Chapter 1
The London docks was no place for a gentleman. The putrid smells from the river permeated the cobblestones and the brick. Once thriving warehouses that crowded along the sides of the main streets were now dirty, run-down, locked and shuttered. The streets were poorly lit—if there was any street lighting at all. The filth, grime, and ash hovering in the air blackened every surface along these dark streets and alleyways. These conditions were not fit for man or beast, and there were no signs of any residences or pedestrians. Yes, this was no place for a gentleman to be seen. Not unless there was a bodyguard or several burly footmen by his side.
The gentleman carried only his walking stick and a hooded lantern to keep himself concealed. He picked his way along these cobbled streets. He raised the cover on the lantern now and then to look for some kind of street identification—but in this part of London, there were few if any street signs. His lantern reflected some of its light off the sooty windows casting a ghostly shadow across the few parked wagons.
The gentleman walked alone. He turned the corner and heard faint singing in the silent and eerie darkness. There must be a pub tucked away in some narrow side street.
He could not find what he was looking for, and the gentleman grumbled. He hurried his pace and soon the music from the pub drifted away. He could hear only his footsteps. Then he listened to the echo of two sets of footsteps running toward him. The gentleman stopped, raised the cover on his lantern, and turned to find the source.
Suddenly, the lantern was struck from his hand. Amidst the pitch black and moonless night, he felt two large muscular hands seize his shoulders. With a loud shriek, he fell to the cobbles. He heard the throaty sounds of a harsh voice.
“Aye, it be time, fine gentleman,” the thug said, “Barker wants‘ismoney. All of it. Paid now. You understand?”
The gentleman struggled to free himself and crawl away. He felt another set of hands grab his free arm. With the foulest of breath, the second man whispered, “He means business, he does. And it is not just your sweet self who’ll suffer. But kith and kin. You understand me meaning?”
“I will do what I can. I am a little short just at the moment but with a day or two…”
“Tomorrow noon—or we guarantee you will regret it.”
The gentleman lay petrified on the ground. The larger goon kicked him in stomach while the other snatched up the lantern, and together they ran away. The gentleman struggled to his feet, and by feeling the contours of the buildings with his hand, he attempted to retreat to a safer place.
* * *
Her father made meat pies. Her mother baked the bread and Jenny made the cakes and fruit pies—six days a week every week of the year—even on the sacred Sundays leading up to the Christmas holidays when special breads, cakes, and pies were in great demand.
As the eldest child at two-and-twenty, Jenny Barnett was responsible for not only the baking but was expected also to help keep an eye on the younger children—Sally aged eleven; Robert at thirteen was already helping serve customers; and Claudia, seventeen, was being trained to start the morning dough, clean the pans and bowls, and prepare the bakery for the next day of baking.
But one thing their parents insisted on was the children’s education. Even though the younger children needed to be trained in the business, they were also required to have an education, and they spent part of each day at the local school.
It was not until the shop closed in the late afternoon—after all the goods were sold—that Jenny had any time to herself. Her two favorite activities were reading and taking walks around the beautiful Cotswold countryside—often with her friend, Helena Comerford. She was the daughter of Lord Comerford, who owned a large estate near the small town of Chatsworth in Gloucestershire, where Jenny and her family had their home and bakery.
Chatsworth was a typical Cotswold village with a population of about six hundred. The streets, the houses, the bridge, and the church were all constructed of the same sandy colored stone quarried from the surrounding hills, and the roofs were covered with locally sourced slate tiles. The main road entered from the east, and crossing the Camber River, exited to the southwest. The heart of Chatsworth was centered on the town square where the best shops were located—including the Barnett Bakery. There were very few side streets, so all the social activity was centered on the square where the daily market was held.
The houses were built against the street, with no front gardens, although some of the houses had managed to plant a few shrubs, bushes, or climbing roses to soften the front of the house and provide a modicum of privacy.
It was a sleepy village with only one constable and a volunteer fire brigade. The mayor was the village smithy.
Helena came into the shop just after Jenny had taken off her apron and was running her hand through her flour-dusted hair.
Helena burst out laughing. “Jenny, Jenny, what am I to do with you?”
Jenny turned to her friend and asked, “What? What did I do now?”
“Look at you. You look like you just fell out of a flour sack.”
“Well, I have just put in a full day’s work. What do you expect? It is not as though I am going to a ball.”
Helena went over and tried to tidy Jenny’s hair after running her hands through it to shake out most of the flour.
Without a doubt, Jenny was a very handsome young woman. She had raven black hair which set off her fair skin and blue eyes. She was tall and had refined looking features. But what everyone noticed first about Jenny were her sparkling, smiling eyes and her full generous mouth. Many a young man in town was anxious to make Jenny their young lady, but she was in no position to be thinking about romance just now. Her family needed her in the business. She so thoroughly enjoyed baking and was seriously thinking of becoming a pastry cook in some fine country home one day.
Helena stood back and cocked her head to see if she had made any improvement in Jenny’s appearance. “There,” Helena said, “You look much better.” But she scolded, “My dear Jenny, I have to say, you really do not take very good care of yourself. You are so beautiful, but you hide your beauty from the world by dressing like a ruffian. And your hair…”
“But these are my working clothes, Helena. You cannot expect me to dress up when I need to heave flour and sugar sacks and chop bushels of fruit all day long. Really… be reasonable.”
“But how are you ever going to find romance?”
Jenny sighed. “Oh, my dear friend, romance could not be further from my mind. You know what my ambition is—I want to be the pastry cook in a fine aristocratic house someday. And who knows, I might even bake a splendid cake or pie for the King.”
