by Myers, Amy
Alfred somewhat nervously served drinks, aware of uncomfortably tight breeches. He was wondering wildly what had happened to Auguste who had promised to be at his side when, as he fully expected, glasses of this revolting potion were flung over his head by the irate tasters.
‘A Dickensian mint julep, sire,’ explained Sir Thomas, as the Prince of Wales apprehensively eyed the contents of his glass.
Mint? That was to be taken with roast lamb, not adulterating his drinks. The Prince of Wales replaced it and took the punch instead. He sipped the concoction cautiously. After the first sip he was wishing some awful fate on every Lioniser in the world. He could distinctly taste cold tea. He didn’t know or care whether Dickens liked this stuff, but he was damned certain he didn’t. Only Throgmorton seemed to have any idea of civilised behaviour. At least he was properly dressed, not looking like something out of one of Mama’s precious charades at Windsor. It then dawned on him disagreeably that not only was he in for a Dickensian banquet (although he had taken care of that problem, he remembered cheeringly) but for Dickensian readings. Suddenly, Mama’s charades seemed the more appealing. Even the thought of lunch at Osborne House again tomorrow didn’t seem too bad an idea, even if it did mean listening to Mama telling him how she heard nightingales in the garden at Pierremont House and how she walked all the way to Pegwell when she was twelve and ate shrimp paste at the Bellevue Tavern.
Sir Thomas coughed deferentially. ‘The little matter I spoke of, sire.’
Samuel’s eyes suddenly riveted on his hated rival. The Prince of Wales came to with a jolt. He hadn’t been paying much attention to what Throgmorton had been talking about on the way here, but he recalled his ears had caught the unpleasant words ‘casting vote’, and ‘your important role as president’. ‘Splendid, splendid,’ he had said cordially and automatically at the time. Now he felt somewhat more cautious about the matter. He was going to be responsible for something that he didn’t know or care the first thing about. Could it have political repercussions? Would Mama hear about it? He looked round sharply. As he feared, all eyes were on him. This was going to be awkward, without a doubt. He’d been caught without a script.
Alfred handed him another drink, and the Prince of Wales absent-mindedly took it. He gulped. At least the disgusting taste of mint concentrated his mind. He watched warily as the little fat chap with bits of paper in his hat leapt to his feet. They were all mad, these people. Who was he meant to be? Pickwick came back to him dimly as a Dickensian character.
‘I vote, sire, instead of your casting vote, we should have a re-vote when Mrs Figgis-Hewett arrives, our remaining committee member. I feel we may be able to avoid troubling you, sire.’
The Prince of Wales perked up. The chap was more sensible than he looked.
Angelina fidgeted. Where was Gwendolen? And what had happened to Mr Didier?
‘Ridiculous,’ shrugged Sir Thomas smoothly. ‘Why should we? There is no reason. No, sire, I’m afraid the rules clearly state that once a vote is taken, it is irrefutable.’
‘Then we should take a vote,’ shouted Samuel, oblivious of royalty.
‘We’ve had one,’ snapped Sir Thomas.
‘You need my casting vote, then?’ put in the Prince of Wales, lost.
‘A vote about a vote, sire,’ said Samuel.
‘That’s what you need my vote for?’ asked the Prince.
‘No, sir, we haven’t taken it yet,’ explained Samuel.
‘Then why ask for my casting vote?’ asked the Prince politely.
‘We need a vote,’ put in Lord Beddington suddenly, deciding this was a legal matter, ‘to vote whether we have another vote for which we need your casting vote.’
‘I see,’ said the Prince. He always thought old Beddington was quite mad, and now he knew it.
Horrorstruck, Oliver and Angelina listened to their colleagues. Had they all taken leave of their senses?
‘The rules are rules.’ Sir Thomas, losing patience, was pink in the face.
The Prince of Wales had rules too, and they did not include turning social evenings into bear gardens. With true diplomacy, he rose to his feet. ‘I shall give my answer tonight,’ he announced with deliberation. By that time he could have arranged to be called away.
