Page 38 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

TWENTY-SIX

Dear Lady Agony,

I have a large family and a small budget. Which meals go the farthest? Could you give me examples for breakfast and dinner?

Devotedly,

Mother on a Budget

Dear Mother on a Budget,

Let the children have porridge for breakfast. It nourishes the body and costs hardly anything to make.

For dinner, stews are your best choice for economy.

However, boiled lentils and haricot beans with chopped onions and bacon make a nice pie.

Pudding always saves on the meat, so have plenty of it for the children at every meal.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

The captain’s question was a valid one, and Amelia pondered it most of the night.

How much longer could they wait for Madge to reconcile herself to the wedding?

It was evident it still caused her angst. During last evening’s dinner, she stared at each course, moving the food around her plate.

Everyone in the family noticed, except Tabitha and Aunt Gertrude, who were preoccupied with the fowl and roast chestnuts.

Aunt Gertrude declared her admiration, which pleased Tabitha, and for the remainder of the evening, the women discussed the proper way to soak them.

Meanwhile, Uncle Henry enjoyed his sherry in heavenly silence, carefully watched over by Mr. Scott, who read the papers.

Amelia simply stared at Madge, looking for a hint to her feelings.

Eventually, she concluded nothing could be done about them and went to bed.

Madge alone must make the decision. Her family had taken turns counseling her all afternoon—when she would talk.

Much of the time she lay despondently on the bed or crying into her pillow.

She could be irrational and hot tempered, certainly, but weepy was a side Amelia had never seen.

She must admit she wasn’t an admirer. She much preferred the Madge she knew: strong and determined.

She hoped this was the Madge that awaited her the following day when she and Kitty returned from the biscuit shop.

They were on Mill Street, Kitty dressed in rose and Amelia in sea-foam green.

The brick storefront boasted two bow windows for browsing and a door between them with a half-moon window.

The smell of baked goods filled the store and perhaps several blocks, for the factory was the next building over.

The factory was taller than Amelia imagined, and it was not hard to understand how a fall from an indoor ladder at that height could kill a young woman.

“Good afternoon.” A clerk in his fifties, with a stylish mustache, greeted them briefly. He was attending a shopper who requested a halfpenny roll, which he procured for her to enjoy immediately.

Meanwhile, Amelia and Kitty inspected the biscuits displayed prettily in the front windows.

At one time, biscuits were for sailors and seamen, nourishment that would keep during a long voyage.

These, however, were much more than that.

They might even rival some baked goods. Their variety was extensive, with many flavors and types, and the packaging tins were stylish.

Any woman would be proud to carry them home from her shopping excursion.

With a sigh, Kitty picked up a mint green and pink tin. The words Baker Biscuits were etched in beautiful cursive letters.

“Have you ever seen such a variety of biscuits?” Amelia gestured to the display of baked goods.

“Never.” She finished inspecting the tin and returned it to the table. “I understand how they mean to compete with Huntley she needed entry into the factory. “I’m looking for something special. My sister is getting married next week, and I’d like my breakfast to be unique.”

“Ah!” The clerk looked over his shoulder, making sure no other patrons had entered the store.

They hadn’t. “I have just the thing.” His voice was lower, and his mustache twitched with excitement.

“I do not have one here, but if you would permit me to step next door? The factory has something new you might be able to sample.”

Amelia was eager for the chance to gain entrance to the factory. “Yes, something new is what I want. We will join you.”

He tutted. “A factory is no place for fine ladies like yourselves. I will bring the samples here.” He spread out his arms. “For your approval.”

Amelia could do nothing but nod and agree.

After he left, Kitty said, “I wish we could find a way into the factory.”

“But how?”

Kitty tapped her chin. “I can think of no excuse. Perhaps we might wander in accidentally?”

Amelia lifted her eyebrows.

“A stretch, to be sure, but what else?”

“I confess I don’t know,” Amelia admitted. “Maybe something will occur to us when he returns. Until it does, we can ask about Miss Rothschild. If he could describe her position, it might clarify the amount of money she received during her employment.”

They were prevented from saying anything else by the clerk’s arrival with a man of prestige, dressed in nice trousers and an aptly tied cravat.

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, reminding Amelia of someone.

Perhaps it was her grandfather, who used to roll up his sleeves in the same fashion when he sat down with her with a bag of marbles.

In his hand, the man carried a silver tray, as decent as any Amelia might use for tea, with two frosted biscuits.

“Ladies, you are in luck. Not every day is the owner onsite.” The clerk’s voice quivered with excitement. “May I present to you Mr. Baker, of Baker Biscuits. I told him of your wedding breakfast, and he wanted to bring you the selection himself.”

“I do not have the pleasure of knowing your names, I’m afraid.

” His step was light and his words well spoken.

His manners did his trade justice, and Amelia understood why Mr. Cross had encouraged his parishioners to seek employment at his factory.

He appeared to care a great deal about his work and workplace.

“I am Lady Amesbury, and this is Mrs. Hamsted.” She smiled at Kitty. “We have heard extraordinary things about your biscuits and came to see—or should I say taste?—for ourselves.”

Upon hearing the honorific, the clerk inhaled a breath, beaming at Mr. Baker, perhaps gratified at having brought the owner over for the titled visitor.

Mr. Baker’s face was placid but pleased with the information. “And Mr. Jefferies tells me it is your sister, Lady Amesbury, who is to be wed?”

“Yes, it is.” Amelia wished her voice was more confident. It sounded as if she answered the question with a question.

