Candace Sweet’s Confectionery Page 3

  “I was never close to Elaine and her ilk. I haven’t kept up with any of them.”

  “Which is why you and I always got on,” Susan pointed out. “We did not care to be one of the elite or the girls trying to emulate them. I am so glad to have caught up with you again.”

  “I’m happy you dropped by and pray you’ll stay in touch. I should like to resume our friendship.”

  “Despite what I revealed about myself?”

  “I do not fault you for whatever you did as a girl. We all have phases we must outgrow.”

  Susan nodded. “Mm-hm.” With the meal long since finished and the hour growing late, she added, “I must be going before Mother questions where I’ve been. Thank you for the delicious dinner.”

  “You’re most welcome. Take a box of truffles for later. When we meet again you must tell me what you think of them.”

  Candace walked her guest to the door and bid goodbye before locking up behind her.

  What a very odd day it had been with her two unexpected visitors. The intriguing Frenchman had challenged her to improve her craft, while her girlhood friend had shocked her. She suddenly felt very naïve. The world was far more complicated than she had been taught, and perhaps it was time she begin to make her own decisions about what she believed was true.

  Chapter Three

  “Papa, why cannot I go with you? I promise to be quiet. Nor will I beg for sweets. You know I am too grown up for that. I understand business meetings are important.” Vivienne’s begging face was almost too adorable to refuse. Her wide blue eyes shone with sincerity.

  It was not fair of him to leave her so often, but Alain persevered. “I’m sorry, but you must stay with Nounou Bernard. Later, I will take you to a park, perhaps one with a carousel.”

  His daughter’s pout was every bit Geneviéve’s. As Vivienne grew, her mannerisms, expressions, and demanding tone became more like her mother’s. Each similarity broke off a jagged bit of his heart, a sharp shard of memory of the childhood sweetheart he had married in haste. Both he and Geneviève had been headstrong in love and too young to understand where that drastic plunge would lead. Their marriage later took a miserable turn, but if not for Geneviève, he would not have had the joy of his life—his adored daughter.

  “Go then!” Vivienne flopped back onto a chair with an exaggerated sigh, even her springy curls seeming to droop with disappointment. Alain could already imagine her a decade from now disappointed at not being allowed to attend some party. At age seven she was still his petit chérie, but the day was approaching when he would have to let her go: to school, to friends, to a strange man, to a future he could not envision. He wanted desperately to cling, but, of course, Vivienne must fly away.

  Alain stooped to kiss the top of her head, warm and soft. “I will return soon.”

  As he picked up his sample case and hat, Madame Bernard smiled and nodded. “Do not worry. Vivienne and I have a busy day planned. Lessons to start with, but then a visit with the pigeons, I think.” Grooves of kindness marked the middle-aged nanny’s face. Alain could at least be comforted he’d chosen the perfect nurse to help him raise his precious, precocious child.

  “I do not know how I could manage without you, Madame. You are truly a godsend.”

  Shutting the door of his rented rooms and his guilt at leaving Vivienne, Alain focused on his first meeting of the day—this time by appointment rather than a spur of the moment drop in. Charbonnel et Walker was the premiere confectionery in London and he had managed to arrange a meeting with Madame Charbonnel herself. If she agreed to carry the Moreau brand, it would be a great attainment for his waning business.

  His father snorted in disdain. Four generations of Moreaus have made the finest chocolates exclusively sold in Parisian stores. That elite cache increases desire for our product. Selling them in any penny sweet shop could only detract from our brand name. It was your great-great grandfather’s belief and so it shall remain.

  No matter how often Alain had tried to explain that markets were global now—which their forbearers could not have envisioned—and it was time to expand, Father would not budge. The fact that Charbonnel’s was hardly a “penny sweet shop” would not impress him. While Alain mourned the loss of his stubborn, unyielding parent the previous year, he was ready to shoulder the burden of keeping the factory growing in this new century. His employees depended on him and he would not return to France empty-handed.

