Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  The other cooks decided they would like a peek, too, so we piled out of the back door and hurried around to the front of the hotel. As we came around, we heard an imperious voice saying, “No, not like that, you fool. Hold the beast’s head while I assist Her Majesty.”

  It was the queen’s munshi, and Queen Victoria clung on to his arm while she came forward, using her stick. Two of her grandchildren followed her, their mother keeping a watchful eye on them.

  “Surely there is not room for you all,” Princess Beatrice called as the queen was helped into the seat. “And is that poor little donkey strong enough to pull you all in the cart?”

  “Nonsense. They are tiny scraps. They don’t take up any space at all,” the queen said. “Come on, children. Let’s go for a ride, shall we?”

  The two children climbed in eagerly, squeezing in beside their grandmother. And they set off. A groom walked at the donkey’s head, and the munshi at the queen’s side. Mr Angelo turned to us with an amused grin. “What some people will do for entertainment. Still, I suppose if you are empress of half the world, it makes a change to live like a peasant for a moment.”

  He headed back to the kitchen, and I was about to fall in behind him when a voice said, “You, girl.”

  I turned around to see Princess Helena beckoning to me.

  I went up to her and curtsied. “You wanted something, Your Royal Highness?”

  “Yes. I want you to run a small errand for me. You are to take this paper and find a chemist’s shop in the town. Hand the paper to the pharmacist, pay him and bring what he gives you directly to me, do you understand?”

  She thrust a sheet of paper at me.

  I felt myself blushing bright red with confusion. “But Your Highness, I can’t go into town. I have work to do here.”

  “Nonsense. I am sure your work here can wait. I need these items immediately.”

  “But Your Highness, I am one of the cooks. I have to prepare my part of the luncheon, and I have cakes that need to come out of the oven directly.”

  She was looking at me as if I was some strange kind of insect she had never seen before. “You are one of my mother’s cooks, you say?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I nodded. Then I added boldly, “I am currently the pastry chef.”

  “A female chef? How quaint. How novel.” She sighed. “Well, in that case I suppose I cannot tear you away from your endeavours. My mother would not be at all pleased if luncheon were not served on time.”

  I curtsied again for good measure. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness. Cannot your maid fulfil this errand for you? Or a hotel servant?”

  “My maid, I fear, reports back to my mother. But you are right—there must be a hotel messenger boy who can carry out this commission. I’ll go and see.”

  And she strode off across the forecourt. I watched her go, realization dawning. It had been her voice I had heard coming from that window, arguing with the doctor. Now I understood. I had caught a glimpse of what was written on that sheet of paper when she had tried to thrust it at me: 2 bottles Bayer Heroin. 1 Bottle Laudanum. 1 packet needles.

  I had no experience or real knowledge about these things, but I had heard rumours, and my mother, before she died, had taken to using laudanum to the point that my father had become concerned for her. So now I understood the desperation in her voice. The needles were not for sewing—they were for injecting substances into her body. Princess Helena was addicted to drugs. Another fact I knew but could tell nobody.

  I was hurrying in before my cakes burned when I overheard my name—at least, my adopted name. “Barton?” said a man’s voice. “No, I don’t recall anyone of that name in Her Majesty’s employ.” He repeated this in French but with a strong English accent.

  I turned around to see one of Her Majesty’s gentlemen talking to what looked like a messenger boy. I took a deep breath and went over to them.

  “I am Helen Barton,” I said. “I am one of Her Majesty’s cooks.”

  “You are a cook for Her Majesty? Remarkable,” the gentleman said.

  I saw that the messenger was holding a letter. “Is that a letter for me?” I asked in French.

  The messenger boy nodded and handed it to me. “From the Viscount Faversham.”

  I took it, my cheeks burning. “I’m afraid I have no money on me . . . ,” I stammered.

  “My master has paid me well. Do not concern yourself,” he said, gave a little bow and then took off.

  The gentleman was staring at me in a way that made me most uncomfortable.

