Unlikely. Brendan Kane’s lessons about equality, fraternity and liberty had not been wasted on his granddaughter.
My face smiled at her but I was in a cold fury. ‘But of course, Mrs Wolff. Now let me state my position. I will not, repeat will not, allow any member of my staff to be the recipient of derogatory remarks, bigotry or unfair treatment. Not from you or any other member of the public.’
The sweetness was gone in a flash. ‘You fucking well know who I am, Sasha Torte. How dare you speak to me like this!’
‘Hold your horses, Thomasina. If you’d care to review your position and apologise to Miss Willow, we could conclude this ugly business. Naturally, this compromise only works if she chooses to accept your apology.’
I turned to Maggie, ‘Any decision you make is fine with me, Maggie.’
Before my very eyes, Thomasina visibly expanded. She’d certainly porked up since her marriage coup and had taken to dressing like a wealthy but dowdy matron. Her eyes darted over the eight tier cake display and came to rest on a glistening chocolate gateaux. My masterpiece was smothered in smooth glossy chocolate icing, etched with the shop’s name and decorated with crystallised violets. Thomasina’s nostrils twitched as she detected the full pound of rich, dark chocolate nestling inside. She swallowed hard. Natural greed was doing a pitched battle with ingrained bigotry. Bigotry won.
‘Miss Torte, nothing will induce me to lower my standards and apologise to the likes of Maggie Willow. You’ve just lost a good customer. And rest assured that after I tell my father-in-law exactly how I was treated here this morning, you shall lose many more. Good day.’
She turned to leave. I was dying to vault the shop counter and bite her plenteous arse but I restrained myself. Good breeding always shows.
I swept the front door open. ‘Now you go on out there and get yourself a lovely day, Thomasina. I’m thinking it would be a sterling idea if you notified the Ladies Auxiliary and the Christian Temperance Union about my position. That way we won’t have any more unpleasant misunderstandings as you put it.’
She gave me a haughty look and stormed out. Maggie burst into tears. I promptly fetched two teacups and a bottle of Cognac and poured us both a stiff drink. One must never underestimate the healing power of fine plonk applied liberally. I soon had Maggie laughing but my heart was heavy. I’d just experienced first-hand the meanness and bigotry that Grandpa had warned me about. Thomasina had forced me to see the obvious – bigotry was in the bedrock of Wolfftown.
Later, when I told Grandpa what had happened that day at the shop, he enlightened me about the good folk of Wolfftown. ‘Back in the early days, Aboriginals were used as hunting prey and shot down like animals for sport. And our venerable mayor is on record stating it was an acceptable practice.’
‘Why does everyone keep voting him back in?’
‘Because the fucker’s bought political backing. Also, he comes right out with what most people think but haven’t got the guts to say. Hardly anyone in this neck of the woods gives a shite about equality, liberty or fraternity.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘Sasha, one day when I’ve got the stomach for it, I’ll tell you about the Black Wars which were waged on this island. A damned stupid word, War. It implies there was a fair fight, when actually the whites were well equipped with guns and the Aboriginals frequently only had spears, sticks or clapped out firearms.’
Strangely enough, after my fallout with Thomasina Wolff, I only lost the patronage of two Ladies Auxiliary members and none from the Christian Temperance Union. My sweet produce had seduced and captured Wolfftown and it seemed that most locals had no intention of cutting off their noses to spite their faces.
I kept hoping that curiosity would prompt Viola to come into my patisserie but instead she dispatched her coachman to fetch a selection of cakes and gateaux. Viola’s actions deeply wounded me but pride kept me from paying her an impromptu visit. From time to time I’d hear about her and the news was never good. Viola seemed to be hiding from the world on Lord Balcombe’s sprawling estate. The new wrought-iron gates at Balcombe Estate had been mocked in the Wolfftown Chronicle. The journalist maintained, tongue in cheek, that Balcombe’s gates bore a close resemblance to the pearly gates of God’s kingdom, and were doing a great job of keeping Wolfftown’s heathens out. It was a sly dig about Balcombe pruning his wife’s social circle.
After the article appeared Wolfftown’s gossips were in a frenzy over Lord Balcombe and his young wife. I was outraged when I heard in the shop that Balcombe was known to be an extremely pious man – when he wasn’t carousing at every brothel between Wolfftown and Hobart.