Luckily, Kitty, who excelled at events, picked up the strain of the conversation. “Lady Amesbury is hosting a breakfast for her sister in Mayfair, and she requires the best for her party. I assume those are your best biscuits?”

“Not only the best, Mrs. Hamsted, but the newest of our offerings.” Mr. Baker paused for effect. “Indeed, we have not placed them in the store for this very reason.”

“They have not been sampled by London, then?” Kitty appeared quite interested and not just for the sake of the investigation. Her interest might have been piqued for a party of her own.

“No.” A smile transformed Mr. Baker’s face, displaying all the kindness of which he was capable. Amelia imagined this was the face he showed his children, or perhaps grandchildren. It was the face of a proud parent. He took pride in his work, and it showed.

Kitty, however, was not taken in by smiles or promises and remained businesslike. “I hope they taste as good as they look, then.”

“I await your estimation.” Mr. Baker held out the tray.

From the first bite, Amelia knew what she was tasting.

Soft, sweet, singular. She glanced at Kitty, and Kitty was staring at her.

Amelia knew they shared the same thought: these were Mrs. Rothschild’s biscuits.

The taste was so distinct that it could not be replicated except by the exact recipe.

She must know how he acquired it and knew of only one way—or person, rather: Rose Rothschild.

“I am impressed, Mr. Baker,” Kitty exclaimed.

“As am I,” agreed Amelia. “I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. The biscuit, if it may be called that, is extraordinary. May I ask if it is a new recipe?”

“You may ask, but I will never tell.” Mr. Baker chuckled. “If your reactions are an indication, I believe it will take London, nay the entire globe, by surprise.”

The factory was planning on mass-producing Mrs. Rothschild’s biscuits.

The notion was as clear as the pleasure Mr. Baker took from their approval.

The factory was expanding, and this recipe would ensure the business’s success.

Amelia knew of no other confection like it.

But did Mr. Baker realize it was Mrs. Rothschild’s recipe?

She saw no deception in his face, no crookedness.

He seemed genuinely pleased with the product and their reaction.

“If not the globe, at the very least my sister’s wedding breakfast.” Amelia attempted to share in his laughter. “I would like to place an order, if I may, for the party.”

“Very good.” Mr. Baker was a professional, and the chuckle faded away. Still his voice held a note of pleasure perhaps in knowing the recipe was approved by fine ladies of Mayfair. “I will bid you a good day and allow Mr. Jefferies to assist you with the order.”

Amelia and Kitty thanked him, and Mr. Jefferies went to retrieve an order form from a cabinet. When they were alone, Kitty whispered, “They are Mrs. Rothschild’s biscuits.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Rose Rothschild must have given them the recipe,” added Kitty.

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “Or sold it to them.”

“Of course!” Kitty exclaimed, and Amelia shushed her. She continued more quietly. “That would explain her influx of monies and extravagant gift giving.”

“We cannot be certain without confirmation, which we might be able to obtain yet.”

Mr. Jefferies returned with the form, and they quit the conversation.

Kitty gave her a look that explained she was ready to do whatever Amelia needed to find further answers.

What that was, however, Amelia did not know.

The recipe was secret; nothing would be shared there.

However, she might be able to ask about Miss Rothschild and her employment at the factory.

As Mr. Jefferies took down her address, Amelia introduced the topic.

“I must ask, Mr. Jefferies, about the working conditions of the factory. It’s a subject that concerns me.

I’m certain you’ve heard the tales of horror that come out of some establishments, and I believe it was not that long ago that I read of a girl falling to her death here. ”

“There is no concern about Baker Biscuits. On that you have my word.” Offense entered Mr. Jefferies’ voice.

“I know of the girl you speak, Miss Rothschild. She was young and impatient. Her fall was her own doing. She had no business in the upstairs office. She worked the ovens.” He shook his head.

“Some factory girls believe they can do anything. The work has gone to their heads.”

“The girl did not normally work upstairs?” Amelia kept her voice calm but just barely.

“No, never.” Mr. Jefferies tipped his chin. “Miss Rothschild was employed in the bake rooms. She had no business in the packaging rooms.”

If that was true, why was she in there in the first place? Amelia wondered. She could only suppose that Miss Rothschild needed something, and no one was present to supply it.

“You may be assured, Lady Amesbury, that Baker Biscuits is an esteemed employer,” continued Mr. Jefferies. “I’ve been here for ten years, and I’ve always been treated like family.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Amelia smiled. “Mr. Cross was a great promoter of Baker Biscuits. He was my pastor at All Saints on Margaret Street.”

Mr. Jefferies put a hand on his heart. “Dear Mr. Cross. He was trying to make changes to help people in the East End. He will be missed here and everywhere.”

Amelia was glad Mr. Cross at least had one business supporter.

“Indeed,” agreed Kitty. “Did he recommend parishioners to the factory?”

“Several.” Mr. Jefferies returned to his bill of sale with a sigh. “But many in the area do not want change. They want things to continue as they always have.” He pointed to the date, and Amelia supplied it.

“The recipe won’t get out before then, will it, Mr. Jefferies?” continued Amelia. “I hope I can be assured of its novelty.”

“Oh, no.” A cheerful smile overtook Mr. Jefferies’ dark expression. “All recipes are kept under lock and key in the office mixing book. No one goes in or out of there except Mr. Baker.”

Amelia indicated her satisfaction, and Mr. Jefferies continued completing the order.

She gave Kitty a look that explained the next order of business.

They must get their hands on the mixing book.

It could confirm the biscuit recipe was Mrs. Rothschild’s.

But how? The only day the factory workers were not present for their double shifts was Sunday. Tomorrow.

They must break in after midnight.