by M C Beaton
He took a carriage down to the Thames and stared out at the rotting hulks which housed the French prisoners. Among the hundreds imprisoned, there was probably at least a chef or two. He went into an unsavoury tavern down by the river, feeling quite at home among the smelly, evil company, for he had been accustomed to frequenting such dives in his misspent youth.
He joined a group at a table and eased into the conversation, amazed once more at how well-versed the members of the mob were with affairs of state. The talk was of the profligacy of the Prince of Wales and how his hopes to become Regent had been dashed by the recovery in health of his father, King George III, although, said one, looking round for informers, sedition being a crime, he reckoned the young prince could do no worse. After all, it was King George who had lost the American colonies through usury. The Prince of Wales wanted to fight France. Let him, he said. For his part, he thought it a good idea. It would boost morale, and if the prince was killed, the saving on the Privy Purse would be immense.
“Talking of the war,” said Sir Philip, “do any of those Frenchies ever escape from the hulks?”
“One or two,” said a man who looked like a small muscular ape. “But they don’t get far and they’re catched for reward. No Englishman’s going to let a Frog escape, and any man helping a Frog would be torn to pieces.”
Sir Philip gave a shudder despite the heat of the tavern. “Forget about French prisoners,” he said hurriedly. “I am looking for a French cook and this is the wrong part of town.”
“Chefs, is it?” demanded the small man. “Now Jake Mount, he catched a Frog, and went for his reward, but the Frog says he’s an emigrant and a chef to a man of quality; but they bangs him up just the same, him having barely the word o’ English. Still, the military says he ain’t one o’ theirs and they get on to the fellow, Barlow, who the Frenchie says is his employer. ‘Aye,’ says Barlow, ‘I employed him but he stole two bottles of wine off of me,’ so Frenchie’s banged up again. He comes up at the Bailey in an hour.”
Sir Philip called for a round of gin and hot water, paid his shot and made his escape. He went straight to the Old Bailey and wedged himself in among the press of people in the well of the court. He found himself jammed up against a large yokel at the bar who had been summoned for killing a woman of the town who had made an indecent assault on him in Chick Lane. He was severely cautioned to be more careful in future. Sir Philip shifted restlessly, jammed in as he was among prisoners, guards, witnesses, and turnkeys. Up in the gallery was a packed throng of the beau monde come to see the sights: snapping snuff-boxes, fluttering fans, giggling, whispering and chattering like so many starlings on a roof. The stench was abominable, water was streaming down the walls, and a thin mist from the river obscured the windows. On the judge’s dais was a huge bunch of herbs to ward off gaol fever. Piemen were crying their wares at the door, and only the sullen prisoners were silent. The tedious day wore on. Forty-two felons were sentenced to be transported for seven years, four others to fourteen years, and two persons to be branded as irrevocable vagabonds. And two poor women, after receiving a dreadful homily from the judge upon the enormity of subsisting without visible means of support, were ordered to be whipped for begging.
Then came the chef. His name was Paul Despard. He had only a few halting words of English. The judge was told he was charged with the theft of two bottles of wine from his employer, a Mr. Barlow, but Mr. Barlow was not in court. Despard was a skinny man with a white face and twisted mouth. “Hang the Frog, demme,” cried one languid voice from the gallery, and the cry was taken up. One man after another reminded his neighbour that Frenchmen ate not only frogs but babies, Napoleon having one roasted for dinner every Sunday.
Sir Philip knew that if he did not move quickly, even if Despard got off, the crowd would tear the man to pieces.
Using his stick, he flogged right and left, clearing a space for himself until he was near enough to shout at the defence counsel, who was languidly picking his nose and staring gloomily at the crowd, “I have something to say in this man’s defence.”
Soon Sir Philip was in the witness-box, with his tortoise-like head poking over the top of it. In excellent French, he shouted to the prisoner, “Leave it to me. Agree with everything I say.”
With a shudder he kissed the greasy Bible and took the oath.