After my falling out with Mrs Thomasina Wolff I discovered that although she refused to step foot in my shop, she wasn’t above having others make purchases on her behalf. Maggie told me that she’d developed a terrible weakness for my chocolat bouchons. On several occasions a household lackey had been sent scurrying to retrieve two dozen chocolat bouchons and one or two savarin Chantilly. Thomasina was hooked.
In my most savage moments I entertained the notion of poisoning her. With fiendish delight, I pictured Thomasina sinking her feline incisors into a chunk of savarin Chantilly and descending straight to hell. I assumed the flavour of the candied orange and rum would mask the bitterness of the poison. At that stage I hadn’t yet learnt that a more sophisticated approach to the dark art of poisoning was required.
Within two years, Sasha Torte Patisserie was an acknowledged success story in Tasmania and word had spread to mainland Australia and beyond. Sailors from all over the globe sought out my vol-au-vents a la Torte. I’d adapted these from an Antonin Carême recipe that he’d served up at Chateau Rothschild. However, I couldn’t bring myself to use cocks’ combs, cocks’ testes or lambs’ brains in the ragout sauce and substituted tender pieces of chicken instead. And instead of cows’ udders in the forcemeat I utilised fresh wild pine mushrooms. The vol-au-vents went down a treat and we could barely keep up with demand.
Frequently sailors on shore leave would come in for something hearty only to be seduced into purchasing warm savoury pastries. Dolores and Maggie loved watching tattooed sailors and burly miners sitting at our petite tea tables, wielding delicate pastry forks in their big fists. There was something about the elegance of my patisserie that made even the toughest working man want to behave decorously.
Travel writers and journalists made a beeline for my patisserie when they visited Tasmania and I developed something of an international reputation. Lil sent me articles snipped from European newspapers and gazettes about Hobart, Zeehan, Wolfftown and its crowning glory, Sasha Torte Patisserie. A British journalist wrote that my patisserie was the best place in town to meet respectable maidens and off-duty courtesans during daytime hours. Bernard Johnson implied that many a liaison and several marriages had begun over a few warm oyster vol-au-vents. Johnson subtly hinted that the oyster’s aphrodisiac qualities were to blame.
I discovered early in the piece that if you really wanted to know what was going on in Wolfftown, or even the rest of Tasmania, all you had to do was take a saucer of tea at Sasha Torte Patisserie. Our ladies unwind and get very loose-lipped once they’ve indulged in fine gateaux, pastries and silky smooth chocolate. Good grief, you should hear the vulgar quips that come out of their mouths after they’ve been at the chocolate éclairs and Cognac. I’d be betraying my sex if I quoted them, so I shall refrain from doing so. Suffice to say the worst offenders are rarely the courtesans and whores who patronise my establishment. The crudest sentiments are most commonly expressed by the supposedly refined ladies of Wolfftown’s sewing circles.
Early success can be a double-edged sword. Because I’d succeeded quickly I felt I should achieve more and aim higher. Unfortunately, it was around this time I came into contact with my nemesis, Mr Roger Dasher. As you probably know, Nemesis is the name of the goddess of retribution and revenge and wreaking havoc is her forte. So there I was, lulled by my astonishing success and decide
dly unprepared for the strange events that were about to come into play.
13
DEVILISH DESIRES
Wolfftown’s wealthy citizens tried desperately to keep up with culinary innovation. It was often reported how the European fashion set were dining out at opulent restaurants, swilling down gallons of champagne and siphoning up pounds of Beluga caviar. Mutton chops and grey potatoes were still on home menus but Wolfftown’s social elite had higher expectations of their hosts. Having made their pile, wealthy Tasmanians competed with others of their set. If it had been at all possible to serve angels’ brains in aspic they would have done so. Lady Dasher was considered to be the leading hostess of Wolfftown and anything she did was slavishly copied by those who had the money to do so.
Clare Dasher’s Winter Ball was the highlight of Wolfftown’s social season and invitations were highly prized. I was more than a tad nervous as Sasha Torte Patisserie had been contracted to provide the legendary champagne supper. Money was no object. It was customary on the stroke of midnight for Clare Dasher’s guests to enjoy a sumptuous feast. I was chuffed when Clare sent me an embossed invitation and suggested that I should attend the ball both as head chef-pâtissière and an invited guest.
