by Myers, Amy
‘We have to accommodate his equerries, aides de camp, secretaries,’ Priscilla said loudly to regain control. ‘Also his ushers, an Extra Gentleman usher, and I believe Gold Stick. And two bodyguards,’ she added dismissively, ‘for his personal security. Not that they will be needed—’
‘At least we don’t have to lodge his kitchen staff,’ Victoria broke in, confident of aiming straight for her mother’s silk-clad Achilles heel. ‘Not with Mr Didier coming.’
Auguste was Priscilla’s major social problem. This was not, after all, her native America. How did one treat a member of the royal family who properly belonged to the servant class? Moreover one who refused to play down this fact and insisted on flaunting it before all of them by demanding to cook for His Majesty, apparently with the latter’s blessing. ‘We are fortunate Breckles took it in good part.’
‘Breckles only took it in good part because he thinks he can snap any cook from beastly old London in two over his knee if need be. He’s looking forward to it,’ Victoria pointed out gleefully.
‘Nonsense.’ Priscilla firmly refused to acknowledge the possibility of trouble below stairs when all concerned were required to pull their weight for the good of the Tabors. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Don’t you agree, Laura?’ She looked for support from her sister-in-law, who had been placidly reading throughout the skirmish.
‘She’s mooning over a letter from Roughneck Robert. He’s rushing back to see her, now he’s a household name, to claim her hand. Poor old Olly, eh?’ Alfred said loftily.
Laura hastily put the letter aside. ‘You are wrong, as it happens, Alfred. It is not from Mr Mariot. It is from Mr Carstairs, telling me he’s driving over with Alexander today instead of arriving tomorrow.’
‘Really, Laura.’ Priscilla was outraged. ‘You might consider the maids.’
‘Oliver would not dare to seduce them under your roof, Priscilla,’ Miriam reassured her.
‘Mother!’ Laura said warningly, as Priscilla’s formidable bosom swelled.
‘No need to bother with the maids with Aunt Gertie around,’ put in Alfred provocatively.
‘Silence.’ The tone in his mother’s voice stopped him instantly. Couldn’t go too far with the mater. Not while she controlled the purse strings, and he required them to open rather too frequently of late.
‘She’s deuced attractive,’ said George incautiously of his brother’s new wife.
‘As a chorus girl, doubtless she had need to be,’ said Priscilla. ‘Now she has succeeded in marrying Cyril, she requires other qualities.’
‘Such as?’ Victoria asked.
‘She has no knowledge of petit point.’
‘Deplorable,’ agreed Laura.
Priscilla looked at her suspiciously, but could perceive nothing in her sister-in-law’s shocked face of which she could complain. She swept on to deliver her broadside.
‘Furthermore, I hear Cyril permits her to take a smoke.’
There was a hushed silence now. Victoria broke it, rushing in with the temerity of one shortly to escape the parental nest. ‘So there’ll be a high old time in the smokehouse. Or are you going to relax the rules for His Majesty, Mama?’
The verdict was delayed by a loud explosion outside.
‘By jingo, what’s that?’ George demanded angrily. ‘An infernal machine?’
Victoria ran to the window and looked down upon the drive beneath. ‘Not infernal, Papa. It’s darling, darling Alexander’s. And sweet Mr Carstairs is with him, Aunt Laura.’
She rushed out and down the staircase, colliding with Richey the butler in the doorway. Speeding ahead of him down the steps, she threw herself into her beloved’s arms, as he leapt from the motorcar.
‘Oh, now we can start having fun,’ she cried.
Greatly to her surprise, Alexander disengaged himself gently. ‘Darling, I have to see your mother. Immediately.’
Victoria looked at him, and alarm shot through her. What now? What could be wrong? He looked far more worried than an imminent meeting with Mother would warrant. Fun was obviously going to be a little delayed.
