Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  I grinned. “When you see what our head chef has brought with him in the way of equipment, he was taking no chances. I just hope there will be space to store it all.”

  “He does not believe that we possess pots and pans in France?” He was looking less friendly again.

  “Of course he does. But Her Majesty is very particular in the way she likes things prepared, and he did not want to be caught out.”

  “I understand. As a chef, I prefer my own tools. One needs to know how a particular pan will perform.”

  “I thank you for your time, and for allotting us our space in your kitchen,” I said. “I will bring down the chefs to introduce to you when you are less busy.”

  “Of course. My staff looks forward to making their acquaintance.” He said this stiffly, as if he was only repeating what he had been told to say, and gave a little bow. “And, mademoiselle, we are very well aware that this kitchen, this hotel, would not exist if your queen had not decided that she wanted to visit Nice. Everyone in this city hopes that she will be what is needed to bring visitors from all over the world. She will turn our city into a fashionable wintering resort. And for me, personally, I will have the opportunity to demonstrate my skills to people of rank and money. Who knows, maybe an emperor or an American millionaire will invite me to come and work for him.”

  “You would want to leave Nice?” I exclaimed. “But surely it is the most beautiful place in the world.”

  “You are correct there,” he agreed. “But I have a desire to see the world before I settle down.” He paused, then said, in a more formal voice, “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to return to my preparations.”

  He went back to his work, and I made my exit. This time I found that there was a similar pass door at our side of the kitchen, which led down another narrow hallway to the queen’s private dining room. I peeked inside. It looked like a room in any country house—not particularly grand, but the walls were decorated with suitably royal paintings, and the table might seat twelve at the most. Beyond it was another, larger dining room, where the royal household would take their meals. If the queen wanted to host a large dinner party, I had no idea how or where she would do this. Maybe take over the great dining hall of the hotel? Anyway, that was not my concern. I followed the hallway and came out behind the staircase. Ah, so that was how I had missed the door on the first occasion. It was cunningly concealed.

  There I paused for the first time, catching my breath. I had found the encounter with Chef Lepin to be quite alarming. I hoped all Frenchmen would not be so belligerent and confrontational, also not as unnervingly handsome!

  CHAPTER 15

  I duly reported to Mr Angelo that I had located the kitchens and met with the head chef. I warned him that our presence was rather resented and not to expect to be welcomed with open arms.

  He nodded. “I’m not surprised about that. I would not take kindly to a foreign chef being thrust into my kitchen. Don’t worry. We’ll probably get along once he sees the quality of our food preparation. Will you take me down now?”

  “I think we should wait until after luncheon,” I said. “They are rather busy at the moment.”

  “Of course. I forgot that this is also a working hotel. There will be other guests. And it’s time we ate something, too. I presume there is a staff dining room where we should take our meals, or are we expected to cook our own?”

  “I didn’t ask about that,” I said. “In truth, the chef was rather patronizing about us. I was anxious to get away.”

  “Then we will go out and find a café,” he said. “We still have some of our travel money unspent. We’ll have a good meal.”

  The others were summoned, and we went in search of a place to eat. After enquiring, I found that this area on the hill was all parks and villas and grand hotels. For an ordinary café, we would have to go down into the town again. “But there is the trolley,” the hotel porter told us. “A new trolley line built especially for this hotel.”

  “Oh, that is good news,” I replied.

  He shrugged. “Unfortunately, it is apt to break down with regularity. Perhaps it will be working well today.”

  The trolley was working, and we made it safely down the long, steep hill into the town. We found a pleasant little café where the men selected a type of pasta, but I chose an omelette. I had always thought that eggs were for breakfast, so I had never tried one, and I was not disappointed. It came up light, fluffy and stuffed with tiny shrimp. Every mouthful was a delight, and I began to see that appreciation of food was a way of life in France. It was accompanied by crusty bread so fresh it was still warm, and sweet butter. I did make the mistake of asking for a cup of tea when we were offered a carafe of wine. It appeared that tea is not something the French have taken to, at least not as the English like it. It came up so light that it was just water with a slight scent to it, and with a slice of lemon beside it.

  “I reckon it will have to be wine with meals from now on,” Mr Angelo said as he watched me sip with disgust on my face. “We can’t drink the water, so I’ve heard. It’s questionable. So it’s wine or nothing.”

  “Wine? At midday?” Mr Williams asked. “You know I don’t drink, Cook. I’m teetotal, like everyone in my part of Wales. I’ve taken the pledge.”

  “Then you’ll have to stick to milk, or tea that looks like Helen’s.”

  When we came to ride up the hill again, we were informed that the trolley had experienced one of its many breakdowns, and we had to trudge all the way up. We reached the hotel hot, tired and a little grumpy. The men declared they were going to have a rest and were in no hurry to meet the hostile French chefs. Since the queen would not arrive for a few days, we did not have to rush to prepare the kitchen for her, and we would not need to order food yet. Thus our time was our own. This was magical news for me. I couldn’t even remember a time when I had had leisure, certainly not in such wonderful circumstances. I changed into a cotton blouse and skirt and went out exploring.

