Of all the things in the aromatic, tidy kitchen at Shaw’s Chocolate, Esmée’s favorite was the chocolate stone. Made of white Italian marble and placed at one end of the long worktable, it was the heart of a chocolatier’s trade. Heated, the stone began melting the cocoa nibs even before she pressed her rolling pin to the brittle mass. She applied sure, even strokes born of years’ experience by her mother’s side, and the gritty nibs began to liquefy beneath her hands, releasing the most exquisite fragrance to be had indoors.
Around her the kitchen hummed, the indentured servants at different tasks. Simon was out back, grinding the cocoa at the hopper. Molly was but a few feet away from Esmée, molding a batch of soft, sugared chocolate in tiny tins, while Anna wrapped and stamped bricks of chocolate before carrying them to the storefront for display.
Father preferred Esmée out front. She drew customers as much as the merchandise, he oft said, remembering names and preferences and prior orders. But when her spirit grew troubled, she retreated to the kitchen, losing or at least solacing herself with the work. Within these walls were memories of her beloved mother, warm, rich, and sweet.
Shaw’s Chocolate was Mama’s doing. Mama’s vision. But it was Esmée’s dowry and the place where she invested herself. One of two places where she felt a tie to her mother.
Even now her thoughts of a certain captain and a certain ship and a ball gown that lacked lace trim faded to the far reaches as she poured a waterfall of Maracaibo sugar onto the chocolate stone, then rolled and mixed the mass till all was smooth. Next, she reached for a small tin, extracted orange peel, added it to the mixture, then threw in a dash of vanilla and more sugar. Bittersweet became a more delicately flavored chocolate. With a swipe of her finger she sampled it, waiting a discerning second before her eyes went wide with delight.
Chocolate perfection.
Molly chuckled. “’Tis a wonder, mistress, yer not broad as a bulkhead with all the cocoa butter ye partake.”
Smiling, Esmée took another lick. She had gained a stone since . . . She forced herself to finish the untimely thought. Since the captain last saw me. She took a wooden tool and scraped the melted chocolate into a waiting bowl to cool.
Anna stopped her stamping. “Is it true yer father has ordered a hand mill from Boston, Miss Shaw?”
Nodding, Esmée poured another pound of cocoa nibs onto the stone. “Not only a hand mill but a large grinder that produces one hundred weight of chocolate in six hours.”
“I second that!” Simon shouted through the back door.
“Chocolate’s becoming the beverage of choice for colonists,” Esmée said, “if for no other reason than the crown’s infernal tax on tea.”
“Glad I am that cocoa sails straight from the Caribbean and England has no say.” Molly began picking out the chocolates that didn’t pass muster. “I’m drinking so much coffee lately I nearly forget what tea tastes like!”
Esmée ceased her rolling as Josiah poked his head into the kitchen from the shop entrance. “Widow Oake to see you, Miss Shaw.”
“Let’s trade places then.” Esmée handed him the roller, washed her hands, and exchanged her soiled apron for a clean one with a readiness she was far from feeling.
“Good morning, Miss Shaw.” The widow’s chilly smile seemed no more genuine than paste gems. Beneath her beribboned hat, Charlotte Oake’s eyes held no warmth. “I would rather deal with you than the help.”
“What do you buy?” Esmée replied, hoping to conclude their business as quickly as possible. Charlotte’s maid stood in back of her, wearing a timid smile.
Esmée’s gaze flew from the calendar proclaiming it the first of October to the clock Father had taken down. Time seemed to stop when the Oakes appeared. The widow was fond of reminding Esmée she was not among York’s founding families but an outsider, an easterner.
Still, Esmée tried to be cordial and fill the lengthy silence. “How goes it at the Royal Oake?”
“All our rooms are full at present.” Charlotte moved about the charmingly arranged shop, her gloved hand touching this or that. “I’m in need of chocolate for our table. Certain gentlemen lodgers seem especially fond of such.”
As Charlotte passed by a front window, her gown caught the light, the celestial blue silk cascading like a ruffled wave to her elegantly shod feet. From London, likely. Her father-in-law insisted on London-made goods.
Esmée gestured to the recently stocked shelves. “We’ve a new array of flavors—anise, Ceylon cinnamon, nutmeg, and Madagascar vanilla if you’d like a taste.”
“Vanilla, then.” When Esmée passed her a sample, Charlotte pursed her lips as if she’d been handed a lemon instead. “I find Shaw’s no match for the chocolatiers in New York and Philadelphia.”
Esmée bit her lip. She’d never visited the foremost city chocolatiers. Could those goods be that much superior? Though theirs was a humble shop, they did their best to turn out a quality product.
“How do you recommend preparing your hot beverages?” Charlotte asked.
“Hot cocoa? I simply add powdered chocolate and sugar to steamed milk, stirring all the while. Once it’s off the fire, whir the milk mixture with a hand mill till frothy.”
“Milk, not water?”
“Milk makes for a richer drink.”
“I’ll take this pewter chocolate pot with the lidded hand mill, then, though I cower at the price.” Charlotte passed it to Esmée with a frown. “And five of your best bricks of chocolate.” Drifting to the display of other confections, she pointed to a chocolate tart Molly had baked that morning. “And this.”
As Esmée wrapped her purchases, she was nearly undone by the widow’s scrutiny.
“How is your sister, Lady Drysdale? I rarely see her in York these days.”
Though Eliza had been married two years, Esmée oft forgot her sister’s formal title. “She is busy with Williamsburg pursuits now that she resides there.”
“I’d heard you might open a second chocolate shop in the capital.” Charlotte gestured for her maid to take the purchases. “’Tis said your sister has been talking of such. Rather a step down for a titled woman to still be meddling in matters of commerce, is it not?”
The jibe barely skimmed Esmée’s conscience. A second shop? More indentures. More machinery. More labor. And more cross, inquiring customers like the Oakes. Esmée returned the matter to Eliza’s lap.
“My sister shall be happy to enlighten you on the matter if you ask her.” Esmée knotted the string binding the purchases and passed them over the counter to the maid.
“Come along, Verity,” Charlotte said at last. “We’ve the chandler to see next.”
The petty tension dissolved at the closing of the shop door, which soon jingled open again as other customers entered. Half an hour later Esmée returned to the kitchen to gather chocolate for a delivery while Simon readied the pony cart outside. ’Twas her day to visit the almshouse, following Mama’s habit.
Leaving the indentures to mind the shop, Esmée took the reins in hand and sought the end of Water Street heading north, blessedly free of her sister’s lofty trappings and title, no lady’s maid in pursuit. After the heat of the shop, the afternoon seemed cool, clouds piled as high as meringue and snuffing the sun. The road to the almshouse followed the coast with a sweeping view of the water, thus making it more pleasure than chore. Already the coastal landscape wore the robust mantle of autumn.