  As he rode across London on the Underground, Alain’s thoughts drifted to the charming Miss Sweet and her fledgling business. Competition was fierce in the world of sweets, which required large sales of a relatively inexpensive luxury item in order to make sufficient profit. He wondered if Miss Sweet realized she was up against legacy confectioneries with established clientele. Not to mention general stores and ice cream parlors all included a candy counter. The novice entrepreneur would need something unique to set her shop apart, an exclusive bonbon that could be purchased nowhere else.

  Like Moreau chocolates. If hers was the only shop in London to carry them, it might be just the draw she needed. But Alain had come to England to sell his product across the island. He must focus on that agenda and not the optimistic smile of a pretty shopkeeper which made him want to help her succeed.

  Be honest. Her smile made you want more than her success.

  For the first time in years, Alain found himself attracted to a woman—not the appreciation of a pretty face or figure from a casual glance, but on a deeper level. He had truly enjoyed Miss Sweet’s company yesterday. Her pure enthusiasm for her craft had reawakened his own delight in chocolate. Too many years of worry and responsibility had driven that simple joy from him. Miss Sweet reawakened his interest in more than one way.

  Having reached his stop, Alain prepared his pitch as he walked to Charbonnel et Walker on Old Bond Street. The Mayfair location of the elegant confectionery, opened in 1875, could not have been more auspicious. An enormous amount of foot traffic passed its corner location every day. Madame Charbonnel and Mrs. Walker were shrewd businesswomen, who had chosen to promote strictly their own brand. It would be a miracle if Alain could gain a foothold there.

  Taking a breath, he entered the glass doors and approached the counter, where a smiling salesgirl greeted him. “How may I help you today, sir?”

  “I am Alain Moreau. I have an appointment with Madame Charbonnel.”

  “Of course. She is expecting you. Please follow me.” The woman summoned another attendant to mind the counter and led Alain past dazzling displays of gourmet treats. Subdued lighting glimmered on silver platters. The floor was polished to a high sheen. No detail had been overlooked in this fine establishment, and customers browsed throughout the gleaming store.

  The salesgirl stopped outside an open office door and announced Alain to the proprietress. A thin woman with erect bearing and silver-white hair piled high rose from her chair to greet him in French. “Monsieur Moreau, I am so pleased to meet you. How pleasant to speak with a fellow countryman.”

  He responded with a bow, hoping their shared country of origin might go some way toward convincing her to consider his offer.

  Madame Charbonnel graciously ushered him to a seat. When Alain offered his sample case, she waved it away. “No need, Monsieur. The Moreau brand is very familiar to me. I worked at Maison Boissier before opening this shop. Chocolate has been my life, you might say.”

  Alain had supposed it was a long shot she would allow him shelf space in her store. The fact she would not sample his wares sealed it.

  “I realize, Madame, that you wish to primarily promote your own brand, but you might consider a small display of Moreau truffles. As you know, the brand has never been available outside of Paris until this past year. I have begun to sell throughout France and now hope to open Great Britain.”

  “I respect your ambition. I had that drive when I left Paris to begin my own chocolaterie.” She smiled. “It will be North America for you next, I suppose. What has driven you
to break from your policy of exclusivity?”

  “Expedience, Madame. Our share of the market diminishes. Moreau Chocolaterie must change with the times or die.”

  “True enough.” Charbonnel steepled her fingers and regarded him over the top. “It would be a shame to lose such a delightful truffle as the Mount Blanc. The creaminess of the white chocolate is divine. But you are correct in saying that Mrs. Walker and I have agreed to sell no chocolate other than our own.”

  Alain nodded, ready to slink away like a dog denied a bone.

  “However, I believe I might make an exception in this case.”

  He froze in shock at her incredible announcement.

  “As a gesture of my respect for your late father, whom I knew quite well, I will promote Moreau chocolates through the holiday season. Two crucial months of sales should give Londoners an opportunity to discover your brand. But”—she stopped him speaking by raising a finger—“your chocolates must be exclusive to our store during that time period. And if I should choose to extend the contract, this store would remain your sole outlet.”