  “Since when do servant girls receive letters from viscounts?” he asked.

  “We met at Lady Crozier’s party,” I replied. Oh, how I would love to have told him that Giles Waverly was my cousin. “I was invited to be part of the tableau.”

  The gentleman shook his head. “This is not a wise thing, young woman. Liaisons outside of your class can only end in tragedy, especially for the girl involved.”

  “Oh no, sir,” I said. “It is nothing like that. I quite understand. Viscount Faversham promised to show me the beach by his villa. That is all. I have no intention of anything more.”

  “Make sure you stick to that,” he said. “Young aristocrats tend to think that servant girls are easy pickings, if you get my meaning.”

  “Sir Arthur, are you free?” a man called from the hotel steps. “A word if you don’t mind.”

  “I hope you’ll take my warning to heart, young lady.” Sir Arthur gave me a little nod and left me standing there. I watched him go with interest, not because of what he had just told me, but because I recognized his voice. His was the higher-pitched, clipped speech from the balcony that night. And he was Sir Arthur Bigge, the queen’s secretary.

  I waited until I was safely inside the building before I opened the letter.

  Dear Miss Barton,

  I hope you won’t think it impertinent, writing to you, but I did so enjoy our little talk the other evening and would like to see you again. I know you told me you are at Her Majesty’s beck and call, but my time is my own. Any moment you are free I will come with the carriage to sweep you away for an hour or two. I would so like to show you the area around our villa. It is so beautiful.

  Yours sincerely,

  Giles Waverly

  I shouldn’t reply, I told myself. As Sir Arthur had said, no good could come of this. When Giles Waverly found out I was merely a cook, it would be an embarrassment for both of us. But the truth was that I had enjoyed his company. He seemed like a nice, harmless young Englishman. And what could be wrong with a ride in the carriage, in broad daylight? Then a wicked thought came to me. If he tried in any way to get fresh, I would reveal that I was his cousin. Surely that should make him stop and consider.

  I had done so many things that were not wise or sensible lately, and they had all worked out well. Maybe this was another of my father’s occasions to carpe diem. I resolved, if the occasion arose, that I would write back to Giles Waverly and accept his invitation.

  Our next royal encounter came that afternoon. We had finished the luncheon service and were just sorting out the items that had come back uneaten. Of these there were usually plenty, as the queen liked enough choice of items in each of the courses.

  “I see they liked your fried fish, Mr Williams,” Mr Angelo said. “Not a morsel returned.”

  “Too bad. I was hoping for a little of that myself. The fish looked rather tempting,” Mr Williams replied.

  We looked up as the kitchen door opened, and in came Count Wilhelm, the betrothed of Princess Sophie. He swept in, stood looking around him. “You are the English chefs, ja?”

  “We are, Your Highness. Can we help you?” Mr Angelo asked as I dropped a curtsy.

  “I very much hope so,” the count said in his strongly accented English. He strode right up to Mr Angelo. “I am most disappointed in the food that you serve to my royal relatives.”

  “In what way, sir?” Mr Angelo was not easily cowed and stepped forward to confront the cou
nt.

  “Fleisch!” the count said. “There is not enough fleisch.”

  “You mean meat, sir? Lamb cutlets were served at luncheon. And squab.”

  The count waved his hands dismissively. “This is food for old ladies and delicate vomen. I am a man. I must have my fleisch to keep up my strength. Where was the pork schnitzel? Where was the Rindfleisch? The famous English roast beef?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is France. You won’t find English roast beef here.”

  Count Wilhelm frowned. “Are you being disrespectful? Are you mocking me?”

  “Not at all, sir, but what I say is true. I’m afraid the hotel has not been able to find a joint of beef that meets my high standards yet,” Mr Angelo replied. “You have to understand we are at the mercy of what the French butchers can send us. In France, they do not eat big hunks of meat. It is expensive here, so it is not so easily obtained. But I have put out word that they are to have some shipped from England if necessary.”

  “And in the meantime, I starve,” the count said.

