Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “Today, sir,” I replied.

  “And you have the stamina for a party after that dreadful journey? My, my. I admire the verve of the young. When I came to my villa, the first thing I wanted to do was take a nap. Did you get a chance to sleep well on the train? I find that even with the best of first-class compartments it sways around so much that rest is impossible.”

  “I confess that I did not get much sleep,” I replied.

  “And the crossing? You came by the short route through Boulogne, did you?”

  “I did. And the weather was awful. But I think I must be a good sailor because I endured it better than most.”

  “That’s the spirit. We English have hearts of oak, don’t we? Born to be seafarers.”

  “Some of the gentlemen in my party would not agree with you on that sentiment, sir,” I said. “They looked very ill indeed.”

  He threw back his head and laughed at this. “Delightful child,” he said. “Are you staying with the Marquis de Crozier?”

  “No, Lord S, she’s with the queen’s party,” Mary interrupted. “Sent ahead as an outrunner and scout.”

  “So when does the queen arrive?” Several other guests had joined our group.

  “Not for three more days,” I replied.

  “And have you determined that the new monstrosity will fit her needs?” a younger man asked.

  “You mean the hotel? I think she will find it most agreeable,” I said.

  “She should,” Lord Salisbury said. “It was designed expressly for her. Cost a fortune, so I’m told. Let’s hope they can let out their rooms when she’s not present or if she decides not to come to Nice again.”

  “She is elderly, isn’t she?” the young man said. “At her age, one never knows.”

  “It’s my belief she’ll live forever.” A large older woman, resplendent in purple and dripping in diamonds, gave a deep chuckle. “She doesn’t want Bertie to take the throne.”

  “Well, would you?” the first man said, and there was laughter.

  “Careful what you say, chaps,” the young man said. “This young lady is probably her niece, and this conversation will be reported back, and we’ll all wind up in the Tower.”

  “I say, you’re not related to her, are you?” the large lady asked, peering at me through her lorgnette. “We’re not supposed to be calling you ma’am?”

  “Oh goodness, no,” I said. “I am just a member of her household.”

  Mary Crozier put a hand on my shoulder. “I must spirit Helen away now. She has a little task to perform for me.”

  I was grateful to make my escape. “Do you want me to put on my costume now?” I asked.

  “Oh no. Not until much later. Half the guests haven’t arrived yet. But I did want to make sure you got something to eat before I need you. Come through here and help yourself. I know it’s a trifle early for dinner, but we will be preparing our surprise while they eat.”

  She pushed open double doors trimmed with gilt. And there before me was the biggest table I had ever seen. Silver and glass sparkled in the light of a dozen candelabras. And on that table was the most impressive assortment of food: salmon mousse in the shape of a salmon; cold chickens; quail; a huge platter of oysters, shrimp and lobster claws; all kinds of salads; fruits and cheese. It was all so beautifully arranged that I hardly dared to touch it. At one end was a huge bowl of peaches. “Peaches, at this time of year?” I blurted out.

  “From our greenhouse. Forced, of course. But Francois does enjoy his fruit.” Mary thrust a plate into my hands. “Go on. Don’t be shy.”

  I had had nothing to eat since our luncheon, and an omelette, while delicious, is not exactly filling. When I had enquired about meals for the cooks at the hotel, I was told that we were welcome to eat with our French chefs until we had our own kitchen set up and operating, but they didn’t eat until after the guests had been served, usually around ten. Mary put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Although I was really hungry, I did not like to disturb the more beautiful creations and helped myself to a little salad, with lobster claw and shrimp, plus a slice of cold chicken. Then temptation overcame me, and I took one of those peaches.

  “I say, jolly fine spread, don’t you think?” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to the speaker. He was young, probably not much older than I, slim, with reddish-blonde hair and very English looking. He wore his hair quite long, and he had a frilly jabot at his neck, so the impression was of a romantic poet.

  “It’s magnificent,” I replied.

