by Myers, Amy
Unfortunately, August discovered on the Saturday morning, the kitchens had not followed a similar upward path in development. They appeared, to his startled eye, little changed since the original mediaeval manor house had boasted its central fire and vent in the roof: cast iron ovens, smoking chamber over the fireplace, a mechanical spit . . . True, there appeared to be one or two relatively modern improvements, a kitchener or two, a Niçoise mixer, an iron digester – even, he brightened slightly, a refrigerator.
With all their disadvantages, however, the kitchens were a haven of refuge, firstly from the shoot, and secondly from the world of upstairs life. Friday evening had not been quite the ordeal he feared since the King had arrived late. There had been no jolting over the fells for His Majesty, Auguste noted. The royal train had stopped specially at the hamlet of Bell Busk only a mile or two away. Saturday too had begun well. Tatiana had been particularly attentive to him, refusing to leave him until he was delivered into the custody of Mr Richey to be escorted to the kitchens again.
His spirits rose at the prospect before him. He was a Jupiter returned to Olympus, a Pluto to his Underworld. Unfortunately the latter was guarded by an unprepossessing Cerberus in the stalwart shape of the Tabors’ chef, William Breckles.
‘How do you do?’ Auguste greeted him politely.
‘Growthead,’ was the only distinct word Auguste could make out in reply, and he didn’t know what it meant.
‘I am honoured to be working with you,’ he ventured in what he hoped was a winning manner. He won nothing, as he made a detailed tour round the kitchen to check preparations so far, a difficult task since pots were defended as strongly as Skipton Castle under siege, by pastry cook, meat chef, vegetable chef, sauce chef and colleagues.
‘His Majesty’s mutton chop?’ Auguste’s practised eye detected the omission from the table set aside for the King’s dishes.
A grunt.
‘Stracklin,’ Breckles threw at him, grinning at his daring and winning approving looks from his private army. ‘Oz nobbut want nobbut yan t’eat.’
‘The chop,’ Auguste said firmly.
Breckles folded his arms. ‘Ez slape ez a greasy pole.’
Auguste lost patience. ‘Messieurs,’ he said, squaring up to the enemy, ‘in France we show politeness to visitors.’
A look of amazement passed among the troops, then a beam lit Mr Breckles’ broad face, followed by a bellow of approbation. ‘From France, are you?’ he said in perfectly understandable English, if heavily accented. ‘We thought you was a daft outcomer from London.’
Breckles then volunteered a tour of the larders, which in Yorkshire involved various rituals hitherto unknown to Auguste. Hares were hung ready for roasting for the servants’ dinner. Only young leverets would adorn the Tabors’ table. How much the upper classes missed through stubborn prejudice. Properly cooked, mature hare was a feast. Pig’s carcasses dripped blood collected for something called Black Pudding. This was a dish he must investigate. A pudding with blood? Evidence of successful shoots earlier in the week filled several larders to overflowing. A working relationship had been established between himself and Breckles, and harmony reigned in the kitchen.
‘The garnish for the mutton chop? Epinards au fleuron?’
Breckles looked doubtful. ‘Gardener’s come and gone.’
Auguste’s heart sank. There was no help for it; if he had missed the daily visit, the mountain would have to visit Mahomet, or, rather, his garden. Spinach he must have.
He left the kitchen, and set off into the grounds in the direction Breckles had indicated. He had not gone far before to his astonishment he saw Lady Tabor hurrying towards him. Had she discovered he was avoiding the shoot, and come to march him off, he wondered nervously. ‘His Majesty’s chop,’ he managed to say, smiling weakly.
‘What?’ Priscilla gazed at him blankly, then summoned up her best hostess manner. ‘I regret you are too late for the shoot, Mr Didier. If only I had known—’
‘The kitchen,’ he began feebly.
‘Of course, Mr Didier. Let me show you.’ Brünnhilde’s arm firmly claimed her Siegfried, and then swept on. ‘Tell me, how are the Yorks?’
‘They are cured, I am told.’
‘Splendid,’ said Lady Tabor heartily.
‘I saw them hanging in the larder only this morning.’
Lady Tabor gazed at him blankly. ‘Such delightful people,’ she pressed on regardless.