  The opposite of the expansion he planned, and yet a marvelous opportunity to promote in a prominent business. How could he refuse? Had he not considered exclusivity at Candace Sweet’s Confectionery only minutes before? But while that would have been a gesture of kindness to aid a beginner, this felt more like surrender of control over his product.

  “What are your thoughts?” Charbonnel enquired, studying him as if she already read them.

  “I am beyond words,” Alain replied truthfully. “It would be a great honor, but I must consider the matter carefully.”

  To her credit, Charbonnel expressed neither surprise nor irritation that he did not immediately accept her offer. “But of course. You may call on me again in two days’ time with your answer. I shall have my secretary enter an appointment on my calendar.”

  She rose and offered her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Moreau. Please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your father. He was a dear man.”

  How dear? Alain wondered given her warm tone. Was she one of Father’s lady friends whom Mother had pretended did not exist until the end of her days?

  Married life is a tenuous cat’s cradle. We dare not break one thread for fear of collapse, his mother had warned him on the day of his nuptials. Alain had vowed his marriage would be built on trust and he would never falter in his devotion to his wife. He hadn’t counted on the opposite occurring.

  After bidding Madame Charbonnel good day, Alain left the busy confectionery and stopped for a moment on the pavement, trying to absorb the good fortune that had just befallen him. He should make calls around the city to learn if there were other options to consider. Instead, he started toward Miss Sweet’s shop once more. The young candy maker with the hopeful smile and sad eyes drew him, and her place was quite near his boarding house. He would make his visit brief before spending time with Vivienne as promised.

  Arriving at the store, he found the door open and the scent of burnt sugar wafting onto the street. When he entered, Miss Sweet and a woman with coppery hair were attempting to hang a red and white swag over the window. Both were perched on stepladders, while a handsome brunette woman with very erect posture imperiously called out directions. “A little higher, Rose. More to the left, Candace. That’s it. You’ve got it precisely even. Tack it.”

  “I’ve forgotten my hammer. It’s in the display window. Will you pass it up, Hattie?” The red-head stretched out a hand for the tool which her friend gave to her.

  With light taps and only one nail dropped, the ladies hammered home the bunting then climbed down to admire the effect.

  “I still wish you would’ve let me make a flower garland,” Rose said.

  “I fear it would have faded too soon and dropped petals on the candies in the window.” When Miss Sweet noticed Alain near the doorway, her face lit up in a welcoming smile. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Moreau. What is your opinion? A floral swag or bunting?”

  “What you’ve chosen is very eye catching, not to mention reusable. Practical.”

  Her smile widened as if his opinion mattered to her. “May I introduce Miss Rose Gardener. She owns the florist just down the street. And this is Miss Harriet Glover, our friend who operates the millinery.”

  Alain bowed. “Enchantée, Mademoiselles.”

  The women offered polite greetings, but he noticed Miss Gardener frowned as she studied him, as if searching for flaws. “Come over from France, have you?”

  “Oui. I own a chocolate factory there and hope to sell our product in this fine establishment.”

  She folded her arms and continued to regard him. “Hm.”

  The milliner, Miss Glover interrupted, “Our lunch break is nearly over. Shall we return to work, Rose?”

  “Perhaps one of us should stay to chaperone.”

  “It is quite all right,” Miss Sweet assured her friend. “Monsieur Moreau is a legitimate client. I trust him.”

  A little thrill shot through him as she proclaimed her trust. Then Miss Sweet and her overprotective friend exchanged a weighted glance, and Alain wondered if there might be some reason for Miss Gardener’s concern. Perhaps an event had taken place that made strange men suspect in her eyes. He decided he did not mind Miss Gardener’s sharp manner if it was on behalf of her friend.

  Alain met the redhead’s gaze with serious eyes. “I appreciate your caution. Please believe I have no ill intent, but am simply here to sell my chocolate.”

