by Sara Seale
“That’s how I felt when you looked after me,” the girl replied gently. “We should do a bit of spoiling of each other— we’re a solitary pair.”
“But not you child,” said Bunny seriously. “You have all your life before you and you are young and very charming. And Sabina—”
But Bunny finished ambiguously:
“You’ll see that Brock is comfortable? A man does not like too much chatter with his meals or—or too much sitting in the firelight with nothing to do.”
Sabina’s smile was tender.
“Dear Bunny,” she said, “I won’t worry him with my—my company more than he wants.”
Bunny patted her hand.
“That’s a good child ... though I did not mean ... I was not implying ...”
“Don’t worry about us,” Sabina said. “Brock, as you should know, makes his own rules.”
“Yes ... that is what I’m afraid of. ” Bunny murmured, but she was too stupefied with her cold to finish, and Sabina left her to sleep.
She went downstairs, unsure herself as to what the hours alone with Brock might hold. Bunny’s presence was a check on thoughts and embarrassing silences, and Brock, if he thought at all of that other evening, had neither sought Sabina’s company nor introduced dangerous topics of conversation.
But for the moment meals were a far more alarming prospect than possible encounters, for Sabina had never so much as boiled an egg. She and Tante had always lived hotel life and if extra cooking had been needed Marthe had taken charge with scant appreciation for the efforts of others. How and with what was Sabina to cook Brock’s supper tonight?
He found her an hour later sitting on the kitchen table surrounded by cookery books. Her small face looked more pointed than ever and her eyes were enormous with anxiety as she feverishly scanned the pages of the book in her hand.
“Well!” he observed, “it looks as if you’re planning a Lucullan feast. What’s it to be—Boeuf a la Mode or Sole Bonne Femme?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said hurriedly. “What do you particularly like?”
“Well, now, let me see ... grouse—no, that’s out of season ... I have it! How about Arroz Paella alla Valenciana?”
“What on earth’s that?”
“A most delectable dish from Spain with exciting in-gredients—chicken, lobsters, pimentos, saffron—and, of course, rice.”
“Chicken and lobster?” protested Sabina her eyes wide with dismay. “Anyway, we haven’t any of those things.”
“A pity—still it can wait till another day. Well, let’s be more humble. What about risotto? That’s a simple peasant dish that can be made with practically anything.” “Risotto ... risotto ...” Sabina muttered to herself and referred feverishly to the index at the end of the book, but this failed her, for it was one of Bunny’s many austerity cookery books, and she pounced on another.
“It doesn’t seem to be here, either,” she said and Brock raised his eyebrows.
“But surely you will know without having to look it up,” he said with grave surprise. “It’s only a question of rice and odds and ends and of course the flavouring.”
“I forget things,” she said, beginning to look a little flushed. “It’s easier if I see it written down.”
He took the book out of her hand and stood grinning down at her.
“Be honest,” he said. “You can’t cook at all, can you?” She knew now he had been teasing her, but she was not going to admit herself beaten. She could not let him open a tin in the last resort of male incompetence in the kitchen, and in all these dog-eared, well-worn books there must be something that could be cooked by just following the instructions. Her mind, already reeled with impossible directions ... make a roux ... blanch the kidneys ...fold in the whites ... and clear but
alarming, take twelve eggs ....
“Of course I can,” she said bravely, meeting his amused eyes with determination, “but I’m rusty. If you leave me alone I’ll find something.”
“I beg your pardon,” he replied. “Well, I’ll come and watch you when you begin. I like to see a charming girl busy over the stove.”
He went away then and Sabina, hoping that his threat was merely idle, went out to the larder to inspect Bunny’s reserves. There were chops and liver and plenty of bacon, and after another consultation with the cookery book she decided on a mixed grill. It was a masculine, English dish, she thought, and it would be easier and just as good fried with plenty of onions and tomatoes.
It took her a long time to prepare and by the time she was ready to cook the sink was piled with dirty plates and saucepans. She did not understand the regulating of the stove and got everything too hot, and there did not seem to be enough frying-pans to go round. When Brock, true to his word, sat himself down in a wicker chair to watch, smoke from the hot fat was already filling the kitchen and Sabina had burnt the chops.
“Dear me!” he said, “what are we eating?”
“A mixed grill,” she said, “only there aren’t enough frying-pans.”
“Then why don’t you use the grill?”
While she was thinking of a sensible reply to that the liver caught and she turned it over to find it black and hard.
“I wish you’d go away,” she said, burning herself with flying fat; “you make me nervous.”
“The onions are catching,” he pointed out with maddening calm and she turned too sharply to rescue them, upsetting one of the pans on the floor. The hot fat spurted over her and she clasped a hand to her breast in agony.
“Let me look,” said Brock, on his feet behind her. “No, don’t hold it like that; you’ll make it worse. Let me see.” She held out the burnt hand, trying at the same time to stop the tears from falling. He examined it carefully, then went out of the room and returned with Bunny’s first-aid box.
He dressed the hand with gentleness and skill, and she stood mutely, watching his strong, well-shaped fingers as he worked. On the kitchen stove, the frying-pans gave forth a villainous smell. The meal was ruined.
