by Rhys Bowen
“Claudette, have you seen Miss Barton?” she asked in French.
“Not since I helped her out of the costume,” she replied.
“Drat and bother. I wonder where she can have got to.” Mary turned, looking worried, and then she stared straight at me.
“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. What are you doing?” she asked, looking at me suspiciously. “Are you hiding?”
There was nothing for it but confession. “I was looking for a way to escape, if you want the truth. I saw the Prince of Wales had arrived, and I had a rather disturbing encounter with him once at the palace. He . . . he propositioned me.”
“Oh, I see.” She nodded. “Yes, that is awkward, isn’t it? He’s a naughty old devil. Can’t keep his hands off beautiful women. So I take it you don’t want to meet him again?”
“I’d really prefer not to.”
She took my hand. “Then I’ll show you the way out. Come on.” She led me swiftly along the corridor, through a small door and into a servants’ hallway. “That’s the back door,” she said. “You’ll have to make your way around the house, but it is well lit.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, heaving a sigh of relief.
“We women have to stick together against the depravations of the male sex, don’t we?” She squeezed my hand.
“What will you tell the prince?”
“That I couldn’t find you and you must have gone home, not feeling well.” Then her face fell. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I committed a blunder by telling him you were part of the queen’s household. Let’s hope he doesn’t come searching for you there.”
“I’m told he stays well away from his mother when he’s at his villa as she doesn’t approve of his lifestyle,” I said. “So I hope I can avoid him.”
“If not, just turn him down,” Mary said. “A girl is entitled to say no and to choose her own suitors. Tell him you are engaged to a jealous Russian count who loves fighting duels!”
I had to laugh. “Mary, you are a card. Thank you.”
“I must get back before they come looking for me,” she said. “Off you go, then. We must meet again soon. Come for tea and we’ll chat. I’d love that.”
“That would be very nice,” I said, “but as I said to Viscount Faversham, my time is not my own once the queen arrives.”
“We’ll make it happen. We’re such close neighbours, and I do crave English company.”
She gave me a little kiss on the cheek and almost pushed me out through the door. I made my way through the grounds, listening to music and laughter spilling out through open windows, reached the front gate and arrived back at the hotel without incident.
“Well, Bella,” I said to myself. “All those years at the Tilleys’ house when you dreamed of excitement, romance and a glamorous life. Now you are living it.” It still didn’t seem real.
CHAPTER 18
There was no sign of any of our cooks when I returned to the hotel. I presumed they must all have fallen asleep. I went to my room, undressed and opened my window. Down below me, the city twinkled with a carpet of lights. It was hard to tear myself away from that magical scene. “I’m really here,” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t a dream, tonight had really happened. I lay in bed enjoying the cool scented night breeze wafting in. Images of the evening flashed through my head: Giles Waverly smiling at me. Standing on the stage and hearing the applause. But then the prince saying, “What, you mean no more oranges to squeeze?” I might have been naive, but not so naive that I didn’t get its true meaning. I just prayed he would stay away from his mother during his visit and that I could manage to avoid him. But he had been told I was part of his mother’s household. Would he come searching for me? I just prayed a more suitable candidate for his affections would turn up rapidly.
I woke at first light to the sound of pigeons cooing on the balustrade outside my window. The sun was streaming in, and when I looked out of my window I could see the Mediterranean Sea sparkling as if it was laced with a thousand diamonds. I gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. Then I dressed and went to find breakfast. Mr Angelo and the two other cooks were sitting at a long pinewood table eating breakfast. They did not look very happy.
“So you got home safely, young Helen?” Mr Angelo asked. “I was worried about you. I felt guilty that I had let you go, unescorted.”
“I was home really early. About ten o’clock,” I said. “I left right after my tableau.”
“Good girl,” he said. “I was worried.”
“We’ve all heard what these Frenchmen are like,” Mr Williams said. “When Mr Angelo told us where you’d gone, we didn’t think he should have let you go.”
“I’m really quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr Williams,” I said. “Besides, I was only part of the tableau. I had to get into costume and pose on a stage. That was all.”
“Well, that’s all right then,” he admitted. “Help yourself to breakfast. And a lot of nourishment you’ll get from it, too!” He sniffed derisively.
I looked at the long, thin loaves of bread, a dish of butter, one of jam and jugs of coffee and milk.
“That’s what they eat,” Mr Angelo said. “I tried to make that French johnny understand. Where was breakfast? But this is what he was eating. No eggs. No bacon. No kidneys. Just bread. It’s a wonder they keep their strength up.”
“It’s all that wine they drink,” Mr Phelps said. “They are thoroughly pickled.”
“So what is the plan for today?” I asked, cutting myself a large hunk of bread and helping myself liberally to butter and jam. “What would you like us to do?”
“Miss Barton, I’d like you to organize how we order in our supplies,” Mr Angelo said. “I’ll write you a list for grocer, greengrocer, butcher and fishmonger, and you can translate it and find out what purveyors the French chefs use in their part of the kitchen. Then you can take the lists down to the shops and arrange for delivery. Tell them the hotel will be paying the bills.”
“Very good, sir,” I said.
