Soon the dog gave a sharp bark, calling his master to admire his find. Poking through the moss was a clump of brain-like morel mushrooms, very pale and smelling of sweet nuts.
‘Bene. Good,’ said the cook, dropping the mushrooms gently in his bag. ‘But we will do better.’ I looked about myself, at the mass of leaves and flowers that spread around us like a garden. As the breeze rocked the branches, a rain of speckles, dots, and flickers of light danced over my emerald costume. An idea came to me like a thunderclap: that I was too much indoors with no other view than the inside of pots and pans. All about us were birds serenading in the trees, occasionally darting earthwards to peck and flutter. The air smelled of sap, and deep, rich earth. Though it was only Lady Day, the first day of Spring, here the season was so far advanced it was like midsummer in England.
‘What a beautiful place.’
He smiled shyly, with that half-mocking smile I was starting to know and like.
‘I come here when I can. Collect food, listen to the music of birds. Be a man of Nature. You have read Monsieur Rousseau?’
‘A little.’ My mistress had a copy of Julie, which I had rifled through. ‘He says we must live off berries and nuts. Not good for a cook,’ I chided. We smiled at each other.
‘Monsieur Rousseau says it is time for modern man to break with all the old ways. In every art – so why not cookery? He says that life educates us to truly live. It is a journey, an exploration. And I think – everything can change. These are exciting days. All the old rules can change because we can change.’
I thought of his words as we followed Ugo through the flickering green of the woodland. Frantically, the dog sniffed and yelped at the ground until Signor Renzo caught up.
‘A beauty,’ he said, and pulled out a root that looked like a lumpy potato. ‘Look, the colour is good. And the smell.’ He held the truffle below his nostrils, then offered it to me. ‘You like it? Smell it. Like garlic and mushroom and honey. Yes? You will allow me to cook it for you?’
‘Here?’
‘You will see.’
As we strolled on I thought of his notion that everything was changing. Was it not also my own life he described? Since I had impersonated Carinna, I had been forced to stretch my wits to snapping point. I had been addressed with words I would once have scarcely understood, but now I strove to answer back as smartly as any high-born woman. And these gowns that at first had seemed such a hawping nuisance, did they not also make me a very fine figure? A lady who garnered respect and attention? The food, the sights, the luxury – even this walk in the woods with Signor Renzo was changing me, like the barm that turns dough into risen bread. How could I ever go back to being plain pan-tosser Biddy after this? Life was educating me, too.
‘So which will you be? A man of nature or a cook?’
Rising from the earth with a fleshy amber mushroom in his hand, he slipped a slice in his mouth and made a little murmur at the flavour.
‘I am greedy, Lady Carinna. I want both. I want all I can have.’ His expression was no longer humorous. He lifted a slice to my mouth and I obediently opened my lips. It was meaty and almost sweet. But it was his feeding me, his fingers brushing my lips that unsettled me. I could scarcely swallow, and had to break away and stride ahead.
You must be strong, Biddy, I scolded myself, for dangerous notions had wormed their way inside my daydreams, every day and night of that long week. And now as I walked beside the man and felt his regard, I could no longer fool myself that the danger was all in my fancies. Jem was a dandelion clock in the wind, and Kitt Tyrone a mere pretty youth. Beside them, Signor Renzo had all the attractions of a deep-thinking man with marvellous gifts. Play your part, I urged myself, for Lady Carinna would never in a thousand years have got a hankering for this fellow. But I, Biddy Leigh, could scarce take my eyes from him. As we walked on I longed to tell him, ‘That is my wish, too.’
‘It is time to cook,’ he said when we reached a further path up the hillside, and fizzing with expectation I followed him through the trees.
* * *
Signor Renzo’s lodge stood on a grassy knoll near the crest of the hill. It was a modest place, just a low stone hut, before which stretched a woven ceiling of vines. My dinner was cooked on an open fire by the table. This was no banquet, but what the cook called a pique-nique, a meal for hunters to take outdoors. After Renzo had chosen two fat ducklings from his larder, he spitted them over the fire. Then he made a dish of buttery rice crowned with speckled discs of truffle that tasted powerfully of God’s own earth.
