Book I The Blunder

Chapter 1

October 2, 1525

Muriel O’Hanlan woke with a twinge of a headache, immediately angry with herself for trying to catch a mule in a thunderstorm. She should have let it go. Even if she had to spend a day in search of the wily beast who had broken out of his small pen, she should have never risked the lightning.

She rubbed her forehead and blinked her eyes open, acrid nearby odors making her nose wrinkle. She was outside under a cloudy, but not a rainy, sky. Her mind registered pain in her hand, and she turned her head to the right and gasped.

Yanking her hand out from under her mule’s grotesque smile, she scrambled to her feet, her breathing coming in great rasps as she looked into the face of her charred friend. She’d grabbed his halter just before the lightning strike, so he came with her, although, since not vaccinated to be able to jump through time, he’d been fried.

Muriel looked around, panicking, having no idea what time period she had landed in. Remembrance of the book she’d been reading before the mule had broken through the fence flooded her thoughts, and anxiety hit her anew.

The sound of horses had her whipping her head around, her still-damp auburn hair flinging into her face. Stepping quickly to a bush with leaves turning gold
and red, she ducked down as what looked like a royal procession was trotting up a road a hundred feet or so from her position.

Buildings pulled at the corner of her eye, and she turned her head to take in a conglomeration of large and small stone and brick buildings, so close together, they appeared to be connected like modern townhouses.

But there was nothing modern about them.

She gulped and brought her eyes back to those on horseback heading toward this populated center, as the smell of water—possibly a river—broke through the odor of her barbecued mule. The riders were elegantly attired and sat ram-rod straight on their mounts. She squinted
at the man in the middle of the group, who stood out among them with a regal air. They had obviously had a successful hunt with several stags draped over several horses.

Muriel waited, shivering in her simple cotton dress, until they were well past before rising and pulling a damp book out of her apron pocket. Her vision blurred and she feared a faint as she read the cover—Henry VIII and the Commonwealth of England.

***

“I’ve run inta a spot of trouble,” Muriel told the woman milking a goat in a barn on the edge of Greenwich Village.

The woman looked her up and down, and Muriel realized her dress and apron from the early 20th century didn’t match the styles of Tudor England.

“Be ye lost?” the woman asked with a couple missing teeth, her graying brown hair nearly invisible under a stiff scarf that sat on her head like a discarded dishcloth.

“I’m sure I must look it.” Muriel wondered what might be an acceptable explanation for a woman
out alone, looking bedraggled. “My. . . husband has died, and. . . his father kicked me out. I’m lookin’ for employment. I’m a baker.” She swept a strand of hair behind her ear being blown about by the breeze. “A good one.”

The woman went back to milking, a surly expression on her face. “Men are beasts.” Then she tossed her head toward the house. “You’re in luck, as the mistress’s baker was given the boot but yesterday. If you can bake as you say, she’ll see you as a gift from heaven.”

Muriel smiled, wondering what she’d think if she knew the way Muriel had arrived. “I thank ya. I’ll inquire after the position.”

She turned to head toward the house, when the woman said in a lowered voice. “Just watch yourself with the husband. A pretty thing like you will no doubt draw his eye.” Her gaze moved up. “Best cover your hair.”

Muriel gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Beasts indeed. I thank ya for the warnin’.”

Muriel had nothing to cover her hair but a large handkerchief she pulled out of her apron pocket and
not one hairpin to keep it in place. She stuffed it back in, hoping it wouldn’t matter for an initial meeting and plaited it into a long, fat braid that reached the middle of her back.

The mistress of the house was a rather small
woman, several inches shorter than Muriel with a pale complexion, who introduced herself as Bess. Her blue eyes were close set to a narrow nose, and a small amount of blond hair showed in front of her head covering, this

one looking like a wee house on her head with a peaked roof. She did seem to interpret Muriel’s arrival as a divine portent and ushered her straight to a building away from the house.

Muriel wasn’t surprised that the kitchen wasn’t a part the main house. Though somewhat inconvenient, smoke and fire hazards made it a wise investment, with increased status as a bonus. The peasants couldn’t afford such a luxury and just had to live with smoky interiors and the occasional burned-down cottage.

