by Faith Martin
Richard smiled and gave a brief shrug. ‘Well, yes and no. It’s called a “moral turpitude” clause or some such,’ Richard laughed. ‘It’s to do with us being upstanding and honest citizens of Caulcott Deeping, and not bringing shame on the grand Grimmett name.’ He rolled his eyes and shook his head. ‘Celia’s dead now, bless her, but the conditions of the mortgage technically still hold, although the trustees she appointed . . . well, let’s just say they don’t mind turning a bit of a blind eye to any violations of the more minor kind. Like staying open on a Sunday every now and then.’
‘More honoured in the . . . whatnot . . . than in actuality,’ Jenny offered, rather lackadaisically.
Richard nodded. ‘Exactly. And it’s not much of a problem, to be honest. If we swear or use bad language, or if we get drunk ourselves, or behave badly in public, then the mortgage could, technically, be revoked.’ Richard shrugged. ‘Luckily, neither Muriel nor me drink much — which is just as well. The payments are enormous! But once the last one’s finally paid, this place,’ Richard nodded around him to indicate the inn, ‘will be all ours, free and clear, which has always been our dream,’ he finished, with a note of pride.
‘And then you can swear at me as much as you like, young Dickie my lad,’ Old Walter offered generously. ‘And I won’t take it to heart or abandon the Spindlewood. I’ll be as loyal as a sheepdog, you’ll see.’
Richard winked at Jenny, then mock sighed heavily. ‘Does that mean that you’ll keep turning up on our doorstep every opening time and hog the bar all day and all night, like now?’
‘So swipe me, Bob,’ the old man said, holding up a hand in mock allegiance.
Richard shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Pity. We were hoping we could shock you into abandoning us and plaguing the Three Feathers over in Bisley Bumpstead instead.’
This seemed to tickle the old man so much that he became almost purple-faced with laughter.
Jenny took the opportunity to slip off her stool and go to bed. It had been a long day.
* * *
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, with the forecast promising that the unusually hot days would continue well into next week. Jenny, rising at six in order to get the breakfast rolls made and proving in a warming drawer, hummed along to the radio as she worked.
Now that she knew more about the Sparkeys’ hefty mortgage payments, she was more inclined to feel sympathetic to their money-grubbing ways. They might be brazen in squeezing every pound out of unsuspecting tourists now, but perhaps once they were free and clear of debt — and Celia Grimmett’s old-fashioned edicts — they’d be able to relax a bit and enjoy themselves more.
Still humming to a golden oldie playing on the radio, she set the rice to boil for the kedgeree and began inspecting the eggs. So, omelettes — herb, tomato, or sausage? Or a mixture?
Jenny glanced up as a shadow moved across the light, and outside in the garden she saw the actress, Rachel, and a young man walking up the path. They chose to sit at a bench nearest to the paved patio area just outside the kitchen, and dumped their bags and things on the grass.
For a moment the cook wondered what they were doing there so early — and then she remembered that the am-dram players were due to give their second performance for the Regency weekenders right after breakfast. This time, it was to be a scene where Lady Hester and her lover meet for a romantic tryst. Lady Hester is to warn him that her husband has been threatening them, and he in turn attempts to persuade her to run away with him. But the thought of all that scandal would be too much for the timid and genteel lady.
Jenny was only glad that all the lovey-dovey acting didn’t start until after everyone had eaten their food. No way did she want her eggs Benedict to be upstaged!
As she set about making the hollandaise for the eggs, she watched the two actors thoughtfully. ‘Reginald Truby’ looked to be in his mid-twenties, with fair hair and a rather square-chinned profile. He was rather good-looking, she mused wryly, so perhaps it was little wonder that am-dram had appealed to him. It probably gave him the ideal excuse to show off without looking too vain about it!
As she slowly whisked, drip by careful drip, some luscious and high-end oil into her egg yolks, Jenny realised that, far from rehearsing their upcoming scene, the two seemed to be arguing about something, with the young man’s gestures becoming more and more angry and jerky. And, as the argument continued, Rachel’s face began to get that mulish and sulky look that indicated that she was beginning to dig in her heels.
