by Rhys Bowen
Mr Roland had his own smaller kitchen for cakes and pastry, and there was a funny old Monsieur du Jardin, who was the confectioner in his own kitchen. I understood he had been in the palace since the queen was young and was famous for his works of art with chocolate, but his primary job was to make the ices the queen so adored.
As well as the queen’s intimate circle, we also had to cook for the members of her household—the various secretaries, gentlemen-at-arms and ladies-in-waiting who ate in their own dining room, and finally the servants who ate in the cavernous, draughty servants’ dining hall. This meant essentially preparing three meals, although the members of the household sometimes shared what the queen was eating. For the rest of us, it was plain and simple food in the extreme: a thick soup, a meat pie or pudding, macaroni and cheese, toad-in-the-hole—anything that made use of leftovers and cuts of meat that could not be served to royal persons. Mrs Gillespie was in charge of this and was very creative in what to do with the parts that nobody wanted.
At mealtimes we had to serve the other servants—footmen who took off their livery before they came to the table, maids of various ranks, and others who held strange and wonderful positions: master of the boots, mistress of linens and others that were not clear. For the most part, these latter ignored us. We were lowly kitchen staff. Rank was all-important. We had to serve them in order of precedence, and we were not allowed to eat until they had been served. One particular woman, grander than the rest, came in one day and sat apart at one end of the table. As I served her a helping of stew, she looked up at me. “You’re new here,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
She smiled then. “You don’t need to call me ma’am. I’m a servant here, like you. Only a few rungs up the ladder. I’m Her Majesty’s personal maid and dresser. You call me Miss McDonald. I usually take my meals apart, but Her Majesty had a fitting for a new gown all morning. It took longer than expected.” She examined me. “You’re a pretty little thing, with a nice manner to you. You should go far, only watch yourself. There are those who are lured by a pretty face and a slim ankle like yours. And you’re not exactly in a position to say no.”
I glanced around the room, wondering to whom she might be referring. And when I was back in my bedroom that evening, I examined myself in the mirror. “A pretty little thing,” she had called me. I had always thought of myself as the scrawny, skinny girl I once was. The idea that anyone might find me attractive was new to me. Mrs Tilley’s staff had been nearly exclusively female, apart from the gardeners, the groom and the coachman, who were older and paid me no attention. Now I saw that I might have good bone structure. And wide green eyes. And I knew that Nelson was showing interest. Maybe there was hope for my future.
CHAPTER 5
On Sunday afternoon, I went to visit my sister at the home of her future in-laws. I wouldn’t describe this as an ordinary house either. A great monstrosity—that’s what my father would have called it! It was a red brick replica of a medieval castle, complete with leaded windows, curly chimneys and a turret in one corner. Inside there were more knick-knacks and aspidistras than at Mrs Tilley’s, and swags and swathes of red velvet. But Louisa seemed happy enough; Billy’s parents seemed to have made their future daughter-in-law very welcome. I got the impression that Billy’s mother considered her quite a catch. She would no doubt love introducing Louisa to her friends—her dear new daughter, related to aristocracy, no less. She also seemed to take to me, making me sit beside her and taking my hand.
“So, my dear, do you have a young man? Any wedding bells on your horizon?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“It’s not right that the younger sister marries before the older,” Billy’s mother said. “We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” She glanced across at her husband. “Bert, get your thinking cap on. Who do we know with a young, unmarried son—a nice eligible boy, mind you?”
“Off the top of my head, I can’t think of no one,” Bert said, “but I’ll put my mind to it, like you say.”
“Oh really, that’s not necessary,” I said hastily. “I’m making my own way in the world just fine.”
“And what is it that you do, young woman?” Bert asked me. “Louisa said you was working as a house servant. That’s no life for a nicely raised girl like you.”
“Now I’m working as a cook,” I said. “And I really enjoy cooking. I hope to become a head cook someday.”
“Louisa says you used to be smart with your books, when you were both in school.”
“I was,” I agreed.
