A Baker to Sweeten the Earl’s Heart (Preview)

Prologue

April 1814

“Good morning!” Charlotte Mummert’s voice rang through the air, only just piercing the din of loud, eager customers. “Fresh from the oven!”

She raised her arms, letting the customers see the fresh bread she carried. The familiar, comforting smell of the bread suffused her senses and filled her with warmth. There was no scent in the world that she loved more than fresh bread.

From behind the counter, Charlotte’s father, Thomas, flashed her a relieved smile. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with a perpetually flushed face and blue eyes which seemed to always be filled with laughter. Charlotte had the same blue eyes, but that was where the resemblance to her father ended. While he was large, she had always been slight and small. His hair was as black as coal, while Charlotte had inherited the fiery red locks of her mother. At one-and-twenty years of age, she was said to have been the exact mirror of the figure that her mother had as a young woman.

“Ah! Excellent!” Father exclaimed.

The townsfolk turned their heads toward Charlotte. She knew them well, for there were seldom unfamiliar faces in a village like Caldwell’s Hamlet. There was Mrs. Jones, the apothecary’s wife, who traded herbs and medicines for bread. She had already purchased a loaf and had it tucked under her arm, but her habit was often to remain after purchasing.

Elizabeth and Aoife were both maids who worked for the Earl of Beckingham. They came into Caldwell’s Hamlet at the behest of the housekeeper and cook, usually seeking fruits and vegetables. Bread was an unusual purchase for them.

Their last customer was Nathanial Hollingsworth, the only lawyer around for several miles, who insisted that Charlotte and her father call him Nathanial rather than Mr. Hollingsworth. Nathanial had lived in the village as a child, left for a number of years, and returned shortly after his apprenticeship was done. The man was older than Charlotte by four years, but he had yet to start a family. Charlotte had never quite understood why, for Nathanial was a handsome enough man with thick brown hair and piercing green eyes. Once she had asked, and he had said something vague about how often he traveled. She did not quite understand why that mattered so much, though.

“Charlotte,” Nathanial said. “You look lovely this morning.”

She laughed, placing the bread on the counter beside her father. “You are too kind, sir.”

She was sure she did not look particularly lovely, having just put her face near an oven and carried bread into the shop. Her face was certainly red, and her hair always became wild when faced with heat. She might have found some significance in Nathanial’s frequent compliments, except that he was the manner of man who was kind to everyone. He made the same remarks to Mrs. Elm, the ancient widow of the village’s former preacher.

“I was wondering if I might persuade you to make a pie for me,” Mrs. Jones said. “It is Elias’s birthday soon, and he does love your apple pie, Charlotte.”

“Mr. Jones has impeccable taste,” Nathanial said. “I have never tasted a pie more delectable than one Charlotte made!”

Charlotte laughed. “You exaggerate.”

“Careful, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Elizabeth said, “or Cook might try to steal Charlotte away from Caldwell’s Hamlet.”

“Oh?” Charlotte asked.

“As if I would let anyone steal Charlotte from the village!” Father declared, wrapping an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and drawing her close. “I would not even if the earl himself demanded her!”

Charlotte laughed. “You would in a heartbeat!”

“Well,” Aoife said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It is strange that you say—”

The thundering of horse hooves and carriage wheels cut off Aoife’s words. Charlotte’s head snapped to the store’s entrance, her eyes widening in surprise.

“I imagine that is Lord Beckingham,” Elizabeth said. “He is expected. His lordship gave the housekeeper little notice, and she is rather flustered by his return.”

“Cook, too,” Aoife added. “The estate does not have the stores needed to prepare meals for the earl, much less his guests.”

“How unfortunate!” Father exclaimed.

Charlotte stepped toward the storefront curiously and peered out the door as the carriages approached. The first was sleek and black, pulled by four white horses. At least four coaches followed, the parade of horses and carriages stretching long down the road that cut through Caldwell’s Hamlet. The occupant of the first carriage pulled aside the curtains, and Charlotte caught a glimpse of a strong jaw, brown eyes, and thick, black hair.

He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. For a heartbeat, he even seemed to meet her gaze, and she trembled. It was a stern, piercing look. She felt as if the man could see all the way to the innermost depths of her soul.

Then, the carriage passed, and he was gone.

“That is Lord Beckingham, the earl,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Smythe says that he is to be accompanied by some companions from Oxford.”

Mrs. Smythe was the housekeeper, a stately woman whom Charlotte had only seen once. She had a well-weathered face that spoke of years of service and hardship, yet there was a softness to her voice and mannerisms that spoke of a gentler nature.

“He is very handsome,” Charlotte observed.

Nathanial scoffed. “That is easy to say because you have never met him.”

Charlotte blinked and glanced at Nathanial, who leaned against the wall of the bakery. His eyes remained fixed upon the passing carriages and gleamed with sharp intensity.

“I have never heard you speak ill of anyone,” Charlotte said.

He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “It does not become me, I know. Lord Beckingham’s solicitor requested my aid once on a complicated legal matter, and I met the earl then. He is a difficult man.”

“That is charitable,” Elizabeth said. “You would think he believes himself higher than God.”

Aoife nodded. “The stories I have heard…”

“Well, he is an earl,” Mrs. Jones said diplomatically. “Can any of us really fault him for believing himself above the rest of us?”

“Yes,” Nathanial replied. “I spent seven years as an apprentice clerking for a well-respected lawyer and three years as a solicitor, only to have that man—who has never so much as touched a law book—insist that he knows the law better than me. I am convinced that his solicitor sought my guidance only because he could not bear to listen to his lordship’s ignorance for a moment longer!”

