by M. J. Carter
“Thank you, Mr. Percy,” she said. She did not look at me. Her voice at least had not changed; it retained its old huskiness.
We followed Percy into the corridor. Matty kept her eyes on the floor. He led us to the other end of the kitchen and, opening a side door, he said, “You may have the butler’s room, Matty. I have had a fire laid. And take half an hour.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He gave a quick, indulgent smile. “I have no need of it, and I am sure it would be pleasant to have a few moments’ quiet talk with your rescuer. Besides, you may be working late tonight, Matilda. The secretary, Mr. Grove, has left, and Chef is likely to be in need of your services.”
It was a comfortable parlor, with two well-worn armchairs set before a little grate of glowing logs. We stood for a moment. Then she looked up at me and began a smile that became broader and broader.
“Oh my lawd, Captain!” she said, pulling off her cap and grasping my hands, her voice thick with excitement but hardly above a whisper. “Can you believe this!”
There was a knock; another kitchen maid, older, pretty, stood with a tray. Matty dropped my hands abruptly and we both sat down. A large brown teapot, two cups, a plate of soft white bread and butter, another with slices of seed cake, and a saucer on which there were four tiny pairs of slightly crushed meringues pressed together with purple jam and a lick of whipped cream. As she laid down the tray, the kitchen maid gave Matty a look of such pure scowling dislike that I was quite disturbed. As she straightened, she gave me a look of bald, almost suggestive, insolence.
“Thank you, Margaret,” said Matty, not looking at her. The girl retired, with a toss of her shoulders.
Matty turned back to me. “Oh, Captain! Do you remember: when first we met, you bought me a sandwich? It tasted like sawdust, but I was glad for it. The food here. Even the bread and butter’s like—what’s it called?—ambrosia! Taste it!”
I took a piece. “It is a remarkable place,” I said, relieved to see the Matty I knew.
“Isn’t it?” She leaned back luxuriously in her chair. “I can’t believe Mr. Percy let me see you here. Even the first kitchen maids don’t get that.”
“So it has gone well?”
She nodded vigorously. “How we live! I have two good dresses. Boots that fit. A clean apron each day that someone else washes! I eat two meals every day, meat three times a week! And every so often, a little taste of what they get upstairs. They had these last night.” She pointed at the meringues. “I begged Herr Schmidt for any that were left. Chef says we must all understand what the kitchen aims for: perfection. Here.”
She watched as I placed a meringue in my mouth. It crumbled and vanished like a sugar cloud.
“Chef calls them ‘a little piece of the divine.’”
“He is right,” I said, unable not to return her smile. “I could not be more delighted, Matty. It seems you have conquered all before you.”
“Not nearly. When I first came I was in the scullery, heaving the slops, scraping grease, scrubbing crocks and stew pans, washing aprons, arms in water up to me elbows all day, six in the morning till late at night. But even in the scullery, the water comes in from a faucet, and you don’t have to pump, you just turn it and the water’s hot. First off, I had to learn to stop talking and do what I was told. I got beaten a few times for chattering and disobedience. It’s still a job to hold my tongue. Maybe that’s why I’m so full of words today. Oh, it’s good to see you, Captain!
“I got my head down, worked hard. After a few weeks of mopping and scrubbing, one of the kitchen boys found I could write a good hand and asked me to write to his ma. So I did. Then a porter asked, will I scribe him a letter? I started writing letters for the kitchen boys and porters, then one of the kitchen maids—a nice one, ’cos most of them won’t give a scullery girl the time of day—and a couple of the chefs. Most of them can’t hardly write, and not in English—well, they are foreign. I charge a ha’penny a time.”
She handed me a cup, and as she did so I saw her hands were red and chapped and covered in dozens of small burns and sores.
“Good God! What are these?”
She laughed. “These are nothing. All the girls’ hands are like these. There’s no kitchen work without them: if you’re not scrubbing with carbolic half the day, you’re burning yourself the rest. Anyway, one day, Mr. Percy comes into the scullery—that’s a shock, because no one comes into the scullery. He’s discovered I’m writing letters. He asks to see my scribing. I swear I thought I was for the sack; I was to go to Chef’s office. I was proper—I mean very—scared. I go in, all dripping from the sinks. And Chef looks hard at me and says he has no time for those who are distracted by other tasks and do not put their heart and soul into the kitchen.