They walked into a room with a split purpose. To the right was a hearth with a large pot hanging in it, and to the left was a brick-fired oven with a wooden door. An arched doorway straight ahead most likely led to the larder, as she could see shelves holding all manner of crocks and baskets. In the center were work counters with two stools.

A pudgy balding man came out of the larder holding a bowl filled with turnips and stopped at the sight of them. She’d guess his age to be nearing fifty.

“Edward, this is Muriel O’Hanlan, and she would like to be our new baker.”

The man gave a derisive snort as he continued on into the room. “What would a Scottish woman know about English baking?”

“Irish,” Muriel stated without apology.
He sneered. “Even worse.”
She wandered over to the pot hanging in the hearth

and peered into a stew of some kind. “I take it you’re the cook.” She nearly gagged to see pigs’ feet floating in the mess of ingredients, but she composed her face. She might have to be working closely with this man.

Petite Bess pulled out a surprising tone of authority when she lifted her chin and said. “If she is not a drunk, she is a step up from the last Englishman to bake in my kitchen.”

Cook Edward pursed his lips but had no retort.

Bess turned to Muriel with a slight smile. “Let us see what she can do.”

After giving her a tour of the larder, she left Muriel to bake some bread as a test of her abilities. She found a linen towel to use as a head covering and got to work. Grateful that she was a student of history—especially of cooking and baking—she soaked the oven door in
a tub of water she filled at a convenient pump nearby, then started a fire before she gathered the necessary ingredients.

Edward all but ignored her while he chopped vegetables.

She didn’t really mind. She was used to working alone. A memory of Oliver Nilsson making muffins in her bakery in Cripple Creek popped into her head then, making a liar out of her thoughts. The tall, broad, strong redhead would be welcome in her kitchen anytime.

Shaking off the memory, she mixed and kneaded, then waited for the dough to rise. She felt awkward just sitting there watching it, but she didn’t trust this Edward not to sabotage her dough in some way if she went out for a breath of cooler air. She couldn’t imagine what this room would feel like in the summer. Even with windows open, she was roasting with a fire on both sides of the room.

Edward puttered around, stirring herbs and spices into his stew, and Muriel felt herself spiraling in the heat and her own anxiety. She wished Oliver hadn’t invaded her thoughts, as she once again scolded herself for ever trying to deceive the man. What would be different now if she’d told Oliver she had been a spy for Lawson and Kravitz and their gold-stealing business as soon as she realized the goodness of the man’s heart?

As soon as she felt herself falling for him.

She moved to stand in front of the window, pulling the sweaty bodice of her dress out from her sweat-slick skin, trying to divert her thoughts from the man she’d probably never see again by considering what she could bake in this time.

Though there was yeast and sour dough starter, there was no baking powder or baking soda yet, which meant no muffins, biscuits, or high-rising cakes, and worst of all, no scones. She would have to get creative with what was available to her.

Finally, her dough had risen sufficiently, and she swept the ashes out of the oven, even as she tried to sweep the ashes of the past out of her mind. She slid
the bread into the oven on a special tile for that purpose, reserving a bit of dough to seal the water-logged door. Then she sat again, feeling exhausted, and prayed it was the best loaf of bread she’d ever baked.

If it weren’t so late in the season, she’d be able
to jump back to her home and her time with the next lightning storm. But by the look of the trees, she’d say
it was at least October. The chance for lightning was slim. That meant she’d have to survive in 16th century England until spring.

Her stomach growled, and she got up to help herself to one of the apples she’d seen in the larder. After devouring it and some cheese, she felt much better and decided to make some apple tarts. It couldn’t hurt to wow these people a bit.

When she again began to put ingredients in a bowl, Edward finally had something to say. “You’re not baking for the palace. Just one small family.”

Muriel raised a brow. “Then I guess you won’t be wantin’ one of my apple tarts.”

He snorted again and said no more.

Getting to work, she had them ready to go into the oven when the bread came out—the dough she’d sealed the oven door with acting as a kind of timer. When that dough was done, the bread was done. She was desperate to make a good impression. She did not want to traipse all over town looking for employment elsewhere.