So this was Yorkshire. Steep stony hillsides, softly curved crests melting into one another as gently as mounds of beaten egg whites, and everywhere grass and sheep. Obligingly the rain stopped and a weak sun shone, as the Tabor carriage lurched over the moors. Sheep scattered reluctantly from the path, annoyed at being interrupted in their contemplation of eternity. The occasional shepherd stared at the carriage with a frank curious interest before he returned to the real business of life: sheep. The moorland glowed with the changing colours of bracken, yet as the carriage turned further into the remote fells, Auguste shivered, remembering they were not far from Brontë country. How easy to believe now in the elemental passions of Catherine and Heathcliff. This was as far from Provence or London as it was possible to imagine, an alien countryside, whose people seemed of a different race. He reminded himself firmly that on Monday evening he and Tatiana would be back in their new home in Queen Anne’s Gate surrounded by the comforting noisy bustle of London. Back where safety lay.
Safety? Auguste laughed at himself. He was to be living in luxury at a country house in which His Majesty the King was also a guest. What could be safer than that?
At last, having left a small village and inviting inn behind them, the horses turned on to a rough track across a narrow river, then followed the track with hills rising steeply on one side. Auguste could just see ahead of them, wedged between steep hillsides, the grey shape of a large house. Was it an omen that the bright streams now flowing fast on both sides of them were busy scurrying in the opposite direction – away from Tabor Hall?
‘Alors, mon amour,’ Tatiana cried excitedly. ‘The die is cast.’
An unfortunate choice of word, as it turned out.
His Majesty Edward VII gazed moodily out of the window of the royal train, trying not to think of ordeal by Priscilla Tabor. It was too bad. Weeks with Alexandra’s parents in Denmark, and now that he was free to go to Balmoral he had to stop in Yorkshire en route.
Had not the late Baron Tabor done him some service when he was Prince of Wales, in extricating him from an entanglement of more interest to the young lady than to himself, it was doubtful whether the Tabors would ever have reached the social eminence to which they had been catapulted in the last twenty-five years. The then Prince had developed a liking for Tabor’s son, George, the present baron who was five years his junior, chiefly because he was a fair shot; but even her striking good looks had failed to kindle a similar emotion for his wife. When a daughter was born to the pair, he had agreed to be the girl’s godfather for the sake of old times, not foreseeing that this promise would eventually come home to roost in the form of occasional but obligatory attendance at family celebrations.
One of these was this Friday to Sunday. Alexandra had flatly refused to come, choosing to go straight to Balmoral. Only the prospect of Beatrice Janes awaiting him as one of the guests cheered him. And even the rewards that that brought forth never seemed quite as satisfying nowadays. Poularde Derby had more to offer on the whole. He remembered that Auguste Didier would be cooking for him at Tabor Hall, and cheered up a little. At least deepest mourning didn’t affect the menu.
‘I wish we’d never invited him,’ moaned Priscilla, staring calamity in the face.
‘He is married to my cousin,’ Alexander pointed out, somewhat reproachfully, ‘and since my parents could not be present, I wanted Tatiana to be here.’ Priscilla was aware she had put a foot wrong, but Priscilla’s foot once planted was hard to retrieve.
‘I have no intention of having a murder at Tabor Hall,’ Priscilla glared around at her family as though they were responsible for this serpent in her carefully constructed Arcadia.
‘We could tell them the whole thing’s off,’ George offered almost hopefully.
‘Too late! The carriages have arrived.’ There was a note of positive relish in his mother’s voice. At seventy-nine years of age, she
had to take her enjoyment where she could.
Was this one of Mr Wagner’s Valkyries awaiting them, Auguste thought wildly, as he handed Tatiana down from the carriage and prepared to be hurled into the arena to be torn apart by Society’s lions. He cautiously advanced beside the easy stride of his wife, trying not to peer at the house in order to guess where the kitchens might be. This was not an easy task in this huge grey three-storeyed mansion with its massive pillared portico.
He was right. She was a Valkyrie, judging by the wide-brimmed grey hat with two coiled white horns – he caught himself, plumes of course. That, together with today’s new shape of bosom thrust forward and posterior bouncing ostentatiously backwards, and Brünnhilde herself stood before him, albeit a somewhat mature version.
Resisting the temptation to step nobly forward, smite himself on the chest and sing out: Here am I, Siegfried, Auguste bowed to his hostess.
‘Welcome to Tabor Hall, your Highness. Mr Didier. I trust you’ll enjoy your stay.’ Priscilla’s gracious charm enveloped him but failed to reassure.
