by Amy Myers
He held his breath, mindful of his head being at stake if he had to bow out from this now appalling prospect. “Good,” Gertrude agreed promptly.
Horace Pennyfather visibly relaxed. Indeed, he beamed. The late Mrs Pennyfather must have been very like her daughter, Auguste decided, for Horace seemed to be adept at playing second fiddle to his womenfolk.
“And I want the tables dressed in gold and nothing green upon the table.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is the fairies’ colour and therefore dangerous for humans.”
Auguste gazed at her. This was after all the twentieth century. Could she be serious?
“But la salade … and parsley. And … ”
Gertrude considered this. “Apart from the food.” Then she did smile. “I’m not crazy, Mr Didier. Lord Montfoy has promised me a real traditional English wedding, like all the village brides have. He tells me Frimhurst is still steeped in old English customs and superstitions. I intend they shall never be forgotten. I am to write another Golden Bough.”
Auguste remembered Mr Frazer’s excellent work was planned to run for twelve volumes, and they had so far been spread over fifteen years. (He hoped his own publisher would be so far-sighted.) However, Gertrude’s plans boded ill for the estate workers.
“Are you planning to live at Farthing Court permanently?” Auguste could not resist this casual question.
Her face fell. “No, Arthur prefers town now, and anyway, I need to be near parliament and the British Museum. And I shall be going round the country campaigning for Mrs Pankhurst, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Arthur tells me,” Gertrude continued, “they have a maypole and even a bonfire in celebration of some festival way back before Christianity. And the village girls dabble in the dew every May Day at dawn. That’s why we chose to have the wedding on the first of May; the village will be celebrating May Day as they always do, in the lord of the manor’s park, and we shall celebrate it with them.”
Auguste did not comment. Gertrude and His Majesty King Edward VII seemed to be talking about two different weddings. A discreet word in Horace Pennyfather’s ear might not be a bad idea in the interests of the king’s temper. He had never seen His Majesty cavorting around a maypole, and was quite certain he never would. Someone needed to work out a careful plan to avoid disaster, but it wasn’t going to be him. An evil thought came to his mind. He would tell Egbert, Chief Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard, of his fears. After all, with His Majesty supposed to be in Paris, there was a political angle and, although this was strictly the concern of Special Branch, any threat to His Majesty’s person was the concern of the whole of Scotland Yard.
Threat? Fears? Strange how quickly innocent excitement at the prospect of preparing a wedding banquet could change into something quite different. Later, as he was drifting into sleep, an old piece of English folklore culled from his years at Stockbery Towers drifted back to him. Wasn’t May supposed to be an unlucky month for weddings?
*
Tension was rising in the White Dragon. On Monday evening, 24th April, one week before the wedding, the last meeting of the Committee for the Preservation of the White Dragon was in progress.
“Everyone set then?”
“Another pint of your best, Mus Wickman.”
“I didn’t mean liquor.” All the same Bert refilled the glass — Jacob might be diddle-o, but he was useful as a figurehead, with his long white beard and boring tales of old railway days. Bert positioned himself by the blackboard fetched in from the public bar, ready for notes. “Right then,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “now everyone’s drinks are all right, we’ll begin the less interesting proceedings.”
Adelaide Spade and Bessie took no notice, intent on a whispered discussion of the questionable maiden state of the May Queen. Adelaide took the view that young Mary Smith had long since ceded her innocence to young Harry (sitting only a yard or two from them) and gloomily predicted the worst. Bessie, envious of youthful love, nodded her head in hypocritical sympathy with Adelaide while comparing Mary’s lot with her own as the recently spurned lover of Lord Montfoy.
Bert thumped the table. “Silence,” he roared. “We’ll hear the reports one by one. All problems, foreseen and not foreseen, to be raised now. Bessie, you begin. You took on Special Ceremonies. All in order?”