  The florist gave him one last hard look then seemed to come to some conclusion. Her nod left Alain unaccountably pleased that he had passed muster. “Very well then.”

  “Come along, Rose.” Their tall friend with the elegant chapeau gestured toward the open door.

  After the ladies had gone, Alain searched for words to fill the awkward silence. “Your shop appears ready, but do you feel prepared for your opening tomorrow?”

  “I did, until I broke my best mixing bowl and burned the sugar I meant to caramelize. My nerves are a bit jangled.” Miss Sweet looked around. “Do you really think the place is up to snuff? I know I cannot compete with Charbonnel et Walker, but I thought this location might serve a different sort of clientele. While there are those who will never stray from shopping on Bond Street, Providence is becoming a popular alternative for the younger set.”

  “I have no doubt you will do well.”

  Miss Sweet cleared her throat. “I would like to carry your brand, Monsieur, but after careful consideration, I don’t believe I can afford to at this time. Even if I could, it would require too great a mark-up for me to make much profit.”

  Her astute business sense made the woman all the more attractive to Alain. If they were to come to an agreement, he would need to offer her a low price. But, of course, the Charbonnel deal which would grant his brand a much higher profile. He shouldn’t even be considering Candace Sweet’s Confectionery as an option.

  “I did not stop here to press you on that score,” Alain assured her. “I have brought you a small gift, a tin of cocoa powder. With your permission, I will show you some techniques for making ganache.”

  Her eyes widened, every dark lash visible against her pale skin. “Oh, Monsieur, I would appreciate your tutelage more than you know. Beyond the wisdom Madame Lisette imparted, I have had no formal instruction in the culinary arts.”

  “I pray my critique yesterday did not discourage you. I believe with better cocoa and more experience, your already fine truffles will be perfected.” He regarded the rows of decorated truffles and petit fours. “Your embellishments are delightful, each design distinctive and exquisite.”

  Like you, his glib tongue wanted to compliment her.

  She ducked her head and blushed. “Thank you for your candid observations. I shall close the shop so we may retire to the kitchen.”

  Alain struggled to take his gaze from her rounded figure as she led the way. Honestly, he must quell his inappropri
ate interest in the proprietress. Geneviéve’s departure had effectively broken him. This was no time to rekindle romantic notions of any kind. Rebuilding the family business so Vivienne would never want for anything must remain his focus.

  In the kitchen, a burned pan soaked in the sink and the countertop was covered with spilled ingredients and tiny cups of colored frosting. Miss Sweet began to clean up. “I am not usually a messy cook, but my friends arrived to help hang the bunting so I had to leave everything.”

  “This is your domain and not the business of any visitor. May I help?” He did not wait for a reply to dampen a rag and wipe the counter.

  After clearing a space, Alain brought out the tin of cocoa powder from his case.

  She accepted his gift, opened it to inhale the aroma of roasted cacao beans ground as fine as talcum powder. “Oh my! So rich.” She dipped in a finger and tasted.

  The sight of her pursed lips around her finger incited a rumble like distant thunder in Alain’s lower region. He swallowed hard at the same moment Miss Sweet swallowed.

  “It is not at all acidic,” she said.

  “The alkalization process is very important because—” Alain suddenly could not recall why it mattered because his attention was riveted on Miss Sweet’s mouth.

  He blinked. “Ah, yes. Achieving perfect balance between acidic and alkaline is le plus important.” His English began to fail him as an erection introduced itself in his trousers. Mon dieu! If Miss Sweet discerned his reaction, she would send him away. And she would become aware soon enough if he didn’t get his body under control.

  Alain turned his attention to the familiar process of making ganache, a fine distraction. With cream from her icebox—the double entendre in that sentence was not lost on him—and sugar as well as a good quantity of cocoa powder, he whisked a thick chocolate suitable for filling rather than coating.

  He pulled the pan off the flame, cooled a spoonful and offered it to his pupil to taste, this time averting his eyes from her blissful expression.