  “Oh, thank God, you speak English,” he said and gave me an embarrassed grin. “My French is atrocious. My tutor despaired of me. I tried to persuade the pater to send me to Paris for a few months to work on my pronunciation, but I think he suspected I’d spend my time in less honourable pursuits.”

  “You’d be practicing your French, even at the least honourable places,” I replied, and he burst out laughing.

  “So I would, by George. What a splendid girl you are. How come I haven’t seen you before? Are you newly arrived?”

  “Yes, very newly. I arrived today.”

  “Are you staying with your parents or friends?”

  “Neither. I am part of the queen’s entourage, sent ahead to make sure everything is as she wants it.”

  “Gosh. What an awful responsibility. Is she as big of an old tartar as they say?”

  “She’s very particular in what she likes and doesn’t like,” I could say with truth.

  “Rather you than me.” He made a face.

  “And who are you staying with?” I asked.

  “I’m at a villa in Villefranche-sur-Mer, just around the Corniche from Nice. Much nicer and with a proper beach that isn’t all stones. My father had a bad touch of gout and decided we needed warmer climes. But I say, I should have introduced myself. I’m awfully bad at protocol. I’m Giles Waverly.”

  I took in a little breath. I was speaking with my cousin. I seemed to remember I had heard my father mention a Giles. At least he was not a close cousin. My father was an only son, so that must mean that our grandfathers were brothers. That made him a second cousin, didn’t it? I could never get those things right. While I was doing this rapid calculation, he said, “And your name, unless you are travelling incognito for the queen?”

  Wouldn’t it have been lovely to tell him that I was Isabella Waverly, his cousin? I hesitated, weighing this. An image flashed into my head of being welcomed back into the bosom of the family, regaining my rightful place in the world, moving freely amongst those people at this party. But I remembered that my father had been denied assistance when he needed it. There had been some kind of awful rift, and I’d be risking my position with the queen if the truth came out. It was a risk I couldn’t take. I took a deep breath. “How do you do, Mr Waverly? I’m Helen Barton.”

  “Helen.” He shook his head. “That’s too severe a name for a charming person like yourself. Do you have a pet name that you are called at home? I shall call you by it unless it’s too, too silly, like Dodie or Bunnykins or something.”

  “Actually, I was called Bella at home,” I said. “My parents are now both dead.”

  “Bella. That’s splendid and quite appropriate. Bella it shall be. But I’m keeping you from your food. Please do sit and enjoy it.” He indicated the chairs around the wall. I sank on to one of them.

  “I might as well join you before the mob gets here,” he said. He had just picked up a plate when Mary poked her head around the door. “Viscount Faversham, what are you doing, sneaking in to dinner early? This young lady has to eat now because I require her services later, but you, dear boy, will just have to wait until supper is announced after the performance.”

  “Oh, I say, Lady Crozier, you are a spoilsport. Here am I, dying of starvation, and just when I was getting to know this lovely girl.”

  “This lovely girl needs peace and quiet to eat.” Mary took his arm. She gave me a little smile. “Don�
��t believe anything this one tells you,” she said.

  Giles Waverly gave me a hopeful smile. “I shall see you later, shall I not?”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but once the queen arrives, I shall be at her beck and call, with not much free time.”

  “We’ll jolly well make time,” he said.

  “Out,” Mary said. “The poor girl needs to eat before our little surprise.”

  And she ushered him out. I could hardly swallow a morsel. Viscount Faversham. Not only my cousin, but a viscount. Of course, I thought. My grandfather’s brother had inherited the earldom. I’d heard all about the Earl of Altringham and the estate at Kingsbury with its herd of deer. My grandfather had been sent out to the colonies, as always seems to happen to younger sons. My father had been born in India, spent his childhood in England where he attended Eton and Oxford as was proper for a young man, then sent back to India after his education with a commission in the Bengal Lancers. What a strange world we live in. An accident of birth order making the difference between plenty and pauper!