But even princes cannot control every situation. Before he could move for the doors, they were flung open imperiously, revealing a wide-eyed, agonised Auguste outside. Past him into the room sailed the last member of the Literary Lionisers’ committee. Gwendolen was in full Dickensian dress. She was not, however, clad in the unsuitable but respectable garb of Agnes Wickfield or even that of Betsy Trotwood. David Copperfield had taken second place to Great Expectations. There on the threshold, clad in a soiled yellow-white satin dress with a very low-cut bodice, voluminous skirt, white satin slippers and gloves, stood a shrouded figure, of whose identity there was no doubt. She stood a moment to gain her audience’s complete attention, then flung back the long white veil that hid her face. She sank to her knees before the Prince of Wales. ‘I, Your Royal Highness, am Miss Havisham. I seek vengeance on the monster who has betrayed me. I have been abandoned.’ A long, skinny, bare arm ending in a white silk glove was thrust out towards Sir Thomas.
It must be charades, thought the Prince of Wales blindly. Why had no one told him? Either that, or he was in for a very sticky evening indeed.
Mesmerised by the scene he had witnessed, and agonised by the scene he had just had with Mrs Figgis-Hewett, when he saw her costume and vainly attempted to dissuade her, Auguste recalled his prime duty and reluctantly despatched Alfred to the dining room to prepare for the serving of wines at the Prince’s table. He himself returned to the kitchens, where the heat was now making the sweat run from everyone’s faces. Feverishly he checked. Yes, all seemed ready, but disasters might yet ensue. Look what had happened upstairs. It was about time now to turn his attention to the kidneys. This, his own recipe, he would entrust to no one else, though Heinrich had assembled and prepared the ingredients.
‘I’ve nowhere to put the gravy jugs,’ wailed Emily.
‘Improvise, Miss Dawson,’ said Auguste testily, rushing between salads and soups. A maître chef was supposed to superintend, not do everything himself. Would Soyer – no, he would not think of Soyer. His hat disturbed him too much. He shuddered at his remembrance of royalty’s puzzled look when he removed this ostentatious headgear. Suppose he were to think it Auguste’s own choice?
Emily improvised.
A howl. ‘Not there, Miss Dawson.’
James moved swiftly into the disorder being wreaked in his carefully arranged plates, set in order of service. Alice came to help him, perhaps under the impression it was Alfred or the confusion of the moment, and earned herself a stinging rebuff, thus beginning another altercation.
‘You keep your bad language to yourself, Mr Pegg,’ she said, pink in the face. ‘You’re like your soufflés – hard.’
‘My soufflés aren’t hard,’ he glared.
‘They’re not your best work,’ Algernon pointed out.
‘Your terrines aren’t very good either,’ chimed in Emily.
‘Coming from you, Miss Dawson,’ retorted James cornered, ‘with your soggy pastry—’
‘Please not to be rude to Miss Dawson,’ barked Heinrich walking between them, rolling pin in hand, like Siegfried to rescue Brunhilde.
‘Pegg’s right,’ said Algernon, delightedly egging them on. ‘You and the Kaiser think you rule Europe. You keep out of it.’
‘Silence.’ Auguste was appalled. Where was unity? Where was the true love of cuisine that united such diverse spirits? What was happening to his happy band? Drama above and now the same below. Surely this was something more than the heat of twelve geese cooking on a summer’s night?
In the enormous dining room, even the chandeliers seemed to tremble as they waited breathlessly for the arrival of the Prince of Wales. His coming displayed no jot of his inner feelings, though his heart sank at the array of knee b
reeches and crinolines, and at last it occurred to him that the lunatics he had met upstairs were in Dickensian dress. He glanced uneasily at his own evening attire.
The Prince politely shook hands with six Peggottys, two Betsy Trotwoods, eight Mr Pecksniffs, seven Mr Fezziwigs, eight Mrs Fezziwigs, two Doras, a couple of Little Dorrits, two Miss Flites, a villainous gentleman who announced he was the convict Magwitch, and numerous other Lionisers too nervous to announce their identities. Then he turned to seek his reward: a banquet cooked by Auguste Didier. He had been placed at the head of the table, a Solomon come to judgement, but a far from happy one.
From his vantage point through a serving hatch, Auguste watched as the assembly took their seats after a brief prayer intoned by Sir Thomas. The chairman was on the Prince’s left, with Angelina opposite him and Lord Beddington next to him. Oliver was below the salt, as far as Sir Thomas was concerned, and Gwendolen had been placed next to Lord Beddington so that Sir Thomas did not have to look at her. Somehow, however, she had conspired to change places with Oliver so that she was staring triumphantly into Sir Thomas’s face diagonally up the table. The woman was mad. In fact, he thought, glancing at Angelina, all women were mad. He just didn’t comprehend what she had told him this afternoon.
