Grace had been too kind to point out to her father that there were no funds left to finance anything as ambitious as a Season in London, much less induce any gentleman of her social sphere to ally himself with a cheerful face and nothing else. It wouldn’t have been sporting to point out her father’s deficiencies as he was forced to pay attention to death, as he had never paid much attention to anything of consequence before.
Grace had closed his eyes, covered his face and left his bedroom, resolved to learn something from misfortune and build a life for herself, rather than gently glide into discreet poverty and reduced circumstances. Poor she would be, but it did not follow that she couldn’t be happy.
Dressed in black and wearing a jet brooch, Grace had endured the reading of the will. Papa had had nothing to leave except debts. In the weeks before his death, his solicitor had made discreet enquiries throughout the district in an attempt to smoke out potential buyers from among the merchant class who hankered after property far removed from the High Street. He had found one, so Grace had had to suffer his presence as the solicitor read the will.
There had been paltry gifts for the few servants—all of them superannuated and with no hope of other employment—who had hung on until the bitter end, because their next place of residence would surely be the poorhouse. When the old dears turned sad eyes on her, Grace could only shake her head in sorrow, as she writhed inside.
What followed was precisely what she had expected, particularly since the solicitor had told her the night before that the manor and its contents were all going to the new landlord, an enterprising fellow who had made a fortune importing naval stores from the Baltic. With that knowledge, Grace had deposited her amethyst brooch, her only keepsake, in her pocket for safety.
And that was that. Grace had signed a document forfeiting any interest in her home, then had led the new owners through the threadbare rooms.
It was almost too much when the wife demanded to know how quickly Grace could quit the place, but Grace had always been pragmatic.
‘I can be gone tomorrow morning,’ Grace had said, and so she was.
That she might have nowhere to go never occurred to the new owners, so intent were they to take possession. Her two bags packed, Grace had lain awake all night in her room, teasing herself with the one plan in her mind. She discarded it, reclaimed it, discarded it again, then shouldered it for the final time after breakfast. She straightened her shoulders, picked up her valise and walked away from her home of eighteen years.
Grace had had only one egg in her basket. That it proved to be the right one had given her considerable comfort through the next ten years. It had been but a short walk from her former home to Quimby, a village close to Exeter. The day was pleasantly cool for August, with only the slightest breeze swaying the sign of Adam Wilson’s bakery.
She had hoped the bakery would be empty, and it was, except for the owner and his wife. Grace set down her valise and came to the counter. Adam Wilson wiped his floury hands on his apron and gave her the same kindly look he had been giving her for years, even when she suffered inside to beg for credit.
‘Yes, my dear?’ Mrs Wilson asked, coming to stand beside her husband.
Grace took a deep breath. ‘We owe you a large sum, I know,’ she said calmly. ‘I have a proposal.’
Both Wilsons looked at her, and she saw nothing in their gaze except interest. They had all the time in the world to listen.
‘I will work off that debt,’ Grace said, ‘if you can provide me with a place to live. When I have paid the debt, and if my work has been satisfactory, I’ll work for you for wages. I know you have recently lost your all-around girl to marriage with a carter in Exeter.’
To her relief, nothing in Mr Wilson’s face exhibited either surprise or scepticism. ‘What do you know about baking?’ he asked.
‘Very little,’ Grace replied honestly. ‘What I am is loyal and a hard worker.’
The Wilsons looked at each other, while Grace stared straight ahead at a sign advertising buns six for a penny.
‘My dear, you have a pretty face. Suppose a member of your class decides to offer for you, and then we are out all of our training?’ Mrs Wilson was the shrewder of the two.
‘No one will offer for me, Mrs Wilson,’ Grace said. ‘I have no dowry to tempt anyone among the gentry. By the same token, no man among the labouring class will want a wife who he fears would take on airs and give him grief, because she is elevated in station above him and can’t—or won’t—forget. I am completely marriage-proof and therefore the ideal employee.’
So she had proved to be. The Wilsons lived above the bakery on the High Street, but had gladly cleared out a small storeroom behind the ovens for her use, a fragrant spot smelling of yeast and herbs. She had cried her last tear, walking to Quimby. Once that was done, she became an all-around girl and never looked back.
The first time one of her acquaintances from her former days had come into the shop, Grace had realised she could never afford to look back. She knew the moment would happen sooner or later; blessedly, it was sooner. The morning that one of her dearest friends had come into the shop with her mama and ignored Grace completely, she knew the wind blew differently. Discreetly put, Grace Curtis had slid.
The matter bothered her less than she had thought it might, considering that she had debated long and hard about throwing herself on the mercy of that particular family. Grace’s decision had been confirmed most forcefully a year later. She overheard Lady Astley say to an acquaintance that they had taken in a poor cousin. And there she was, middle-aged and obsequious, always nervously alert in public to do her cousin’s bidding, for fear of being turned off to an unkind world. No, Grace knew she had been wise in casting her lot with the Wilsons.
When two years had passed, Mr Wilson declared the family debt eliminated. He seemed surprised when she took a deep breath and asked, ‘Will you keep me on still?’
‘I thought that was the term,’ he told her, as he set yeast to soften by the mixing bowls.
‘I hoped it was,’ she replied, reaching for the salt, afraid to look at him.
‘Then it is, Gracie. Let us shake on it.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re the best worker I ever hired.’
The years had passed easily enough. After a brief peace, the war set in again. The Wilsons’ two sons sailed with the Channel Fleet, one dying at Trafalgar and the other rising to carpenter’s mate. Their daughters all married Navy men and lived in Portsmouth. Grace found herself assuming more and more responsibility, particularly in keeping the books.
She had never minded that part of her job because she was meticulous. Her real pleasure, though, came in making biscuits: macaroons, pretty little Savoy cakes, lemon biscuits, all pale brown and crisp, and creamy biscuits with almond icing.
It was these last biscuits—she named them Quimby Crèmes—that had attracted the attention of Lord Thomson, Marquis of Quarle. Mr Wilson always thought he was aptly named, because the old man always seemed to be picking one. Colonel of a regiment of foot serving in New York City during the American War, Lord Thomson suffered no fools gladly, be they titled like himself, merchants with more pretension than the Pope, or the smelly knacker man, who regularly cleared the roads of dead animals. Lord Thomson was equally disposed to resent everyone.
Grace was the only person in Quimby who had a knack for managing the marquis and she did it through his stomach. She had noticed his marked preference for her Quimby Crèmes when he visited the bakery, something he did regularly.
His bakery visits puzzled Mrs Wilson. ‘My cousin is an upstairs maid in his employ and I know for a fact he has any number of footmen to fetch biscuits on a whim. Why does he do it?’
Grace knew. She remembered her own treks to the bakery for the pleasure of the fragrance inside the glass door, and the fun of choosing three of these and a half-dozen of those. Invariably, after Lord Thomson