“So you should be thinking of a way to better yourself. Not cooking for people. But don’t you worry. Like the missus said, we’ll put our heads together. Come up with a young man with good prospects, eh?” And he gave me a wink.
“Next time you come, we will have a fitting for your dress,” Louisa said as she escorted me to the front door. “I can’t wait to try on mine. You should see the fabric, Bella. I shall feel like a princess. And yours shall be quite grand, too.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I said. “I can see they are already fond of you.”
“They are, aren’t they?” She beamed. “It is so nice to have a mother again. Father was no substitute, was he?”
I gave her the address to which letters could be sent. She frowned when she saw it. “But why to a post office, Bella? I felt so awkward to admit you were a house servant in front of my in-laws, and you won’t even tell me where. Are you ashamed of where you are now?”
“Not at all. It’s just that . . .” My brain had already worked out another lie, but I couldn’t tell it to my sister. “It’s simpler this way. Don’t worry.”
I came back to the palace feeling strangely unsettled. I had a good position. I had a chance to rise in my profession, but apart from that, I had nothing. Nowhere to call home. Nobody who cared whether I lived or died. I put this feeling aside as I joined my fellow cooks in the servants’ dining room, around the big fire.
“Been out visiting, have you?” one of them asked.
“Yes, I’ve just been to see my s—” I started to say “sister,” then swallowed it back. Helen couldn’t have a sister in London.
“My fellow servant from Lady Sowerby’s house who has moved to London,” I finished the sentence.
“That’s nice for you, having a friend down here,” Mrs Simms said. “It can be terrible lonely in a big new city, especially when you’re a girl from the countryside in the north like you.”
I nodded but wisely said nothing.
“Come and sit down and have some hot chocolate,” Nelson called, patting the bench beside him.
“You’ve made quite an impression on our Nelson,” Mrs Simms muttered, giving me a little nudge. “You could do worse.”
I helped myself to hot chocolate and sat perched on the bench beside him. Heavens, I hoped I hadn’t been leading Nelson on. He was a nice enough lad, but I was afraid that I retained enough of my father’s inborn snobbery to want better for myself. Maybe in a year or two, I’d come to terms with my current position in life and be glad to step out with a boy like Nelson. He gave me an encouraging grin. “Quite nippy out there today, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, wrapping my hands around the mug of cocoa, feeling the warmth of the fire spreading through me. Enough of snobbish thoughts, I decided. This was my new family. I was welcome here. I was starting to belong.
The next morning I had to run back to my bedroom to retrieve a forgotten handkerchief. While I was there, I glanced out of my window. It was a clear, bright day, and my room looked out to the palace grounds. To my astonishment, I spotted a pony cart. In it sat a round little old woman. On her head she wore a black cap, and a black cape was draped around her shoulders. It dawned on me that this must be the queen. I had seen her picture often enough, and her image on pennies. But even more surprising was the person standing at the pony’s head, leading it. He was a swarthy man, dressed in extraordinary oriental g
arb, a bright-pink silk tunic, green baggy pants and a canary-yellow turban. It was almost the costume of a stage performer, and I wondered what on earth he was doing there, alone with the queen.
Then I remembered that I had dashed upstairs to get my handkerchief and would be in trouble if I didn’t return instantly. I ran all the way down those flights of stairs and slipped into my place in the kitchen. But I couldn’t put what I had seen out of my mind.
“I’ve just seen the most extraordinary sight,” I muttered to Mrs Simms, who was filleting plaice beside me. “An oriental man in bright colours, leading what I think was the queen around the grounds.”
She made a face. “That darned munshi,” she said, giving a disparaging sniff.
“Munchy?” I had no idea what the word meant.