“I am Sir Philip Sommerville,” he said. “Paul Despard was to start employment with me at my hotel, The Poor Relation, an excellent establishment in Bond Street where the Duke of Rowcester is in residence, preferring the amenities of my excellent hotel to his own town house.”
“Get on with it, do,” sighed the judge.
“I am persuaded that Mr. Barlow manufactured this trumped-up story about the theft of the wine because he was furious at this chef for leaving his employ. Besides, the so excellent Mr. Barlow with his contempt for British justice is not even here. (And I hope he isn’t, prayed Sir Philip.) Paul Despard escaped the terrors of the French Revolution ten years ago. He was a loyal subject of the French king. He is now a loyal subject of King George. Let every man jack in this court show this poor foreigner that we in England are just and fair, that we have no tribunals here. Cry God for justice, freedom, England and King George!” cried Sir Philip, jumping up and down with almost Shakespearian fervour.
A great cheer rent the court and the cheers went on, almost drowning out the verdict of “not guilty,” given by a jury who had not bothered to retire to consider their decision.
Fortunately for Sir Philip, who then wondered if he would be able to get near Despard to take him away, the poor women prisoners provided a more interesting diversion, as quality and hoi polloi alike poured out of the court to see them stripped and flogged at Bridewell.
Sir Philip, finally having secured the person of Despard, led him out of the Old Bailey and so down to Ludgate Hill, which was thronged with carriages and chairs, and with mercers’ shops bright with silks and muslins.
“In here,” said Sir Philip, stopping outside a tavern in Fleet Street. He ordered ale and a meat pie for Despard and then sat back and studied the Frenchman. Whether he had suffered an apoplexy at some time or had been born that way, his mouth was twisted down at the left-hand side, giving his dead-white face a perpetual sneer. He was dirty and lice-ridden after his sojourn in Newgate. Sir Philip sighed. He would need to get the fellow washed before he presented him to Harriet.
So far, Despard had remained silent, but after he had wolfed down the meat pie, cramming the pastry into his mouth with dirty fingers, he said very carefully, in English, “Thank you.”
Sir Philip’s beady eyes saw the faint scars on the man’s wrists and he said, in French, “When did you escape?”
The Frenchman gave a hiss of dismay and rose to his feet, but Sir Philip pulled him down again. “Do you think I’m going to hand you back after having got you out? I’m interested, that’s all. You have nothing to fear by telling me. Who is this Barlow?”
Bit by bit, Despard’s story came out. He had indeed been a prisoner on one of the hulks. Some humanitarians had come on board one day to inspect the prisoners and several of the healthier ones had been taken up on deck for inspection. Their chains had been removed for the visit. Despard, at the end of the line, had seen his chance and had slipped overboard, climbing down the side of the hulk and so into the waters of the Thames. He had swum ashore. There had been gossip among the prisoners of a certain Mr. Evans who ran a servant agency and who was sympathetic to the French. It was said he would help any who managed to escape to find employ. Despard had hidden in his shoe one gold louis which he sold in a back-street and obtained enough for food, drink, paper and pen. He had written out the name of Mr. Evans and had proceeded to ask for directions, pointing to his mouth to show that he was dumb, for he was afraid his few words of broken English and strong French accent would give him away.
And so he had ended up at the agency in Amen Lane in the City. Evans had been kind and helpful. He had supplied the Frenchm
an with clean clothes and a hot meal and had then sent him to a merchant’s house to take up the post as chef. The merchant was a Mr. Barlow. Despard said Barlow must have known he was an escaped prisoner, for not only had he made him work as chef but as scullery maid and pot-boy as well. There were no wages. Despard had guessed that the generous Mr. Evans was in fact a crook who found servants for employers for a fat fee, the employers paying him in lieu of paying any wages. Despard had protested. Barlow said if he left, he would tell the authorities he was an escaped prisoner. Despard was intelligent enough to point out that that would make Barlow a collaborator. It was then Barlow had smiled and said he would report him as a common thief. Despard had fled. Some of the mob were passing him in the street and one tripped him up. He had cried out in French and they had seized him and taken him to the nearest round-house. He was not surprised that the military authorities had not known of his disappearance, for the lazy captain of the hulk did not keep accurate tally of the many prisoners who died, and Despard had had no papers on him when he was arrested. In desperation, he gave Barlow’s name, hoping Barlow would protect himself by protecting him, but Barlow had given the trumped-up charge of theft of two bottles of wine.
