She’d been staring at her work area for ten minutes at least with unseeing eyes, and shook her head. Lately, her toffee had been off. She’d had a batch crystallize, becoming a grainy mess. One was too soft and had to be boiled again. Another one had curdled, and she’d experienced the fat separate from the rest of the mixture in a batch she had stirred too quickly.Like a brand new confectioner!
Picking up a pound of butter, she dropped it haphazardly into the large pot on the stove, belatedly realizing she hadn’t turned on the flames. Doing so, she started to stir the butter until it softened and then added three cups of sugar, along with a healthy quantity of milk and vanilla. She stirred this mindlessly for a few minutes, never stopping her movements.
Keeping the sugar off the sides, she brought the entire mixture up to the right temperature. Using a long spoon, she lifted some of the blend up into the air to make sure it was the correct consistency. She knew when it was exactly right. Any longer and it would burn.
Strange thing about toffee — even when cooked too long, it wouldn’t look burnt, although to her trained eye, it would appear a shade too dark, having gone past honey-colored to oaken. The toffee would still set up the same in her tray, but with the first taste, one would know it had cooked a minute too long.
From the outside, she mused, one could never tell her heart was hurting, either.
Working in silence, Beatrice didn’t realize she’d been crying until, turning away from the heat of the stove with the heavy pot, she felt the cooler air on her tear-stained cheeks.
Ignoring her own sappy emotions, she poured the toffee into the two prepared trays. It smelled like heaven. It had better be heavenly, for this might be her task every day for the rest of her life.
When it came right down to it, she knew she would never settle for one of the other men she’d met that Season. If she couldn’t have Greer, she would wait until another man touched her heart the way he had done, no matter how long it took, no matter if it never happened. And while she was waiting, she would continue making her toffee as best she could.
She retrieved the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve and wiped her cheeks. Then she blew her nose.
Suddenly, Charlotte came into the back and froze mid-step.
“Have you been crying?”
“Of course not,” Beatrice snapped. “I stoked the stove and some coal dust got in my eyes. Made my nose run, that’s all.”
Charlotte nodded, looking unconvinced, then said, “Nearly closing time. I’m counting up now.”
Often, after they’d closed and when Charlotte had left, Beatrice remained to make extra batches of toffee. She wasn’t sure she was up for staying in the shop alone that night.
“I’ll probably go with you,” Beatrice said, being careful to restore her tone to the pleasant one her youngest sister deserved. None of this horrid, misplaced affection was her fault. Besides, the Season hadn’t treated Charlotte any better — she hadn’t made a love match, and yet she wasn’t sobbing in her treacle.
Treacle! Good Lord!Beatrice had forgotten to add it. Turning, she saw the tin of it, still unopened, next to the cooktop.
“As it happens, I have to stay longer,” she amended. “I’ll be home for dinner though.”
Unexpectedly, Charlotte took a step forward and hugged her. Beatrice stiffened, then after a moment, she returned the hug. The next instant, her younger sister snagged her cloak off the hook and disappeared through the blue velvet curtain to finish up her duties before leaving.
Beatrice retrieved two more pans from the shelves and coated them in butter. And then she started over. People liked tasting the distinctive treacle flavor, and she would have to sell the last two trays as a new milder toffee.
“I’ll see you at home,” Charlotte called out as she left.
Home. Beatrice might remain a spinster and her parents’ home would always be hers as well. She put the pot on the stove with more butter. Then, she heard the familiar bell tinkle someone’s arrival.
Drat!She should have followed Charlotte’s departure by locking the shop door.
Turning off the stove, she parted the blue curtain and went out front.
“Miss Rare-Foure.”
His familiar, welcome voice stabbed at her heart and made her breath catch in her chest. Nevertheless, she tried to give him a welcoming smile.
“Just like my first time coming into Rare Confectionery, when you were loitering in the back room like a dog by the butcher’s door, and I thought no one was here.”
“Mr. Carson,” she said, smoothing down her apron, waiting for her heart to stop racing. “We are closed.”
With that said, the door opened again, but Beatrice was not in the mood.
“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” she said hurrying forward between the two counters to block the woman’s entrance.
“But I need some—”