‘Oh, pray do not call me Highness, I am Madame Didier,’ Tatiana assured her earnestly. ‘I do not approve of titles – my title,’ she amended hastily.
Priscilla paused, then decided to dismiss this as Russian eccentricity.
‘I say, you haven’t become an anarchist, have you, cousin?’ Alexander demanded with interest.
‘A Marxist,’ Tatiana told him amiably.
A bewildering array of Tabors were introduced to them, an ordeal Auguste survived efficiently by imagining them as guests ordering at his restaurant: the nondescript man with pale eyes and thinning fair hair, was their host, Lord Tabor (mustard sauce and devilled kidneys); a middle-aged woman in dove grey with a calm face and intelligent eyes, his unmarried sister, Laura (the much undervalued boiled sole). The owlish and spotty youth with a dashing waistcoat which paid mere lip service to complimentary mourning, was the Tabor son and heir, Alfred (caviare and grouse), and a younger and plumper replica of Lord Tabor, his brother, Cyril (pheasant and hare). His much younger wife, Gertie (champagne and oysters) was an attractive girl, who looked as nervous as he felt. He warmed to Alexander, who had a distinct family resemblance to Tatiana. He and the blonde-haired Victoria, whose exuberance conquered the dullness of the lavender dress complimentary mourning demanded of her, made a striking couple (strawberries and orange).
‘Would you like a walk up Willy’s Brow?’ Victoria asked him brightly. ‘We could go now.’
Auguste gazed at her, completely at a loss. Was this some aristocratic term for a staircase? He was saved by his host – if saved was the right word. ‘No! I’m giving Didier a turn round the gun room right away.’
Gun room? Willy’s Brow? Auguste’s spirits sank. He had always thought guests went to their room, bathed, changed and in due course descended for social intercourse.
‘I will come too,’ Tatiana announced briskly.
‘What a splendid idea, George,’ his wife boomed enthusiastically. She ignored Tatiana’s offer. ‘Afterwards Alfred can take Mr Didier to inspect the kitchens.’
Auguste was taken aback. Eager as he was for the latter experience, a few minutes’ respite, if merely to attend the calls of nature, would have been welcome. Then his last line of retreat was cut off.
‘I will take care of Pr – Madame Didier.’ Lady Tabor looked at Tatiana much as Mr Bram Stoker’s vampire might have eyed his choicest victim.
‘I too would like to see the kitchens.’ Tatiana might be a match for vampires, but not for her hostess.
‘Tea, I think,’ pronounced Priscilla with a quiet smile, ‘dear Mrs Didier.’
‘Then after dinner you can tell us all about your murders,’ Victoria announced brightly to Auguste.
‘Steady on, Vicky,’ drawled Alfred.
Was it his imagination, Auguste wondered, or did Priscilla suddenly look pale? With the recent assassination of President McKinley and the presence of the King here, perhaps murder was as unwelcome a word to his hostess as it was to him.
Victoria failed to take her brother’s hint. ‘But murder is what you’re famous for, isn’t it, Mr Didier? You must tell us everything, or since His Majesty will not be dining with us this evening, perhaps you would prefer to wait until tomorrow? I am sure he would be most interested too.’
Auguste was only too well aware that His Majesty would most certainly not be interested, but was not proof against Victoria. ‘Enchanté,’ he replied warmly. How could he explain that, gifted though he might be in the ways of detection, it was his culinary skills of which he was truly proud. He was already planning a ten-volume work recording the best of his cuisine. Dining à la mode de Didier. It would be his legacy to the world.
‘Perhaps tonight might be the better,’ Laura said lightly. ‘It would be a most absorbing communal entertainment this evening.’
Her family nodded fervently. Was there not something just a little strange here? Auguste was not over-modest, but how could he be of such interest to them? Or did they think he might run off with the family silver if left alone for one moment?
‘Nonsense,’ he told himself, feeling the familiar warmth of his wife’s arm as they entered the house. He was seeing oddities that did not exist. The problem was simply that he was for the first time on the other side of the green baize door at a country house gathering.
‘Of course it is nonsense,’ hissed Tatiana indignantly, since he had spoken aloud. ‘I do not want tea. I am tired of tea, Russian, China, Lemon, my Lord Grey’s tisanes—’
‘Not tisanes,’ August broke in, slightly shocked. ‘Camomile, for example, or mint—’ But he was talking to air. Lady Tabor had borne away her prey.