  In front of the hotel, I had noticed the most wonderful gardens. The walkways were lined with massive palm trees, and their fronds whispered and crackled as they swayed in the stiff breeze that now came up from the sea. Even at this time of year, there were flower beds of bright flowers whose names I didn’t know. Brilliant red-and-yellow climbing plants spilled over walls. There were arbours and fountains, a croquet lawn, a tennis court, a conservatory full of exotic plants and at the front of the garden a display that spelled out the name of the hotel in flowers. It was all so heady and enchanting for one who had grown up in London. It was true I had experienced the freedom of Hampstead Heath, but that was so long ago now it seemed as if it was in another lifetime, or even in a dream.

  I walked the carefully raked paths, pausing to sniff when a particularly intoxicating smell came to me. Trees with yellow powder puffs of flowers had the sweetest scent. I sat on a bench under one such tree and looked around me, almost believing I might be in heaven. Then tiredness from the sleepless night on the train overcame me, and I must have drifted off to sleep because I heard a voice saying, in French, “Stay exactly where you are. Do not move.”

  I sat up, instantly alert, and found myself staring at a fashionably dressed woman. Although her face was flawless, I deemed her to be of middle age, maybe forty or so. She was dressed in a light-grey silk dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves, a slimline skirt and a pin-tucked front. On her head was a small, jaunty hat, and she carried a fringed silk parasol to ward off the sun’s rays. Her stare was fixed on me, and I looked around to see if I might be in some kind of danger or even breaking a rule. It did occur to me that this garden was reserved for hotel guests, and that did not include servants. I fought back the urge to stand up, since she had told me not to move.

  “Madame?” I asked in French. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing,” she said, coming towards me now. “In fact, it’s just perfect.”

  “What is?” I was now beginning to wonder if she was perhaps a little t
ouched.

  “You are, my sweet child,” she said. “You are just what I have been searching for.”

  Now it crossed my mind that she might be an elegant madam trying to recruit me for one of her houses of ill repute. She came to sit beside me. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I have just arrived. I am a member of the queen—of Lady Balmoral’s party, sent in advance to make sure everything is ready for her.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Lady Balmoral, eh?” She gave me a knowing wink. “So silly when we all know her. So, you are English?” She had reverted to my language, and this confirmed my suspicions that she was a countrywoman of mine. Even though her French was flawless, there was a slight hint of foreignness to her accent.

  “I am.”

  “Might one know your name?”

  Could I tell her the truth? I wondered. She didn’t need to know my masquerade. I’d probably never even meet her again. But the expatriate circle might be a small one. “It’s Helen Barton,” I said.

  “Delighted to meet you, Helen.” She held out a dainty gloved hand. “I am Mary Crozier.”

  “How do you do?” I shook hands formally. “Are you also staying at the hotel?”

  “Oh no. I live here. You see that villa to our right? That is mine. The Villa Angelica. Silly name, don’t you think? My husband’s whim. He said the view was so pretty that angels would want to live here. He does get whims from time to time.”

  I looked down at the romantic villa set amid lovely gardens. I thought of her surname. “Your husband is French?”

  “He is. Le Marquis de Crozier. A dashing Frenchman. My family thought him quite unsuitable when we met at a Paris ball. But I told them the best they could do for me was a mere baronet or possibly a viscount, and this was a marquis. And I have to say I’ve never regretted it. As dashing as he is, he has proved remarkably faithful, and I’ve provided him with four healthy sons. So all is well.” She paused and gave a little sigh. “I do miss England from time to time, London theatre, and scones with clotted cream, but now that the Riviera is becoming the place to winter, I can be amongst my own people again.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” I said. “If I lived here, I’d never want to move.”

  “The French can be rather tiresome, you know,” she said. “Lots of gossip and intrigue and who is sleeping with whom. Luckily Francois finds it as tedious as I do. That’s why we escaped from Paris in the first place and built this villa. Which brings me to my current quest. Are you free this evening?”

  Thoughts raced through my mind. I was a servant. Did she recognize that from my clothing, and was she asking me to help out at a soirée? But what if she was actually inviting me to be a guest? Could I accept an invitation from a marquise?

  “Oh, please. Do say yes.” She pressed her hand over mine. “It will be an interesting little gathering. Nothing formal, but you are desperately needed.”

  “Needed? For what purpose?”

  She laughed. “Don’t look so worried. Your hair, sweet child. You see, tableaux are all the rage at the moment, and I had my heart set on a tableau of Charles II and Nell Gwynne—you know, the orange seller he met outside the theatre and who became his favourite mistress. But Nell Gwynne was famous for her red hair, and alas I knew no redheads. And now you appear like a miracle. So do say you’ll come. You will make my evening a success.”

  How could I say no? “Of course. I shall be delighted to, Marquise,” I said.

  She squeezed my hand even harder now. “You must call me Mary, as I know we shall be the best of friends.” She was studying my face again. “Such a pretty little face. So English. You don’t know what it’s like, having a household that is full of rambunctious males. How I longed for a daughter like you.” She stood up. “Oh, there are my wine merchants arriving now. I must go, or they’ll put everything in the wrong place. Until tonight then. Come about eight so that we can have your costume fitted.” She jumped up and hurried down the path as fast as those tight skirts would allow her.