‘Come and sit with me,’ I begged, for I did not like him to wait on me. So together we sat beneath the vines as I savoured each morsel and guessed at the subtle flavourings. ‘Wild garlic?’ I asked, and he lifted his brows in surprise as he ate. ‘And a herb,’ I added, ‘sage?’
‘For a woman, you have excellent taste.’
For a woman, indeed! I made a play of stabbing him with my knife. It was most pleasant to eat our pique-nique and drink the red wine, which they make so strong in that region that they call it black or nero. I asked him to speak of himself, and between a trial of little dishes of wild leaves, chestnut fritters, and raisin cake, Signor Renzo told me he was born in the city and had worked at a pastry cook’s shop as a boy, where he soon discovered that good foods mixed with ingenious hands made people happy and free with their purses. I told him of The Cook’s Jewel, the constant companion on my travels. ‘It is the quintessence – that is a French word I learned in Paris – of what you say. All those receipts collected for maybe one hundred years, so carefully written down. It is my greatest treasure.’ We talked of new receipt books, and he praised Monsieur Gilliers’ French Confectioner, which was like a bible to him. ‘It explains so many of the mysteries of sugar. Thanks to that, I have learned to cast figures as clear as crystal.’ Then suddenly he rose and reached out his hand to me. ‘Enough of talk. Come with me.’
He led me along, while all the time his hand locked neatly against mine, till we reached a fast-running stream that cascaded all the way down the hillside. Pulling on a rope, Signor Renzo lifted a pewter basin that at first baffled me. Only when he produced two glass bowls did I understand that the metal casket was a sorbetière. Inside was a chocolate ice as rich in colour as mahogany. I tasted it, rolling it around in my mouth. The coldness numbed my tongue and then the flavour burst out, rich and satisfying, as if the thickest pot of well-milled chocolate were made of snow.
* * *
There followed many hours of delightful conversation that seemed to pass mighty quickly, for when I next glanced up, the wood was deep in shadow and the sky glowed soft purple. Beneath the table Ugo slept, his twitching muzzle lodged across his master’s boots. I shivered and felt the hush of twilight upon us. A bird sang his lonely song as a breeze riffled the vines above our heads. Signor Renzo was but a shadow at my side. We both fell silent and my mind began to racket about uncertainly. He was a food-crazed cook like me, but he was also a man, and a very strong and vigorous man at that. As the silence lengthened a new certainty grew inside me, very solid and shining and strange. Our two characters did fit together as perfectly as any face and its reflection. Next, I could not stop myself turning slowly towards him. I lifted my chin and sought the gleam of his eyes. He would never have touched me unbidden, so I reached out to him. I sought his lips and we kissed, very long and very hungrily. When his arms reached hesitantly around me I felt a homecoming warmth and slid against his wide chest. Both of us were loath to stop once we had begun. His hands cupped my head, caressed my shoulders, and stroked my throat. And I grew near senseless with longing, exciting those kisses with murmurs and caresses of my own. Many delightful minutes passed till I felt his thigh upon mine and his weight pressing at my centre. Then my conscience struck and I came to my senses. I told him we must stop. I believe we were both quite startled at how the day had turned.
‘I must go,’ I said with a catch in my breath. There was my mistress to see to, but ho
w could I tell him that? He nodded and went in search of a lantern. Standing alone outside his lodge I wondered if I had ruined my impersonation, for surely Lady Carinna would never have kissed the count’s cook? I pulled on my crumpled green coat against the chill. It was impossible to know if I had done some great wrong or whether instead, I had taken the best step of my life.
Then he returned and slipped his arm around my shoulders, and all was well again. We retraced our path to our horses by the light of his lantern. The forest had changed to a darkly mysterious place, alive with the cracking of twigs and cries of invisible creatures.
‘What are those lights?’ I asked, peering into the darkest shrubs where little fires floated and winked. For a moment he left me and clapped his fingers around a spark of fire. When he returned, a greenish glow flickered inside his hands.
‘See. A firefly.’
I peered between his fingers and saw a little fly with its belly made of winking light. I never saw anything more beautiful.