“He does not know any of the names of his staff,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Smythe has faithfully served under him for ten years, and he cannot remember her name. Once, I heard him call her Mrs. Sadler. When she corrected him—politely, mind you—he refused to apologize or accept her answer! Instead, he continued calling her Mrs. Sadler.”

“Until the following year,” Aoife said. “He had forgotten the incident by then.”

“My goodness,” Mrs. Jones said, pursing her lips together in a tight frown. “I will concede that Lord Beckingham sounds…how did you word it, Mr. Hollingworth? Difficult?”

“Yes. And condescending,” Nathanial said. “He is an attractive man only because God is not so cruel as to leave an earl without any charms.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh.

Charlotte absentmindedly drummed her fingertips on the counter. The earl did sound unkind. But what did bakers’ daughters know about earls? Perhaps every lord in the land behaved similarly.

“We should be going,” Aoife said suddenly. “When the earl returns, Mrs. Smythe is sure to have more work for us. Mr. Mummert, do you think you might be able to supply us with the desserts needed?”

“Desserts?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes,” Father replied. “The earl’s new cook seemingly wants us to provide desserts to the earl and his guests—tarts and pies, mostly.”

Charlotte frowned. “I should think that the cook can manage those things, surely?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “We are only the messengers.”

“Perhaps the cook fears he will not have sufficient time,” Nathanial mused, “given Lord Beckingham’s lack of notice. It is not even time for his annual visit.”

Indeed, it was not. Although Charlotte had not seen Lord Beckingham before that day, it was well-known that he came to his country estate every autumn, usually in late October. It was early September, almost two months before his time.

“We can manage the desserts for Lord Beckingham,” Father said. “Regardless of the cook’s reasons, I am happy to bake for the earl. Rather, my Charlotte is.”

Charlotte forced a smile, but her stomach churned at the thought of baking delicacies for Lord Beckingham. If he truly believed himself better than everyone else, she was not so sure she looked forward to serving him. She was good at her trade; Father had taught her everything that he knew. But surely, her skills were nothing to an earl who had dined at all the finest restaurants and places in London!

“I shall do my best,” she said, unable to conceal the doubt from her voice.

“That will be enough,” Father replied confidently.

“Most certainly,” Nathanial agreed.

“Elias has never complained,” Mrs. Jones said, winking. “Nor have I.”

The carriages had passed at last.

“Well, I shall bid you all farewell,” Mrs. Jones said. “Elias will be expecting me. I shall send my son with more valerian root for you, Mr. Mummert.”

“Thank you.”

“Until next time,” Charlotte said, her mind still awhirl with thoughts of potentially baking anything for Lord Beckingham. It sounded impossible. “Let me know when you would like your pie, and I will see that it is baked for you. Before the earl’s pies, even.”

Mrs. Jones smiled. “You are a good girl, Charlotte. Thank you.”

“I should leave, too,” Elizabeth said. “Farewell, Charlotte. Mr. Mummet.”

“It was good to see you!” Aoife added.

“Farewell!” Charlotte replied.

Soon, it was only Father, Nathanial, and herself. “I had hoped for a fresh loaf,” Nathanial said.

Charlotte laughed and wrapped it for him. “You do realize that loaves fresh from the oven taste no different from ones made an hour ago, do you not? Unless you eat it immediately, of course.”

“Maybe I do want to eat it immediately,” Nathanial replied, grinning. “Perhaps I intend to eat the whole loaf on my way home.”

“Then, you would not have it for your toast in the morning!” Charlotte exclaimed.

“But that is no issue! I would simply return to your charming bakery for another loaf.”

“If so, that would make you my favorite customer,” Father said, sounding vague. “Excuse me. I need fresh air for a moment.”

Charlotte furrowed her brow, watching him until he left the shop and walked around the building, out of sight.

“Charlotte,” Nathanial said, his voice cutting through her thoughts like a knife. “I know I spoke ill of Lord Beckingham earlier, but I am certain that he will like anything that you bake for him.”

“That is kind of you to say,” Charlotte said, her eyes flitting to the doorway. “But surely, a man like Lord Beckingham has tasted some of the best pies and tarts in the world.”

“But he has not had yours.”

Nathanial winked, his expression warm.

Warmth flooded Charlotte’s face, and she ducked her head, a little embarrassed by the praise. “We shall see. It is entirely possible that Lord Beckingham will change his mind.”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway,” Charlotte said, “I suppose I had best return to work. We have more loaves that need to be put in the oven, and if I am to be making pies, I must see what fruits we have in our stores.”

“Ah, of course. Apologies for keeping you, Charlotte.” Nathanial paused for a moment like he meant to say something else, but no further words emerged. Instead, he merely tipped his hat to her and departed with his loaf of bread.

Charlotte considered him for a moment, wondering what else he might have wanted to say. He always spoke kindly to her and to Father, but she feared now that his compliments regarding the earl’s reception of her baked goods were altogether too hopeful. She briefly recalled the handsome man’s face with something like a frown. It was a pity that one so attractive was also so unkind.

Charlotte sighed and shook her head. She was a baker’s daughter, and baker’s daughters had no need for thoughts of handsome earls. After gathering the loaves of unbaked bread, she carried them outside with her on a large wooden plank.

As she approached the oven, a string of violent coughs cut the air, each interspersed with a ragged gasp for air. She started in surprise. “Father?”

Father came from around the corner of the house and smiled weakly. “I am fine, my dear.”

Charlotte frowned in consternation. It could be just a small, passing ailment, but her father was also the manner of man who would insist that he was fine when on his deathbed. “Perhaps we should have asked Mrs. Jones for something.”

Father waved a dismissive hand. “I am sure it is nothing. I am as healthy as an ox, Lottie! If I am still sick tomorrow, you can visit Elias for me.”

Charlotte bit her lip but nodded. “If that is what you think is best.”

“You worry too much,” Father said softly. “I am going nowhere. I promise.”

