I got used to rising at 4:00, trekking out to the bakery before dawn to make up loaves for the first customers to buy hot. Soon Master Thomas gave me more responsibility, kneading dough in the big trough and accepting deliveries. I learned the secrets of doughs and crusts, how to heat the great oven, and how to use up all its heat with second bakings of cakes and pies.
One day, I took some sweet milk dough and baked a little cream cheese cake with a drizzle of honey on top.
Mistress Thomas picked it off the cooling rack and took a bite. “Delicious,” she said, astonished.
Master Thomas gave me that measuring look of his. “Our John is cutting out to become a great baker,” he said.
The next day, he ordered me to make two dozen of the golden pastries. They sold out at once. The next morning, customers were fighting over them. His manner became almost paternal, although he never gave me more than a clap on the back to show he approved.
Time passed, then I was fifteen. Master Thomas was sponsoring my apprenticeship without a fee. Mother now had a better job as daily housekeeper in a town house, but she still couldn’t pay for teaching me the trade. But - Master Thomas was a good man, and he saw something in me he liked. He continued paying me a small salary. The gossips said that he had different plans for his sons and was training me to run the bakery when he retired. He didn’t discuss his plans at any time, so I shrugged and put the talk out of my mind.
****
There was talk that Mistress Thomas was anxious to marry off their daughter, Mary. For although Mary was seventeen and of an age to be courted, the young men weren’t coming around to court. They considered her a nice girl, but a little strange. So did I.
She was short and slim and never said much. Ordinary except for her blue eyes, which she kept down most of the time. Even her hair, which was honey blond, she kept gathered up in a net. When she wasn’t helping in the house or sewing, she spent a lot of time reading, sitting at the window in a spill of light, bowed in concentration over her book. If you spoke, she’d raise her eyes, still in the book, or possibly in a dream, and took a moment before she focused on you. You felt she’d rather be left alone.
I turned seventeen. The local servant girls coming to buy bread would stay to flirt. I enjoyed bantering with them and had a few secret encounters with the bolder ones, especially with one red-haired beauty, Gloria. When she tired of me and lightly turned to another boy, I considered my heart broken.
But there were other pretty girls and it was easy to get them. They said I was handsome. The muscles I’d gained lifting heavy flour sacks and pummeling dough probably had something to do with that. There was always a pretty partner for a dance or a walk under the stars; sometimes also for a silent meeting in a dark place.
But none matched Gloria. She lingered in my heart even after I’d realized she was a vain, fickle thing - or so I’d sadly tell any girl showing signs of becoming possessive.
I was working hard and glad to be young. Love was for later, if ever.
When I was nineteen, Master Thomas offered me a formal position in the bakery, earning good money.
Mother said, “I wonder if Thomas won’t offer you that silent Mary, too.”
“She’s older than I am,” I reminded her. “Twenty-one, now.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s a good girl. And there would be advantages, you know.”
I laughed. “I’m not looking for advantage when I look at a girl. Well, not that kind of advantage, anyway.” I gave Mother a wink and said, “My best girl’s right here.”
Mother smiled, pleased to think I’d be her own boy for a while yet.
“Villain,” she said lightly.
****
One afternoon as we were closing the bakery up, Thomas invited me to dinner with his family. I wondered; I’d only ever been to his house to deliver a message or fetch something. What’s more, he shook my hand before we went off in our different directions. Usually it was a nod and “See you tomorrow morning, lad.”
I went of course, dressed in my best and bearing a bouquet of white flowers from Mother’s garden. Meadowsweet, with its heady fragrance of almonds, sweet hay and vanilla.
The house maid opened the door to my knock, and led me to the sitting room, where the family was gathered. My impression was of lamplight, polished furniture, and an indistinct group talking in soft voices.
Thomas rose from his armchair to welcome me. I blinked: this wasn’t the bakery boss I only ever saw wrapped in a flour-spattered apron. Here was a prosperous townsman in a dark suit, surrounded by his family in a good house. He seemed older, maybe because he was at rest and not striding around the bakery giving orders and attending customers. Not as large to my eyes as the boss.
I summoned my best manners and presented Mistress Thomas my bouquet, which she accepted with noises of polite pleasure. “Golly,” I thought, “That’s not like her.” The Mistress Thomas I knew was busy and bossy and day-to-day, not this formal lady in a ruffled dress. But I saw her smiling as she turned away.
I already knew the younger son, Alfred, a stout thirteen-year-old with a dark trace on his upper lip. He grinned and gave me a soft punch on the shoulder for hello. Charlie, the oldest, was away at school.
And Mary was there, wearing a full-skirted blue dress that matched her eyes. Her hair was down, a thin ribbon keeping the blond curls back. She was composed, but a blush swept her cheeks as she returned my greeting.
Smiling down at her, I thought, “I could make a conquest here - if she weren’t my master’s daughter.”
She must have picked up my thought, for she looked up at me sharply and narrowed her eyes. “How good of you to come,” she said coldly.
It took me aback. Apparently I’d offended her.
We sat next to each other at the table. Her manners were cool and polished. Mine were awkward. She was turning out more clever and self-possessed than I’d taken her to be.
I wasn’t used to making polite talk with fine young ladies and sat there wondering what on earth to say to her. She wasn’t helping either, just sat picking at the chicken with her silver knife and fork. I was aware that Mistress Thomas was pretending not to watch us, and began to feel my face prickling.
I cleared my throat. “I hear you’re a great reader, Mary. Reading anything good now?”
She’s studying bee-keeping,” Alfred said, before she could answer. “We’re to set up bee-hives in the garden.”
Mary gave him a little frown and said, “I can speak for myself, Alfred.” She looked down at her plate.
“Bee-keeping?” I said. “That’s unusual for a town girl. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get stung?”
“No,” Mary said calmly. “Bees don’t sting me.”
“Interesting, how is that?”
She gave me a measuring look, deciding whether I was being polite or really interested.
“I’d like to hear,” I said sincerely.
“All right,” she began. “I was about five, playing in the garden. A swarm of bees came flying in from the woods. Mother flapped her hat around to drive them away, but bees don’t like that. I ran towards the swarm, didn’t think twice, and stood there in a cloud of buzzing bees. They crawled on my head and down my arms and legs. I wasn’t afraid. Mother was hysterical. I told her I’d be all right and to go inside. As soon as she was indoors, the bees lifted off and went away. That’s how I knew.”
“A bee whisperer,” I said.
“I suppose so.” She drank a little wine.
“Do you collect honey from holes in trees and everything?”
“Sometimes.”
I looked at the delicate face of Mary. She wasn’t at all like the girls who came to the bakery for a bit of fun. I’d never noticed her expressive mouth. Never before noticed her pointed chin, her slim neck. Or her warm scent like honey.
Everyone else was busy talking and eating. Mary looked around and lowered her voice.
“Look, John. Father hopes you’ll like me. But you don’t have to make conversation unless you want to. I’m fine on my own.”
“But I want to make conversation,” I protested. “I’m enjoying our chat. Bee keeping! What else? We’ve almost never spoken, have we? Maybe it’s time we did.”
She looked down with a half-smile. “Maybe it is,” she said.
A word from Miriam.
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