Aha! Just as he suspected. This window was a china shop. The perfect sort of place from which to outfit his very-much-hypothetical tea room.
Perhaps Brighton was just the place.
John was not part of the beau monde, but the social whirl was not what had drawn him to this particular beach. Nor was it the clear skies and the invigorating air and the squawk of birds and the sweeping coastline, with its miles of velvety soft sand dotted with horse-drawn bathing machines and accentuated with a long promenade of Fashionable Company.
What had attracted him was the predictability. Everything happened on a schedule. Brighton was a recipe town, exactly as John liked it. Rise at dawn. Take a restorative dip in the sea. (Recommended timing: between dawn and ten.) Have breakfast, which was served at specific hours.
Assembly rooms held to an even stricter schedule. Cards on certain days, tea and coffee at established hours, balls one specific night per week.
And all of it by subscription! There were no riotous crowds in the bathing houses or the promenades or the circulating libraries or the music galleries or the billiard rooms.
If you wished to smoke a cigar whilst playing a rubber of whist, there was a specific time and place for you to do so. Arrive on time, wear the right clothes, pay your shillings, pass the butler’s inspection… That was how to keep things going to plan.
These were John’s people! Know the law. Follow the recipe. No making things up as you go along. It was impossible for things to go wrong when you knew exactly what to do and to expect.
The temporary pâtisserie takeover had failed because he had been forced to make unprecedented decisions without adequate preparation. His lists had not included “contingency plan for the cash-box girl breaking her arm after slipping on the milk the delivery boy spilled whilst the kitchen burst into an impromptu inferno.”
But he had learned many important lessons. When he opened his tea room, all would go according to plan, because this time, John would plan for everything.
If something wasn’t in his plan, he simply wouldn’t allow it in his life. Easy as that.
The scent of frying fish reached his nose. His stomach growled in response. He could not help but peer through the next window at a lively restaurant.
That was exactly the sort of reaction he wished his tea room to engender. He wanted to satiate thirst and fill hungry bellies. Most of all, John wanted to bring joy to others. To him, food was happiness.
He wanted to give people something delicious and nourishing. Something that was a part of their lives and their gatherings and their parties. Something that made life sweeter. Something that made life better, if only for one afternoon.
A gaggle of tittering young ladies passed on the street opposite. The boldest one wiggled her fingers in a subtle wave.
He pretended not to notice.
If he had returned the greeting, they might have crossed here where it was unsafe. More importantly, Brighton young ladies were on the hunt for husbands, and John was not on the market. Not now, after the disaster with Vivian. Perhaps not for many more years.
The young ladies watched him behind their ivory fans, their gazes coquettish. Despite the white scar on his face—or perhaps because of it—they thought he cut a romantic figure. He gripped his walking stick tighter.
Now that the war was over, strangers assumed John’s limp was due to him being a dashing soldier who barely survived a treacherous battle…not a fusty solicitor whose legs had grown at different rates due to a childhood infection that paralyzed his limbs. John supposed it was indeed an epic battle that he had barely survived, but as it did not involve cannons or military uniforms, it was best to leave his past to the imagination.
That was the other advantage of Brighton. Everyone John knew was in London. Here, he could be anonymous. Stroll down the Parade of shops in his favorite blue-and-green spangled waistcoat without fear of running into his harried colleagues with their piles of documents. Or innocent customers in search of a marzipan biscuit only to be hit in the face with billowing smoke instead.
He hadn’t told Vivian what happened.
First of all, she had already jilted him at that point, and second of all, she would have only looked down her nose and said I told you so. Or worse, offer to marry him after all, so long as he gave up his silly dreams.
She had agreed to be courted by a solicitor, not a chef. Solicitors had more class—and more money. Was he mad? For the ton, chefs were servants, for God’s sake. Yes, yes, he would have his own shop, but who wanted a man that worked odd hours and came home every night smelling of all the things he had cooked for other people all day?
Vivian was no more aristocratic than John was, but with her dowry and her beauty, she could aim a wee bit higher. She certainly wouldn’t slide down the ladder on purpose. She’d said it was a good thing he’d shown his true colors now, while she still had time to find someone better.
John had felt like a cake removed too soon from the oven. Depressed on top and sloppy inside.
He hadn’t been in love, at least. For him, love was an unpredictability best avoided, and for Vivian, love was only chased by fools. She was too practical to let her heart get in the way of her plans. A trait John had admired. A trait he shared.
It was just that he had hoped to find—
What was this?
He reached the end of the street and gazed in wonder at the empty little shop on the corner. Windows on two sides. One wall facing the street, the other toward the beach.
The sign in the window read:
* * *
For Sale
Inquire Within
* * *
His heart beat faster. It looked like it had been a restaurant. Perhaps it had failed because the kitchen was too small and the dining area too large for the previous owner’s needs. But grand and tiny all at once was exactly what John was looking for.
Would they let him rent it for the summer? Or would the lease need to be for the rest of the year?
Brighton was expensive, but John had money. He could afford to lease for a couple of years before needing to turn a profit. Possibly even three years, if necessary.
Of course, that was not the plan. The plan was to make a splash. To not just break even, but to become as much a destination as the assembly rooms or the taverns or the racetrack.
“Oh, you’re going to Brighton for the summer? You absolutely must take tea in the coziest little corner shop with brilliant views of the sea… It’s like Gunter’s, but better. You’ll adore it, trust me.”
There was movement in the back of the shop. A young gentleman with ruddy cheeks and artfully disheveled hair.
John knocked on the window.
The gentleman raised his brows and came forward to unlock the door.
“Good afternoon.” John smiled. “I adore your shop.”
“It was my grandfather’s, not mine,” said the gentleman. “And it’s not a shop anymore. Are you an interested party?”
“Very,” John gushed.
This was the wrong way to negotiate, but he could not help himself. The location was perfect. The stars had aligned. His head was already planning all the lists of things to do to turn the empty shop into the tea room of his dreams.
“May I let it for the summer?”
The gentleman shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
“For a year, then. I’ll pay up front.”