‘Can you keep it?’
He laughed. ‘Only a short time. As a boy I catch them in a jar and read at night from their light. But keep them too long and they die.’ When he released it, it was again a tongue of flame lighting up the night.
‘Even a common fly is magical here,’ I said. We walked on until the line of the white road stretched ahead of us back to the villa. At the sight of it my courage faltered as I remembered the old life that awaited me. I wanted to stay in Renzo’s arms for ever, under cover of the forest and the firefly-spangled night.
Suddenly Renzo blocked my way. ‘Carinna, I must see you again.’ He placed his hands on my shoulders and lowered his face, looking full square into my eyes. ‘I must see you tomorrow,’ he whispered. The lantern gleamed liquid gold in his eyes.
I had no restraint left. ‘Yes, tomorrow,’ I said. And we kissed each other farewell beside our restless horses. All the way back down the road to the Villa Ombrosa I railed hard against the truth. That any day now Carinna would bear her child. And that any day now, I would be cast back to my old life, as put upon, pan-tossing Biddy Leigh for the rest of my loveless days.
XXXI
Villa Ombrosa
Being this day, Good Friday, April 1773
Biddy Leigh, her journal
* * *
Ducklings in truffle sauce
Kill and draw your ducklings and tie up with leaves of sage tucked about the bodies. Spit them and dust with flour and set them with thick slices of bread between. Baste with the pan drippings using a feather. Your sauce is made of onion, garlic, oil and a little ham and celery shredded fine. Add the duck gizzards and pinions, cook till enough and add a spoonful of flour and two fingers of sweet marsala wine. When thickened add slices of truffle and send to your table with the ducklings.
A very fine dish cooked for Biddy Leigh, by Signor Renzo Cellini, Easter 1773
* * *
I saw Renzo every night for two giddy weeks after we first met in the forest. I lived for the sight of him; love ran like poppy juice through my veins. Once the others were settled for the night, I slipped out and made my way to meet him, sheltering in the hedges that lined the moonlit road. Then at last the ruined tower would shine before me, looking like a ghost’s lair, its ancient stones rising pale against the black tangle of undergrowth. There I waited by the broken walls, my heart like a caged bird, my skin dusted by moths’ wings. I hearkened at the sounds of the night, until the hooves of his horse sent lizards and frogs scurrying through the dry grass. Then he would dismount from his horse, and a blissful moment later we clung to each other, lost to time and place. Only when the bell of Ombrosa church tolled one o’clock did we part with reluctant whispers of farewell.
Next morning I would face another endless day of half-life at the villa, of chores and drudgery, as I pictured a life of bliss with Renzo. I scarce heard what others said to me; my daydreams had the greater power. All day I listened for the sound of the messenger boy’s quiet knock at the kitchen door, for Renzo had found a ragged child to run with notes between us. When we met I deliberately shared few words with Renzo, save for murmured endearments. Then one night he pulled back from my kisses and spoke.
‘I have to tell you, I am leaving the count’s household. I have quarrelled with my master for the last time, Carinna,’ he said hoarsely. ‘He has said something I will never forgive.’
‘What has he said?’
He shook his head miserably. ‘He wants you, Carinna.’
It seemed a ridiculous jealousy. ‘Pay no attention to the ninny. But where will you go?’
‘I will find work, another position.’
I gripped his hands tight. ‘Where?’
We were seated on a low wall of stone, beneath a sheltering tree. I saw the gleam of his eye as he glanced away down the road. It was the first time I ever saw him impatient.
‘How can I say? Anywhere I can work,’ he said tightly. ‘My own city, perhaps.’
‘Anywhere,’ I said in a heavy voice. Then he turned back to me and slid his arms around me. ‘Yet I have an idea. It may be foolish—’
‘Tell me.’
‘To be with you I would do anything. May I not be your cook, Carinna?’
It was good that it was dark, for he could not see dismay slacken my face. The silence grew long. I scrambled for a reason, any reason, to say no.
‘My cook maid, Biddy,’ I said in a stumbling voice. ‘She is ailing. It would not be fair.’
‘She is only with child,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘So, after the birth? What then?’
