As with last Saturday, I stop by the gatehouse after breakfast to say I’m expecting a servant, and then head to my room and get ready. It takes longer than I thought it would, my hair not wanting to dry today. I’m not in a rush, so no big deal.

When I leave the school, it’s a bit after eight o’clock, which gives me four hours if I want to make it back for lunch. I’m only really going to chat with Lottie, so that should be plenty of time.

The walk into town is easy enough to remember from last week, following the main road all the way to the river. It’s lively, a lot of people going to work or, no, it’s too late for that, so I guess just heading to the shops as they open. Looking closer, the people around are rather mother-and-small-children or probably-a-wife.

However, I didn’t spot a Lottie, so, um, which way did we come from last time? To the left, it goes further into the town proper, my sense of direction mildly confident that that’s where a lot of the shops I saw last time are. To the right, it’s mostly residential… I think.

I mean, if it wasn’t a far walk to Lottie’s house from the plaza, it’s probably on the left side, right?

But… how far did I walk with the lost child?

Shaking away my hesitation, I decide to decide, otherwise at risk of spending all day misremembering. With all my decisiveness, I go left.

The shops I see are familiar, and it’s not long before I end up in that same plaza. There’s no child crying this time. Well, not an unattended one. I awkwardly shuffle around the edge of the space, seeing if I recognise the streets, but I’d been more focused on looking for a worried nanny than my surroundings.

Again, rather than dwell, I forge onwards. That said, I still stick to the bigger roads. So I walk for a while longer, and check the side streets as I go in case I see something familiar. I wish I’d at least remembered the road name she lived on so I could ask someone for directions.

That thought in mind, I spot a bakery. I might not be able to remember anything useful, but Lottie said she was coming back from buying bread, right? So then, maybe it was this bakery and the person knows her and maybe even knows where she lives.

I’ll leave it to you to think, “Wow, Nora’s a genius!”

It’s a simple enough shop, a glass storefront with a few loaves and other bakery things on display, as well as a scrawled notice that I don’t bother reading. A sign above the door reads “BAKER’S GOODS” in bold white text on a black background, loopy white detailing around the edge. A blackboard is out the front, listing the price of a loaf and insisting it’s so low that it’s basically stealing.

I step inside, a bell above the door ringing. A man pops up from behind the counter and it would’ve given me a real fright if I was closer. As it is, I just breathed in sharply.

“Ah, fresh face!” he says, his tone jovial and face matching.

My first impression is that he’s a father, you know? A kind of big guy, wearing an apron, a touch of flour in his hair, goofy smile. If he has a daughter, I’m sure he’s a regular at the tea parties and knows all the blends.

Coming around the counter, he asks, “Yer here fer the job?”

I’m pulled out of my thoughts and into a handshake, his large hands easily covering mine. It’s a surprisingly gentle handshake, though, perhaps because baking requires a tender touch?

Wait, I’m getting distracted. “Job?”

“Ah, yeah, it’s be’n rough since Jenny tied the knot,” he says, gently smiling as sadness tugs at his eyes.

I tuck a hand into my pocket and pull out a handkerchief to offer to him. He shakes his head, getting himself back to normal with a good sniff.

“Don’t worry fer me,” he says, even his accent calming down… a little.

“Well, um, congratulations.”

He grins, rubbing the back of his head. “Never a sadder day, never a happier one than handing over yer daughter to her sweetheart.”

I’ll take his word for it. “So, that is….”

“Ah, yeah, the job,” he says, picking up where he left off as he circles back around the counter. “Bless Jenny, she’s good with numbers. Takes me a minute to count out a bit of change. So that’s what I’m looking fer, yeah?”

He looks at me expectantly. I, well, I say, “Yes.”

“Good lass,” he says, grinning. “What hours?”

I mean, you know, I am short of money. And just like that, a switch is flipped. I settle into a polite smile. “Well, I’m afraid I can only work weekends, and I need to get home before it’s dark.”

“Not local, aye? Knew yer new.” He chortles at his own joke(?), while I offer a polite chuckle. Once he finishes, he asks, “Ah, yer got some’un that can vouch fer ye?”

“Oh,” I say, brain buzzing. “Oh yes. Do you know Lottie, and her daughter Gwen?”

“Friend of Mrs Grocer, eh?” he says.

I hesitate, but do nod. “She looked after me when I was little.”

“Ah, right, she did something like that.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. I worry he maybe knows just who she worked for before coming here. However, that’s put to rest when he suddenly claps his hands and stares straight at me. “Ah, names. Pete Baker.”

He offers me his hand again. A moment of thought, and I say, “Ellie Kent.”

“Kent, eh? Relative of the duke?” he asks, his tone light, as we shake hands.

“Yes, but he hasn’t sent me an allowance, so I’m looking to earn a little spending money.”

He gives me a long look and then bursts into laughter. “Aye, yer a right little riot, ain’t ya?”

I smile politely.

His face loses the jolliness as he starts thinking aloud. “Well then, let’s see…. Say we call it ten to five, then sixpence, yeah?”

I have no clue if that’s good. It’s occurring to me now that, in this lifetime, I’ve literally not so much as seen a single coin. Well, my early arithmetic lessons involved money maths and I played with some coins then, so I’m being a bit dramatic. Incidentally, this is old money—not a hundred pennies to the pound. Twelve pennies to a shilling, twenty shillings to a pound. Handy when you’re dealing with dozens (a dozen eggs for a shilling, then each egg is a penny), but, well, there’s a reason we swapped over. I’m not sure what that reason is, but it’s probably a good one.