Bessie pulled herself together. No good dreaming of what she’d like to do to Arthur Montfoy, even though it would ensure no little Montfoys would follow. Even now she couldn’t get over it: after all she’d done for him over the years. Just, Goodbye, Bessie, I’m going to wed a Yankee. A mere slip of a girl, no doubt, when he’d had the privilege of Bessie Wickman, whose mature, dark beauty had been his to command. Or, at least, so she’d led him to believe. She donned an anxious expression. “I’m still having trouble with the dabbling in the dew team. Too much fun and games by night to want to get up to see the dawn in, lazy lassies. And I’ve trouble with Jack in the Green. ’E won’t wear his leaves.”
“Tell him,” Alfred Spade growled of his apprentice, “I’ll thrash the living daylights out of him if he doesn’t.”
“Dabbling in the dew’s serious.” Bert frowned. “Tell ’em no one who don’t dabble in the dew can accompany the May Queen. It’s an old tradition.”
“Who says?” Aggie shrieked. Old traditions were her domain.
“I do. I just thought of it. Don’t dabble, don’t dance, and that’s that. Alfred, how you doing on Historical Heritage?”
Alf, a slow-talking, large-framed man, not known for genial companionship, did his best. “One priesthole fitted at side of chimney breast, as requested. Panelling removed to construct apparent fallen-in secret tunnel, and replaced ajar. Round circle of prehistoric stones planted in Home Farm’s Five Acre Field. (Much to the fury of Farmer Beard who was about to sow his turnips, he might have added.)
Beer mugs were rattled as a sign of special commendation for effort.
“And the artificial thatch is coming on a treat.” Alf was gratified. “I’ll have it up by Friday.”
It was a time of magnanimity even if he were a bad-tempered nobbler in his drink. “Well done, Alf. Adelaide?”
Adelaide, anxious and nervy in her perpetual race to keep up with the rest of mankind, had been put in charge of the relatively safe division of Dancing and Singing, also to include General Costuming.
“I can’t find anyone to do the Sunday midnight shift at the Court.” She looked hopefully for help from their leader.
“I’ll do it,” Jacob Meadows wheezed.
Once upon a time Jacob had had an excellent tenor voice. That time had long passed. “No, you won’t, you daft old ha’p’orth,” Harry Thatcher informed him cheerfully. “Too late for you to be from your bed. I’ll do it.”
“You can’t. You’re on maypole duty,” Bessie pointed out. She flattered herself she kept a motherly eye on young Harry; though motherly, she acknowledged, did not represent all her thoughts about him.
“What about the rector? He can sing.”
“Can’t have the rector singing songs of lust at midnight. Wouldn’t look good in church next day,” Alf pointed out.
Bert heaved a sigh. “I’ll do it.”
“You? In tights and doublet?” Bessie screamed with laughter.
Bert glared at her. “Harry?” he said moving on quickly. “How’s Maypole and Village Sports Division?” (Sports except cricket which Bert had commandeered himself.) Harry had the easiest task of all, bat and trap and tug of war were simple, as was maypole-erecting and decoration. Even garland-making had been allotted to Adelaide’s division.
“Aggie and Jacob?” Bert asked. “You all right for the Old Superstitions and Traditions? Need any suggestions for new ones?”
“We’ve done ’em,” Aggie boasted.
“What are they then?” Bessie asked.
“No point telling you. Just you wait.”
“What’s rector going to say to all this
?” Adelaide suddenly asked, spotting a new concern.
“He’s been squared,” Bert said dismissively. “Squire Entwhistle promised him new church bells if he kept mum. Now, you’ll want to know about my bit. Ghosts and Cricket. I done the ghost of the Mighty Mynn, and just need one or two more smugglers.”
“What do you want smugglers for?” Aggie asked.
“Ghosts, Aggie. Not real ones. We’re going to re-enact the battle of Frimhurst, that’s why.”
“Dere weren’t one,” Jacob pointed out, as representative of time immemorial.
“There is now,” Bert replied shortly.
Aggie cackled. “You’re a one, Bert Wickman. Have you appeased the farisees yet? That’s what I want to know. There’s an old tradition that that’s where the name Farthing Court come from. Farthing, see? I hope dey got an all-seeing eye outside the house — a stone wid a hole bored in it. Come to that, you need one here, Bert. Keeps the bad ’uns away from the beer.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve got more important things to do than worry about your blessed fairies.”