“And you always keep your promises,” Charlotte said quietly. “I know.”

He patted her shoulder and lumbered past her, whistling cheerfully. Her lips twitched into a small smile. She did have a reputation for worrying too much. Father was likely right; it was likely just a small cold and nothing more.

Chapter One

Alexander Walsh thought longingly of his London townhouse and his favorite club on St. James Street. London was the center of culture in Britain, if not all of Europe. It was an exciting and lively city, home to all manner of delightful diversions. Instead, he approached a sad, little hovel of a house in Caldwell’s Hamlet, accompanied by his mother and two footmen, whose duty it was to pass baskets to the villagers.

“You look as though you have tasted something unpleasant,” Mother hissed. “Do try to look as though you care. These people need to feel as though their earl cares about them.”

Alexander tipped his chin up and looked askance at his mother Phillipa Walsh, the Dowager Countess of Beckingham. She was a tall, formidable-looking woman with black hair, threaded with white, that she kept pulled into a tight chignon. Her eyes were blue like chips of ice. In her conservative gray gown, Alexander thought that she vaguely resembled his old governess.

“Do they?” he asked. “If you were a peasant—”

“Tenant.”

“If you were a tenant, would you truly care that much that the Earl of Beckingham came for his yearly visit?” Alexander asked dryly. “I do not understand what my presence might accomplish that could not likewise occur if I merely sent them a few coins apiece.”

Mother cast him an exasperated look as she approached the first house. “You are far too old to be expressing such displeasure with your noble duties. I would advise you to keep any further complaints to yourself.”

Alexander scowled. “Your tongue is too sharp to belong to a dowager countess.”

Mother smiled thinly and rapped her knuckles on the door of the first house. Every annual visit to Caldwell’s Hamlet was the same. He and his mother, with their entourage of servants, began at the village entrance and went down the road, knocking on every single door. Greetings and thanks would be given by villagers, who were probably only humoring his presence in a pathetic attempt to inspire his goodwill. Goods would be exchanged.

The door opened, and a man well into middle age answered. Upon seeing Alexander and Lady Beckingham, he bowed stiffly. “My lord! My lady! What a pleasure to see you on this fine morning. I am Elias Jones, the apothecary of this village.”

“Charmed to make your acquaintance,” she said. “An apothecary! That is such important work.”

The man looked expectantly at Alexander, doubtlessly expecting some empty pleasantry in response.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Alexander’s polite response sounded forced even to his own ears.

“Would you like to stay for tea, my lord, my lady?” the man asked. “My wife Kitty brews an excellent mint tea.”

Alexander’s lip curled slightly in contempt. Stay for tea? As if we are paying a call to aristocrats! Ridiculous!

“Regrettably, we cannot,” Mother said. Alexander recognized her cheerful tone as strained, but he doubted Elias and Kitty Jones did. His mother was good at pretending as though even the most odious individual was charming. “We must be certain that we visit everyone, after all.”

Alexander refrained from sighing in relief. He had nearly expected his mother to agree out of spite.

“Of course, my lady.”

Alexander felt as though he detected a small note of relief in Elias’s voice.

A woman, presumably the man’s wife, Kitty, joined him in the doorway. She dropped into an unpracticed curtsey. “My lord, my lady. It is a pleasure, as always, to have you at our humble home.”

Humble, indeed! Alexander eyed the herbs strung up and drying along the side of the house. Calling the building a house was generous. Hovel would be the better term.

“That is kind of you to say,” Mother replied magnanimously. “How are you? Is there anything that we might do to better your lives here in Caldwell’s Hamlet?”

“Nothing for us, my lord,” Kitty replied.

“Although…” the woman’s husband trailed off, his expression hesitant.

“Is something weighing on you?” Mother asked. “I am sure that Lord Beckingham would like to hear of any concern that you may have. Please, speak freely.”

The man sighed and glanced at Alexander, whose jaw hurt from smiling so much and so insincerely.

“My mother speaks truly,” Alexander said. “What vexes you?”

“It is not me, my lord,” the man replied. “Thomas Mummert, the baker, is ill.”

Alexander wanted to roll his eyes. Who on earth is Thomas Mummert? Did this villager expect him to remember all their names? He saw them only once a year!

“Is he?” Mother asked calmly. “What ails the man?”

Alexander could not have said if she knew who the man was either. Perhaps she did. She had always cared more about the village than he did, but he doubted she cared enough to know the villagers by name.

“I do not know, my lady,” the man replied. “I have tried my best to aid him, but I fear that what ails him is beyond my skills. A surgeon came from Leeds to visit Mr. Mummert, but I do not know that he was able to help the man either. He does not seem improved.”

“That is unfortunate,” Alexander said, trying to feign an ounce of concern for Thomas Mummert’s sad fate.

Elias nodded solemnly. “It is, my lord. Mr. Mummert is of the utmost importance to Caldwell’s Hamlet. He is the most gifted of bakers.”

Truly high praise. Alexander’s mouth twisted dryly. What would a villager know about what might make a man the most gifted of bakers?

“Second only to his daughter, my lord,” Kitty said, putting a hand on her husband’s arm. “Elias claims that he has never had anything as divine as Miss Charlotte Mummert’s pies.”

Alexander nodded. His resolve to pretend was cracking the longer that the conversation continued. Surely, they all had more important obligations than conversing about a sick baker! He was an earl!

“Indeed,” Elias said. “I am certain it would raise Mr. Mummert’s spirits if you visited him, my lord.”

Some flicker of emotion crossed Kitty’s face, but it was gone before Alexander could identify precisely what it was. She had seemed…doubtful, somehow. Maybe Thomas Mummert would not particularly appreciate a visit from his lord, the earl. But Alexander could not recall having met the baker.