Too late, Auguste remembered his new neighbours at Queen Anne’s Gate, and blushed at confusing them with the rather more interesting York hams he had seen about to be smoked with oak sawdust.
‘Lady Tabor, I must return to the vegetable garden,’ he told her firmly.
‘I adore the vegetable garden,’ she replied equally firmly. ‘I shall accompany you.’
‘But—’ Aghast, he glanced at the delicate T-bar suede shoes that had clearly had no intention of leaving the carpeted floors of Tabor Hall that morning. Was this some testament to his own masculine attractions? He had heard of such women of course, but somehow he could not imagine Lady Tabor pinning him down in passion amid the Brussel sprouts. ‘Mud, Lady Tabor.’
She followed his look, and smiled benignly. ‘In that case, Mr Didier, you may escort me back to the morning room.’
Bemused, he found himself listening to an earnest monologue on the fourth and fifth Barons, as he walked beside his hostess back to the garden entrance of the house. He felt like Alice in Wonderland with the leaden weight of the duchess on his arm, and was relieved when they reached the house. Freedom was at hand. Or so he thought.
In the entrance hall Laura was descending the staircase.
‘Ah, Laura,’ carolled his hostess. ‘I doubt if Mr Didier has yet seen the library.’ One female arm was replaced by another, he was forced to submit to ordeal by library, before he could successfully plead that his presence was needed elsewhere. He breathed a sigh of gratitude to be reunited with his working table, and decided to abandon the spinach. It was just possible the King would not starve. Capon à la Régence, the ortolans cooked in Armagnac, the sweetbreads à la financière, black game à la royale, poussin à la Richelieu, gigot de chevreuil, soufflé de cailles, rognons au Xérès, gratin d’homard, roast quails – and of course the mutton chop. Yes, that should be sufficient. Then the savouries, most dear to His Majesty. And the oysters ready for his private supper.
He was just adjusting the position of a truffle, when there was a scream. It was outside, but was promptly followed by a kitchenmaid rushing in through the door. He forgot the truffle, and hurried to her to calm her distress, one arm slipping naturally round her; then he remembered his married status, but still kept the arm in place.
‘What is the matter, chérie?’ he asked. The kitchen staff crowded round her as she gasped out a torrent of words that were incomprehensible to him.
‘’Tis a crawing hen,’ Breckles informed him tersely. ‘Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig,’ he added soberly to himself. Whatever was amiss, Auguste decided, it was a Yorkshire matter and nothing to do with a foreigner. He would tactfully slip away. Breckles caught his arm before he could do so.
‘A crawing hen brings ill luck on the house.’
Chapter Two
All superstition of course, Auguste told himself. Nevertheless he remembered how often la Mère Bouchier’s prophecies of dire happenings had been fulfilled in his native Cannes, and was not inclined to scoff at a Yorkshire hen. He walked through the baize door dividing ‘Them’ from ‘Us’ (whichever ‘Us’ he was at the moment). Immediately Victoria Tabor stepped smartly out from the gun room and offered to accompany him wherever he might be going. Perhaps this was some rule of northern hospitality he had not yet grasped, he thought, beginning to find this love of his company distinctly unnerving. Bidding Victoria farewell, he opened the door of their room with some relief, expecting Tatiana to be present. She wasn’t.
Even her appearance a few minutes later did not restore good humour
this time. He was convinced that something was going on in which he was not involved. ‘Where have you been, ma mie?’ he enquired, trying to convey that the answer was not of great interest to him.
‘Taking tea,’ Tatiana replied quickly. ‘I understand now why English ladies, even those from America like Lady Tabor, take tea. It is so they can burst out of their armour and wear teagowns.’
Auguste eyed her suspiciously. It was true it was teatime, but surely more than tea and whalebone was going on here. A lover? At this wild thought he laughed at himself. He was being foolish.
‘’Course, they don’t approve of me.’
‘How could they not?’ asked Auguste sincerely. ‘You are the former Miss Gertie Gum, the ornament of the Galaxy Girls chorus line.’ He had been charmed to make this discovery the previous evening, courtesy of Alfred.
Gertie giggled. ‘You were the restaurant chef, weren’t you? Before I was there, that must have been.’
