Page 10 of His Spirited Lady
Amelia fought the urge to rationalize. She was a young woman who wasn’t supposed to make her own money. Therefore, any number larger than zero at the bottom of the column was a success. It should be enough.
But it wasn’t. What good was making the best whiskey in Norfolk if you were stuck with small batches that disappeared in a week? How did it help to employ the young menandwomen in Thetford if they didn’t have dependable income? Why do this at all if she couldn’t support herself?
Amelia placed the ledger next to the labels and turned her back on the table, walking toward the opposite door. “Good. I believe her family needs the funds.”
The third room was dominated by two copper pot stills, their bulbous bellies topped by graceful swan necks, tethered to condenser columns. The hot, humid air was so full of flavor that it coated Amelia’s tongue.
“The boys pulled the wheat out of the drying room this morning and started the mash,” Drake said as he pointed to one large tub. “Though they turned their noses up at the figs. What made you think of them for flavor?”
“We had a fig sherbet at the Gerards’ ball before we left for London,” Amelia said. “I kept thinking it would taste wonderful with barley.”
“Far be it from me to second-guess your palate.” Drake ushered her to the opposite still. “This should be ready to distill tomorrow.”
Distilling would take all day, and she’d likely walk away with a case, maybe two. “It won’t be enough, will it?”
“It will be another small batch,” he said. “But done in succession, those batches; white whiskey is helping fill the coffers while the other ages.”
Help.Not fill them. Not since the business had expanded beyond her working alone in an abandoned shed with a still the size of a pumpkin. Not since she had a loan to repay to the London Ladies Charity Circle, who had advanced the funds for the desks, the payroll, the additional bottles and ingredients. The building. Everything but the barrels, which still needed to be sourced.
The ladies would review her ledgers in a month and find her a poor investment. Especially since her first aged whiskey would be bottled in the same week as the circle meeting.
The challenge of transitioning from white whiskey to aged spirits had intrigued Amelia, reminding her of why she’d begun distilling in the first place. Now she stood in this room, equally pleased by the business she controlled and terrified of failure. If she tapped those barrels in a month only to find scum or—worse—poison, it would be humiliating. She’d lose the inheritance from her first mother, the only money she could call her own.
She’d lose the ability to make her own future.
“I need more options, Drake.”
He was quiet for several seconds, his hands clasped behind his back. His waistcoat strained across his chest as he stared at his boots, which reflected the light in the room. His brow furrowed as his chin shifted from side to side, contorting his mouth and his jaws. She’d never seen anyone think so visibly yet remain quiet.
He looked to her and nodded. Finally. “Leave it to me.”
*
Richard tugged atthe knot in his cravat. At home, he only wore it to society dinners and the theatre—if he couldn’t escape an invitation. While he’d packed his evening suit, he’d hoped to avoid wearing it. Especially in Norfolk, where Oliver had assured him daily life was much like theirs in Quebec. That apparently didn’t extend to supper with neighbors.
Across the coach, Oliver ran a finger between his collar and his neck.
“You two,” Thea sighed. “You’d think they were nooses.”
Oliver cast an obvious eye at her fashionably low neckline.
His wife smacked him on the shoulder. “I will trade you a corset for a cravat any day.” Despite her grumbling, she smiled. It deepened when Oliver took her hand.
It is just like Quebec, Richard thought. A couple, very much in love, out for the evening. Their tagalong brother in their wake, sharing the joke.
Though he wasn’t anyone’s brother now, not really. And Julia had loved parties, while Thea seemed to share Oliver’s dread. And their love seemed older, more settled, than the newlyweds they were. It was as though it had never lessened, never been interrupted by anyone else.
Richard wished he had chosen to ride alongside the carriage. The fall chill would have been a welcome distraction.
“You’ll like Augustus Chitester,” Oliver said. “He’s not one to stand on ceremony, despite his relation to the Marquess of Ramsbury, who is the most insufferable man I’ve ever met.”
“Even worse than Moneybags Malone?” Richard asked. Malone had been the first banker to back them, but he’d pulled out after Julia’s death because they’d brought a colicky Simon to a business meeting.
“No one is worse than Malone,” Oliver said. “Closed-minded curmudgeon.”
“What about the Earl of Lambourn?” Thea asked. “Or the Duke of Shrewsbury?” She winked at Richard. “Or the—”
“Fine. I take your point.” Oliver pointed his finger at his wife, his smile wide. “But just because I complain doesn’t mean it isn’t true, Your Grace.”