Perhaps he had at some point, but that did not mean much. All his tenants were forgettable, disinteresting people.

They were simple, and Alexander had never liked simple. That was why he spent as much time as he could with his companions from Oxford. They were lively and interesting and cared for excitement.

“We will be certain to pay him a visit,” Mother said, her voice heavy with what Alexander strongly suspected was forced sympathy. “Thank you for telling us about his plight. Perhaps our gifts may also be of comfort to him.”

Thomas could not imagine how their gifts of preserves and flowers would be helpful, but he supposed that any gift was better than none at all.

“Thank you, my lady,” Elias said, bowing.

Beside him, Kitty dropped into an uneven curtsey. “That is most kind of you.”

Alexander tried not to huff impatiently. It really was.

Mother ignored him. She smiled and gestured for the footman to offer the usual basket of preserves and flowers. Then, they went to the next house…and the next…and the next.

The faces and names all blurred together quickly. Alexander only knew the villagers by their profession. It was a simple method for working through how many of the villagers they had seen and how many remained. Soon, it was only the blacksmith.

Then, the baker. Alexander, his mother, and the footmen approached the bakery at long last.

Alexander glanced at the two footmen who carried the remaining basket for them. One more exchange. They would give Thomas Mummert the baker his basket of goods, wish him well, and return home. Then Alexander would have finally completed his duty of visiting the village of Caldwell’s Hamlet and would not have to endure such trivialities for another year.

The bakery appeared to be empty. There was not a customer in sight nor any bread that he could see. The counter and shelves were empty, and there was not even the faintest scent of baking bread in the air. Mother raised a delicate hand and knocked on the baker’s door. They waited. Alexander crossed his arms and tapped an impatient foot on the stones in front of the shop.

“Interesting,” Mother mused.

She knocked again. Still, there was no answer.

“Perhaps they are away,” Alexander suggested impatiently.

“Surely not,” Mother said. “I do not imagine that an ill man from Caldwell’s Hamlet would have anywhere to go. The nearest town is a half-day’s ride away.”

Alexander sighed, and she cast him a cross look. “These are the people who keep the earldom alive,” she said. “You could feign an ounce of grace for them.”

“We keep the earldom alive,” Alexander said dismissively. “These people only have their livelihoods because of our hard work.”

Mother’s lips clenched together in a tight, strained smile. She knocked on the door a third time with significantly more force. “Perhaps you ought to wish Thomas Mummert well,” she said. “Someday, I will not be around to accompany you on these visits, so you will need to act like the Earl of Beckingham without being reminded.”

Fortunately, a few more minutes passed in silence, and to Alexander’s triumph, it did not appear as though Thomas Mummert had any intention of admitting them into his home.

“Very well, Mother,” he said, feigning contriteness. “Had he answered the door, I assure you I would have wished him well.”

It seemed that fortune was cruel, however, for the door opened as soon as he finished uttering that dreadful sentence. But instead of the older man that Alexander expected, a young woman stood in the doorway.

She was surprisingly lovely. A few tendrils of red hair had escaped from the confines of her white cap and framed a delicate, fine-boned face. Her eyes were blue and full of shine, like finely polished sapphires. She wore a simple, homespun blue gown and an apron decorated with flour.

For a heartbeat, she simply stared at them.

Alexander sighed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Good morning, miss. I am Alexander Walsh, the Earl of Beckingham, and this is my mother, the Dowager Countess of Beckingham.”

Recognition flashed in the young woman’s eyes, and she gave them the worst curtsey that Alexander had ever seen in his life. It was really a miracle that she did not topple over.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord—my lady,” she said, her words uneven and shaking. She acted nervous, as though she had never seen an earl before, which was entirely possible. A better man might have offered some measure of comfort, but Alexander really just wanted the interaction to be over.

“Indeed, I am sure that it is.”

The moment Alexander spoke with such cold formality, he regretted it. He did not even have to turn around to feel the force of Mother’s glare. Color rose to the young woman’s face, painting her cheeks a sharp shade of scarlet.

“For us,” Alexander amended. “It is an honor for us.”

The young woman did not look as though she believed him for an instant, but that hardly mattered. Who cared if he made a poor impression on some baker’s daughter?

“You must be Mr. Mummert’s daughter,” Mother said, her voice sugary sweet and clearly vying for some manner of reconciliation.

“Charlotte, my lady.”

Alexander wondered if she was named after the queen and hid a smirk. The Queen of Bakers! How amusing. She did not have the bearing of a queen, but she…

She had the beauty of one. Alexander realized that with a hint of discomfort. Baker’s daughters were not supposed to be beautiful. Despite her rough mannerisms, there was something…interesting about her, too. Maybe it was that she did not try to hide her disbelief. Miss Mummert did not attempt to conceal her emotions beneath forced, polite smiles like the others.

“Yes. Miss Charlotte Mummert,” he managed with as straight a face a possible. “You and your father are both well-known in the village for your skills at baking, and hearing that your father was ill, Lady Beckingham and I thought that we ought to come pay our respects.”

“My father is too ill to have guests, my lord,” Charlotte said. “Otherwise, I would invite you both in.”

“We understand,” Mother said sympathetically. “We would not wish to impose upon your family.”

“Yes,” Alexander said. “Please accept this basket with our well wishes for your father’s swift recovery.” He grabbed the basket from George’s hands and offered it to Charlotte.

She took the basket with an unreadable expression. “Thank you, my lord and my lady. This is very generous of you.”

“It is important that we give to the village of Caldwell’s Hamlet,” Alexander said. “People like those in this village are what makes the earldom prosperous.”

Mother ought to be pleased by how readily he could mimic her empty platitudes.

“Indeed, my lord. I must return to my father’s bedside now,” she said with a voice that left little room for disagreement.