The Prince of Wales studied his Dickensian menu with instant alarm, followed by deep misgivings. This was not what he had employed Didier for. He glanced up, saw Auguste’s anguished eyes, and thought he understood. Nevertheless, he expected assistance from him.
‘Mutton broth,’ announced Sir Thomas proudly, as Heinrich and James, somewhat awkwardly in their knee breeches, moved round the table to serve the soup. ‘You will recall, sire, Mrs Bedwin’s restorative broth in Oliver Twist.’
The Prince of Wales looked at the bowl sharply. Twist? He was the fellow in the workhouse who wanted more, wasn’t he? Well, he wasn’t going to have any at all and that was flat. He took a large sip of his sherry and refused the soup. He was rewarded in this wise decision by Auguste’s tactful appearance carrying a small dish of almond soup, which he unostentatiously placed before the Prince of Wales. ‘Your own mutton broth, sire.’ While everyone’s attention was on Samuel Pipkin who showed ominous signs of speaking, he quickly murmured: ‘It’s almond soup, sire. As mentioned by Dickens to an anonymous friend.’
‘Perhaps you are correct, sire,’ Samuel was announcing firmly. ‘Now Mrs Figgis-Hewett has joined us, there should undoubtedly be a new vote later.’ He had had an opportunity of assessing Miss Havisham’s feelings on the subject, not that these were hard to predict. After her outburst, she now remained silent, darting odd looks of triumph at her betrayer.
The Prince of Wales frowned. He could not recall agreeing to this at all, but as it offered a chance of avoiding his own intervention, he nodded fervently, and took some more almond soup. This Dickens had the right idea after all, no matter who his anonymous friend might be.
‘Sire, alas, the rules of the club do not permit this,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘Not without a vote.’
‘My casting vote?’ queried the Prince.
‘No, sire, a vote on the constitution, which can only be taken at the annual general meeting.’
Sir Thomas was not going to be swayed. With Gwendolen certain to change her vote, and as he could not rely on foolish Angelina to change hers, the situation was dangerous in the extreme. But he would not press too vehemently or he would lose the support of the Prince. It was too much on top of an already most trying day. He looked round uneasily, and Alfred stepped forward to fill his glass with white wine. Emily cleared the soup plates and Heinrich and Algernon were bringing out individual plates of lobster salad.
‘Sire.’ Gwendolen’s voice was shrill enough to penetrate from the end of the table, quite putting the Prince off his lobster. ‘I support Mr Pipkin’s proposal for a vote.’
‘I regret this is impossible, sire. If you recall, I showed you the rule. It is irreversible,’ said Sir Thomas adamantly.
The Prince of Wales’s lobster suddenly tasted of flannel. He hated everyone. He did recall the rule, he cordially disliked women who flung themselves at his feet threatening breach of promise actions, and moreover he didn’t like the look of that jumped-up Pickwick there.
‘I suggest we take a look at it later, and meanwhile enjoy this delicious meal.’ The Prince summoned his private detective: a message was to arrive no later than 9.30 p.m. calling him urgently to Osborne. Mama was seriously ill, Alexandra was seriously ill, the boot boy’s aunt was seriously ill. Anything. ‘And of course,’ he continued blandly to the committee, ‘if I can then be of assistance, I should be delighted.’ Oh, for that uncomfortable bed on his yacht that he now resolved to be aboard this very evening, before any such vote could be called. Like Mr Barkis, he intended to go out with the tide. A note in his voice that he had long cultivated indicated that the discussion was at an end. His lobster promptly improved in taste.
There was a short silence as each person cogitated on his position; Oliver and Angelina broke it, with polite murmurings of gratitude and apology for troubling him, Their politeness extended only to the Prince of Wales. They ignored each other. Oliver wondered why Angelina was not clamouring for a new vote in order to support her fiancé and decided that this was some further infamous plan on her part. Angelina wondered whether she would change sides, just to show this pompous young man what she thought of him. Sir Thomas relaxed a little. Now he had time on his side. Lord Beddington wondered what was next on the menu, Samuel squirmed with suppressed rage and this obvious sign of the Prince of Wales’s inclinations. And Gwendolen smiled. She was thinking lovingly of what was to come.