She needn’t have worried, as her baked goods were so well received, the lord of the manor came out of the house to tell her so himself.

Muriel looked up from where she was gathering thyme, sage, and rosemary from the garden in the early evening to make herbed, garlic bread for breakfast to see the dark-eyed man’s eyes go wide as a smile pulled at his lips. Muriel’s gaze shifted to his wife hurrying to catch up with him, looking a bit worried. Muriel stood.

The man with dark hair and a close-cropped beard crossed his arms over a leather doublet. “This is our new baker?” He turned to look at his wife as she came to his side, disbelief on his face. “The King has none but men working in his kitchens.”

Bess’s lips twitched with what seemed regret, and Muriel wondered if she now considered her a gift from somewhere other than heaven. “Her bread and tarts were good, were they not, Geoff?”

He turned back to look at Muriel as if she were an apple tart. “Delicious.”

Muriel gave him a nod of her head, trying to ignore the gleam in his eye. “I thank ya for the compliment. Does that mean I get the job?” She lifted her chin, trying to exude as much confidence as possible. “Or shall I take my skills up the road?”

Edward opened the door and stepped out, and Geoff dropped his arms to his side as he projected his direction, “Edward, know ye of anyone in need of a baker. I—”

“These are the best tarts you’ve ever eaten, and you know it.” Edward paused for a beat, in which Muriel noticed the half-eaten tart in his hand. “Master Farrington.”

Muriel couldn’t help it when a grin slipped out.

Vexation crossed Geoff’s face, but he didn’t scold his cook. “Yes, Edward.” He brought his gaze back to Muriel, although he was obviously still irritated that his game had been cut short. “Yes, you are hired.”

She picked up the basket of herbs. “Then I best get to bed. Bakers must rise early.” She looked to Bess. “I saw bedrolls in the larder?”

Bess nodded, still looking uncomfortable, and Muriel turned to go back inside. Edward stepped aside as she neared. “You are still Irish and a woman, but I give praise where praise is due.”

Muriel nodded and went in to spend her first night in the 16th century, snagging a knife on her way to the larder to slip under her bedroll.

Chapter 2

The weeks went by, and though Geoff had been a terrible flirt, he’d not crossed a line with her, sensing perhaps that Muriel and her delicious sweet treats would be down the road in a heartbeat if he did. He had money, but no title, and so far, only one child near a year old.

Edward hadn’t turned into anything close to a friend, but he was no longer antagonistic, and that was probably the best she could hope for.

She saw the woman she’d first met on the Farrington property once a day when she brought the goat milk to the kitchen, but other than that, their paths rarely crossed.

Bess had gotten Muriel several new dresses and caps and a mantle for cold weather, which of course, had come out of her pay, but she understood the need to blend in. Pay really didn’t matter that much to her as long as she had a place to stay while waiting for the winter months
to pass. What would she do with the long-outdated coins once she returned home, anyway?

The new outfits were, of course, longer and consisted of long stockings tied with ribbons below the knees, a plain white shift, or underdress, and an overdress that reminded Muriel of the modern little girl’s jumper with lacings up the front of the bodice. She also had a shawl, which she always took off as the kitchen grew warm

with the ovens. Her hair was supposed to be braided and wound around her head, but her thick braid kept her white linen cap from fitting well, so she continued with the one braid down her back, and the Farringtons didn’t seem to mind. She was grateful she wasn’t a house servant, as their clothes were more elaborate.

By keeping her ears pricked when in the presence of Bess and Geoff’s peers, she’d learned that Katherine of Aragon was still the queen, and although Mary Boleyn Carew was rumored to be King Henry’s mistress, there was no mention as yet of Anne. She guessed the year to be 1525.

She was surprised one crisp morning by Geoff’s presence in the kitchen, shortly after dawn. She looked up from rolling out pie crust to a face stressed by fatigue, his usual teasing smile nowhere to be seen. “Master Farrington,” Muriel began, “what brings ya to the kitchen so soon after the rooster announced the day?”