He had the impression that if he had disagreed, she might have ignored him. That was unnerving. Alexander was accustomed to forced niceties and women who tittered and smiled in his presence. Miss Mummert’s seeming eagerness to have him gone left him feeling strangely unbalanced.

And it was difficult to muster up disdain for a girl who was so strikingly pretty. Her smooth skin rivaled the complexion of even the most well-bred lady of the ton, and her hair was so warm that he ached to touch it.

“Of course,” he said. It was a neutral answer, the best he could manage given that his thoughts seemed to be a tempest of contradictions.

Before Alexander could offer more of a farewell, the young woman closed the door with what sounded like more force than was really necessary.

He scowled at the wooden surface, unsure if he was more frustrated or impressed by the audacity of such an abrupt end to the conversation. “There. We have paid our respects to Thomas Mummert.”

“Is that what you call your performance?” Mother asked, her expression aghast. “You could not have made your distaste any clearer if you had spat on the baker’s doorstep!”

Alexander shook his head. “And? Miss Mummert was discourteous from the start! She refused to open her door to us and did not even properly bid us farewell!”

“Her father is ill!” Mother snapped. “Show some compassion.”

“I gave her the basket,” Alexander said, deciding that his vexation with the young woman was greater than any admiration he might have for her. “We wished her father well. Surely, that is enough.”

Until next year, at least.

Chapter Two

“Who was that?” asked Theodosia Millis. “And…are those preserves?”

“Lord Beckingham,” Charlotte replied dismissively, placing the basket on the nearby table. Her face felt hot, and she hoped that Theodosia did not notice how flushed with embarrassment she was. Charlotte knew that she had not exactly behaved in the most gracious manner when confronted by Lord Beckingham, but she had good reason. His unexpected appearance kept her from being at her father’s side. Lord Beckingham was an earl, though. Surely, he ought to show more grace! “And yes. Apricot and orange blossom preserves, flowers, and a loaf of bread. They brought us this and came to wish Father well.”

Theodosia’s face softened with sympathy. Her eyes, as well as Charlotte’s, drifted to Father’s prone form lying in bed. The illness of the past few months had caused him to wilt like a plant exposed to too much sun. His muscles had weakened, and he had thinned significantly. He was no longer the large, powerful man that Charlotte knew so well.

“Do you really mean to close the bakery?” Theodosia asked, her brow furrowed with worry.

“We should talk elsewhere,” Charlotte said, biting the inside of her cheek, “so we do not disturb him.”

Hefting the basket from the table, she slipped past the linen curtain that separated her room from her father’s, and went into the bakery.

She placed the basket on the counter and absentmindedly tore a piece from the bread that the earl had given her. The texture was good—crisp on the outside and soft on the inside—but the taste was a little too elusive. This bread had needed some herbs mixed with the dough. She might as well have been eating paper.

“Is it good?” Theodosia asked, following her.

“Mine is better,” Charlotte said. “But I am sure that Lord Beckingham did not serve us bread from his own kitchens. He probably eats bread with flecks of gold in it.”

Theodosia laughed. “Ah! You finally understand what we have all been trying to tell you! Lord Beckingham is not a kind man, is he?”

“No,” Charlotte replied firmly. “It was obvious that he detested visiting the bakery. He could not manage even an ounce of concern for my father! Why, I do not understand why he felt the need to visit us at all! I do not need his forced pity.”

Theodosia shook her head, her expression one of annoyance. It seemed as though her opinion of the Earl of Beckingham was not complimentary either. “No. He would have done better to bring you medicine or a physician.”

Charlotte frowned, indecision weighing heavily in her mind. “That would be too considerate for a man like that and too much money. Even the surgeon in Leeds is…” She trailed off, some of her fury abating when she thought of the surgeon’s fee.

“Lottie,” Theodosia said, “you must keep managing the bakery.”

“How can I?” Charlotte asked, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “My father needs someone to care for him, and I cannot possibly do both.”

Theodosia bit her lip, her brown eyes darting around the bakery as though she expected some grand answer to leap from the shadows. “Are you certain that you cannot?”

Charlotte sighed in despair. “I am. I have considered it so many times. And I have tried! You know that I have.”

She had tried for an entire summer, ever since her strong and lively father had collapsed without warning. He had struck his head on the floor, and she had feared the worst.

Father had lived, but he had been changed. Since the fall, a single word had not passed his lips, and he seemed to have lost all his boundless energy. He spent most days abed, scarcely able to rise, and on the few occasions when he did wander into the bakery, his strength faded quickly. She had anxiously watched him and observed that he could remain standing for only an hour until he became so exhausted that he was forced to return to bed.

“The whole village knows,” Theodosia said softly. “Perhaps some of us can help.”

“How?” Charlotte asked, sighing. “Everyone in the village has their own trades and families to tend to. And it is not as though no one has tried. Both Mr. Jones and Mr. Rivers, the surgeon, have tried to aid Father, and it just seems as though nothing improves him. The most he can do is take laudanum to numb the pain for a little while.”

But the laudanum was nearly gone, and Charlotte was unsure how she would purchase more.

“We could take turns sitting with your father,” Theodosia said. “While you worked. I would not be vexed by it. I am sure that Nathanial would also agree to take a turn, and—”

“For how long?” Charlotte asked. “Forever? Until Father…”

She could not bring herself to say dies, although the dreadful possibility had often crept into her mind as she lay awake at night. Mr. Rivers had told her that head wounds could be unpredictable even to very learned physicians, and it was entirely possible that Father’s poor condition might worsen unexpectedly over time.

“Everyone in the village cares for you and your father,” Theodosia said gently. “It would be no hardship to us.”