“Can you cook?” asked Sir Philip.
“I am the son of a Paris restaurateur,” he said. “I know my trade. I was a chef in my father’s restaurant before I was pressed into the army.”
“Well, let’s hope you’re good enough after all this,” said Sir Philip with feeling. “I’m tired.” He wondered, not for the first time, at the stamina of Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst.
Harriet felt like a complete amateur as she watched Paul Despard take over the running of the kitchen. He worked at amazing speed. He seemed able to cook several dishes at once and still have time to sit down and drink a leisurely glass of wine. She would have liked to stay on and watch this genius at work and help him, but Sir Philip said he had not spent a poxy day at the Bailey just to see her carrying on in drudgery, and so for the first time since the hotel opened, Harriet found herself with leisure time, in fact, more than any of the others, as—by general consensus—she was expected to stay upstairs, out of sight of the duke. So she helped Betty and John, Lady Fortescue’s servants, with the chores of looking after the other five partners of The Poor Relation, and often stood by the attic windows of the schoolroom in the evenings to watch society going out to play.
The place the Cadmans had left in the hotel was taken by Lord and Lady Darkwood and their daughters. Harriet was on one of her rare visits to the kitchens when she met Lady Darkwood on the stairs and both stared at each other in surprise. For Lady Darkwood was none other than the former Miss Susan Danesmith, whom Harriet had known briefly in her debutante days. She was about to pass on when Susan held out both hands, crying, “It is you. I said to Darkwood, ‘Would it not be fun if the Harriet James who is a partner here is my Harriet!’”
“When I heard Lord and Lady Darkwood were here with their two daughters,” said Harriet, “I did not know you had married and I thought the daughters must be debutantes.”
“Hardly. Margaret is four, and Belinda, two. Come, come into my sitting-room and take tea. You must tell me all and how you come to be here.”
Susan was a tall, statuesque blonde with a fair skin only slightly pitted by the smallpox, and large square brownish teeth.
“I am still as clumsy as ever, Harriet,” she said. “The handles just fall off vases when I touch them.” She laughed merrily and Harriet felt a spasm of guilt, knowing that the breakages were due to Sir Philip’s machinations rather than Susan’s clumsiness. Lady Darkwood rang the bell for tea and Miss Tonks answered its summons, the poor relations continuing the wait on the bedchambers to provide their upper-class guests with the charm of being served by their own kind. Harriet introduced her. Once tea was served, she told Susan of her adventures, or rather, her lack of adventures until she had met Lady Fortescue.
“What a famous lark!” laughed Susan. “But what do you do for social life?”
“Being in trade removes me from society.”
“I suppose it does,” said Susan heartlessly. “Oh, I do envy you, pretending to be a chef and everything.”
“I was a chef through necessity, dear Susan. I am not like Marie Antoinette. I am one of the world’s workers.”
“How adventurous. I do admire you so much. It would be amusing just to see what it’s like to be poor if only for the littlest time, because I might become unfashionable like you and then no one would invite me anywhere. Of course, you could come to Lady Stanton’s ball with me, if you like,” said Susan, rattling on, seeming to find Harriet’s tales of poverty highly amusing. “Darkwood won’t go. So tiresome. He’s overseeing the alterations to our town house.”
“Even if I wanted to go,” said Harriet, “it would not do your social consequence any good to be seen with a hotelier, and one whom you had taken into society.”
“It’s a masked ball. Keep your mask on. No one will know. We shall giggle and flirt like the old days. Everyone I know is so boring and wouldn’t be seen dead working in a hotel.”
“And nor would they,” said Harriet with a reluctant smile. “That is why they are in society and I am out.”
