“Yes, indeed. A bona fide position in my house, baking the daily bread. Believe me when I say that if you can make a decent loaf, we shall all be in your debt.”
“A position? Me, as hasn’t slept in the same place twice in two years, nor dared ask for honest labor lest the Widow Bentley hear of it?”
“Yes, indeed. That is what I am offering. Your wages would be fifteen pounds a year, paid quarterly. You will be provided a room, uniforms, and meals, as well.”
Tiffany lifted her head and stared boldly into his face. “Fifteen pounds? Coo, such wages. I can make twice that in one night if I’ve a mind to.”
Percival stared back into the bold green eyes that were fixed on him. “But will you sleep safe and secure? And how likely is it that your current career will end with you swinging from the gallows? What happens if you are found out as a woman instead of a boy? It seems to me that the life of a baker is far more secure than that of a thief.”
Tiffany set her jaw. “Sixteen pounds, and I gets half-days off o’ Sunday.”
Percival laughed. “Miss Bentley, you are not at a hiring fair or agency. Still, I will bargain with you. If your bread is as good as Michaels claims it to be, then I will, indeed, pay you sixteen pounds a year. But if it is not, I will reduce your wage to ten pounds, and we shall say no more about it.”
“Will I have the things I need? Bread is only as good as the flour, hops, and milk that goes into it. To make a superior loaf, I need a superior flour.”
“Michaels, see to it.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Michaels replied. The corners of the night chef’s lips twitched, but he did not smile.
“Ask Mrs. Twitchel to find her a room and uniforms, if you please. I shall expect my first loaf at tomorrow’s dinner.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Michaels sketched him a modest bow.
“Consider yourself under house arrest until your first half-day, Miss Bentley. Do consider that your other option is for me to do as McClellan thinks proper and call the Watch.”
Her face paled, went still and she swallowed, hard. “Yes, My Lord,” she whispered.
“Come, come,” Percival admonished her. “Nothing will be asked of you beyond the normal duties of the bakery cook.”
He then turned to the night chef. “Michaels, I would like clarification on one thing. You originally said that you met Miss Bentley when you picked up sweet rolls for my mother. But then, you said that you had known her as a small child, and that you used to get the ship’s bread from Baker Bentley.”
Michaels sighed. “Both true, My Lord. I was a ship’s cook... A big whaler out of Nantucket. We used to stop in and refresh our stores here. Captain, he wanted fresh sweets an’ sent me in to get some ever’ time…maybe about twice a year or so.”
“So what happened to your Captain?”
“He had the sweet sickness. Took him off, it did, and him not quite forty years of age. That left the ship in dock without a master, so she got confiscated. I skedaddled right out o’ there, an’ as luck would have it, your steward was lookin’ for another cook.”
“But you bought sweets for my mother at Bentley’s Bakery.”
Michaels looked embarrassed. “Well, My Lord, as you well know, my bread is not the best. Cookin’ at sea, we most had hard tack an’ beans. I’m lucky that the last day cook afore this one was a marvel at most ever’ thing, an’ a good teacher.”
“But the sweet rolls?” Percival persisted.
“Well, she wanted ‘em and I had to do somethin’,” Michaels burst out. “So’s I went to where’s I knew they made good ones. I’d no idea that Mr. Bentley had passed on, or that teasin’ the little Girlie would get her in trouble.”
Percival sighed. “It seems that it is a small world. Well, Michaels, since it appears that you are indirectly responsible for Miss Bentley being on the street, it is up to you to help her turn over to a new page in her life.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Michaels straightened and gave Percival a salute.
Percival turned to Tiffany. “I am making you his responsibility. By the same token, you are now responsible for making him look good. I hope that your skills are as advertised, for I expect the bread for dinner to be excellent.”
Chapter 3
Meekly, Tiffany followed Michaels down to the kitchen where they were met by the housekeeper, although inside she was fuming. Mrs. Twitchel met them in the kitchen. “Is this the young person?” she asked, peering at Tiffany through a lorgnette.
“This is Tiffany Bentley,” Michaels said. “She will be doing the bread baking.”
“Likely poison us all. I have never heard such goings on. The late Marchioness, God rest her soul, would never have allowed such a thing,” Mrs. Twitchel fumed.