“Well, I was sure I was for it and I thought my heart would break. Then he asks me where I learned to write. I told him about my pa being a printer and that I could write before I spoke. He says, ‘You’re the girl Blake brought.’ He tells me to take a piece of paper and write what he says. He starts on at a terrible old rate on a recipe for salmon with a shrimp sauce, all scrambled around with French words I didn’t know. I copied it down as best as I could, though my copy was awful. Full of crossings-out like a cat’s catechism. He held it up in the air with his finger and thumb like it was a dead mouse and dropped it on the floor. ‘Excuse me, Chef,’ I said, ‘but I can make you a fair copy in four minutes flat.’ Not my best hand, but I did it.
“Well, he looked it over, then Mr. Percy looked it over. Turns out his secretary had left in a fury, the kitchen clerks were off sick, and his wife was off in the country, and all the chefs are foreign, so there’s no one left to do his correspondence. For five days, I wrote his letters until he got a new secretary. I went to the kitchen clerk and I got him to give me a list of dishes so as to see how they were spelled. I studied the menus and learned the words, and I sat up all night with a candle to work out the spellings.
“Then I went back to the scullery. But then Chef calls me back a few days later. He says he’ll promote me to kitchen maid. Six weeks, and I’m out of the scullery! It’s usually a year or more till you get the chance, and some never do, but suddenly I’m in the kitchen.
“So then Chef calls me in a few weeks ago and says I’ve worked hard and he’s going to put me on pastry and sweets. That means I’m practically a first kitchen maid! In four months! I get to warm the milk and yeast for the bread, start the sorbets, whip the egg whites and the cream. And you know, one of the pastry cooks is a woman, Mrs. Relph, and she looks out for me. She says I’m as good as any of the apprentices, and she’s going to teach me.
“Oh, I’m going on, but it’s just, well, I’ve kept my mouth shut so long, and stored it all up inside me, and there’s not many I can glory in my good fortune with—Blake’s hardly one for prattle. And I wanted you to know, I’m so grateful.” Her whole face was alight with gladness.
“And now and again I clerk for Chef. The secretaries are always leaving. See, Mr. Grove has just thrown in his hand. That’s why I might be needed.”
“Why do they leave?”
“He just can’t keep them. He wants them at all hours, and they mind, or they don’t get along with the kitchen. Or they get along too well, if you know what I mean.” She mimed drinking a glass to the dregs. “So then I’m up for a few days. He says I turn his French orotundities—whatever they are—into good plain English.
“But you know,” she said, entirely serious, “he’s a genius. He thinks of every detail.” She jumped up. Behind her was a little china basin set in a sideboard. “Look.” She lifted up a small, shining copper cup like a tiny colander which was attached to a rod and chain. “He invented this. It fits into the plughole and stops all the bits of food and grease from sliding into the drain. It’s a small thing, but when you’re a scullery maid all you think of is drains and grease! Every basin has one. Captain,
it’s so clean here. There’s a boy whose whole job is getting rid of the vermin and catching cockroaches. And I swear there’s no bedbugs! Well, almost. And here.” She pulled open the drawer under the basin. “See? It’s for ice, and it’s lined with lead to keep the ice from melting, and then as it does melt, there’s a little hole in the corner to drain away the water. Chef thinks of everything. But”—and she leaned forward and said in a near-whisper—“he can’t hardly write. But he can’t help that. Anyway,” she said, finally drawing breath, “a gentleman doesn’t want to hear about drains and pastry.”
“I do,” I said. “I can see Monsieur Soyer is a remarkable man.”
“He is. Oh, Captain, I never thought anything such as this could happen!” She rocked with pleasure.
“Matty, you are so grown, and it suits you.”
“I was seventeen last week,” she said, with a queenly tilt of her head. “Blake was supposed to come, but he didn’t. You must have seen him. What’s become of him?”