Auguste thought back to those days of ’94, only seven years ago but like a different lifetime. Then he looked at Tatiana and regretted not a single change. (Or very few.) Gertie’s reign in the chorus line had been brief, so Alfred had told him, before she succumbed to the blandishments of the Honourable Cyril who, faced with the meltingly beautiful and innocent face of Miss Gum, had found himself strangely unable to offer the lure he had intended and proffered marriage instead – which had resulted in the entire satisfaction of both participants, if not of Priscilla Tabor.
Drawn by fellow feeling, Auguste had gravitated to her side under the sparkling chandeliers of the salon as the company, dressed in deepest mourning, awaited the arrival of His Majesty for dinner. This was promptly at seven, unusually early for His Majesty who favoured dining at nine, but his easy-going nature let Priscilla have her way. One usually did. Priscilla had strict views on the Sabbath and the desirability of early retiring. So did His Majesty when Mrs Beatrice Janes was unaccompanied by her husband, but unfortunately the King had been disgruntled to find he was very much with her on this occasion. He liked old Harold, but expected him to do the decent thing and stay at home. Harold was, Tatiana had confided to Auguste in bed last night, anxious to remind His Majesty of his existence, with the first November Birthday Honours List in mind, and was either oblivious or ignorant of other factors.
‘Lady Tabor has given them adjoining rooms,’ she whispered, ‘and is making sure Harold has a lot to drink, otherwise the King will not be amused.’
There were some benefits, Auguste had thought, highly diverted, to Tatiana’s tea-parties. She learned the most intriguing pieces of gossip. Cyril, he was told, was thought to be over-susceptible by his sister-in-law. His first wife having died, he had spent several years searching enthusiastically for replacements, most of them temporary. There had been a lady called Alice, with a peppery father in the Indian Army, for example. It always fell to George Tabor to extricate his gullible brother, but he had failed to act in time over Gertie. Priscilla had not forgiven him.
‘There’s only one has any time for me in this house, and that’s her Ladyship,’ Gertie confided to Auguste, who was appreciative of her entrancing bosom, none the worse for its black lace covering, pressed right up against him. She had daringly broken the rules of mourning by flaunting a white rose, he noticed, when only pearls were permissible. Full marks to Gertie for courage. His Majesty was unlikely to object, but Priscilla . . .
‘Our hostess?’ Auguste asked startled, since he thought the Valkyrie sadly lacking in rapport with Gertie. He glanced round to see where Tatiana was, just in case she might be watching. She was not; she was chatting to a pink-faced footman. Much as he approved of this democratic behaviour, he doubted if Priscilla Tabor would be so impressed.
Gertie giggled. ‘No, Miriam, the Dowager. Haven’t you met her? I’ll introduce you. Mother to Cyril, Laura and old George and the scourge of Priscilla’s life. She lives here in the north wing.’
The Dowager Baroness Tabor was a diminutive figure, but the first thing to strike Auguste were her eyes, clear, blue and remarkably lively for her years. So was her pink and white complexion, complemented by white hair, and she had a grace of quick movement that made Priscilla seem a battleship to her graceful sloop, a Chelsea bun to her petits fours.
‘Ah, Mr Didier, what fun to have a chef in the family. For you will be in the family, will you not, once Alexander marries Victoria? Now you must tell me about Paris. So clever to marry a Parisienne.’
‘Only to be compared with an English rose such as you, madame.’ Auguste bowed and began to relax at such humanity.
‘Mother!’ Priscilla bore down on them in full black sail, or rather silk swathed in crepe. ‘His Majesty approaches.’
Meekly, the Dowager Lady Tabor, winking at Auguste, followed in the majestic wake of her daughter-in-law.
A hush fell as His Majesty King Edward VII arrived for dinner, definitely out of sorts. He had come to the conclusion that even Beatrice’s presence did not compensate for Priscilla Tabor. Marmoreal thighs and majestic bosoms were all very well, but even the largest and most majestic lost their appeal when their owner behaved like an over-forceful sheepdog.
August found himself, to his pleasure, seated next to Gertie, albeit well below the salt. He congratulated himself that so far he, the proletariat, had committed no major solecisms, provided one did not count failing to notice the layout of the house so that when he led Mrs Janes down the stairs for dinner yesterday evening, he had offered that effusive lady the wrong arm and found himself crushed against the wall by her protruding corseted rear.
