by Rhys Bowen
I nodded, suitably chastened, but couldn’t resist adding, “What about rabbit? That’s another lean meat, isn’t it?”
“Rabbit?” I was regarded with scorn. “That is food for the masses, my dear.”
“A rabbit pie can be very tasty,” I said. “She may not even know it’s rabbit.”
“You would try to deceive the queen?” He looked horrified.
“Not deceive, Cook. Unless she asks what is in the pie, you would not need to tell her.”
He wagged a finger at me. “I can see you are a wily young woman under that innocent exterior. Let me think on this. And any other suggestions while you have the floor?”
I glanced around. The other cooks were watching me with interest, probably waiting for the axe of doom to fall upon me. I took a deep breath. “I was thinking that meringues do not contain any fat. Tiny ones for Her Majesty’s tea, perhaps?”
He nodded. “Except she likes the cream to be oozing out between them. But maybe we could get away with less cream . . . Do you know how to make meringues?”
“I do, Cook.”
“Very well. You can try a batch this afternoon. We’ll see how well they are received.”
I felt rather pleased about this—pleased but a little scared, too. I was being noticed in my new position. I was being given a chance to prove myself.
My meringues were a success. I was told that if I dared to make the rabbit pie, Chef would offer it one lunchtime. I did, and we heard that the chicken today was particularly succulent in the pie. We said nothing to contradict that.
On my afternoon off, I met with Louisa, her mother-in-law and the seamstress who was to make our dresses. I found they had picked out a gorgeous blue velvet for my dress. It was to have a cape trimmed with white fur. I could not have been happier. I was secure in my position; my sister was happy and settled. All was right with my world. Did we not learn as children that pride comes before a fall? We were in mid-morning preparation when a footman appeared in the doorway. He stood, looking around, until one of the cooks noticed him.
“What is it?” the cook asked.
“There’s a visitor for a Miss Barton,” he said.
I looked up from chopping stewing steak for our lunchtime pie. My heart did a rapid flip.
“Miss Barton?” Mr Angelo frowned. “Miss Barton does not receive visitors during working hours. She should know that.”
“I am sure there must be a mistake, Cook,” I said. “Nobody knows that I work here now. And I know nobody in London.”
“The young man says he is her brother, and it’s urgent,” the footman said.
“Brother? You have a brother? I understood you were without family.” Mr Angelo was frowning at me now. It was rather alarming.
I felt the colour drain from my face. Was it possible that Helen had a brother in London?
Was that why she decided to seek employment in the south? I tried to think of excuses as to why I shouldn’t see him, but realized that I would have to. “I am an orphan, Mr Angelo. Both of my parents died long ago. And I had no idea my brother was in London, or knew that I was here. We have not seen each other in a long while.”
“Well, I suppose you’d better go and speak to him,” Mr Angelo said impatiently. “Only make it snappy. Tell him you’ll have time to see him properly on your afternoon off.”
“Yes, Cook,” I said and followed the footman out of the kitchen and along the hallway.
My heart was racing, and I tried to control my panicked thoughts. He couldn’t know that his sister had died. I would have to break the truth to him gently and tell him why I had stolen Helen’s identity. I would have to make him understand somehow and appeal to his better nature.
The walk down the hallway seemed to take forever. Bright sunlight streamed in from the open door. The footman leaned closer and said quietly, “He’s waiting outside. I didn’t want to let him in without permission, but if you want to bring him in . . .”
“No, I’ll speak to him outside,” I said rapidly.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the footman said and retreated.
I took a deep breath and stepped out into the brisk autumn day. He was standing off the path, to one side, watching for me—a skinny young man, dressed in a rather flashy manner. He came forward warily.
“You’re Helen Barton?” he asked. I disliked him from first glance. He had a thin, vulpine face with darting eyes and a cocky expression. I imagine this would be how a fox would look if a chicken strayed too close to his den.
An idea struck me. Helen Barton would not be an uncommon name. I could tell him that he had come about the wrong Helen. Not his sister. I was the one who was offered the job. I was still forming these words in my mind and wondering how his sister had received a letter from the palace that was meant for me when he said, “So how come you don’t give your brother Ronnie a kiss?”
“You’re not my brother,” I replied.
“Blooming right I’m not,” he said. “I’m Helen Barton’s brother. Helen Barton. The one who applied for this job. The one who should have got this job, only . . .” He left the rest of the sentence hanging. I took a deep breath.
“Perhaps you haven’t heard the terrible news, sir,” I replied. I addressed him in this way even though I was quite sure he didn’t deserve the title. I heard my voice take on the upper-class tones that my father used when he was under moments of stress. “Your sister was killed by an omnibus in Piccadilly. I happened to witness the accident. It was terrible to behold, the poor thing. I tried to comfort her as she was dying, and she had an envelope in her hand. She was in distress and begged me to take it to the palace and tell them. I promised I would. After she had died, I found it was a letter inviting her to be interviewed for the position of under-cook at the palace. By sheer happenstance, I am also a cook, and I was looking for a way to escape my own servitude at that time. This seemed like a gift from heaven to me. Your poor sister would no longer be needing the post, and I could do it well.”