But Charlotte knew that was not entirely true. At first, it would not be a hardship. Everyone would adjust their lives to aid Father. Over time, it would become a hardship. Worse, it would be a chore. How could Theodosia spend her days beside an ailing bakery when she was meant to be starting a family of her own and helping her own father, the village blacksmith?

How could Nathanial devote time to helping Father when he was forever being called to far-flung places to share his legal insight? And what of Mr. and Mrs. Jones? Charlotte knew that they were trying to have a child of their own, and once one arrived, their own thoughts would be well-occupied.

“I cannot ask that of any of you,” Charlotte said.

“We would never make you ask,” Theodosia said. “We would offer. I am offering.”

Charlotte shook her head in dismay. “No, I have thought long and hard about this decision. I do not know how we will manage, but we will. Besides, Mr. Rivers said that my father’s condition is unpredictable. Perhaps it will not be a bad turn. Maybe my father will improve.”

Maybe if Charlotte told herself that enough, she could make it true somehow.

“If he does not, you will be destitute,” Her voice was soft and edged with desperation.

“Thank you for your comforting words,” Charlotte said. “I appreciate your support.”

Theodosia shook her head. “You know I did not mean it like that. I am being practical, Lottie. You are my best friend, and it pains me to see you in such a dire situation.”

Charlotte sighed. She fixed her gaze on the basket, her face warming when she thought of the encounter with the handsome Earl of Beckingham. It was unfortunate that she was not the heroine of some fairy story and blessed with a gentle Lord Beckingham, who cared about everyone. How wonderful it would have been if the earl was kind! It seemed terribly unfair that he must be rude and pretentious.

She dared to imagine him returning with a physician or maybe a fairy enchantress, determined to cure her father of all his ailments. Father would be healed, and everything would end happily for all involved.

“I know that you mean well,” she said softly. “And I am sorry for speaking unkindly to you.”

“It was hardly unkind.”

“Still, I ought not to have said it,” Charlotte said. “I know that you only want to help me, but I must do this on my own. I will manage. Father and I always have.”

“And I know from experience that I will not be able to persuade you otherwise,” Theodosia said, smiling wryly.

“You know me too well,” Charlotte said, her spirits lifting a little.

Theodosia sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “I should be leaving,” she said.

“It was good of you to come see me this morning. Would you like this jar of preserves for your troubles?” Charlotte asked, plucking it from the basket.

Theodosia snorted. “I have no doubt that my family also received a basket from Lord Beckingham. We usually do.”

“The preserves probably will be good,” Charlotte noted.

“Probably.”

Theodosia embraced Charlotte. “Are you sure that you will be well?” she murmured.

Charlotte let herself relax in her friend’s arms.

No, I’m not sure. She could not possibly be sure.

“I am fine,” she said at last. “I will continue to be fine, Theodosia. I promise.”

Theodosia released her and stood back, examining her at arm’s length. Her brow was furrowed with worry. “I feel as though you would say that even if you were fatally injured,” she said gently. “My dear friend, promise me that if everything becomes too difficult, you will come to me for help.”

“I will,” Charlotte said.

But she knew that she would not.

Theodosia squeezed her hands. “I will come see you tomorrow.”

“I will look forward to it.”

Theodosia left the shop. For a long time, Charlotte simply stared at the door through which her friend had left. Her mind was all awhirl with the day’s events. Father’s illness was a constant in her life that morning, as it always was. But then, Theodosia had visited, and the Earl of Beckingham had visited.

Charlotte leaned against the counter and put her cheek in her hand, thinking of how the wind had ruffled the earl’s hair in such an artful manner. He had looked quite handsome, heroic even. It was most unfortunate that the man’s mannerisms did not echo his seemingly heroic appearance. Were all lords so supercilious? Charlotte wondered why, in the stories, they were always said to be so kind, for Lord Beckingham could not be less of a fairy tale hero if he had tried.

“Chores,” she said.

Because baker’s daughters did not have the time to lean against counters and imagine themselves married to heroic men, like the ladies in songs and novels always did. Especially when there were no heroic men to speak of. As much as she might wish otherwise, Charlotte had no means for making the earl have a better attitude.

The floor needed to be swept, and loaves of bread needed to be wrapped. If she intended not to manage the bakery any longer, she would need to think about how to pay for her father’s treatments.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Could I only open the bakery for part of the day? If she could manage that, it might allow her sufficient time to both bake bread and tend to her father.

But no. That seemed impossible, for baking bread and waiting on customers took an entire day. It was a long and grueling process and one that could not be portioned so neatly into just a few hours.

Charlotte took another chunk of the bread from the basket and chewed it absentmindedly. Perhaps she should have asked Lord Beckingham to buy some of her bread when he’d arrived.

The thought nearly made her laugh aloud. He certainly wouldn’t have. Or he might have bought a loaf only to insult it after tasting it. A man like the Earl of Beckingham would expect to be given a gift, not asked to pay for a product like every other person.

She sighed and took the broom in hand. “Well,” she muttered. “I suppose one can only expect so much from a man like that.”

Besides, she had greater concerns, such as how she would tend to Father.

Charlotte was unsure if she could manage even that. She was neither surgeon nor physician, and unlike Mrs. Jones, who had observed her husband’s work as an apothecary, Charlotte had no experience in healing an unwell person. She had never before encountered a condition that Mr. Jones could not heal with some potion or his medicine chest.

But for Father’s sake, she had to try. She just hoped that she would be enough.

April 1814

“Good morning!” Charlotte Mummert’s voice rang through the air, only just piercing the din of loud, eager customers. “Fresh from the oven!”

She raised her arms, letting the customers see the fresh bread she carried. The familiar, comforting smell of the bread suffused her senses and filled her with warmth. There was no scent in the world that she loved more than fresh bread.