“Oh, do come with me. I told Lady Stanton that Darkwood would not come and I would probably be forced to bring some female with me. So all is right and tight. La Stanton is in alt because Rowcester has accepted her invitation. Do you remember that ball when he could not take his eyes off you? What a laugh! Of course, he can’t look at you now, you having fallen from grace, although, my darling Harriet, in the decentest way possible. Does he know you are here? Has he seen you?”
“Yes, we exchanged a few words,” said Harriet bleakly. “His aunt is one of the partners, too.”
“Yes, of course, but she is accounted in her dotage. She quite terrifies me as she and that colonel creak about the dining-room like a pair of animated mummies.”
Why am I sitting here, listening to Susan’s artless, heartless prattle? wondered Harriet. But she could not help thinking of that ball. Just once more, just one more time of being perfumed and gowned. Just one more waltz.
“Do you have a ballgown?” she realized Susan was saying.
“Yes. Only one left. It is the one I wore at that last ball before my poor parents died.”
“If you haven’t worn it since, why, no one will recognize it,” said Susan. “I remember it. It was white.”
“Suitable for a young miss,” said Harriet, “Perhaps I shall trim it with some colour.”
“Good. That’s settled. Come and meet my darling children. I quite dote on them. But I shall not have any more, and so I told Darkwood. London is full of harlots, and so I told him, why trouble me? Men are so odd, are they not? He became quite incensed and called me unfeeling. Can you imagine? I am all sensibility. I faint if I see a cat in distress.”
But not a hanging, thought Harriet cynically. Sensibility was all the rage. A certain Lady Harman had gone into deep mourning for the death of her lap-dog, following a special funeral cortege up the Edgware Road where bodies hung from the gibbets in chains like rotting fruit. But to cry for anyone on the scaffold would be regarded as vulgarity.
Harriet’s calm announcement that she was to attend Lady Stanton’s ball was met with suspicion. Was Rowcester to be there?
“I think not,” lied Harriet. “It is a masked ball, so no one will know me.”
“Good,” said Lady Fortescue, “for if you were recognized, then you would be in disgrace for having had the temerity to show your face, and that would not do our business here any good at all. People should know their place,” she added without a gleam of humour. “I am glad Rowcester is not to be there, for although the present of the range was magnificent, it made me uneasy. I fear he means to make you his mistress after all, Miss James, and as Sir Philip has gone out of his way to produce a French cook, the least you can do to reward him is to keep out of the duke’s way and remain a
respectable lady.”
“I have no intention of becoming the Duke of Rowcester’s mistress,” said Harriet evenly.
“Indeed, Lady Fortescue,” protested little Mrs. Budley timidly, “you should know our dear Miss James would never stoop so low.”
“A duke is a duke,” said Lady Fortescue awfully. “We really must try to dislodge him from this hotel.”
“It’s a wonder he hasn’t tried to buy us out,” said Sir Philip. “Did he not say anything on the matter, Lady Fortescue?”
“He apologized for having thought me mad,” said Lady Fortescue, playing with the fringes of her fan. “He offered to set me up at a place in the country, but I refused. We must all stick together.”
There was more to it than that, thought Sir Philip, eyeing her narrowly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d offered to buy all of us out and she refused because this all amuses her and she don’t want to go off to the country and die.
Instead he said, “Who’s keeping the account books?”
“I am,” said Colonel Sandhurst.
“May as well turn them back over to Miss James,” said Sir Philip. “You ain’t the best with figures, Colonel.”
“I am sure Miss James will find all in order.”
But Harriet, pouring over the books late that night, was appalled to find the amount of expense from the kitchen in such a short time. Genius he might be, but Paul Despard must be taught economy. She went down to the kitchen to talk to him. In the hall, the Duke of Rowcester was standing chatting to a lady whose pretty daughters gazed adoringly up at him. The duke saw Harriet and gave her a stiff nod before turning back to what he obviously considered pleasant company. Harriet looked at the fine gowns of the ladies and was miserably conscious of her own black dress and muslin apron and starched cap.
Lady Fortescue might rest easy, Harriet thought in a dejected way. The duke had no intention of pursuing her, which, as Harriet firmly told her depressed spirits, was a very Good Thing.