With a sigh, Jenny turned from the window and began to de-pip some fresh tomatoes. It was too early in the day for drama anyway — be it the real-life variety or strictly theatrical.
* * *
‘I just can’t stand spiders! They’ve always given me the horrors ever since I was a little girl. Isn’t that right, Si?’ Min Buckey looked up as Mags deposited a plate of gently steaming, fragrant kedgeree in front of her, and instantly the American woman beamed. ‘Oh my, that looks good. It smells wonderful too.’
Jenny, sitting unobtrusively at a table for one tucked up almost inside the large inglenook fireplace, was indulging one of her favourite habits. Whenever possible, she liked to be present — and if possible incognito — when her food was being served, in order to get genuine feedback from her diners.
So this morning, once everything was prepared and ready, she had persuaded Muriel to let her into the dining room once the last dish had left the kitchen. As it happened, the American couple had been the last down, and so had been the last to give their order.
Now Jenny tucked happily into her own choice of herb omelette — just soft enough in the middle, but not runny — and checked for any signs of rubbery texture at the edges. Naturally, there were none. They wouldn’t dare!
‘Oh, Si, this is delicious,’ Min gratifyingly murmured a moment later. ‘You should have had this. Here, take a bite.’
Silas Buckey, Jenny noted, had chosen the French toast with a side order of bacon, but that didn’t stop him from trying a forkful of his wife’s dish.
‘You’re right, honey, it’s great. I’ll have it tomorrow,’ he promised peaceably.
Jenny, continuing her survey of the dining room, wasn’t surprised to see that Dr Gilchrist had opted for the croissants and her home-made apricot preserve. Ion, being slightly more adventurous, had chosen the sausage plait with mushrooms and grilled tomatoes.
‘I just hope there won’t be any spiders this morning,’ again Min’s rather loud voice, with its distinctive North Atlantic twang, cut across the room. ‘Perhaps we should give the gardens a miss, honey,’ she said worriedly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, Min, if we’re going to look around the big house it seems a shame not to look at the gardens too. They’re supposed to be really pretty,’ her husband drawled back.
Jenny, recalling the itinerary for the weekend, remembered that after the breakfast ‘show’ the weekenders had the opportunity of either taking a tour of the local stately home, or visiting the local ‘eyecatcher.’ And she still hadn’t found out what that was.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Buckey — we don’t have any poisonous spiders in England,’ she heard Dr Gilchrist say as he leaned across his table to reassure the American, who was sitting at the table directly next to his.
‘See, that’s nice to know,’ Silas said, reaching across to pat the top of his wife’s hand comfortingly. ‘Hear that, sweetie? There are no tarantulas or black widows over here!’
‘Oh, Si, don’t,’ Min laughed and shuddered. Today the American matron was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of white slacks with another kaftan-style top, this one white and splashed with bright red and orange poppies. Red strappy sandals covered her small feet, and red chunky Bakelite bangles hung from one wrist.
‘It’s unlikely that you’ll see any house spiders inside the big house either, Mrs Buckey. And garden spiders are quite pretty in their own way, a sort of brown and cream with a pretty pattern on their backs,’ Rory Gilch
rist added, no doubt trying to be helpful.
But Min merely blanched. ‘Ugh. There simply can’t possibly be anything pretty about a spider!’ she argued with a laugh. ‘But if you think it’ll be all right in the house, well then, that’s something. And, Si, sweetie, you can go around the gardens if you like. I’ll stick to the buildings!’
‘Whatever you say, honey,’ her husband said again, barely pausing in his eating.
Several diners began to head off towards the loos, glancing at watches as they went, clearly making sure that they still had time before the show started.
Jenny, too, finished her cup of coffee and rose to her feet. Time to get back to the kitchen. It was the culinary highlight of the weekend that evening, and she was looking forward to getting started on the ‘Regency Feast.’ She hadn’t ever cooked one before but she was up for the challenge.
As she made her way towards the side of the bar, she noticed the country solicitor, aka big bad Sir Hugh, standing behind the bar chatting earnestly to Muriel. Since the next scene concerned only Lady Hester and her young lover, he was dressed in civvies, and looked every inch the man of law.