Auguste suffered ordeal by gun room patiently, in view of the fact it offered the facilities he now urgently required. Moreover the lure of the kitchen was irresistible. He would not, since the King was dining on the train this evening, be cooking until tomorrow but to savour the smell of the kitchens, to enter a new kingdom – his spirits rose as he anticipated his first glimpse of Paradise again after having taken voluntary exile.
The door to the main kitchen stood open. He and Alfred were being escorted there, as was only right and proper, by Mr Richey, the butler, who was highly disapproving of this flouting of the rules dividing upstairs from downstairs. Richey neatly side-stepped as they approached the door, leaving Alfred in the vanguard, and Alfred stopped on the threshold so abruptly that Auguste cannoned into him. All he was aware of was a huge white-clad figure with arms like ham bones, legs like tree trunks, and a face like thunder.
‘Naw.’ Entry was barred.
‘I say, Breckles,’ Alfred spluttered.
‘I say naw. Tomorrow.’
The king of the kitchen had spoken, and this was his realm. Auguste recognised his place immediately.
‘Certainly, Mr Breckles,’ he said briskly. ‘I quite understand.’
The eye fell on him slowly and consideringly. Its owner grinned as he sized up his opponent. ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated almost lovingly and slammed the door shut in their faces.
It was a bad start. Not invited to tea upstairs, not wanted to cook downstairs. There was no comfort to follow. When he eventually reached his room behind the impassive broad back of the housekeeper, Tatiana was not there. Balm was sadly lacking in Gilead.
His wife reappeared only thirty minutes before dinner, by which time Auguste was torn between indignation and nervous anticipation, having forgotten whether the imminent arrival of His Majesty meant donning full mourning or complimentary mourning and what, for a man, the difference was anyway.
‘Where have you been?’ he was appalled to hear himself asking somewhat querulously.
To his amazement, she rushed straight past him. Where were the kisses, the explanations, the loving words? ‘Where is Katya?’ was all she threw at him.
‘You said Mr Marx disapproved of maids. You did not bring her,’ Auguste announced with some pleasure.
�
�Perhaps Mr Marx has not tried to do up his own corsets or style his own hair.’ Through the dressing-room door Auguste watched fascinated as clothes flew in all directions, and then answered the summons to stand in for the absent Katya. At any other time he would have relished the task. Now there were questions to be answered.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Tea,’ she replied tersely, as he struggled with hooks.
‘You said you did not like tea.’
‘We have been discussing rats.’
‘Pardon, chérie?’ His fingers paused.
Tatiana patted her long dark coiled hair complacently. ‘For myself I do not need them. I have thick enough hair already. Rats are pads for ladies’ coiffures. Perhaps Mr Marx—’
‘I am not interested in Mr Marx.’
‘He has much to teach us,’ she said sincerely. ‘The proletariat have nothing to lose but their chains.’
‘I have no chains and—’
‘Chains of love, mon amour.’
The last hook gave way, she turned and wound her arms round his neck and he quite forgot to enquire further as to the reason for her absence.
The Tabors were as solidly embedded in Yorkshire as the grey stones of their country seat. In mediaeval days when the great lords of the north battled out their enmities and feuds throughout the Wars of the Roses, the Tabors, following the lead of their neighbours, the famous Cliffords of Skipton Castle, had been unwise enough to back a loser by supporting the Lancastrian Henry VI. Tabor, like Clifford the Butcher, had marched to Towton Field, and, unlike Clifford, had survived. As the lord merely of a small manor, this was not treated as a major catastrophe by the incoming Yorkists. While all around his neighbours were fast shedding heads or estates or both, the Tabors managed to retain their modest manor, yet were not so unwise as to favour the Yorkists so ostentatiously as to attract the suspicious eye of Henry VII when he came to the throne and united white and red roses. They continued to avoid undue involvement in politics or religious wars and quietly devoted themselves to the expansion and enrichment of their estates; elevation to the lowest grade of the peerage in due course suited them well. Life would have proceeded thus undisturbed into the twentieth century save for the unexpected rise in the Tabors’ social standing.