I plotted a lavish spread. Fantasy tallow carvings of animals, roast peacock and multiple-tiered puddings had been done before and I wanted something completely different. I dreamt about the menu, pillaged Carême’s cookbooks and discussed everything with Snuff and Charlie.
It was exciting to plot and scheme over a bottle or two of champagne. We then tested out all the new recipes to make sure they would be perfect on the night of the ball. At one stage I had three of Carême’s edible ‘extraordinaires’ in preparation at the same time. Mostly I was working from his cookbooks which contained many of his superb illustrations.
Hogging space in the walk-in pantry were: a Venetian fountain, a Persian pavilion on a rocky outcrop and my masterpiece – an animated extraordinaire based on the cake Carême had made for the christening of Louis XIV’s grandson in 1682. It was made of almond paste, various pastries and moving mechanical parts, and it was so bizarre that even Charlie advised me against completing it. ‘Sasha, I don’t think anyone needs to see labour pains and birth being enacted on their pudding.’
I knew he was right and Snuff concurred. So I ditched Carême’s extraordinaire and instead came up with the idea of a massive but elegant croquembouche. Snuff and Charlie agreed the exotic cake would provide a fitting finale to our sensational supper. I was mollified by their enthusiasm and decided that in future I wouldn’t begin outrageous new projects when I was sleep deprived, anxious or half-cut on champagne.
Roger Dasher was at a loose end whenever his brothers, Adam and Caesar, were at sea captaining their ships. The Dasher fortune had been founded on their phenomenally successful trading company and shipping fleet. However, Roger showed no inclination towards any type of commerce. His calling card simply introduced him as, Mr Roger C.D. Dasher, Gentleman.
By his own admission Roger was tiring of the endless rounds of parties, picnics, balls, hunts and soirées. When he looked around for a diversion his eye fell on me. Why? Because I was the only eligible girl in town who’d spurned his advances and I whetted his jaded appetite. While other girls slaved away at turning themselves into marriage bait, I was toiling over hot ovens and dreaming up new delicacies for my patisserie. Having no romantic interest in Mr Dasher sealed my fate, he absolutely had to have me at all costs. Perversity was his forte. He and I are rather similar in this regard.
Roger began his amorous assault with invitations to dinner and posh social events. I declined every invitation. He then changed tactics and took to sending me enormous bouquets of flowers, fresh from the Dasher Estate hothouses. The patisserie was constantly filled with vases of exotic blooms. When yet another floral tribute was delivered, Maggie commented, ‘Gawd, did you ever see such fat orchids, eh? They is almost rude, kind of goosy flesh-like and it’s the wrong season too. Them glass houses at the Dasher Estate is chock full of gorgeous stuff: strawberries, blackberries, blueberries along with them orchids, tulips, lilies and daffodils popping up way too early. Five gardeners sweating it out, just so her Ladyship can pig out on red roses before anyone else gets a look in.’
It was considered the height of barbarity for a man to present a woman with gifts of a personal nature, unless the woman was his wife. Personal gifts were marginally more acceptable if a couple were betrothed but there was still a maze of etiquette to blunder through. The Ladies Auxiliary was scandalised when Miss Eva Floros accepted an expensive pair of gloves from a male admirer. Given the malicious gossip, you would have thought her admirer had dispatched a pair of lacy underpants through His Majesty’s postal system. Mrs Adair and her coven of gossips, dowagers and wowsers talked of nothing else for weeks.
One morning Mrs Adair stormed into my shop and said to me, ‘Furthermore that young hussy wore them to church. To church, mind you. The house of our Lord was defiled and made unclean by her actions.’
‘Mrs Adair, we are talking about those beautifully made butter-soft, kid gloves she’s been wearing around town. Is that correct?’
‘Correct indeed, Miss Torte.’
Ever since I’d bitten Mrs Adair on the thigh at my father’s funeral, I’d been on my best behaviour and treated her with exaggerated respect. We both pretended the matter was forgotten but by never mentioning it, my indiscretion loomed out of all proportion. I’d been a grieving child for God’s sake. Well, I hadn’t been grieving but I’d definitely been a child.