“That’s what they call him. I think it’s what they call Hindustani clerks or language teachers back in his country. Abdul Karim is his name. Her Indian friend,” she replied. “Have you not heard about him? He was sent over here as a gift from her subjects in India to be a table servant, but he’s wormed his way into her favour. Now he seems to think he’s a secretary and acts as if he’s above the rest of us. Apparently, he can do no wrong in her eyes.” She shook her head. “She always did have her head turned by a handsome young man—although this one is neither particularly young nor handsome, in my opinion. But she was looking for someone to replace John Brown after he died, and this one seized his chances. Now she thinks the sun shines out of his head. He obviously presents one face to her and another to the rest of us.”
She glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear, then lowered her voice. “He comes in here, giving orders like he’s one of her senior advisers, not a blasted table servant. Tells us how to cook his special food—the cheek of it. Won’t touch pork. Wants to know how the animals have been killed. I ask you! Nobody can stand him except for her, and of course she’s the only one who counts, isn’t she?”
I had an encounter with him myself later that week. I was escaping for a few minutes of solitude after we had finished clearing up the luncheon. I had taken down the famous cookery book again from its shelf and was planning a few moments of note taking. I had moved beyond sauces and on to soups. I had just reached that famous turtle soup recipe, but decided to skip over it as I was sure it would not appear on menus too frequently. And I was not going to slit the shell of a 120-pound turtle and remove its innards.
I came out of the kitchen, and a figure loomed in front of me in the dark hallway. I think I must have gasped. I saw the flash of jewels on cerise silk and a bright-blue turban. Queen Victoria’s munshi was before me, looking down at me with contempt.
“You, girl,” he said. “You are a kitchen maid?”
“No, I’m a cook,” I replied.
“That is no way to speak to your betters. You address me as ‘sir,’” he said. He had a strong Indian accent, and he smelled of a cloying perfume.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, with overemphasis on the last word.
“Now, I do not wish to go into that kitchen because it is a place where pork is prepared,” he went on, “but you are to go immediately and tell the head cook that I am most displeased. I requested a curried chicken and a dal when I wanted to entertain a fellow countryman of mine. I wished to make a good impression, but alas I was embarrassed. The chicken had no flavour, and the dal was made of split peas, not the correct lentils.”
I waited. He waved an elegant hand at me, a hand with several rings on the fingers. “Go now. Tell this cook, and return to me with the answer of how he plans to remedy this.”
I swallowed hard as I went back into the kitchen. Mr Angelo had finished working, and I found him in the servants’ dining room, sitting by the fire in the one good chair, reading the newspaper. I apologized for interrupting his rest and reported what I had been told. He slammed down the newspaper.
“He had the nerve to say that, did he? Doesn’t he know you can’t make a good curry without onions to seal in the spices, and I couldn’t allow the risk of that fellow breathing onion and garlic breath at the queen, could I? And what’s more, I don’t see why I should put my staff through extra work to make special food for one blooming servant. We don’t do it for her private secretary, who is a proper gentleman. We don’t do it for her ladies-in-waiting, who are all titled people and English to boot, so why in God’s name should we do it for him? And lentils? We don’t use lentils, do we? Split peas are good enough for us and should be good enough for him.”
I stood there, feeling rather sick, accepting this tirade. “Should I go and tell him this, Cook?”
“Of course you shouldn’t.” He stood up. “I don’t allow my cooks to be subjected to abuse. I’ll tell him myself and tell him that if I had my way, he’d be eating with the rest of the palace servants, in this dining hall. Strutting around like a bloody peacock! Giving himself airs and graces. The old lady needs to wake up and see the truth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was robbing her blind. We’ll find the crown jewels missing soon, you mark my words.”
He stomped out of the room. I was dying to follow him and see the encounter myself. I heard raised voices, and soon Chef returned, his face bright red. “I told him a thing or two,” he said.
“Aren’t you worried about being given the sack?” I asked. “I’m told he does have the queen’s favour.”
“Ducky, she likes her food better than she likes him,” he said with a grin. “I think I’m quite safe. And when I next get a chance to talk to the master of the household about menus, I’ll mention that he was trying to force me to cook onions and spices, and I knew she wouldn’t want the smells seeping into her own food and the curry taste impregnating her pans.”