“Ain’t nothing more important than getting on the right side of the farisees,” Aggie said belligerently. “You’ll find dat out, see if you don’t.”
*
On Tuesday morning Auguste alighted at Cranbrook railway station on the Paddock Wood to Hawkhurst branch line and superintended the unloading and loading of many precious hampers for the second time that morning. They were carefully transferred to the wagon for Farthing Court and he climbed up to the seat beside the driver, which gave him a splendid view of the rolling, newly green Kentish countryside. Indeed, there was little to be seen but countryside, for there was no sign of Cranbrook village, only a public house and a few scattered cottages as the wagon clattered into the Cranbrook–Hawkhurst Road.
Today, he had decided, would be devoted to reconnaissance: he would survey the vegetable gardens and kitchens, meet the staff, and discuss the arrangement of the tables. It was a job he loved, made all the more precious now that Cousin Bertie’s embargo had prevented his enjoying it save on rare occasions. Cranbrook, when the wagon reached it, was a busy bustling village, almost a town compared with Frimhurst. The latter lay a mile or two away from it, along lanes so narrow that the driver had to pull into a field opening to allow a carriage coming in the other direction to pass. He doffed his hat to the coachman in an extremely polite manner.
“Good day to you, sir,” he called.
Auguste was impressed. His memories of Kent workmen were of far earthier language and behaviour.
Frimhurst, which they passed through to reach Farthing Court, seemed a peaceful slumbering village. Daffodils in their last brave trumpeting mingled with tulips; early bluebells were to be seen in the hedgerows. Woods bordering the road had that faint tinge of blue that stood between barren wood and carpet of colour. How Auguste remembered the bluebells of Kent. He admired the peg-tiled roofs of the cottages, and the comfortable-looking White Dragon. So comfortable, he decided that he would tell the driver to stop and go in to buy a drink. He had often found that by the local inn the whole village could be judged, a strange similarity growing between them like long-married husbands and wives.
The White Dragon did not provide a memorable experience. Auguste had the uncomfortable impression that everyone had stopped talking as he entered, and although he knew well that ‘furriners’, by which the Kentish meant anyone new to the village, often had this effect, he sensed he had interrupted some important discussion rather than casual conversation. He asked for a whisky and lemon but the landlady refused to serve it, and was insistent on his drinking a sweet concoction called mead. She leant her mature buxom figure almost menacingly over the bar towards him and watched his progress intently. Was it poisoned? he wondered anxiously. It certainly had an unusual taste. He left without finishing the drink.
Farthing Court was a huge, mellow, stone house, Elizabethan in façade, though its layout suggested an older ancestry. Auguste had discovered that His Majesty was so fond of it that his all too frequent visits had provided the reason for Lord Montfoy having to sell the house three years ago: they had almost bankrupted him. Auguste sincerely hoped that Mr Entwhistle was well-equipped to continue on the same grand lines. In three years, no doubt he had already had a taste of ordeal by Bertie. At the moment Mr Entwhistle was still away, which pleased Auguste greatly for it meant he could prowl round house and kitchen relatively undisturbed.
Having decided that whatever his ‘downstairs’ mission, his status as remote cousin by marriage to the king demanded his arrival by the ‘upstairs’ front entrance, he pulled at the old-fashioned bell rope. An extremely tall, thin butler opened the door speedily, closing his eyes briefly as though the sight of a Frenchman on his doorstep were too much for his English imperturbability.
“Good morning, sir. You are the chef, I presume.”
Good butlerdom enveloped Auguste to a degree he had not met with for many a long year. It even extended to waving a majestic hand towards the wagon with its precious load, thus despatching it into the jungle while he conducted his very own Dr Livingstone to the areas of the house normally invisible to those who entered by front doors.
Auguste looked round with interest as he followed in the butler’s wake. Farthing Court was clearly already wearing its wedding face. Montfoy portraits, heraldic devices and odd pieces of armour leapt out aggressively from every wall and niche he passed. Any signs of Mr Entwhistle’s ancestry must have been painstakingly obliterated. Auguste had a sudden fear that the kitchens might be as mediaeval as these trappings.