From behind the counter, Charlotte’s father, Thomas, flashed her a relieved smile. He was a large, broad-shouldered man with a perpetually flushed face and blue eyes which seemed to always be filled with laughter. Charlotte had the same blue eyes, but that was where the resemblance to her father ended. While he was large, she had always been slight and small. His hair was as black as coal, while Charlotte had inherited the fiery red locks of her mother. At one-and-twenty years of age, she was said to have been the exact mirror of the figure that her mother had as a young woman.

“Ah! Excellent!” Father exclaimed.

The townsfolk turned their heads toward Charlotte. She knew them well, for there were seldom unfamiliar faces in a village like Caldwell’s Hamlet. There was Mrs. Jones, the apothecary’s wife, who traded herbs and medicines for bread. She had already purchased a loaf and had it tucked under her arm, but her habit was often to remain after purchasing.

Elizabeth and Aoife were both maids who worked for the Earl of Beckingham. They came into Caldwell’s Hamlet at the behest of the housekeeper and cook, usually seeking fruits and vegetables. Bread was an unusual purchase for them.

Their last customer was Nathanial Hollingsworth, the only lawyer around for several miles, who insisted that Charlotte and her father call him Nathanial rather than Mr. Hollingsworth. Nathanial had lived in the village as a child, left for a number of years, and returned shortly after his apprenticeship was done. The man was older than Charlotte by four years, but he had yet to start a family. Charlotte had never quite understood why, for Nathanial was a handsome enough man with thick brown hair and piercing green eyes. Once she had asked, and he had said something vague about how often he traveled. She did not quite understand why that mattered so much, though.

“Charlotte,” Nathanial said. “You look lovely this morning.”

She laughed, placing the bread on the counter beside her father. “You are too kind, sir.”

She was sure she did not look particularly lovely, having just put her face near an oven and carried bread into the shop. Her face was certainly red, and her hair always became wild when faced with heat. She might have found some significance in Nathanial’s frequent compliments, except that he was the manner of man who was kind to everyone. He made the same remarks to Mrs. Elm, the ancient widow of the village’s former preacher.

“I was wondering if I might persuade you to make a pie for me,” Mrs. Jones said. “It is Elias’s birthday soon, and he does love your apple pie, Charlotte.”

“Mr. Jones has impeccable taste,” Nathanial said. “I have never tasted a pie more delectable than one Charlotte made!”

Charlotte laughed. “You exaggerate.”

“Careful, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Elizabeth said, “or Cook might try to steal Charlotte away from Caldwell’s Hamlet.”

“Oh?” Charlotte asked.

“As if I would let anyone steal Charlotte from the village!” Father declared, wrapping an arm around his daughter’s shoulders and drawing her close. “I would not even if the earl himself demanded her!”

Charlotte laughed. “You would in a heartbeat!”

“Well,” Aoife said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It is strange that you say—”

The thundering of horse hooves and carriage wheels cut off Aoife’s words. Charlotte’s head snapped to the store’s entrance, her eyes widening in surprise.

“I imagine that is Lord Beckingham,” Elizabeth said. “He is expected. His lordship gave the housekeeper little notice, and she is rather flustered by his return.”

“Cook, too,” Aoife added. “The estate does not have the stores needed to prepare meals for the earl, much less his guests.”

“How unfortunate!” Father exclaimed.

Charlotte stepped toward the storefront curiously and peered out the door as the carriages approached. The first was sleek and black, pulled by four white horses. At least four coaches followed, the parade of horses and carriages stretching long down the road that cut through Caldwell’s Hamlet. The occupant of the first carriage pulled aside the curtains, and Charlotte caught a glimpse of a strong jaw, brown eyes, and thick, black hair.

He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. For a heartbeat, he even seemed to meet her gaze, and she trembled. It was a stern, piercing look. She felt as if the man could see all the way to the innermost depths of her soul.

Then, the carriage passed, and he was gone.

“That is Lord Beckingham, the earl,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Smythe says that he is to be accompanied by some companions from Oxford.”

Mrs. Smythe was the housekeeper, a stately woman whom Charlotte had only seen once. She had a well-weathered face that spoke of years of service and hardship, yet there was a softness to her voice and mannerisms that spoke of a gentler nature.

“He is very handsome,” Charlotte observed.

Nathanial scoffed. “That is easy to say because you have never met him.”

Charlotte blinked and glanced at Nathanial, who leaned against the wall of the bakery. His eyes remained fixed upon the passing carriages and gleamed with sharp intensity.

“I have never heard you speak ill of anyone,” Charlotte said.

He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “It does not become me, I know. Lord Beckingham’s solicitor requested my aid once on a complicated legal matter, and I met the earl then. He is a difficult man.”

“That is charitable,” Elizabeth said. “You would think he believes himself higher than God.”

Aoife nodded. “The stories I have heard…”

“Well, he is an earl,” Mrs. Jones said diplomatically. “Can any of us really fault him for believing himself above the rest of us?”

“Yes,” Nathanial replied. “I spent seven years as an apprentice clerking for a well-respected lawyer and three years as a solicitor, only to have that man—who has never so much as touched a law book—insist that he knows the law better than me. I am convinced that his solicitor sought my guidance only because he could not bear to listen to his lordship’s ignorance for a moment longer!”

“He does not know any of the names of his staff,” Elizabeth said. “Mrs. Smythe has faithfully served under him for ten years, and he cannot remember her name. Once, I heard him call her Mrs. Sadler. When she corrected him—politely, mind you—he refused to apologize or accept her answer! Instead, he continued calling her Mrs. Sadler.”

“Until the following year,” Aoife said. “He had forgotten the incident by then.”

“My goodness,” Mrs. Jones said, pursing her lips together in a tight frown. “I will concede that Lord Beckingham sounds…how did you word it, Mr. Hollingworth? Difficult?”