She nodded vaguely at the landlady, but as she stepped through into the corridor, Rachel, in her full Lady Hester regalia, moved past her, and the cook quickly stepped out of her way, admiring the illusion she gave of a woman stepping two hundred years out of the past. But clearly visible on her wrist, Jenny noticed that the actress was wearing a very modern — and probably exorbitantly priced — platinum and diamond ladies’ watch. She only hoped that the more eagle-eyed amongst the historical society contingent didn’t spot it!
Behind her came Lady Hester’s lover, the blond-haired Adonis of earlier, and this time Jenny got a good look at his rather fine green eyes. At the moment, however, the expression in them was far from pleasant. And they were boring into Rachel’s back so hard, she was surprised not to see smoke coming from the back of the actress’s sprigged-muslin outfit.
‘Have you come to watch us, Vince? We’re just going on,’ Rachel called across to the older actor, who said something to Muriel in parting and then turned away.
‘Coming,’ Vince said brightly.
She noticed Rachel smile sweetly at Muriel and give her a mocking little wave.
‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, Rae,’ Jenny heard the Adonis hiss at Rachel’s back. ‘And don’t think you can just shrug me off either!’
‘Now then, you two, no more squabbling,’ Jenny heard Vince say wearily, as she moved through to the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a performance to put on. And, Rae, I think that reporter from the local paper might be in. So behave!’
Jenny smiled as she picked up her favourite apron from the back of a kitchen chair and slipped it over her clothes. It seemed that Vince, in role of peacemaker, was rather adept at handling his volatile fellow actors.
And rather him than her, she thought cheerfully, as she set about the first of her many tasks that day.
* * *
Half an hour later, Muriel watched her temporary cook carefully as Jenny set about making the dressing for her salad, which was to be one of the main centrepieces for that evening’s make-or-break meal. Advertised in the brochure as the highlight of the weekend, the pressure was on for Jenny to get it right.
‘And what’s it called again?’ Muriel asked, scowling down at the notebook in her hand. She was in charge of writing up the menus that would be placed on the tables, and had already picked out the ‘old English’ font she would use on her computer. But she wanted to make sure she got the spellings right.
‘Salmagundi,’ Jenny repeated patiently, and helpfully spelled it out for her. ‘Apparently, it was a favourite salad with the Georgians, although it’s much older than that, and consisted mainly of cooked chicken and hard-boiled eggs, romaine lettuce, with onions, anchovies, parsley, pickled red cabbage, green and red grapes, watercress, spinach and green beans.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Muriel muttered. ‘I hope you haven’t busted the food budget?’
Jenny assured her that she hadn’t, and continued her lecture patiently. ‘As with most dishes from the Georgian era, it has to presented in a rather spectacular manner, so I’m serving it on large platters, following a strict patterned arrangement, with edible flowers to top it all off,’ Jenny swept on.
Adding wholegrain mustard, red wine vinegar, half a teaspoon of salt and ground pepper and a little olive oil to her dressing, she whisked it thoroughly. ‘It’s all in the preparation — first shred the lettuce and lay it on the platter, then cut the meat into thin slices and lay it on. Next comes a layer of sliced boiled eggs and onions, then the watercress, spinach, et cetera. All in progressively smaller layers, so you can see them all. Finally you decorate the top with the grapes and lemon slices and edible flowers. If done properly, it looks amazing and tastes great,’ she enthused, getting carried away, as she always did, whenever she talked about food. ‘It also has the added advantage of appealing to modern-day tastes because it’s healthy for you!’ And from her research she knew that not all Georgian recipes fell into that category!
Muriel nodded, looking pleased and a little less worried. She might not understand the intricacies and etiquette surrounding early nineteenth-century recipes, but she understood the importance of keeping her diners happy.
‘And for the fish dish?’
‘Ahh, fish is a bit of a problem area,’ Jenny acknowledged. ‘People living on the coast back then were OK — they could have fish fresh from the boats. But because they didn’t have fridges in those days, and it could take days for carts to reach the more landlocked counties, most of the recipes for inland dwellers tended to be for freshwater fish caught locally — like pike.’