I finished my breakfast, actually enjoying the unfamiliar taste of coffee made with hot milk, then took the lists that Mr Angelo had made. I went to find Chef Lepin in the kitchen. He was not there, but the one he had called Henri was busy at work making a pastry dish.
“What is that?” I asked because he was stuffing puff pastry with a rich brown mixture.
“It is called tourte de blettes,” he said. “A specialty of our region.”
“What are blettes?” The word was unfamiliar to me.
“It is a green vegetable, like cabbage, only with long green curly leaves,” he explained, then he held a stalk up for me.
“Is that Swiss chard?” I exclaimed. “Then it is a savoury tart?”
“No, mademoiselle, it is for the dessert.”
“But chard? That must taste bitter.”
“Not at all. It is made with raisins and pine nuts and brown sugar, and when it is finished, I will save a small taste for you. You will see, it tastes not at all bitter. Quite delicious, in fact.”
I asked him then about ordering supplies. He told me to present my lists to the hotel manager, and everything would be delivered. But then he added that Chef Lepin liked to choose his own meats and fish and vegetables. He was very particular about the quality.
“Do you know where he shops for these supplies?”
He looked amused. “In the market, mademoiselle. Where else is everything brought in fresh that morning?”
“The market in the town?”
“Bien sûr. In the old part of town near the waterfront. Take the tram down the hill and then turn to your left. But you should go early, or the best items are gone.”
I thanked him and reported this back to Mr Angelo. He told me to go and investigate what sort of things could be found in the market. Meanwhile, he would make out a list of supplies for the hotel to order. He said we had been told that we could use any basic items from the kitchen, so we would not need to be concerned about
staples.
“So go and take a look at that market,” he said. “But don’t buy anything. I’m not too sure about quality. And we don’t want it to go bad before Her Majesty gets here.”
“I won’t, sir,” I said. “Unless I find something we’d like to experiment with first.”
“Good idea,” he said and handed me some francs. “But don’t pay too much for anything. They’ll try to cheat you because you’re a foreigner.”
“Oh, surely not?”
“They are cut-throats and brigands here—everyone says so. And watch your purse.”
I was smiling to myself as I set off. My father had travelled the world and had raised us with none of these prejudices. I was eager to experience life in another country for the first time, not just in the rarefied atmosphere of the hotel but down in the town where the real people lived.
I went upstairs to get my shawl, excited about this chance to explore Nice alone and about the new level of responsibility accorded to me. In the top drawer, I saw the scrap of paper with Claudette’s mother’s address on it. Claudette had said she lived in the old part of the city—maybe I’d have a chance to find some fabric and take it to her, since Mr Angelo could have no idea how long it would take me to make the journey to the market and back. I took my purse and set off with great expectations.
The air was quite chilly at this hour, chillier than I had expected. I had to remind myself that even in this southern clime it was only February. I wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders as I made for the trolley stop. I waited, but after there was no sign of any trolley for a long while, I started to walk. The city was still waking up. Milk wagons were delivering to doorsteps, gardeners were raking paths, women were hanging out washing, children were walking to school with satchels on their backs. From a bakery came the delicious smell of bread baking. The sound of a bell tolling floated towards me, and then I came to a church to see people filing in for Mass. They were mostly women, dressed in black and wearing black headscarves tied under their chins. The bell echoed in the clear air above our heads, sounding so different from English churches where bells are rung in peels.
I followed the tram tracks until I came to a broad open area at the seafront. To my right was an impressive square, lined with pink buildings. Then came gardens with lawns and palm trees. At the water’s edge, a long promenade stretched away as far as the eye could see, lined with more fine palm trees. A pavilion of some sort with an oriental dome jutted on a pier out over the water. Couples who could only be English by the look of them were taking their morning constitutional walk. It was all so civilized. I stopped at a booth selling tobacco and newspapers and bought some bright postcards. In truth I had been feeling guilty that I had dashed off that letter to Louisa in such a brusque manner. She must have worried when I said that I was going abroad, with no further explanation.
Then I did as Henri told me and headed off to the left where a hill, crowned with a fortress, rose up at the water’s edge. At one point a small river entered the sea, its banks lined with washerwomen, making such an interesting contrast to the opulence of that sparkling pavilion with its glass dome.
Here was a different Nice of narrow alleyways, cooking smells laced with garlic, laundry hanging out of windows, donkeys piled high with sacks, and the not-too-savoury smell of drains. I had to be rather careful where I put my feet, as it was not very clean underfoot. I found myself glancing about as I negotiated narrow alleys. But eventually I found the market.
At this early hour, it was bustling with activity: women in brightly striped skirts and black fringed shawls haggled with stall-keepers and chatted loudly with neighbours in shrill voices. Dogs slunk around and barked at cats. The noise level was intense as the sound echoed from tall yellow painted houses with their green shutters. And at the fringes of the crowd lurked gypsy children and scruffy young men. I remembered Mr Angelo’s warning and clutched my purse firmly in front of me, hidden under my shawl as I entered the fray.