“I have barely seen him,” I said, taking a gulp of my tea. “He is buried in a very mysterious case. You are taking care of yourself?” I thought of the look the other kitchen maid had given her. “Do those young men tease you often?”
“Now, don’t you start! You sound like Mrs. Relph. She says I should never smile because men will take advantage.”
“Well, they might. Men are rough things. You must be on your guard.”
“Do you not recall where I’m from?” she said sharply, then relented. “And you, you’ve a son, Blake says. What’s he like?”
“He is a soft, fat little fellow who laughs a good deal.” I could not restrain a smile as I thought of him.
Mr. Percy appeared at the doorway. “A visitor,” he said, and stepped back to reveal a short man whose attire would have stood out anywhere. A dark blue velvet jacket hung open to reveal a blue silk cravat tied with a puffed knot, tucked into a most extravagant red waistcoat patterned with dashes of blue and gold; a pair of exceedingly baggy trousers with a gold stripe down the sides; and flat leather evening pumps buffed to an almost metallic sheen. His fingers were adorned with a number of gaudy rings, and upon his head he wore a soft red velvet cap tilted at a rakish, if not actively precarious, angle.
“Mathilde!” he said, rushing forward. “This must be Captain Avery, who so bravely rescued you, come to visit you, and I hear nothing! I expressly wish to meet him, to thank him for delivering you to us!” He turned to me and executed a little bow. “Alexis Soyer, chef de cuisine of the Reform Club, at your service! You must forgive me, I am French, and though I have endeavored to master your most marvelous tongue, there are moments when I fall short.” It seemed to me Monsieur Soyer mangled his words rather more than was entirely necessary: “club” became cloob, “tongue” emerged as terrng. “Captain Avery, your fame precedes you. You are most welcome! No Monsieur Blake?” he added, pronouncing it Bleck.
“Alas, he is otherwise engaged,” I said.
“A shame.”
“Your kitchen is a marvel, Monsieur.”
“We labor to impress. I should very much like to make your better acquaintance, Captain Avery. Please, you must attend one of our dinners.”
“I should be delighted, but I return to Devon tomorrow.”
“Then the answer is obvious. You must come tonight! Have you an engagement? Cancel it! I am having a few amis to dinner in my private room. A lord, an artist or two. A simple meal.”
“Well, I . . .” Monsieur Soyer seemed to me rather preposterous, and I had plans to dine with Mayhew. But I was very tempted.
“I insist! Do not think of refusing!”
“Then I suppose I must accept.” Curiosity won out over good manners.
“Excellent! Ten o’clock. Come to the kitchen. Mathilde, say your good-byes. I need you, I have recipes to dictate. Sir, I bid you”—he gave another exaggerated bow, his precarious cap remaining miraculously attached to his head—“au revoir.”
“You are going home tomorrow?” Matty said.
“Yes. I came to see that you were happy and settled. And you are.”
“I’ve hardly seen you.”
“I shall call next time I am in London.”
She nodded, disappointed. And I, ill wretch, took pleasure in her disappointment. But her new life absorbed her, and I knew that soon I should be little in it.
I took her hand. “Miss Horner, it has been an absolute pleasure.”
Soyer put his head round the door.
“Captain Avery, it will be, I promise you, a meal to remember.”
I had no idea how right he would be.
• • •
I HAD ONE LAST VISIT to make before my departure. It did not promise to be pleasant, nor was it.
“You have failed me, Avery,” said Sir Theophilus Collinson, former head of the East India Company’s Secret Department, and Blake’s patron turned jailer. “I expected more of you.”
The room, a library, Collinson’s own, smelled of tobacco and leather. It was ill-lit and the corners sat in shadow, which, given its owner, seemed entirely appropriate.
“He does not listen to anyone, sir, and you of all people should know that.”
“Do not be surly with me, sir!”
“I am not being surly, merely truthful. You once called him pigheaded. He is. You have pushed him into a corner with no way out. So he will not move.”
“There is a perfectly good way out!” Collinson barked. “He does as I say. He takes up the task I have given him!”