“And so you applied in my sister’s name,” he said.
“I did. I know that was not an honourable thing to do, but I couldn’t bring your sister back to life, and the position needed to be filled. I am sorry to be the bearer of such tragic news about your sister.”
He shrugged. “As it happens, I was still working at Lady Sowerby’s house in Yorkshire when we got the news that she’d been killed. After our mother died, Helen and I both decided to look for positions down in London, try our lot in the big city, you know. Helen getting the chance to interview at the palace was an incredible stroke of luck. We talked about her finding a way to secure me a position in a royal household, too. And then we heard she had been killed.” He paused, sucking through his teeth. “Imagine my surprise when I arrived in London and heard that a Miss Barton was now working at the palace. I thought I had better come and see for myself.”
“I’m sorry if this was distressing to you, sir. I meant no harm. Your sister was dead, and I am a good cook. They are most satisfied with my work.”
“So why not tell the truth and give your own name?”
“Because I was working for a spiteful woman who valued my services and didn’t want to lose me. She told me that if I tried to leave, she’d give me no reference. I was trapped in an unpleasant situation. This seemed like a miracle. Finally a way out for me. Surely you understand that?”
He was still almost smirking at me. I decided his face was more weasel than fox. Nasty, spiteful little dark eyes, darting as they examined me. “And you’ve never told them the truth here?”
“How could I? I’d be dismissed.”
“So what do you think would happen if someone else told them?”
I stared at him for a long moment. The wind had whipped up leaves, swirling them around the forecourt and threatening to snatch my cook’s hat. I put up a hand to secure it.
“You are the only person who seems to know the truth,” I said.
“That’s right.” He really did
smirk then. “I am, aren’t I? And what’s to stop me from marching right in there and telling them?”
I frowned. “I don’t think I understand you. Why would you want to do that? I’m truly sorry about your sister, I really am. I was shocked when I saw her body lying there. But I can’t bring her back to life, and I haven’t taken anything from her.”
“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow. “You know what’s going through my head at this moment? I’m thinking you might not have been the bystander you claimed to be, but you actually pushed her under that omnibus.”
I stared at him, open-mouthed. “What a ridiculous thing to say. I didn’t even know your sister. I never even met her, and I’d certainly never do anything to harm another person.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You see, I’m thinking that maybe Helen came down to London, and maybe you sat side by side in the same café. And she was excited about her job and told you why she had come. And you decided to take your own chances. You followed her to Piccadilly, and at the right moment you gave her a shove.”
I fought back anger and panic. “How dare you suggest such a thing? I told you, I never met your sister. Why would I lie to you?”
“You’ve already told one pretty big lie recently, so it seems.” He smirked again now. “I think the police would be very interested to hear my story, don’t you? You kill my sister, and then you take her place—working at the palace under false pretences? And if I happened to come up with a witness who saw you push her? Well, I reckon it would be nothing less than the noose, don’t you?”
My heart was racing so fast I could hardly breathe. I fought to stay calm, at least to give him the appearance of being calm. “I don’t understand. Are you trying to threaten me? To blackmail me? Because I’m afraid you’d be wasting your time. I have no money, no family and no connections. I was a penniless servant girl like your sister.”
“You don’t sound like it. In fact you don’t sound like a servant at all.”
“My father was a gentleman, my mother a lady, but they died, and I had to fend for myself. I was put into service when I turned fifteen. I worked as a maid and then became a cook. I’ve had a hard life, just like you, and you can’t blame me for taking the one chance I might ever be given, can you?”
“No, I don’t blame you,” he said.
“Then what do you want from me?” I heard my voice, taut and shrill now.
“I was thinking there might be ways you could be helpful to me—to advance my own ambitions.”
I gave a nervous laugh. “I’m the lowest assistant cook, Mr Barton. I have no influence at all. Are you also a cook?”
“Me?” He shrugged, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been several things. I started off as boot boy, worked my way up to footman and then valet, but I’ve a mind to work in a royal household, too. I wouldn’t mind starting off in a lowly position again, if necessary. I’m not too proud. Actually, I’ve a fancy to work for the Prince of Wales. He seems like a man after my own heart. Free with the cash, too, so they say.”
“So why not apply to his residence to see if there might be a vacancy?”
He shrugged. “Unlike my sister, I don’t come with glowing references. A small misunderstanding about some silver. She was the golden child of the family, always did everything perfectly. Me, not so much. So you see, Miss whatever-your-name-is, you and I can help each other. I can keep quiet about your little deception, and you can put in a good word for me to get me a post with the royals.”
“I’ve told you, Mr Barton,” I said, “I have absolutely no seniority. I’ve never even met a member of the royal family. How do you expect me to put in a good word for you?”
“You’ll find a way,” he said. “I’m sure you will. I’ll give you until the end of the year, and then I’ll go to the palace with the truth. I may even decide to go to the police with my version of what happened to my sister.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, now holding a piece of paper. “This is where I’m staying,” he said. “If I change my address, I’ll write to you, care of the palace. And I look forward to hearing good news from you in the near future.”