The woman was so pompous that she brought the worst out in me. Despite this I tried to maintain a polite tone, even though I knew my goose was already cooked. For if I’d remained silent she would have assumed I agreed with her. I leapt straight into the breach. ‘Oh come now, Mrs Adair. How can a chaste young lady possibly shame God by wearing a pair of gloves? Gloves! A respectable gentleman expressed his appreciation with an unsolicited pair of gloves and now she’s being punished?’
Mrs Adair’s mouth thinned to an ugly gash. ‘Miss Floros demeaned herself and soiled her reputation in accepting them.’
I lost all control and snorted with derision. Truly Mrs Adair is one of the most insufferable women I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. I abandoned all pretence of civility when I pointedly sniffed the air. ‘My God, the stench of hypocrisy in here is overwhelming. What about the sins of bestiality, theft, violence, rape, murder and greed so regularly practised by the denizens of this town? Surely these are worse sins than anything that could be attributed to a goddamn pair of gloves?’
The old bitch reeled backwards and she revealed her authentic self. ‘What filth! You need to wash your mouth out with soap and water! You Kane women are all the same; you’ve got no respect for society’s conventions.’ She pulled herself up to her full height which meant she was now level with my bosom, and raised her three chins. ‘Let me tell you, Miss Torte, without the rules of social etiquette we’d have anarchy in the streets and rape and pillage in the parlour. Upon my soul, I do declare you are turning out to be just like your wicked aunt.’
I inclined my head modestly and gave her my best coy smile. ‘Why thank you, Mrs Adair. I’m deeply flattered.’
Clearly I was treading the primrose path so familiar to the Kane clan’s acknowledged black sheep. Hot on the heels of the murderous Rose Torte and the infamous Lily Kane.
Mrs Adair crashed out of the shop and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled and the cake goddesses trembled. The devil in me snickered and danced a merry jig.
Cheerfully I notched up another enemy.
Roger’s determination to win me over continued unabated. Despite my coldness he continued to send me invitations to dinners, balls and premier social events all over goddamn Tasmania. Perhaps he thought I’d weaken and agree to accompany him if our hosts were known to be very important people. How little he knew me.
Roger Dasher Esquire did not consider th
e finer feelings of our esteemed Ladies Auxiliary. Did not give pause for a moment. His first personal gift to me was a filigree silver bracelet, which I sent back with his valet. My gut instincts told me to have nothing to do with the likes of Mr Roger Dasher. Much as I’d have loved to flaunt him under the noses of the local matrons, I knew right from the beginning that Roger was not a man I should get mixed up with. Even if that meant that I would have to forfeit the exquisite pleasure of getting right up Mrs Adair’s nose.
Mr Dasher’s next gift was an expensive ruby bracelet and I reluctantly returned that also. His third gift was a diamond bracelet, a truly magnificent piece. Each and every diamond was virtually flawless and truly colourless. So superior was the workmanship that each diamond cunningly reflected light, from one mirror-like surface to the next, right through to each and every stone. I knew Roger was trying to buy me and wasn’t offended in the least. But in all honesty I should admit I was tempted. The bracelet spoke to me as it caressed my skin.
Roger’s valet, Rufus, had presented it to me in my shop. The girls were impressed. Maggie said, ‘Nice. No expense spared, eh? Hard to think bad things about Mr Dasher with this gorgeous trinket. It’s the sort of gewgaw a girl might sell her soul for and throw her mother’s in too. Just to seal the deal.’
Dolores caressed the diamonds with awe. She whispered, ‘Just think, Sasha, you ain’t even had to go on your back for it.’
True. But I knew the chess tournament had just begun and it would be foolish to assume I had the advantage. For Roger C.D. Dasher, Gentleman never played by the rules and I needed to keep my wits about me.
I wore the bracelet that night at dinner and it gleamed and winked shamelessly at me. Reluctantly I slipped it back into its velvet case but it continued to whisper to me until I was forced to put it back on my wrist. I slept with it heavy on the pillow next to me and even in my dreams it tried to corrupt me. The next day I carefully wrapped the bracelet in tissue paper and brown paper and attached Roger’s calling card to the parcel. I then got Maggie to discreetly deposit it at the bank for the Abandoned Wives Charity Fund. Because Maggie had been known as a Dasher Estate employee, the teller didn’t think twice about accepting the package.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 17