The fruit and vegetable stalls were a dazzling mass of colour: oranges and tomatoes that we rarely saw in England. Bright lemons and purple onions. Spiky artichokes I had only just learned about at the palace; giant cloves of garlic—wouldn’t the queen be horrified to see those? And shiny purple vegetables shaped like fat, bulging cucumbers.
“What are they?” I asked the woman at the stall.
She looked at me as if I was a visitor from the moon. “Aubergine, mademoiselle. You have not tried them? They are very good. We make the ratatouille.”
“And those?” I pointed to round red and yellow vegetables that looked so shiny they seemed to be made of wax.
“The peppers?” she asked in amazement. “You do not eat peppers where you come from?”
“I’ve never seen them before,” I said.
“Then try,” she urged. “And the aubergine, too. They are delicious stuffed.”
She shook her head as if I was a creature to be pitied. I bought one of each, and one of the purple onions at her insistence, and went on to the next stall. This one had an array of olives. Olives were a rare luxury in England. I had never tried them personally, but here was a whole stall with olives of varying colours and sizes—fat green ones, slim black ones, some stuffed with something red, others with a white cheese, some in olive oil, some not. I told the stall-keeper that these were unfamiliar to me and could he make me up a small sampling of the various offerings. He was a rotund old man wearing a dirty striped apron, and he laughed at my request, but then gave me a more generous portion than I deserved. When I went to pay, he waved away my coin. “No need, mademoiselle. If you like them, you will be back.”
I moved on to stalls selling herbs—big baskets of lavender, rosemary, parsley and other plants I couldn’t identify. And then I came to the flower stalls, lingering by bunches of daffodils, freesias, jonquils and many others I didn’t recognize, breathing in the heady scents. There were branches of the fluffy yellow flowers that smelled heavenly. I resisted temptation and made my way to the meat stalls. I realized here I was out of my element. Hearts and lungs and livers I knew. Tripe I hated. But what were those little round nuggets? Were those sweetbreads? And was that brain? And cockscombs? And what were the tiny birds? I decided that Mr Angelo would have to make his own meat selections or have the hotel procure them for him.
Closer to the waterfront, I came to the fish market. My nose led me to rows of stalls there. I realized that here, too, I was a complete novice. I knew what herring looked like, and whitebait. I knew a hunk of cod when it was put in front of me, and shrimp and lobster. But what were those fish with wings, and heavens—was that an octopus? I had only seen a picture of one before. It looked terrifying and disgusting—its tentacles draped across the slab. How could anybody . . .
“Bonjour, Monsieur Jontue,” said a voice behind me. “I see you have a fine octopus for me today.”
“Saved it especially for you, Monsieur Lepin,” the stall-keeper replied.
I spun around to see Chef Lepin standing there, his basket already full. He looked at me in surprise. “Mademoiselle. You are up bright and early. I thought the English were late risers.”
“Not the servants,” I replied. “When I was a housemaid, I had to light the fires at five. This hour is a luxury for me.”
“You also buy your food at the market?” he asked.
“I came to see for myself,” I said. “In England the food is delivered to the palace.”
“Then how does your chef choose the best cuts of meat, the freshest fish?” he asked in horror.
“I suppose he trusts those businesses that have supplied the royal household for generations,” I replied.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said in patronizing tones. “In England there is not much selection to be made. Always the mutton or the roast beef, and the boiled potatoes and the dreary cabbage, eh? Me, I would not bother to be a chef if all I had to do was to put a roast into the oven.”
“May I ask why you are so hostile to all things
English?” I demanded, feeling that I should stop but no longer able to. “I understand that we have invaded your kitchen, and that must be upsetting to you. I assure you that we have no control over that; neither have you. But this criticism and mocking of English food. What experience do you have of this? Have you ever been to England?”
He was a little taken aback at my belligerence. “I have not, mademoiselle. I have never left the South of France, I regret to say. I have not even been to Paris.” He paused then, his swagger returning, and added, “But I can only repeat what one hears and see how the English who come to stay here behave. They demand the mutton and beef, and they want us to cook their vegetables until all the life goes out of them, so I assume all English like to eat this way.”
“You will be surprised, Monsieur Le Chef,” I said. “Her Majesty’s food is most complicated. Sometimes a dish will take three cooks all day to prepare. It has to look exciting as well as taste good.”
“Do you think her food tastes good?” he asked.
I thought about this for a moment. I had not had a chance to taste much of what went up to the royal dining room, but I found myself saying, “Between ourselves, I think they use too many rich sauces. One never gets the true flavour of the meat or vegetable. Her Majesty’s favourite accompaniment to roast beef is a horseradish cream sauce that is so hot the meat must taste like paper. Most of the vegetables the queen eats are made into purees. And her meat is often turned into ragouts and terrines. Some dishes mix too many flavours. The queen loves butter and cream with everything. So bad for her.” And I grinned.
He nodded as if he understood. “So you have a palate that appreciates the taste of good ingredients?”
“I do.”
“And how did you develop this?”
“I must have inherited it from my father, who had lived well and appreciated fine food. I was apprenticed to a good cook who produced simple English fare—pork chops, roast lamb, roast pheasant, chicken, sole, lobster. There was a sauce to accompany them, but it never overwhelmed the flavour of the meat or fish.”