“And if I call your bluff?” I said. “If I go in there and say there is a man who is pestering me? He claimed to be my brother, but he really isn’t. He’s a young man who has designs on me, and he won’t take no for an answer, and now he’s trying to cause trouble for me. Who do you think they will believe?”
He went to say something, opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I think they’d believe me,” he said.
“Oh, and why is that?”
He smirked again. “Because I come with proof. I happen to have a photograph of Helen and me, taken outside Sowerby Hall. And my sainted mother has written on it: Helen and Ronnie, the day they started work for Lady Sowerby. One look at that photograph, and anyone can see that you look nothing like our Helen.” He turned and started to walk away. “End of the year at the latest. I’ll be expecting good news.”
He didn’t look back as he pushed open the little gate in the wall of the forecourt and let the wind slam it shut behind him. I stood for a moment in the cool stillness of the hallway, trying to compose myself. I think I had known from the first instant that what I was doing was wrong. I was so desperate to escape that I had not listened to my conscience. I had half expected to be punished for my lie, and now judgement had fallen upon me. “Beware your sins will find you out.” That’s what they taught us in church when I used to attend with my mother. It had seemed like such a harmless deception, too. As I said to Ronnie Barton, I had not hurt anybody; in fact, I had done the palace a service by finding them a good cook. And now I was truly trapped again. If he went to the police and told them that concocted story, they might well believe him, and I’d be arrested and tried for murder.
If I couldn’t do what he wanted, but told him I had tried my best, would he be satisfied with that? The trouble was that I suspected he had no better nature I could appeal to. He was clearly the sort who was never quite straight. Maybe he had been a thorn in Helen’s side, which was why she came all the way to London to escape him. But what he wanted was impossible. I could go to the master of the household and tell him that my brother was looking for a job, but they would not take him on without the highest references, even if I spoke up for him. At least I had until the end of the year. Almost two months to come up with a plan of escape.
I took several deep breaths, straightened my cap and went back into the kitchen. Chef glanced up but said nothing as I took my place back at the table beside Mrs Simms.
“You look as white as a sheet, my girl,” Mrs Simms said. “Is everything all right?” When I didn’t respond instantly, she went on, “Were you not pleased to see your brother?”
“Not exactly,” I muttered.
“You were upset to see him.” It wasn’t a question.
“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” I said. “And we didn’t exactly get along well.”
“So what did he want, money?”
“No, nothing like that. I just wasn’t very happy to know he’d followed me down to London, that’s all.”
“At least he can’t bother you here,” she said. “You’re as safe as houses at the palace.”
I gave her a weak smile.
“If anyone tries to bother you, Miss Helen, you just tell me.” Nelson stepped closer. I hadn’t realized he’d overheard.
I gave him a grateful grin. “You’re really kind.”
“Not at all. We’re family here. We watch out for each other. I don’t care if he is your brother, he’s not going to upset you, or he’ll have to deal with me.”
A wonderful thought came into my head. I could send Nelson, and maybe some of his sturdier friends, to intimidate Ronnie Barton into leaving me alone. But then Ronnie would tell them the truth, and Nelson would know he’d been lied to. And that might change how he felt about me. I went back to work, chopping so fast that the pieces of potato flew across the bench, a
s if every piece was Ronnie Barton’s neck.
That night I found it impossible to sleep. Rain peppered my window, and the wind howled through the chimneys. It was as if the whole world was caught up in my turmoil. I did have a way to escape, of course. That was what I told myself. I could accept my sister’s kind offer and move in with Billy’s family. Ronnie Barton didn’t know my real name. He’d have no way of tracing me. Besides, I’d be of no use to him if I was no longer at the palace. I examined this thought. Could I really tolerate that life? I’d be the spinster sister, the one to be pitied. Billy’s mother would make it her mission to find me a suitable husband, and her idea of suitable was not mine. But was that preferable to finding myself in court, trying to prove my innocence in the death of Helen Barton when I would already be known to the jury as a liar and a cheat? I lay staring into complete darkness, but no solution would come. They were not bad people, Billy’s family. They weren’t of my original class, but neither was I any longer. Louisa had accepted her diminished social status quite happily. Why did I find it so hard to admit that we were now working class and not aristocrats?
I could resume my education, I thought. Louisa had suggested as much. I could train to be a teacher. That thought cheered me a little until I reminded myself that I had found my métier in cooking. I loved to cook. I was really happy in my current position. I did not want to abandon it, and with it any chance of furthering my education in the kitchen. And most of all, I hated to let a slimy weasel like Ronnie Barton get the better of me. I was not going to go down without a fight.
CHAPTER 7
I tried to put all thoughts of Ronnie Barton out of my mind and threw myself into my work with zest. Both Mrs Simms and Mr Angelo complimented me on my efforts. After the success of my meringues, Mr Angelo suggested to Chef Roland that he might want me as an assistant with the cakes and pastries. I had already noticed that Chef Roland was a highly strung individual, a Frenchman who easily took offence. He was now regarding me as if I was something unpleasant he had found under his shoe. He tossed his head petulantly. “Are you now suggesting that I am past my prime, Chef, and therefore in need of someone to assist me?” he demanded.