‘Maybe she will cook again. I am sorry.’
‘She must be a very good cook to impress you.’
‘No, she has helped me. In the past.’ His arms stiffened. ‘I only want to be with you,’ I hissed.
‘Then tell me how, Carinna. For I am trying to prove that I will do anything to be with you.’
‘I wish to stay here,’ I said, brimming with sincere truth.
‘Then stay here at the villa. Or does your husband want you back?’
‘My husband?’ I felt myself under attack. ‘I care nothing for my husband.’
‘Yet you are mighty loyal to him.’ He said this bitterly, because I would not grant him the freedom of my person. I wanted to groan aloud, that he thought me a loyal wife, and not a desperate maiden.
Soon afterwards I headed for the road, protesting I must hurry back to Biddy. Biddy indeed! And what a notion – for him to be my cook. Impossible of course, but even so, it rattled me. For the thousandth time I asked myself if he would care for me at all if he knew I was neither noble nor wealthy. He was modest enough when he spoke of his own reputation, but I knew he held high office in his Guild. He read books, owned a house, and directed dozens of men in the count’s kitchen. How could he love a common kitchen servant like Biddy Leigh? Yet what did it matter? Carinna would have her child soon and we would all pack up and go home to England.
* * *
On Good Friday I sat outside the villa’s kitchen door plucking a brace of ducklings, for to drown myself in hard labour was the only way I knew to ease my churning thoughts. Yet even sitting in the morning sun making a long list of chores – scrub the floors, pick lemons, make a jelly, whip a syllabub, clean my mistress’s chamber, roast the ducklings, sand the pans – even all of that could not stop my misery from bubbling up like a pot of bitter aloes.
Holding the drake above my wooden pail I started the butchery that always turned my stomach. First I peeled the skin off the carcass like thick pliant silk. Then I twisted off the bird’s head with a hard crack. Finally, I slung the ruby carcass in the pail, attracting a circle of buzzing flies.
What was I to do? What if I were forced to leave and never see Renzo again? A little whimper of pain escaped my lips as I pictured being alone on this earth without him. Could I bear to live?
I reached for the hen that hung from the fence by her stretched neck. The drake had been a shimmering peacock of a creature, but his li
ttle mate was drab brown. Foolishly, I stroked her brow and marvelled at its velvet smoothness. Then I tugged at the hen’s neck till it came away in my hand, a torn gobbet with hanging strings like red wool. I stifled a sob. Why was love always denied me? I had thought I loved Jem once, and had him taken from me. And now I had found a worthy man, a true love whose every notion ran just like mine. A man, besides, whose art in cookery was the greatest I had seen. I could not bear to leave him.
Slitting open the dead hen, I unfurled her zigzag of guts. Then I searched for her heart, digging inside the tiny cave of her chest. There it was, naught but a lump of dead flesh. With claggy fingers I lifted the bullet-torn heart and felt my face crumple with tears. Such was my own heart. I loved Renzo so much that the pain of losing him would break me for ever. I wanted to wail my misery to the heavens, but feared being overheard. Then I damned my being a servant, condemned to eternal obedience. I wanted to punch someone hard, to break my fist on a solid wall. Instead, I rinsed my hands and marched off in a temper to pick some lemons.
At first I took Mr Loveday’s path, for I knew he went to the stream and sometimes caught a trout or two. I fought my way through a tangle of bushes, cursing the briars that snarled my cap and gown. After hurrying past the grim little graveyard I smelt the refreshing scent of lemons and picked a fat crop. Perhaps it was the sight of that bountiful fruit, but I wondered if I had been too hard on old Pars and I even thought of searching for a receipt for lemon pickle in The Cook’s Jewel. I recollected all the scoldings he had given me, and reminded myself that while he was a grousing skinflint, he maybe did have my own good at heart. I hoisted a knobbly jumble of lemons in my apron and decided it was time to make my peace with my old Mawton steward.
Before I set the ducklings to roast I knocked gently at his chamber and called his name. I thought I heard his voice, but when I opened the door I startled him at his desk. The shutters were closed and the room had a dark and festering air.
An Appetite for Violets Page 22