“Ah, Mrs Honey. May I present Mr Pennyfather’s chef? Mrs Honey is our housekeeper.”
The plump motherly lady had appeared from a passageway as they entered the servants’ domain, keys clanking on black bombazine. Almost Auguste expected to see an old-fashioned nutmeg tin hanging by the keys; in his early days in England this precious spice had still been under the close guard of the housekeeper. He bowed. “My name is Auguste Didier, madame.”
Mrs Honey’s round face glowed warmly like a Provençal peach. A picturebook housekeeper. “Thank you, Mr Tudor.” She beamed at the gaunt giant, then turned to the newcomer. “Welcome to Farthing Court, Monsieur Didier.”
Of course such an English butler would be called Tudor, Auguste thought, slightly dazed by such perfection. Only the kitchens now remained to be faced — and the resident chef. To his immense relief, when they eventually arrived he found that Mr Entwhistle, if not the Montfoys before him, had a good eye for the most modern equipment. No open fires and spitjacks here. Cake mixers, chopping machines, ice caves and dutch ovens met his relieved eye.
At their entrance he was amazed, and flattered, to find the kitchen staff, from the humblest scullery maid to the deputy head chef (judging by his hat) springing to instant attention and even according him a small bob or bow. They are probably practising for His Majesty’s arrival, he told his ego firmly, but it refused to be entirely deflated. Never had he visited — much less worked in — such a polite kitchen. Normally kitchen tempers were like cream simmering just under boiling-over point. Where, however, was the chef himself? This was the most delicate relationship of all to handle in his situation.
A flying figure carrying a bunch of asparagus before him like a bouquet hurtled through the garden door. His hat and apron declared his occupation but the spikes of red hair escaping from under the hat and his wiry thinness made him look like an overused pipe-cleaner. Could this mere youth with his freckled face and piercing brown eyes truly be the head cook at such a large establishment as Farthing Court? Apparently so, for he bowed deeply, declaring, “Ethelred Perkins at your service, sir — don’t do that, Percy,” he shrieked, to Auguste’s alarm, at the pastry cook. “Caress your dough, don’t beat it.”
“Sorry, Mr Perkins.” The minion looked shamefaced.
How very extraordinary, Auguste thought; most pastry chefs he came across retained a sullen indifference to the finer points of
their trade. He began his usual apologia, for bursting in upon another’s domain, but this was dismissed impatiently by Mr Perkins.
“What is more natural?” he pointed out with some surprise. “His Majesty is to grace us with his presence, Mr Pennyfather is our guest here, and I am hoping to learn a great deal from his chef.”
Curiouser and curiouser, in Mr Lewis Carroll’s famous words. In Auguste’s experience, resident chefs were only too happy to spike the intruder’s guns — or worse, their ingredients. Such professed wholehearted co-operation was something rare indeed. Auguste began to look forward to meeting a gentleman who could attract such jewels to his service. Nevertheless, he decided he would still walk with care during his time in the Farthing Court kitchen. A man, as Hamlet had discovered, could smile and smile and be a villain. Ethelred Perkins might still prove such a man.
*
In Paris, in an apartment in the Place Vendôme, the Squire of Farthing Court was preparing to return to England. It would all prove, he was sure, the most delightful and amusing experience. His Majesty, whom he was to meet at Calais on the return from his Mediterranean state visit, would once more be his guest, but on this occasion it would be the culmination of all his aspirations. The visit was spiced by the piquancy of marriage between Arthur Montfoy and Gertrude Pennyfather, and his own temporary abrogation of the role of lord of the manor in favour of Arthur. His friend Arthur, an amiable but not over-intelligent gentleman, appeared to him to be overlooking one fact. To marry a rich American heiress whose family as well as herself were under the impression that the Montfoy fortunes were unimpaired, was a splendid move. But all wedding days had a morrow, and in this case sooner or later the heiress was going to discover that her Kentish estates consisted merely of one small Dower House and a ninety by twenty foot garden. This, however, was not his concern. His part was done, the village was well primed, and Horace Pennyfather was even bringing his own chef.