“The pain will go quite soon,” he said when he had finished. “That dressing has very soothing properties. Cry if you want to. Burns can hurt, I know.”
“It’s not that," she said, fighting back the tears. “It’s the s-supper. Everything’s b-black.”
“Why wouldn’t you admit you couldn’t cook?” he asked curiously.
“Because you were so superior. I thought there must be something I could manage, even though I’d never done it before.”
“A mixed grill transferred to the frying-pan wasn’t a very wise choice,” he said and began deftly removing the pans to the scullery, where she could hear them sizzling as he ran water into them. He opened the windows to let out the smoke, then cleaned up the stove and adjusted dampers with a practised hand.
“What are we going to eat, now?” she asked with despair. “There’s no more meat. I—I could boil eggs, I suppose, but it’s a frightful admission of failure.”
“You’d better leave the matter of food to me,” he said, with a smile.
“Can you cook?” she asked, and he nodded. “Then you might have told me what I was doing wrong instead of— instead of sitting there gloating!”
“Poor Sabina! I couldn’t resist seeing how you would cope unaided. Never mind, I’ll make up for it by serving you with a superb omelette.”
“An omelette!” she exclaimed, exasperated. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“It’s as well you didn’t,” he commented dryly. “Omelettes are not for the inexperienced. They require skill and a light touch, or what do you get? A pancake like leather with no delicacy, no lightness and sparkle.”
She glanced at him curiously. He had spoken with the creative instinct of an artist, and for one wild moment she wondered if this was what he did for a living. Was he a chef in somebody’s restaurant, wearing a tall white cap, or was he somebody famous who lectured on the radio.
He gave her a quizzical look as she laughed a l
ittle hysterically, and told her to lay the table.
“We might as well eat in here,” he said. “An omelette should go straight from the pan to the table. When you’ve done that, Bunny’s will be ready to. take up.”
She would have liked to watch the mysterious rite of omelette-making, but he allowed no idling in the kitchen, and she had only just put the finishing touches to Bunny’s tray when the first omelette was ready, miraculously golden and fluffy with button mushrooms scattered carelessly round. He put a cover quickly over the plate and told Sabina to hurry.
Bunny’s praise was hard to bear.
“Why, Sabina, how professional!” she exclaimed, when she beheld the omelette. “I’d no idea you were a chef— but of course, you were brought up in the French tradition, were you not?”
“I didn’t cook it—Brock did,” said Sabina miserably and described the ignominious fate of the mixed grill.
“Oh, dear, what sinful waste!” was Bunny’s first rejoinder,
then seeing the girl’s crestfallen face, she added kindly, “Never mind, dear, it was a good attempt, but I should leave the cooking to Brock in future, if I were you. He’s quite an expert.”
“How does he know? I mean it’s not usual for a man, is it, unless—unless—?”
Bunny gave her a quick look.
“Unless it’s part of his trade?” she asked. “Plenty of men are excellent cooks as a hobby, my dear. Why don’t you ask Brock if you’re curious as to what he does for a living?”
But she did not ask him. Bunny’s retort had seemed rather like a rebuke to Sabina, and it was possible that in her old-fashioned way the governess did not approve of the manner in which her favourite pupil made his living. But tonight such matters had no consequence. It was new and curiously intimate to be feeding in the kitchen with the firelight bright on the flags and the china on the old dresser shedding a warmth of colour in the light of the lamp.
Brock had made coffee in a fashion never achieved by Bunny, and they sat at the table with its coarse, checked cloth, in companionable silence.
“You look like Alice in Wonderland with that ribbon round your hair,” he said suddenly and she smiled across at him, conscious that his mood had softened. Perhaps it had done him good to witness her discomfiture and serve a meal that was a rebuke in itself.
“Could you teach me, do you think, to cook?” she asked, and his eyebrows shot up.
“Why should it concern you?” he said. “The wife of Rene Bergerac will have the finest chef in Europe.”
There they were back again, she thought, regretting her question at once. It seemed that at no time, now, could she not be overshadowed by the Chateau Berger.
“I suppose so,” she said disconsolately. “It all sounds — rather wasted on me.”
“But you enjoy your food—you will adapt yourself quickly to the comforts and well-being of such a life. There are many who would envy you.”
“I would like,” she said, stretching her arms to embrace the room, “my own life ... my own kitchen ... a home. A hotel isn’t a home, is it?”
“The Chateau Berger is rather different,” he said. “You will
have your own wing, I don’t doubt, and nothing to stop you having your own kitchen, too, once you can cook.”
“You’re laughing at me,” she said. “Don’t you understand what I mean?”
“Oh, yes, but have you thought that M. Bergerac may also have ideas?”
“But he only wants a house and a wife who will be a—a sort of figurehead.”
“I imagine he expects more than that,” Brock observed dryly. “Did you suppose a marriage of convenience ruled out the normal privileges of a union?”
“No,” she said, “but it’s difficult to imagine the reactions of a man you’ve never met, and Tante says he has poor health.” “Don’t let that deceive you,” he retorted unkindly. “A man has to be in very poor health not to expect his rights.”