We didn’t receive another visit from the Indian, and I didn’t spot the queen on the grounds with him again, as the weather had become blustery, sending leaves flying from the trees behind the palace and occasionally peppering my window with rain as I lay in bed. But we did have an interesting visitor in the kitchen later in the week, a distinguished-looking older man with a neatly trimmed beard. I had seen pictures of the Prince of Wales and wondered for a moment if this was he. I was about to curtsy but noticed none of the others reacted in this way.
“The queen’s physician, Sir James Reid,” Mrs Simms whispered as all work stopped at the entrance of this visitor.
“Mr Angelo,” he said. He had a deep, quiet voice with a trace of a Scottish accent. “A word if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, Dr Reid.” The chef wiped his hands on his apron as he approached the doctor. “Would you care to sit down? I can fetch you a chair.”
“Not necessary, thank you. What I have to say won’t take long.” He cleared his throat.
“It’s about Her Majesty’s diet. I’m sure you’ve noticed but she’s eating far too much. Gorging herself, that’s what she’s doing. And not taking any exercise either. She says her legs will no longer support her. ‘Of course they won’t,’ I told her. ‘There is too much body above them.’” He paused and smiled. “The result is that she’s becoming fatter and fatter. If this goes on, she’ll develop heart failure, dyspepsia, diabetes and all kinds of unpleasant diseases, and be facing an early demise.” He looked around, noticing that the rest of us had abandoned our duties and were listening eagerly. He frowned, and we pretended to go back to work. “She said she had little to live for, and only her dear Abdul brought her joy.”
I heard a sniff from Mrs Simms.
“Did she really want to die, I asked her. She did not. She had no intention of dying, although the thought of being reunited with her dear Albert was an enticing one. She said the reason she intended to stay alive was that she did not want her son to become king. He was weak with too many vices. He would run the empire into the ground.”
He finished speaking, and the only sound was that of a knife on the chopping board.
“What do you want me to do about it, Doctor?” Mr Angelo asked.
“Make ch
anges to her diet.”
Mr Angelo sighed. “I meet with the master of the household, and I can sometimes make suggestions on the menus, but mostly they come directly from her. My job is to cook what I’m told to prepare and do it well.”
“Quite.” Dr Reid nodded. “But maybe you could surreptitiously cut down on the cream and butter in the sauces and mashed potatoes. And if you do get a chance to make suggestions—maybe to replace a heavy pudding with a baked apple?”
Cook gave a derisive chuckle. “Does she listen to your suggestions, Doctor?”
“Not often, I have to admit.” The doctor grinned.
“And you a qualified medical man with the highest degrees. She’s certainly not going to take advice from a mere cook. All we’ll get is complaints that the mashed potatoes weren’t up to the usual standard if we withhold the cream.”
The doctor nodded in agreement. “It will not be easy, I agree. But maybe at every meal, we cut back just a little of the richness. Cut out one fattening item. I’m sure every little bit helps at this stage, and we don’t want our beloved monarch to die, do we?”
“We most certainly do not,” Mr Angelo said emphatically. “We’ll do everything we can, Doctor. The trouble is that she is set in her ways. She knows what she likes, and she’s not willing to try anything new.”
Dr Reid patted him on the shoulder. “Do your best, Mr Angelo. We can only try.”
Then he departed.
CHAPTER 6
After Dr Reid had gone, we had a meeting. Mr Angelo was sceptical that we could alter Her Majesty’s diet without causing wrath to fall upon us.
“Any suggestions?” he asked.
The others stood there, tight-lipped and not willing to stick a neck out. I raised my hand tentatively. “Roast chicken. Does she like that? It’s supposed to be healthy and not fatty.”
“You’ve been reading our bible, I notice,” he replied, frowning down at me. “The former chef’s cookery book. Did you observe that any of the dishes could be described as simple? If it’s a roast chicken, then it’s stuffed. Take a look at the book and see what is in the stuffings: oysters or forcemeat or even some smaller fowl inside it.”