Geoff sat on one of the stools as Edward came out of the larder with supplies for a breakfast porridge to accompany her tarts. He acknowledged the cook with a nod and brought his gaze back to his baker. “Muriel, I would discuss something with you.”

The rolling pin paused in her hands. “Are ya not happy with my bakin’?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “Surely you know your baking is exemplary.” He sat straighter on the stool. “Which is why I’d like you to bake additional items to sell in the village.”

Muriel raised a brow. The wealthy of England rather despised having to actually earn money. Doing so put them on the outs with other men of wealth who reveled in their leisure. But the Farringtons weren’t quite “noble.” She supposed they were, in modern terms, upper middle class. Still, this seemed a strange request and would surely be looked down upon by his peers. “Are ya in some trouble?”

Edward, on the other side of the kitchen, gave a low chuckle, and Geoff’s jaw went tight. “Watch yourself, Edward.”

The cook just grinned, and Muriel wondered how
he got away with so much. Geoff brought his eyes back to hers, and she immediately apologized. “It’s none of my business. If you would like me to bake more, I can bake more.” She didn’t dare tell him she’d once owned a bakery. She didn’t know if that would be a common thing for the time, let alone a business run by a woman.

He let out a breath, and a weary smile appeared on his face. “Can you start tomorrow?”

“Aye, if we are supplied well enough with the ingredients I require.”

He slapped the table and rose. “Tell Bess your needs, and I will see to it.” He smiled, the sudden change in his demeanor, dramatic.

“If you have parchment, quill, and ink, I can make
a list,” she said, turning to see if the fire in the oven had burned down yet. The heavy silence that followed had her turning back to see them staring at her.

“You can write?” Geoff asked with no little skepticism.

She glanced to Edward, who was wearing a frown, and Muriel realized she’d made a mistake. Common women weren’t educated. Only wealthy women knew how to read and write. She swallowed while she formed a lie. “I was. . . a curious child, and I just picked it up from my brothers.” She shrugged. “And Ireland has different ideas about such things.” She really didn’t know if that had been true of 16th century Ireland, but she trusted these two wouldn’t know one way or another.

Geoff waved a hand between them. “It matters not. Just. . . just do not speak of it to anyone else.” He tugged on the hem of his doublet as if to put a period on his sentence. “I’ll send Bess out later.” He looked at her pointedly. “Let her write it.” Then he turned and left the building.

Muriel looked to Edward, who was avoiding her gaze. “Why does it matter to Master Farrington that I can write?”

He hung his porridge in the hearth to cook. “The rich be rich and servants be servants. Commoners putting on airs threaten the rich man’s hold on the world.” He looked at her then, a slight smile playing over his lips. “You have got him over a barrel, though. He likes your baking too well to scold you.”

“How do you laugh at your superiors and keep your job?”

He laughed again. “Farrington and I have a history. I was his father’s cook before him.”

“So,” –she began cutting circles in her pie dough with a knife— “does Master Farrington suffer from debts? Gambling, perhaps?” She’d provided treats for quite a few card games, and Geoff never seemed to be winning.

Edward grew serious. “Careful, lass. Prescience, along with your unearthly baked goods and the ability to write would be called witchery by some.”

Her eyes widened. “Learnin’ and observation are not witchery, Edward.” She picked up the brush and pan to sweep the ashes from the oven. “They are survival.”

“They can also be your undoing.” His voice almost seemed tender when he said, “Take care.”

Muriel blinked and slowly nodded. She’d not be fool enough to let a warning four hundred years before her time go unheeded.

***

Their first morning at the market started slow, but once word spread of Muriel’s cart of goodies, she sold out quickly. Though she would have been fine handling the money, Geoff had sent one of the male house servants to accompany her and take the coins from the eager buyers. By the week’s end, there was a crowd of people waiting before they arrived.

As her clientele grew, her “menu” rotated through several traditional Tudor tarts with cheese or fruit fillings, along with cinnamon love knots and thin, crisp wafers. Edward had even worked with her to create several types of meat pies that were well-received, but it was her own recipes that really drew the crowds—herbed breads, fritters, and cheesecake bites made with goat cheese.