  I doubted this. For a young man, he was awfully round. His yellow satin waistcoat only just met across his belly.

  “You must make sure I have enough good meat at every meal,” he said. “If not the roast beef, then liver, kidneys, brains. Fortifying food. Food fit for a healthy man like myself.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Mr Angelo said. I could tell he wasn’t quite sure how to address a German count. Was he a royal or merely an aristocrat?

  “And another thing.” The man wagged a finger in Mr Angelo’s face. “Who is responsible for the nachspeisen? The pudding as you call it.”

  “That would be Miss Barton,” Mr Angelo said.

  Wilhelm turned to me in surprise. “A voman? You let a voman make the dishes?”

  “Miss Barton is an accomplished cook,” Mr Angelo said. I could have hugged him.

  “Very well.” He turned to face me.

  “Was something not to your liking, Your Highness?” I asked.

  “These puddings—the creams and the ices and the delicate little pastries—they are for the vomen. And yesterday you served the mehlbrei, such as we give to children in Germany. Where are the knödel, the dumplings, the English suet puddings? The things that really satisfy.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” I said. “The queen is not too fond of heavy puddings. And mehlbrei is her favourite, especially after travelling. You surely understand that meals are planned to please her. At home, she must approve all menus. I’m sure she will here, too, once she has settled in.”

  “Then make her the mehlbrei, make her the frothy creams, but for the love of God make me a proper pudding.”

  “I will do my best, Your Highness,” I said and gave him another curtsy, which he obviously approved of.

  “Excellent. Carry on. Carry on.” He waved a hand in our direction. Then, on the way out, he stopped. “Vat are these?”

  “Brandy snaps for today’s tea,” I said.

  He picked one up and popped it into his mouth. “Not bad,” he said, his mouth still full. “And this cake? Is the icing chocolate or coffee?” And to my horror, he ran his finger across the top of my cake and spooned up a big dollop of icing. He sucked on his finger. “Ah, chocolate. Good.”

  He looked around once more, and his gaze fell upon Jimmy. “And vat do you cook, young man?”

  “Jimmy is our apprentice,” Mr Angelo replied. “He does all the basic preparations. He is still learning.”

  “Very good. Carry on.” The count nodded, then swept out. The door swung shut behind him.

  “Ruddy cheek,” Mr Angelo said. His face was bright red. “Coming in here like Lord Muck, as if he owns the place.”

  “And look at my cake,” I said. “I’ll have to scrape off all this icing and make a new batch.”

  “Miss Barton, I am so sorry that you have been insulted in this way,” Mr Phelps said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Have you, Mr Angelo? Never in all my years in the kitchen.”

  “I have not. And I don’t think Her Majesty would approve of such behaviour,” Mr Angelo said. “She is always most courteous with her staff. I think I’ll have a little word with Sir Arthur, her private secretary. We’re not having that fat bloke coming in and out of our kitchen when he feels like it!”

  “Can one of us be of any assistance, Miss Barton?” Mr Angelo said. “Jimmy, get down the icing sugar and the chocolate powder for our pastry chef.”

  There was a joint effort to rescue my cake. I was still seething with annoyance, but at the same time I felt a warmth inside. We were a team. We cared about each other.

  CHAPTER 22

  As it happened, my chance to see Giles Waverly came sooner than I had expected. We were informed that the following day Her Majesty was to dine with her cousin, King Leopold of the Belgians, who had a villa just outside Nice. The members of her household would be content with a cold supper, and we could have the afternoon off.

  “I’m glad he’s not coming here, dirty old man,” Mr Angelo muttered after he gave us the news. “We’d have to keep our Miss Barton safely locked away in the kitchen.” He gave us a knowing look. “He has an inclination for young girls, so we understand. You may be a bit old for him, Miss Barton, but you still have that bloom of youth about you.”

  “Didn’t I hear that he has his mistress with him?” Jimmy asked. I don’t know how he managed to find out all these titbits of scandal. Mr Angelo obviously thought the same thing.