‘Pike?’ Muriel sounded appalled.
‘Yes. It is rather bony, and not to everyone’s taste,’ Jenny agreed diplomatically. ‘So, in the cause of authenticity, I’ve decided to go without a fish course,’ she explained. ‘But nobody will mind, I promise. Instead, there’ll be a choice of Cornish game hens or boiled duck with onion sauce. And a veggie option, of course.’
‘Boiled?’ Muriel again sounded uncertain.
‘I know it sounds strange to our ears, but believe me, it’ll be delicious,’ Jenny said firmly — and mentally crossed her fingers. Since she’d never boiled a duck before in her life, she was hoping that her confidence in the recipe wouldn’t be misplaced. ‘Those who know about these things will be well impressed,’ she added slyly.
Seeing that Muriel still looked less than convinced, she swept on ruthlessly, ‘And for dessert, there’ll be a trifle, naturally. The Georgians did love their trifles — in my case I’m making Madeira cakes to go in the trifle, with blackcurrant jam, strawberries, raspberries and blackberries. Also on the dessert menu is something called a “whipt syllabub” — believe me, you don’t want to know — with Shrewsbury cake, another must-have for a feast, apparently.’ Jenny paused to take a much-needed breath. ‘I’ve found a great recipe for them — they’re actually more of a biscuit than a cake. Less crumbly than a shortbread, but with a great buttery flavour. They’ll be perfect with the syllabub, trust me.’
Muriel, wisely deciding that she should just leave her to get on with it, made sure that she had all the information she needed to print off the menus and left. Jenny watched her go, heaved a sigh of relief, then glanced at her watch.
Just gone ten o’clock. Since she needed some sherry to soak some raisins in, she went through to the bar just as the diners and actors began pouring out of the dining room, happily chatting about the scene they’d just witnessed. And from the flush of triumph on Rachel’s face, she’d clearly been a hit yet again.
‘Rae, I need a word,’ her handsome co-star said, taking her arm and attempting to pull her off to one corner for some privacy. Clearly Rachel Norman wasn’t enamoured with that idea because she angrily jerked her arm away.
‘Not now, Matt! I need to go and speak to the reporter . . .’
‘That can wait! You don’t seem to realise that Felicity has actually broken off our engagement,’ he hissed.
‘Well that’s not my fault is it,’ Rachel hissed back. ‘You should have been more careful and made sure that she didn’t find out about us. Good grief, other men manage to do it! In any case, it was only ever going to be just a bit of a laugh between us anyway, wasn’t it? It’s not as if it was anything serious that she needed to get her knickers in a twist over! Just win her back if you’re so damned keen to marry her. Personally, I think you’re better off without the silly little . . . Silas, sweetie, what did you think of my performance!’
And turning her back firmly on Matthew’s thunderous face, she beamed at the wealthy American and glided across towards him. And Jenny didn’t blame Min one bit for the way she moved protectively closer to her husband and reached out to slip her hand under his arm and give it an affectionate squeeze.
No doubt, Jenny thought cynically, Rachel had now had time to learn (as Jenny had) that Silas had recently sold his businesses and thus must now be rolling in ready money — and might just be on the lookout for a pretty woman to help him spend some of it.
And as Jenny had seen for herself, the actress had plenty of expensive tastes. Neither the jewellery nor clothes that she favoured were of the cheap variety.
‘Richard — I need a bottle of good sherry please,’ Jenny said, turning to the bar and reminding herself firmly that she had work to do.
‘Why? A secret tippler, are you?’ he asked with an uncertain grin.
Jenny shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, sherry’s not my drink,’ she reassured him. ‘Actually, forget the bottle, I really only need a little shot-glass full — about so much,’ she said, using her finger and thumb to show about an inch or two of space. ‘Just enough to soak some raisins and sultanas.’
Ignoring his obvious trust issues, she instead nodded across at the pretty actress who was now clearly flirting with a delighted Silas. ‘She looks like she’s after a rich sugar daddy,’ she said lightly. ‘Or does she already come from money?’