The lobster plates were removed by Emily, and replaced by Alice with bowls for the entrée and plates for the remove to follow. James placed two dishes of kidneys in champagne and mushroom catsup sauce on the table while Algernon and Heinrich faced the organised maelstrom of the kitchen to gather the quails and cutlets for the remove. Auguste had added the course in the interests of the Prince of Wales; it was to be served virtually at the same time as the entrée, in defiance of the rules, in the hope it would attract less attention. The Prince glanced at Auguste, who gave an imperceptible nod. Relieved, the Prince of Wales gave his assent to a portion of kidneys handed to him by Sir Thomas. One mouthful of the sauce and he nodded appreciation. Pity they didn’t award the Order of the Garter to cooks. They had a better line in diplomacy than old Chamberlain himself and certainly did more good in the world.
‘This is Mrs Crupp’s dish of kidneys, sir, for which she sent out to the pastrycook in David Copperfield. We have allowed ourselves a little licence with the sauce,’ Angelina explained.
‘Splendid, splendid,’ was the Prince of Wales’s comment. He eyed the dish thoughtfully. Normally he did not indulge in second helpings, but – no, he would resist. No he wouldn’t; after all, he was off to Marienbad on the 19th. He murmured in Alice’s ear. It was due to this second helping that he rejected the quail and mutton cutlets (with pickled walnuts) as Alice and Algernon, with a somewhat nervous eye on Lord Beddington, offered them.
‘I don’t recall quails on my menu,’ commented Sir Thomas querulously.
‘The remove, Sir Thomas. The relevés. A Dickens favourite according to his manager, Dolby,’ said Oliver provocatively from his lowly position, two seats away from Sir Thomas. ‘One must have a remove, must one not?’
‘I always think it sounds like murder,’ trilled Gwendolen suddenly, coming back into the conversation.
‘What does?’ demanded Samuel, startled from his dreams of vengeance.’
‘Remove,’ she answered darkly. ‘Removing a source of pestilence,’ and relapsed into silence again. The Prince of Wales decided not to recall the quails.
‘And now for the geese,’ Sir Thomas declared, as Auguste emerged from the kitchen, Soyer hat crammed on.
Goose? The Prince of Wales gazed in horror as a large, succulent goose was borne in by Heinrich to the dining-room serving table for ca
rving by Auguste. No leaving this task to others. Goose required the most careful carving. Auguste almost laughed as he saw the expression on the Prince of Wales’s face as a plateful of roast goose advanced towards him in the hands of James Pegg, followed by an endless procession, it seemed, of forcemeats, vegetables and gravies. A lift of an eyebrow, a mute appeal to Auguste, who interpreted it correctly and despatched back to the kitchen for the rejected quail and cutlets.
‘With pickled walnuts, sire, as in The Pickwick Papers,’ Angelina announced gravely. The look Sir Thomas gave her was not a pleasant one, as he defiantly took a sizeable helping of goose.
‘The best goose that ever was,’ approved Oliver gravely after they had finished, catching Auguste’s eye as he watched anxiously from his vantage point.
Sir Thomas, however, or rather his stomach, clearly did not agree, for halfway through the entremets, with a few words of apology he absented himself from the table.
‘It’s his stomach,’ explained Gwendolen to the Prince of Wales. ‘He suffers greatly from gastritis.’ She shot a look of triumph at her hated rival. No doubt Angelina Langham, the upstart, did not even know about Thomas’s delicate stomach.
The Prince of Wales bestowed a polite eye upon her, then turned to the rather more salubrious prospect of his favourite savoury.
By the time the coffee made its appearance, Sir Thomas his re-appearance, and Alfred served the brandy, Auguste began to breathe more easily. No catastrophe had taken place. Indeed, modesty forbade him to contemplate too long what he could count a personal success. He would not swear that the Prince of Wales had enjoyed every minute, but at least he, Auguste Didier, had done what he could. The suppressed tension between members of the committee was still boiling, almost like Algernon’s mutton broth; it was certainly not smiling. Sir Thomas drank several cups of coffee and refused the brandy. ‘My performance, sire,’ he said in a low voice, already hoarse as if from emotion. ‘I am to give the first reading. Bill Sikes and the murder of Nancy. If you would forgive me yet again, I must go to change into the appropriate costume.’ As if already suffering from an excess of emotion, he left.