I sighed. Collinson was, as a rule, the personification of equanimity. I had never seen him so angry.
“What of this fellow in the prison who means him harm? What is his name—Nathaniel Gore?”
“Blake says he is violent, a murderer, and may have accomplices and, as you know, he is not given to overstatement. Can you not at least write to the prison governor about it?”
Sir Theo stroked his several chins and allowed his sharp little teeth to show. The effect was alarmingly vulpine. “It may do him good to sit in harm’s way for a few days. I am sure he can take care of himself. After all, he is so very resourceful. Then he may come to his senses.”
“He will not.”
“I will be the judge, Avery. And you will be in Devon.”
“Sir, ignore me if you wish but, I assure you, you will not prize him out with threats. You must offer him a compromise.”
“Do not lecture me, young man. May I remind you who I am? Blake refuses a perfectly simple task, and I am professionally embarrassed. My reputation depends on providing such expertise when it is required. Now, since you cannot help me, you may as well leave. I am told you are to be on the train tomorrow morning.”
I did not ask how he knew. “Yes, sir.”
“Dining at the Oriental?” It was said as an afterthought, a bored semicourtesy.
“No, sir. At the Reform.”
“The Reform?” The teeth reappeared. He was curious. “But you are a Tory. Do they know they have an interloper among them?”
No, I thought, but I am sure you would not scruple to tell them.
“I have been invited to dine with the chef in his private room, so I am not precisely dining in the club itself.”
“A nice distinction, but a most tantalizing invitation. Dinner with the legendary Monsieur Soyer. How very fortunate of you. And how is that? Of course, he took that girl on as a scullery maid.” He spoke half to himself and half to remind me that he knew all my business. “I myself shall be attending a very grand banquet at the Reform Club next week. Lord Palmerston is entertaining the Prince of Egypt, Ibrahim Pasha. It will be the most august event the club has ever held. So we are both fortunate.”
“Will they know they have an interloper among them?”
“Do not sauce me, young man. I always win.”
�
�I apologize. I considered you a Tory.”
He assumed a world-weary expression and waved his hand. “Tory, Whig or radical, landowner, mill owner or manufacturer, they all come to me in the end. Who am I to refuse them?”
“I was simply surprised you would bother with Lord Palmerston and the Whigs when the Tories are in government.”
He had beady little eyes of an indeterminate color. He fixed them upon me. “Lord Palmerston is a very able man, with an unrivaled understanding of foreign affairs. He may not be in power now, but he will be again. Besides, the Reform serves the best dinner in London. Now. You may go.”
I rose, but could not resist a final attempt.
“Sir Theo, if Blake were to die in the Marshalsea, he would be of no further use to you.”
“Blake be damned.”
Chapter Three
It was a quarter to ten when I presented myself at the Reform’s kitchens in my evening clothes.
Past the larders and crockery cupboards and rows of copper saucepans I went, full of anticipation. Through the brightly gas-lit kitchens and then through a handsome, polished mahogany door into Soyer’s private room.
It was a finely proportioned room, almost twenty feet long, with a roaring fire, a Turkey carpet and a dining table laid for eleven, glittering with silver, candles and crystal and two vases of mauve, hothoused hyacinths. There were four other gentleman guests in the room, whom I did not know, so I took a glass of champagne and set myself to examining the paintings over the sideboard. One was a portrait of our host, Monsieur Soyer, with a fork in his hand and a velvet cap askew on his head, grinning over a plate of chicken like some greedy schoolboy.
“You admire the paintings of the divine Emma.” An elderly fellow, tall and stringy in an old-fashioned tailcoat frayed at the cuffs and a pair of knee breeches with baggy gray stockings.
“Emma?”
“Monsieur Soyer’s delightful wife,” said he.
“Monsieur Soyer is married?”
“Why, yes, indeed. He is wonderfully proud of her. A most talented painter.” He tapped his pockets as if he had forgotten something, then thrust out his right hand. “Where are my manners? Alvanley. I lodge with Monsieur Ude,” he said, as if that were all the explanation I should require.