She left the table and began wandering round the kitchen, opening cupboards and shutting them in an aimless fashion and coming to rest finally on a rough milking-stool by the range.
“If you’re trying to warn me, Brock, that I will have the normal obligations to fulfil, I’ve always known it,” she said with dignity, and he pushed back his chair impatiently.
“You make a brave showing,” he said, “but you speak with the innocent sureness of inexperience.”
“Why should you care?” she returned with spirit. “You aren’t responsible for the success or failure I may make of my life.”
“True, why should I care?” he replied, but added softly, “except, as I told you, you may get hurt, but that’s something that must happen to all of us. One can’t guard against life.”
She wondered for the first time if he had ever been in love; not with the mountains which had been his solace, but with some woman who had failed to measure up to his standards.
“If you don’t love, you are less likely to be hurt,” she said firmly and he grinned.
“What appalling cynicism in one so young!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you intend to try to love poor M. Bergerac, who has poor health, then?”
“Well—” she said doubtfully, imagining Rene Bergerac, middle-aged and rather fat, with a weak digestion to say the least of it. The fact that he had been a rake in his youth no longer meant very much. A rake should look like Brock, dark and sure and cynical, with a hard charm that could soften to tenderness when he chose ...
“It’s a shame to tease you,” he said. “Let’s get cleared up. You can’t wash up with that bandaged hand, but you can dry. Come on.”
For the rest of the evening he was noncommittal, commenting acidly on the heap of dirty pans she had left in the sink, but rewarding her with a friendly pat when the last clean plates were stacked.
‘Tomorrow,” he said with some pleasure, “we will go marketing. If I am to be chef for the next day or so we will have none of Bunny’s plain rectory fare. I will show you what to expect when you get to France. Now, what do you think you’ll fancy? All the out-of-season things—quail, woodcock, partridge?”
“In a pear-tree?” she asked, and at his mild look of surprise an unwonted gaiety took her, and she danced round the kitchen singing:
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A
partridge in a pear-tree ...
“How astonishing!” Brock observed, watching her attentively. “What else did your true love send?”
“Oh, lots of things. Lords a-leaping, ladies dancing, pipers piping, drummers drumming.”
“A thoughtful selection, to be sure. Nobody need be bored.”
“There were lots more, and to finish up with, three French hens, two turtle doves and—oh, yes, I’ d forgotten five gold rings.”
“Five? Was he providing for the eventuality of four more husbands, then?”
“Now you’ve spoilt it,” she said, and he gave the ribbon she had tied round her head an affectionate tweak.
“Dear Sabina,” he teased, “you do rise delightfully.”
“Of course,” she amended quite seriously, “there were twelve lords a-leaping, so I suppose—”
“You suppose nothing of the kind,” he retorted. “True loves are the same all the world over, one love, one ring, one happy ending; isn’t that the correct formula? Now I think it’s time we packed up and went to bed.”
It was a pleasurable few days for Sabina, proud that she had the running of the house in her hands. Willie came into the kitchen, which was unusual for him, and sat by the fire, not speaking, when it was too wet to work outside, and Mrs. Cheadle, although her housework suffered, drank endless cups of tea and was cosily garrulous.
“You’ve got us all tamed, haven’t you, Sabina?” Brock mocked gently. “Even poor Willie is, like the robin, content to
nest by the fire.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “But I don’t think you’re one of the tamed, Brock.”
His eyebrows lifted, but he made no
reply and she did not feel any longer that she might be impertinent in teasing him. He was as good as his word as regards cooking. Sabina watched while delectable dishes formed magically under his supervision, and although he might rap her fingers when he caught them running greedily round the edges of saucepans, he seemed pleased by the awe and respect with which she observed his efforts.
“You’re an excellent audience,” he told her. “If you never lose that gift you’ll have men at your feet all your life.”
She giggled, picturing herself with an adoring chain of admirers, and he said severely:
“You underrate yourself, Sabina, as I’ve told you before. You must learn to command homage as the right of your sex.” “Must I?” she asked, with a sigh, and he grinned.
“Well, perhaps not. I like you as you are.”
They continued to have their meals in the kitchen and Sabina was happy, indulging in her own private make-believe. She felt a little guilty when she took up Bunny’s tray because she was grateful to the cold which kept her upstairs, but Bunny, although she fretted because she was not about in the mornings to help the daily woman, was grateful too for her respite.
“I must have been more tired than I knew,” she told Sabina apologetically, “and it’s so nice being waited upon.”
Sabina regarded her with affection. In her governessing days, she supposed, Bunny had never been waited upon, and as an impoverished vicar’s wife she had done the waiting herself.
“When I marry you must come and stay with me,” she said impulsively, and flushed at the governess’s faint look of surprise. It was, she supposed, a little presumptuous to extend invitations to the home of a man she had not yet met.
The rain had stopped at last, and on the day Bunny was to come downstairs again, Brock beckoned Sabina out of doors.
“You see? Spring has crept up on us unawares,” he said, and she looked about her with astonishment.
The morning air was sweet and softer than silk, and even the moor had stirred from its winter sleep and showed tender colour in its bleakness. The first primroses grew among the graves and the neglected garden had put out spear-like shoots of green.