  Anyway, I found I was excited to have met him, rather stunned that I was at a party and the son of an earl was actually interested in me. I wondered if I would have a chance to see him again after our tableau. Then I had to remind myself sternly that I was Helen Barton, under-cook. I did not move in the same social circles as a viscount. And I did not possess the wardrobe to move in those circles even if I could escape my duties from time to time.

  “Do not get ideas above your station” was something all young girls were told. But it didn’t hurt to dream, did it?

  CHAPTER 17

  As soon as I had finished eating, Mary whisked me up to a bedroom where a maid was waiting to help me into a costume. “Formidable,” the maid exclaimed when she saw me. “Her hair, it is perfect. Where did you find her? Monsieur le Marquis will be so happy to have his Nell Gwynne.”

  “In the hotel gardens,” Mary said. “I still can’t believe my luck at bumping into her. Here, Helen, try on your dress.”

  As the maid removed my dress, she made tut-tutting noises. “Mademoiselle does not wear a corset.”

  “She’s a young girl. She doesn’t need one yet,” Mary said. “Look at her neat little waist!”

  “One must train the body early before the waist starts to spread.” She helped me to step into the dress, lacing the front rather too tightly, I felt. As I saw myself in the mirror, the result was truly amazing, a brilliant peacock-blue fabric with big puffed sleeves and yards and yards of skirts. What’s more, it fitted me as if it had been made for me. As I examined it more critically, I realized that it was quite revealing at the front.

  “Should it not have another hook or button here?” I tried to indicate where it plunged between my breasts.

  “Of course not,” Mary said. “You’re Nell Gwynne. You are selling your wares in Covent Garden, or was it the Strand?”

  My dresser was nodding with approval. “That is good. She has nice firm, round breasts. See how the costume highlights them. The men will not be able to take their eyes off her.”

  This made me feel a little uneasy. I had never attended a party like this. I knew that the Prince of Wales and various aristocrats were roués. Had I been lured here for more than a tableau, at a safe distance from the audience? Was I fair game the moment the show was over?

  Surely not, I told myself. Mary Crozier seems like such a kind person, she surely would never let . . .

  “There, mademoiselle,” the French maid said. “Now on to the makeup and the hair, and the transformation will be complete. Sit yourself here before the mirror.”

  I sat at a sumptuous dressing table on a burgundy velvet stool. A cloth was placed over my dress to protect it, and the maid started on my hair. She wound and pinned until she had it piled high on the head, with a couple of tantalizing curls escaping down my cheeks and into my cleavage. She started applying face cream. “You have good skin,” she commented as she massaged the cream into my face and neck. “You have not done much damage by exposing it too much to the sun.”

  I laughed. “It’s hard to find too much sun in London.”

  “The English, they do not understand,” she went on as she applied rouge to my cheeks. “They come here, and they stroll on the Promenade des Anglais with no parasol. They look sunburned like peasants.”

  My cheeks looked unnaturally red, and when she applied kohl to my eyelids and a crimson gash of lipstick, I had to say something. “Is this not a little too bright?”

  “Of course not,” Mary replied. “You will be on stage, with bright lights. And you are a courtesan, after all.”

  I was now feeling more and more uneasy and regretted coming to a party unchaperoned. If some lord wanted to take me into a back room, who might come to my defence? Then I told myself that Giles Waverly would. I did have an ally here. Mary led me through corridors that were clearly the servants’ domain, and we came out into a dimly lit ballroom. Lines of chairs had been placed around a dais with a red velvet curtain hanging in front of it. Several other people were standing around talking. They were dressed for the period, with long wigs and wide skirts.

  “Here we are, my love,” Mary called as we came closer. “You see, I have found you your Nell. Is she not perfect?”

  A tall, dark man turned to us. Charles II with long curls over his shoulders and a brocade frock coat.

  “Bonsoir, Nell.” He took my hand and kissed it. “She is perfect. You are a genius, chérie.”