“Yes. And condescending,” Nathanial said. “He is an attractive man only because God is not so cruel as to leave an earl without any charms.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh.

Charlotte absentmindedly drummed her fingertips on the counter. The earl did sound unkind. But what did bakers’ daughters know about earls? Perhaps every lord in the land behaved similarly.

“We should be going,” Aoife said suddenly. “When the earl returns, Mrs. Smythe is sure to have more work for us. Mr. Mummert, do you think you might be able to supply us with the desserts needed?”

“Desserts?” Charlotte asked.

“Yes,” Father replied. “The earl’s new cook seemingly wants us to provide desserts to the earl and his guests—tarts and pies, mostly.”

Charlotte frowned. “I should think that the cook can manage those things, surely?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “We are only the messengers.”

“Perhaps the cook fears he will not have sufficient time,” Nathanial mused, “given Lord Beckingham’s lack of notice. It is not even time for his annual visit.”

Indeed, it was not. Although Charlotte had not seen Lord Beckingham before that day, it was well-known that he came to his country estate every autumn, usually in late October. It was early September, almost two months before his time.

“We can manage the desserts for Lord Beckingham,” Father said. “Regardless of the cook’s reasons, I am happy to bake for the earl. Rather, my Charlotte is.”

Charlotte forced a smile, but her stomach churned at the thought of baking delicacies for Lord Beckingham. If he truly believed himself better than everyone else, she was not so sure she looked forward to serving him. She was good at her trade; Father had taught her everything that he knew. But surely, her skills were nothing to an earl who had dined at all the finest restaurants and places in London!

“I shall do my best,” she said, unable to conceal the doubt from her voice.

“That will be enough,” Father replied confidently.

“Most certainly,” Nathanial agreed.

“Elias has never complained,” Mrs. Jones said, winking. “Nor have I.”

The carriages had passed at last.

“Well, I shall bid you all farewell,” Mrs. Jones said. “Elias will be expecting me. I shall send my son with more valerian root for you, Mr. Mummert.”

“Thank you.”

“Until next time,” Charlotte said, her mind still awhirl with thoughts of potentially baking anything for Lord Beckingham. It sounded impossible. “Let me know when you would like your pie, and I will see that it is baked for you. Before the earl’s pies, even.”

Mrs. Jones smiled. “You are a good girl, Charlotte. Thank you.”

“I should leave, too,” Elizabeth said. “Farewell, Charlotte. Mr. Mummet.”

“It was good to see you!” Aoife added.

“Farewell!” Charlotte replied.

Soon, it was only Father, Nathanial, and herself. “I had hoped for a fresh loaf,” Nathanial said.

Charlotte laughed and wrapped it for him. “You do realize that loaves fresh from the oven taste no different from ones made an hour ago, do you not? Unless you eat it immediately, of course.”

“Maybe I do want to eat it immediately,” Nathanial replied, grinning. “Perhaps I intend to eat the whole loaf on my way home.”

“Then, you would not have it for your toast in the morning!” Charlotte exclaimed.

“But that is no issue! I would simply return to your charming bakery for another loaf.”

“If so, that would make you my favorite customer,” Father said, sounding vague. “Excuse me. I need fresh air for a moment.”

Charlotte furrowed her brow, watching him until he left the shop and walked around the building, out of sight.

“Charlotte,” Nathanial said, his voice cutting through her thoughts like a knife. “I know I spoke ill of Lord Beckingham earlier, but I am certain that he will like anything that you bake for him.”

“That is kind of you to say,” Charlotte said, her eyes flitting to the doorway. “But surely, a man like Lord Beckingham has tasted some of the best pies and tarts in the world.”

“But he has not had yours.”

Nathanial winked, his expression warm.

Warmth flooded Charlotte’s face, and she ducked her head, a little embarrassed by the praise. “We shall see. It is entirely possible that Lord Beckingham will change his mind.”

“I suppose.”

“Anyway,” Charlotte said, “I suppose I had best return to work. We have more loaves that need to be put in the oven, and if I am to be making pies, I must see what fruits we have in our stores.”

“Ah, of course. Apologies for keeping you, Charlotte.” Nathanial paused for a moment like he meant to say something else, but no further words emerged. Instead, he merely tipped his hat to her and departed with his loaf of bread.

Charlotte considered him for a moment, wondering what else he might have wanted to say. He always spoke kindly to her and to Father, but she feared now that his compliments regarding the earl’s reception of her baked goods were altogether too hopeful. She briefly recalled the handsome man’s face with something like a frown. It was a pity that one so attractive was also so unkind.

Charlotte sighed and shook her head. She was a baker’s daughter, and baker’s daughters had no need for thoughts of handsome earls. After gathering the loaves of unbaked bread, she carried them outside with her on a large wooden plank.

As she approached the oven, a string of violent coughs cut the air, each interspersed with a ragged gasp for air. She started in surprise. “Father?”

Father came from around the corner of the house and smiled weakly. “I am fine, my dear.”

Charlotte frowned in consternation. It could be just a small, passing ailment, but her father was also the manner of man who would insist that he was fine when on his deathbed. “Perhaps we should have asked Mrs. Jones for something.”

Father waved a dismissive hand. “I am sure it is nothing. I am as healthy as an ox, Lottie! If I am still sick tomorrow, you can visit Elias for me.”

Charlotte bit her lip but nodded. “If that is what you think is best.”

“You worry too much,” Father said softly. “I am going nowhere. I promise.”

“And you always keep your promises,” Charlotte said quietly. “I know.”

He patted her shoulder and lumbered past her, whistling cheerfully. Her lips twitched into a small smile. She did have a reputation for worrying too much. Father was likely right; it was likely just a small cold and nothing more.