  “Where do you find out all this rubbish, Jimmy? I hope you are not mixing with the wrong type of person.”

  “Oh no, Mr Angelo. I was chatting with some of the footmen. They were telling me stories like you wouldn’t believe. They said he has a predilection for little girls. Imagine, an old man like that. Disgusting, that’s what it is. Oh, and another thing . . .” He paused, his smile broadening. “They say he lets his fingernails grow ever so long, so it’s impossible to shake hands with him without getting stabbed. Can you imagine it?”

  “I’m surprised Her Majesty chooses to associate with him, even if he is her cousin,” Mr Williams said in a disapproving voice. “You know how particular she is about correct behaviour and marital fidelity.”

  “Well, I’m just glad Her Majesty is going there and we don’t have to feed him,” Mr Phelps chimed in. “I would like to put a big dose of cascara in his food.”

  “Mr Phelps, I’m shocked at you,” Mr Angelo said. There was a pause, and then they both laughed. “He wouldn’t be able to open the lav door in time with those long fingernails,” he added.

  We all joined in the laughter.

  “Do you think all the royal persons are creepy in some way?” Jimmy asked. “Do you think they behave badly just because they can?”

  “I have to point out that Her Majesty is a perfect example of decorum,” Mr Williams said, giving Jimmy a hard stare. “And her daughters, too, I am sure.”

  I said nothing about Princess Helena. But Jimmy was not about to be silenced. “She had that John Brown fellow for a while, didn’t she? And now that Indian bloke goes everywhere with her. That’s not normal, is it?”

  “There is nothing suspicious about their relationship,” Mr Angelo said. “He is a wily snake who is playing upon her loneliness and desire for attention. And she likes young men around her, and she likes the exotic. Why else would she travel with Highland pipers when she could bring perfectly ordinary soldiers to guard her? But her relationship with them is only that of sovereign to subject, I am sure.”

  “I’ll tell you who else gives me the willies,” Jimmy said. “That Count Willie.”

  “I agree, his behaviour is not acceptable,” Mr Angelo said, “but I don’t know why it should worry you.”

  “I’m not talking about messing with the food,” Jimmy said. “He came out of the dining room after dinner last night, and he asked me to come up and see him in his room, later. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Angelo. I got a whiff of what that might mean, so I said that I
was sorry, but I had to report back to do the washing up.”

  “You were quite right, my boy,” Mr Angelo said. “We servants always have to keep our guard up. We never know where the next impropriety is coming from.” And he looked at me, clearly remembering what I had told him about the Prince of Wales.

  I was still thinking about this when I went upstairs to my room to write a note to Giles Waverly. Sir Arthur Bigge had said that we were easy pickings. Was that how Giles Waverly saw me? What if the carriage stopped at his villa and I was invited inside—would I go? How could I refuse? But if I turned down anything that might be dangerous, what a boring life I would lead. So I took up my pen and wrote that I would be free the following afternoon and would await his carriage at the entrance to the hotel grounds. I certainly didn’t want anyone observing me getting into a carriage with a strange man!

  Then, of course, came the question of what to wear. I certainly could not sit in a carriage in my cotton blouse, or my evening gown. I wondered if my new dress might be ready, or if Claudette’s mother had found the fabric impossible to work with. How would I get a chance to find out? I resorted to a little subterfuge.

  “If we are to serve a cold supper to the household, may I go to the market early tomorrow morning and buy fruit and vegetables to make salads? They are so much fresher there.”

  Mr Angelo raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d met a boy at the market you were sweet on,” he said.

  This made me blush, thinking of my encounter with Chef Lepin. But I said, “Oh no, Cook. Absolutely not. But I have to confess, I do enjoy the atmosphere at the market—the flowers, all the bright colours. And I’ll go without my breakfast so I won’t waste any of your time.”

  “All right then,” he said. He reached into a pocket and produced a coin. “You’re a good girl, and you work hard. Who am I to deny you a little pleasure? Buy yourself a sprig of flowers while you are there.”