  “Just remember that it is only acting, Francois,” Mary said, giving his hand a little slap. “Do not let yourself be carried away with any fantasies.”

  “As if I could when I have you.” He paused, then added, “Watching me like a hawk.”

  And she laughed. They clearly had a good marriage that had been a love match.

  We were led around to the stage. I gasped when I saw what lengths Mary had gone to in creating the scene. A proper theatre set had been built, to represent the streets of Old London. On one side was a barrow full of fruit for sale. It felt terribly authentic. We were put in our places, the design apparently having been taken from a painting. I was given a basket of oranges to hold on one arm, and I had to stand holding out an orange to King Charles while his entourage watched. We took our appointed spots. “I’ll give you the cue when the audience is in place,” Mary said.

  King Charles winked at me, but it was an assuring wink. “Just do not scratch your nose or sneeze,” he whispered. “We must be like statues.”

  We heard the scrape of chairs as the partygoers came into the ballroom, animated conversations in French and English. Then we were given the signal. I held up my orange and planted my feet firmly. The curtain was drawn back. Bright lights shone on us, making me blink. There was a round of genuine applause from the audience. I wished the marquis had not said anything about having to scratch my nose because it had now begun to itch. I forced myself to stay still, my arm unmoving as I held out the orange. I could hear ribald comments coming from the audience and pretended not to have heard them. The moment seemed to go on and on. How long can I hold up my arm? I wondered. Finally, Mary came on stage and asked the audience to thank us all for our magnificent performance.

  “Is this not the best tableau we have seen this year?” she asked.

  The lights went out. The curtain fell. I was escorted back to the dressing room, where Mary’s maid removed my makeup, took down my hair and helped me back into my own dress. “You should choose another fabric next time,” she said. “Velvet is not suitable now that it’s almost spring.”

  “I’m afraid this is the only evening dress I brought with me,” I confessed. I remembered my guinea, and, if necessary, my pay packet out of which I had no expenses. “Do you know of a good dressmaker, not expensive?”

  “My mother. She is the best. I will give you her address. She lives in the old town. Find some fabric you like, and take it to her. Tell her that I sent you, and she will give you a good price.”

 
I didn’t like to ask if my meagre savings would be anything like enough to pay a good dressmaker, minus the cost of fabric, of course. I nodded instead. “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  I came out of the dressing room. There was no sign of Mary. I wondered whether I should rejoin the party or take this opportunity to slip away. I was tempted to see Giles Waverly one more time, and maybe have another glass of champagne. It had not chimed midnight; Cinderella was not yet ready to leave the ball and find herself back in the kitchen. As I emerged into the brightness of a large salon, I spotted Mary and Francois, still in his Charles costume, chatting with a portly man with his back to me.

  “I’m so sorry you were too late, sir,” Mary said in English. “If we’d known you were coming, naturally we would have waited.”

  “Small problem with the yacht,” said the voice. “Delayed me. Most annoying, still it’s all fixed now, and I’ll move into my villa tomorrow. But I wish I’d had a chance to see you as my ancestor, dear boy. Actually, not my ancestor, but my forebear, right? I don’t believe we Germans have Stuart blood. We are certainly not known for being parsimonious like the Scots.” And he laughed heartily.

  I ducked back rapidly behind a large potted plant. The Prince of Wales had come to the party.

  “So I hear that Nell Gwynne was a luscious little wench,” the prince said. “Anyone I know?”

  “You may do. She’s part of your mother’s household,” Mary said. “Let me go and find her and present her to you, although I’m afraid she is no longer wearing her costume.”

  “What, you mean no more oranges to squeeze?” He laughed again.

  I looked around frantically for a way to escape. I retreated the way I had come. Through the open door, I spotted Mary’s maid tidying up. Perhaps I could ask her how I could find the servants’ entrance and escape that way? At that moment, I heard Mary’s voice, coming around the corner. I had no time to think. I ducked behind a Roman statue in a niche. Mary came towards me.