feminine. While she could not replace her father, or even imitate her brother, Sir Gawain, she could forge her own competent identity, and hide the youth of her twenty-four-year-old self in severe tailoring and hairstyle.
It worked, sometimes.
She ignored the bustling tearoom to the left, the glass cases of the bakery to the right. Her destination was directly ahead of her under a canopy of healthy ferns: the door that led to the back rooms of the enterprise. The industry contained within the building would surprise the ladies who drank tea in front of the large window in the tearoom, showing themselves as attractively as any tea cake in the display window.
Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor as she approached the door and rapped smartly. A moment later, it was opened by a beautiful woman wearing a coat over her simple black uniform.
“Miss Redcake!” she exclaimed. “You look so much like your father. I’ve never met you, but I’m Irene, the cake decorator.”
“I thought Betsy Popham was the Fancy’s manager.” Matilda’s sister, Alys, had founded the cake decoration department before her marriage. The male bakers in the next room had nicknamed her rooms “the Fancy.”
“She is, but I do most of the decorating.”
Betsy and her father had come down from Bristol with the Redcakes when Matilda’s father, Sir Bartley, had opened his London flagship, some six years before. He’d intended to establish the family and marry off his daughters. Alys had married well, and Rose was engaged. Matilda’s life had taken a very different direction, thanks to her former suitor, Theodore Bliven.
“I see,” Matilda said.
Irene smiled, an expression that made her face even lovelier. “I love the creative work. It is so exciting that you are in charge of the factories. A woman at the helm, just like in my little department!”
Matilda nodded and smiled, though she had not obtained her position by ability, rather by default, thanks to her brother’s refusal to continue to run his father’s businesses when his own was so prosperous. “If I can think of any good advice I will be happy to share.”
“Thank you so very much. What may I do for you today?”
“I have an appointment with Lord Judah.”
Irene frowned. “He is in Edinburgh with his family.”
Matilda closed her eyes for a moment. “Mr. Hales telephoned my secretary with this date and time.”
“I’m so sorry. Perhaps you should speak to him? I do not think the trip was planned.”
Irene smiled vaguely and gestured her into the back rooms. Immediately, the genteel atmosphere of the front rooms vanished. The warm wood floor met sparkling white tile. No greenery hung from baskets and pipes were exposed. They walked past racks of products, ready for restocking the bakery. On the other side were storage rooms full of utensils and crockery. Eventually, they wound their way to the back of the building, and Irene pointed to the steps leading up multiple stories to the manager’s chambers.
Matilda debated having Mr. Hales summoned to her in a show of her position compared to his. Either way, though, she’d have to walk upstairs in the end. He was a mere secretary, but the truth was he’d been involved in the enterprise back when she was little more than an empty-headed debutante. She should treat him like an asset rather than an irritant, but his attitude had always bothered her. He was obsequious to the men of her family and overly pleasant to the women. Simultaneously, his vanity bothered her. Too aware of his good looks, she’d thought many a time. He kept his hair slicked back with an overabundance of Macassar oil, as if he was afraid of its natural exuberance.
Her pulse jumped traitorously as she wondered what else Mr. Ewan Hales felt the need to keep under lock and key. Although, four years ago, she’d have been happy to have a dose of his self-control, given the mistakes she had made. He’d done better keeping himself in check. It
It worked, sometimes.
She ignored the bustling tearoom to the left, the glass cases of the bakery to the right. Her destination was directly ahead of her under a canopy of healthy ferns: the door that led to the back rooms of the enterprise. The industry contained within the building would surprise the ladies who drank tea in front of the large window in the tearoom, showing themselves as attractively as any tea cake in the display window.
Her heels clicked on the polished wood floor as she approached the door and rapped smartly. A moment later, it was opened by a beautiful woman wearing a coat over her simple black uniform.
“Miss Redcake!” she exclaimed. “You look so much like your father. I’ve never met you, but I’m Irene, the cake decorator.”
“I thought Betsy Popham was the Fancy’s manager.” Matilda’s sister, Alys, had founded the cake decoration department before her marriage. The male bakers in the next room had nicknamed her rooms “the Fancy.”
“She is, but I do most of the decorating.”
Betsy and her father had come down from Bristol with the Redcakes when Matilda’s father, Sir Bartley, had opened his London flagship, some six years before. He’d intended to establish the family and marry off his daughters. Alys had married well, and Rose was engaged. Matilda’s life had taken a very different direction, thanks to her former suitor, Theodore Bliven.
“I see,” Matilda said.
Irene smiled, an expression that made her face even lovelier. “I love the creative work. It is so exciting that you are in charge of the factories. A woman at the helm, just like in my little department!”
Matilda nodded and smiled, though she had not obtained her position by ability, rather by default, thanks to her brother’s refusal to continue to run his father’s businesses when his own was so prosperous. “If I can think of any good advice I will be happy to share.”
“Thank you so very much. What may I do for you today?”
“I have an appointment with Lord Judah.”
Irene frowned. “He is in Edinburgh with his family.”
Matilda closed her eyes for a moment. “Mr. Hales telephoned my secretary with this date and time.”
“I’m so sorry. Perhaps you should speak to him? I do not think the trip was planned.”
Irene smiled vaguely and gestured her into the back rooms. Immediately, the genteel atmosphere of the front rooms vanished. The warm wood floor met sparkling white tile. No greenery hung from baskets and pipes were exposed. They walked past racks of products, ready for restocking the bakery. On the other side were storage rooms full of utensils and crockery. Eventually, they wound their way to the back of the building, and Irene pointed to the steps leading up multiple stories to the manager’s chambers.
Matilda debated having Mr. Hales summoned to her in a show of her position compared to his. Either way, though, she’d have to walk upstairs in the end. He was a mere secretary, but the truth was he’d been involved in the enterprise back when she was little more than an empty-headed debutante. She should treat him like an asset rather than an irritant, but his attitude had always bothered her. He was obsequious to the men of her family and overly pleasant to the women. Simultaneously, his vanity bothered her. Too aware of his good looks, she’d thought many a time. He kept his hair slicked back with an overabundance of Macassar oil, as if he was afraid of its natural exuberance.
Her pulse jumped traitorously as she wondered what else Mr. Ewan Hales felt the need to keep under lock and key. Although, four years ago, she’d have been happy to have a dose of his self-control, given the mistakes she had made. He’d done better keeping himself in check. It
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