A Night In Grosvenor Square by Sarah M. Eden & Annette Lyon & Heather B. Moore

Author:Sarah M. Eden & Annette Lyon & Heather B. Moore
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: 0
Published: 2018-01-22T16:00:00+00:00

That evening, Anne opened the front of the oven. Protecting her hand with a thick dishcloth, she took out the last of tomorrow’s breakfast scones—these ones made with blueberries and lemon zest. They smelled delicious, making her stomach rumble. As if one of the fates knew how tempting they were, Anne watched, first in dismay but then with a little glee, as the smallest scone, one at the corner of the baking sheet, slipped off and landed on the dirty floor. She slid the baking tray onto the wood counter, then picked up the hot scone. She blew on it several times, inhaling the deliciousness, then set it aside. That one wouldn’t be able to be sold; aside from any dirt that might have gotten on it, the scone had broken apart. Blueberry filling marked the floor, and the flaky pastry was dented.

What a shame. It would serve as her supper. She hadn’t managed to find the time to eat this evening, but more than that, having food she didn’t have to pay for meant she could stash the saved pennies into her saving jar. With every coin that pinged as it fell into her jar, she imagined what she could purchase with it. A whisk, a wooden spoon, a tablecloth, a table. One chair, then two. An apron. And on and on.

With the scones cooling, she turned to the ice cream mold that she’d set to harden earlier. It was another order for foreign officials gathered this week in Grosvenor Square. Soon enough, she had the ice cream basket completed and prepared to make the walk as quickly as she could to the Hampton mansion, which was in Grosvenor Square proper. She didn’t have to go walking through the mews behind the hotel. That meant a more pleasant walk but also a slightly longer one. She’d have to hurry, or the detail on the ice cream would become blurred as it melted. She carried the treat in a pail and locked the back door of the shop behind her.

She’d long been used to walking alone in the dark; she’d had to do so most months of the year thanks to the distance to the boardinghouse. Sometimes she could afford to pay for a ride, but she rarely did, and even when she could, she preferred to stash the pennies into her jar. This walk was more comfortable, however; while her boardinghouse didn’t sit in the worst part of London, it wasn’t the best area, either. Thieves, robbers, and ladies of the night were known to take up there. But the Mayfair district was one of the best. This was where the upper crust of Society spent their time. Poorer folk couldn’t afford to eat, let alone live, in Mayfair.

This district had a greater number of streetlamps, for which she was grateful, as they provided fewer shadowy places for unsavory individuals to hide in. Tonight, the nearly full moon brightened her surrounding all the more, almost as if she carried a lamp.

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