It was getting colder as they moved into November, but Geoff made sure she stayed warm with fur-lined boots and gloves. He did share some of the profits with both her and Edward, but he kept the lion’s share to buy ingredients and pay off his debts.

And if he had stopped their operations one day sooner, he might have kept her until spring.

But that day, a royal procession came through town that seemed curious about the crowd around her cart
of pastries. Muriel sucked in a breath as she looked up
to the tall, broad man on horseback leading the way, whose physique and red hair beneath a jaunty plumed cap reminded her immediately of Oliver. She’d just never seen Oliver with a beard. Or a jaunty hat.

The man, who could only be Henry VIII, wasn’t the man of his later portraits. This one was younger—in his early thirties—and quite fit.

And looking at Muriel.

She gave a curtsy, keeping her head bowed as he dismounted. The crowd moved out of his way as he

headed straight for their little pastry stand. He was much taller than most of the other men of this time, with an air of authority. It seemed to grow out of a joie de vivre, however, rather than the tyranny she had expected.

“Word of Farrington’s talented baker has reached us at court,” he said with a smile. “We would have a sample.”

Muriel nodded. “Of course. Take whatever ya wish.”

His smile grew at the accent she could never fully eradicate. “Are these Emerald Isle recipes?”

“Some,” she said, both wanting him to be pleased, and afraid of what that might mean.

He looked over her wares, the sunlight glinting off gold thread in his short mantle lined with fur. “What would you recommend?”

Muriel’s heart was beating out of her chest. Could she end up in the tower if he didn’t approve? “That’s hard ta say, yer Majesty,” she hedged. “Are ya in the mood for sweet or savory?”

His eyes twinkled into hers. “Sweet.”

She nodded, her mouth gone dry. “Then I’d recommend one of me fritters.” She pointed to the
few left, even as she winced over her Irish coming out stronger with her apprehension. “Although they are best dipped in a bit of clotted cre`me.” Thankfully, Henry didn’t seem to mind either her Irish or a lack of cream and picked one up, taking it to his lips. He closed his eyes while he chewed, and Muriel could barely breathe. Ethan, holding their money purse beside her laid a gentle hand to her shoulder, as if to remind her.

She slowly released a breath as the King’s eyes opened. “Exquisite,” he said quietly, then handed what was left of his fritter to the man who had joined him at his side. He was not much taller than Muriel, though Muriel was taller than average for a woman. He made quick work of it. Henry looked over her other goodies. “Recommend another.”

Muriel pointed to her apple tarts, which got a moan of pleasure from the Royal, who did not hand that one off, but finished it himself, then moved on to her cheesecake bites before ending with a layered blackberry pastry she’d invented herself. “Tell us your name,” he said, moving around the cart as he wiped crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

“Muriel O’Hanlan,” she said as he drew near, her chest tight.

“When we were told of the woman baker in Greenwich Village with pastries that surpassed those at the Palace, we scoffed at the notion.” He put out his hand, and she hesitantly put her gloved hand in his. “But we have just eaten the proof.” He took her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “We honor your ability to please the palate of a king.”

A shaky smile came to her lips. “I. . . I thank ya.”

She expected him to release her, but he didn’t. Instead he put his other hand over hers. “But we cannot have this, can we? A woman in the village that outbakes the King’s bakers.”

Fear seized her. Would he make her stop? Maybe they’d earned enough to pay Geoff’s debts, and she could go back to just baking for him and Bess.

What she was thinking must have shown on her face as he put a finger under her chin. “Fear not, my Irish beauty. We’d sooner lose our skill at the joust than halt yours.” He patted her hand and released her. “We just need to bring you to the palace.”

Her eyes went wide as he turned to the men still on horseback behind him. “Farrington,” he said to no one in particular. “Show us his house.” After swinging into the

saddle, he looked back at her and winked. “And we will see you soon, Mistress O’Hanlan.”

Muriel’s knees went weak, and she grabbed the edge of the cart as Ethan took hold of her elbow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Farrington,” she breathed out on a whisper. For more than you know.