Chapter Eighteen
Greer knew she wasgoing to pull her hand out of the water and try to finish her job.
“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Tell me what to do.”
“Can you fish the spoon out without touching the toffee? It will be scalding hot for a long while yet.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Here.” Beatrice snatched another spoon from the counter beside her and handed it to him. “Use this to leverage the other one out. Don’t worry how messy, just set it on the counter.”
He did as she asked.
“Please turn the stove on again and start to stir. I’m sure we can salvage that batch.”
Nodding, he got the flame lit under the toffee and began to stir.
“Make sure all the sugar has dissolved and there’s none going up the sides,” she instructed. “Elsewise, the cooler sides of the pot will crystallize it.”
Stirring intently, he felt the strain of not wanting to let her down, even though it was simply a pot of candy. He stirred for ten minutes before she asked him to lift some into the air.
“That’s fine,” she said. “Pour into these two trays, easy does it.”
He poured while she watched him with a critical eye, and then she sighed.
“At least my second batch of the afternoon was saved. Thank you. If you could set everything into the sink and run some water into the pot, I would appreciate it.”
“Do you have hot water?” he asked.
She looked puzzled. “We heat the water on the stove to a good temperature and then wash the dishes with it in the sink.”
“I ask because some of the homes in New York have added coils to the back of coal-burning cooking stoves like this one, to heat water. Works like a charm.”
“If they do that in America, then I’m sure there are places in England that have the same. In any case, at least we have taps rather than a pump.”
He smiled at her constant attempt to prove Britain superior.
“My father would like to exchange this,” she added, pointing to the cast iron stove, “for a gas one as soon as possible, only because the coal makes such a mess when dumped.”
They both looked at the coal shoot from the alleyway out back.
“Deliveries are made twice a week into the coal bin,” she said, and if we’ve left the bin open, as soon as it come down the chute, coal dust goes everywhere.”
To him, the place looked clean as a whistle, and he couldn’t imagine coal dust covering the white marble counter or polished floor.
“Anyway, you can’t stick your hands into water that’s even the least bit warm. It will hurt like the devil. I shall clean everything,” he promised the pretty woman who was taking her pain in stride.
“Just heat water in the toffee pot to clean it. If it hardens, you’ll have to use bathbrick to get it off,” she advised.
He did as she suggested. While he scrubbed with a boar-bristle brush and wiped and dried the pots and spoons, he couldn’t help chatting to her about his adventures on the railroad to make her laugh. Eventually, he asked, “How old were you when you started to make toffee?”
She frowned slightly, but it didn’t mar her beauty. Her blue eyes gazed at him, unfathomable thoughts flickering in their depths.