As for whether this is a good wage….

I look around at the prices of the bread on sale. “So you’re saying if I work today and tomorrow, I can just afford a loaf?” I ask, no hint of accusation in my voice.

He glances to the side. “That’s a family loaf,” he mutters.

That’s fair. A quarter loaf, that would…. Over a few seconds, I’ve converted pennies into sandwiches. From that point of view, my pay is about one sandwich an hour, so I would be able to eat and have money for fillings and a bit left over for each day I work.

But I’m sure there’s a halfpenny more I could earn.

“I am quick with money and very polite when handling customers,” I say. It’s only natural to lie, ah, exaggerate when applying for jobs, right?

“Well,” he says, drawing it out as he rubs his chin. “Tell ye what, we’ll play it by ear, yeah? Sixpence and I’ll throw in another penny if ye work hard.”

“Yes, sir!”

The uniform here is just an apron and he has his daughter’s old one around, so I wear that. Then he gives me the tour of the products, which is one wall of shelves, the window display, and a table. It’s a lot less bread than I expected, but I guess there’s other bakers in the town. Or maybe weekends are quieter.

Anyway, all I really have to remember is the price for the peck, half-peck, and quartern loaves—which is a shilling (twelve pence), half a shilling (sixpence), and a quarter of a shilling (thruppence), so not exactly hard. The rolls are a tuppence and cakes (rectangular sponge things) a shilling. For anything else, I can just ask him since he’ll be around in the back of the shop.

So begins my day of work. It’s ten o’clock, I think, my sense of time not as terrible as my sense of direction. A few women come in, each quite a different age. It’s silly to say that. I mean, I know there are women of all ages, but I kind of have these groups in my head that I want to put them in. There’s young women, mothers, and grandmothers. That’s really silly, isn’t it?

At lunchtime, he lets me choose a roll (from the back) to eat. It’s not half bad, but I’ve been spoiled by butter and jams. While I’m chewing, I wonder if Lottie took that into consideration last week, if they normally have anything on their lunch sandwiches, or only butter. The pâté did add a strong flavour.

In the afternoon, I sell a couple of cakes and rolls, as well as a handful of loaves. I guess people like to hold parties on the weekend when it won’t interfere with work as much. Sunday is supposed to be religious, so maybe they don’t have parties then? Maybe they’re buying today for tomorrow?

Whatever the reason, it doesn’t matter to me. Pete knows what he’s doing. At least, he probably does.

As for what I’m doing, I think I’m leaving a good impression on the customers. The older ladies especially coo about how polite I am (and how pretty and wouldn’t I meet her grandson—he’s nearly finished his apprenticeship and will be making enough to treat me to tea and cake twice a week). My only regret is that I can’t send the kids home with a slice of cake. It breaks my heart knowing so many children are going unspoiled.

So the afternoon passes, at least until halfway through.

The bell at the door rings and I perk up, smiling politely and standing straight and all that. “Welcome, ma’am,” I say.

And then I realise who has entered.

Lottie looks at me. It’s, well, it’s a familiar look from my childhood. Not an upset or angry or disappointed look, it’s the look of someone who is thinking through the situation and deciding the best course of action.

Usually, this look was followed by a sternly said, “Miss Nora.”

Today, she simply shakes her head.

I guess Pete was checking who came in, because he shuffles over behind me and then joins me at the counter. “Mrs Grocer, good to see ye,” he says.

“Please, call me Lottie,” she says as she lightly curtseys. At her side, Gwen does as well, and it melts my heart—I guess it’s not just my mother weak to a good curtsey from a little girl.

“I will when ye call me Pete,” he replies, and I can hear his grin.

She giggles behind her hand, coming to the counter. Her gaze slips across from him to me. “I see you found yourself some help.”

“Aye, lass popped in this morning. Say, she says the two of ye go back—Ellie Kent, that right?”

Her smile looks nothing but sweet, and yet it deeply unsettles me, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Yes. She’s a good girl.”

I let out a relieved sigh.

“In fact, I don’t suppose I could take her off your hands along with my usual?” she asks.

He chortles, his fingers drumming on the counter. “Go on, then. Not like the bread’s hot.”

I hear everything they say, but it takes a second for it to go through my brain. “Ah, um,” I say, mouth failing to ask any of the questions on the tip of my tongue.

“Don’t mind, sixpence, yeah?” he says, picking out coins. “And back tomorrow, yeah?”

“Um, yes?”

“Good lass,” he says and he puts my pay into my hand. “I’ll keep the apron, though.”

“Oh, yes,” I mumble, taking off the apron.

Once Lottie pays for a loaf (half-peck), she leads me outside. I’m not exactly out of it, but their conversation kind of put me into “passive” mode, so I’m just waiting to see what happens. She turns around, looking at me with a serious expression.

“When you reached the river, did you go left or right?”

I think for a second and then I can’t help but grin at her. “You know me so well.”

She replies with a wry smile.

After she puts away her loaf of bread into a shoulder bag, she takes Gwen’s one hand and has me take the other—children should always hold hands to avoid getting lost when out and about.

“Will miss be going back to the school now?”

The way she says it irritates me a little, but I can’t say why. “Do I have to?”

She softly laughs, shaking her head. And so we head back to her house.