  CHAPTER 16

  I waited until Mr Angelo had awoken from his afternoon nap and then took him down to meet his French fellow chefs. The meeting was brief and exceedingly polite. I hoped that things would thaw out as we worked together.

  “Blimey, he’s a rum one, isn’t he?” Chef muttered to me as we made our way up the stairs. “I can see it’s going to be a barrel of laughs working with that lot. But it should go smoothly as long as we stick to our side of the kitchen and they stick to theirs.”

  I nodded. Then I asked, cautiously, “So for this evening, am I free?”

  “We’re all free until Her Majesty gets here. Unloading the crates and arranging the shelves tomorrow, and getting the larder stocked for the first meals. Luckily, I brought a lot of the basics with me: condiments, herbs and good English tea, too, after what you went through today.”

  “So about this evening,” I said. “Would you mind if I went out?”

  He frowned. “I don’t like the idea of a young girl wandering around a strange city at night. Not without a chaperone, and we are all too tired to go gallivanting.”

  “Oh, I don’t intend to wander around the city, Chef. It’s just that I have been asked by an English noble lady to go and help with her soirée.”

  “English noble lady? And how do you know her?” He was still looking suspicious.

  “I met her in the gardens this afternoon. She owns the villa you can see on the right.”

  “And she doesn’t have servants of her own for her soirées?”

  “She does. But she doesn’t want me as a servant. She’s putting on a tableau, and she needed someone with red hair to complete it.”

  “What do you mean, a tableau?”

  “You know, living people pose as a famous painting or a scene from history. She’s doing Charles II.”

  “And she wants you for?”

  “Nell Gwynne,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You know what she was, don’t you? It wasn’t just her oranges she was selling.”

  I had to smile at this. “Chef, I’m not going to act the part. All I have to do is to stand quite still for a few minutes. Then I’ll come back. You don’t object to that, do you?”

  “I suppose not. Just watch out for those aristocrats, won’t you? They think any pretty servant girl is easy pickings.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I can assure you I’m not easy pickings.”

  He studied me for a moment, then said, “No, I don’t think you are.”

  When it came to getting ready for the soirée, I was in an agony of indecision. I had brought my one lovely dress, the blue velvet one I had worn to Louisa’s wedding, and apart from that, my clothes were plain in the extreme. But perhaps Mary Crozier had not expected me to be a guest, merely an entertainer, hustled in through the servants’ entrance and then out again when my party piece was over. On the other hand, if I was introduced to any guests, I certainly wouldn’t want to be wearing an old cotton frock. That settled it. I put on the blue velvet dress and left my hair down, knowing that it would have to be unpinned anyway for my part in the tableau. Lastly, I draped the matching cape, trimmed with rabbit fur, around my shoulders, and made my way down the stairs, through the foyer and out into the night.

  The forecourt was well-lit and full of activity. Carriages were arriving and departing. There was the sound of an orchestra coming from the open front doors. I made my way without incident to the Villa Angelica. There was the villa’s name on the gate, but I would have recognized it anyway by the bright lights streaming from every window and the bustle of activity as footmen waited in the forecourt to receive visitors. I came forward tentatively, not sure still if I should approach as a visitor or as part of the entertainment. But almost instantly a footman clad in black livery stepped forward. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said. “This way, please.”

  And he escorted me in through the front door. Suddenly there I was in
a room full of elegant people. How many times had I dreamed of this? When Papa told his tales of visits to the family seat, of banquets and balls in India and of parties at the Savoy, I would picture myself at one of them, and I’d mutter, “Someday, Bella.” Now this was actually coming true, and I was terrified. I looked around the room—my dress was not quite right. There were no velvets, only silks as far as I could see. And the waists were much tighter, the necks much lower, the bustles much bigger. How at ease they all looked, laughing and talking, champagne glasses in their hands. They all belonged here, and I never would. I hovered at the perimeter of the room, and when a waiter came up to me with a tray of champagne glasses, I wasn’t at all sure I should accept one. Still, it was something to do with my hands. I took the glass, and sipped, experiencing the delightful taste of bubbles.

  Then I heard someone calling, “Helen!” Mary Crozier was coming towards me, arms outstretched. “You’ve come, my sweet child. How lovely. I was scared I might have frightened you off with my enthusiasm. And you’ve got a drink already. Wonderful. Come and meet some fellow countrymen.” She took my arm and steered me to an older man, standing alone by the mantelpiece.

  “Another English rose, Lord S,” she said. “Miss Helen Barton. And of course you know Lord Salisbury, Helen.”

  I tried not to let my astonishment show. I was being introduced to the prime minister of England. The strange thing was that he was the one who looked a little out of place. His clothing could have done with a good pressing, and his hair had not been properly brushed. Against the other guests, he looked decidedly shabby. I only had a second to take this in before he gave a friendly nod. “Miss Barton. You are newly arrived on the Riviera?”