Tatiana had been placed sufficiently far from the King not to irritate him by any disconcerting observations on Mr Karl Marx, but near enough not to insult a minor Romanov, as she was. His Majesty sat in state at one end of the table with Beatrice on one side and Priscilla on the other. He did not look particularly happy. Only Victoria and Alexander, allowed to sit next to each other, floated blissfully in their private dream of happiness.
‘Madame will take the consommé,’ Auguste instructed the footman firmly, earning a grateful glance from Gertie. At Romano’s she had never been forced to choose, since every infatuated admirer simply ordered the best for her. Speed of supply and dispatch was essential at this end of the table, Auguste knew, as otherwise there was a danger of His Majesty finishing before they had begun. Etiquette demanded that the whole company lay down their knives and forks as soon as the King did. If in a good mood he ate slowly. Today, however, it was clear speedy eating would be necessary, especially as there were ten extra guests invited just for the evening. Auguste began to worry about His Majesty’s menu once more. He had been forced to yield the final garnishing of truffles on the silver plates bearing the King’s favourite côtelettes de bécassines à la Souvaroff, cutlets of boned snipe and foie gras with Madeira sauce. It had been an agonising parting.
The consommé à la princesse was a success, he decided cautiously, though some might say there was slightly too much tarragon. He watched the charade as Tabor footmen handed dishes solemnly to the King’s own footmen who waited on him, then handed the dishes back. Almost like mediaeval food-tasters, Auguste thought, pondering the possibilities of poison being inserted into the King’s food, then remembering all too vividly an occasion in his past when it might so easily have been. Hastily he turned his attention to Oliver Carstairs, a tall man in his forties with a lazy charm and interesting face. He had not spoken to him at length last night, and was not sure of his role here. He decided he would find out.
At much the same time, His Majesty turned thankfully from Priscilla to Beatrice. Now for some entertaining conversation, which by etiquette he must initiate. ‘Fellow should be hung by the thumbs,’ he informed her. ‘He shot one of the Sandringham gold pheasants.’
The Honourable Cyril recalled his social obligations and stopped studying his pretty little kitten across the table; he belatedly registered the word gold and decided to contribute.
‘Market’s ge
tting difficult, so they say, sir.’
‘What market?’ the King asked, nonplussed.
‘Gold market.’
‘Gold will never lose its value,’ pontificated Harold Janes. He was, he wished everyone to know, an authority on this subject.
‘What with the war in South Africa . . .’ Cyril’s voice trailed off miserably.
‘I hear the unions are flexing their muscles in Colorado too,’ Carstairs rescued him.
‘Didn’t your brother have something to do with gold out in Colorado, Priscilla?’ enquired Miriam innocently.
Priscilla glared at her. Oscar was not a subject she wished to discuss, and dear Mother-in-Law was well aware of the fact.
‘Pheasants,’ emphasised the King loudly, annoyed at this tangent. ‘Pheasants.’
‘Was it a good bag this morning, Your Majesty?’ ventured Didier, bravely coming to the aid of the party.
‘Splendid,’ he roared cordially, glad that Didier was taking life seriously – without, he noted approvingly, losing his old skills at cooking. That chop had gone down very nicely, as also the soufflé de cailles, not to mention several other dishes. ‘Few dozen ducks as well as partridge.’
In this spirit of goodwill towards all, even Priscilla, the rest of the dinner proceeded tranquilly.
‘Shall we adjourn, gentlemen?’ George cleared his throat as the last rustle of black taffetas and silks returned to the drawing room just before eight. Oddly, Auguste noticed, George was definitely avoiding the eye of his monarch.
Auguste had looked forward to the moment when, relaxing in an old armchair watching others play billiards, he might light up a cigar, drink a brandy – surely the essence of the small pleasures of being a gentleman, though, true, not ones he had expected to indulge in so early in the evening. It was greatly to his surprise that he found himself being almost frog-marched behind the monarch, not towards the billiard room but into the dark cold night air. Here Lord Tabor and his monarch climbed into a trap, leaving himself, Cyril, Alfred, Alex, Harold Janes, and Oliver Carstairs on the steps.
