it’s poor business to ignore a customer.”

“Yes, indeed!” Ivy looked so happy that Bea bit back a smile. She dealt in sweetness, after all. It could do no harm to share a little.