Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “Thank you, Cook.” I beamed at him.

  I rose extra early the next morning. To my annoyance, it was cold and a fine drizzle was falling. That might spoil my plans for a carriage ride. I presumed it would be an open carriage as they mostly seemed to be around here. But undaunted I grabbed a cup of coffee, put on my cape and off I went down to the town. I had learned by now not to count on the trolley, so I walked, encountering various tradespeople on their way to work. But even at that hour, when the sun would have been visible had it not been for the heavy clouds that hung over the ring of hills around the city, the market was in full swing. I did my shopping first, selecting various vegetables and grapefruit, apples and oranges for a fruit salad. I was about to make my way to Claudette’s mother when I saw Chef Lepin. He was standing at a stall that seemed to be laden with objects I didn’t recognize: dirty brown earthy globes and what looked like bits of dung. I couldn’t think what they were or what he might do with them. Curiosity got the better of me.

  “Excuse me, Chef,” I said.

  He turned, and I was gratified to see that he looked pleased. “Alors, the young lady is up bright and early. My compliments. You are buying fish again?”

  “No, today it’s items for salads. The queen is out tonight, and her household will have a cold supper.”

  “Ah.” He nodded.

  “May I ask what these things are?”

  “Different types of mushrooms. You do not have mushrooms in your country?”

  “We do, but just the round, flat variety. Nothing like these.” I pointed at some bright-orange little bells that looked lethal to me. “Are they all edible?”

  “I would not be serving them to the guests if they weren’t,” he said. “These chanterelles, they have exquisite taste. These are straw mushrooms.” He pointed to a cluster of thin white stalks. “These we call cèpe. These big ones are trumpet royale. And these, morels—although you must never pick these for yourself. The false morels look very similar and can be fatal. Try the chanterelles. You must cook some for your queen. She will approve.”

  “But that thing you were going to buy. How does one cook that?” It looked like a dirty ball of earth.

  He rolled his eyes. “That, chérie, is worth more per gram than gold. It is a truffle. You do not have truffles?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me instruct you. The truffle is a fungus that grows on the roots of certain oak trees. Under the soil, you understand. They can only be located by specially trained dogs, oh, and by pigs if they can get at them. They have a deliciously different flavour. We make the truffle oil for cooking, or we use a small amount to raise the quality of the dish. I will give you a taste tonight, and you will see. Only a tiny taste, you understand. More expensive than gold, eh?”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I have to take some of the orange ones—chanterelles, did you call them?—and try them at luncheon.”

  Chef Lepin handed a piece of truffle to the stall-keeper, who weighed it and mentioned a ridiculous price. He waited while I chose the more modest chanterelles.

  “So do you head back to the hotel now? If you wait a while, we will walk together.”

  “I have another commission in the town,” I said. “I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “No you don’t,” I wanted to say. “I really do have another commission.” I could tell he had taken it as a brush-off. Oh, why did men have to be so complicated?

  “Mademoiselle,” he said as an afterthought. “It is well that you buy your mushrooms here, from this stall. Here I know they are picked with care and are safe. Other mushroom sellers are not so careful, and one bad mushroom can kill you very quickly.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Chef,” I said. “I will watch how you cook tonight.”

  “Very well.” He nodded, gave me a little bow and walked in the opposite direction.

  I made my way to the house that clung to the edge of the castle hill. I knew it was still rather early to make a call, but Claudette’s mother came out of her front door, just as I was approaching, paused and smiled when she saw me.

  “Oh, it is the young English lady. I was wondering when you would return for your dress.”

  “It is finished?” I asked.

  “I may have to make some minor adjustments,” she said, “but I don’t think so. I have been doing this for long enough that my measurements are usually correct—unless you have been eating too much for the past few days.”

  “Oh no, madame.” I laughed.

  “Then come inside.” She held open the door for me.

  “Were you not on your way somewhere?” I asked. “I don’t want to hinder you.”

  “It can wait. Just to buy bread. Come.” She ushered me into the dark little room.

  “There,” she said. “What do you think?”

  On a dressmaker’s dummy was a dress. A really pretty dress. “But that is not mine,” I said wistfully.

  “It is. Try it on.”

  “But no—my fabric was plain blue green.”

  “Your fabric was not strong enough for a whole dress,” she said. “See I have used it in the skirt panels and the sleeves.”

  I picked up the skirt. The other fabric had a sheen to it and was sprigged with a flower design in a royal blue and gold. “But the rest of the fabric? It is lovely.”

  “It is. It was a marquise who brought it to me. She has good taste.”

  “I can’t use another woman’s fabric,” I stammered.

  She grinned, revealing that mouth with many missing teeth. “These rich people, they bring me metres and metres of fabric. There is always much left. They don’t care. I say to them, ‘What do you wish that I do with the remaining fabric?’ and they say, ‘Whatever you like. I am happy with my dress. I don’t need the rest.’”

  While she spoke, she was removing the dress from the dummy. Then she helped me off with my blouse and skirt and slipped the dress over my head. It fitted perfectly, so slim in the waist it did look as if I was wearing a corset. The neckline was prim and demure, as befitted someone in my position. I turned around, examining myself in the speckled old mirror.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. She was grinning as if she had performed a magic trick for me.

  “It is worth the effort to make a dress for a pretty young girl like you. And you will tell your friends that Francine DuBois makes good clothes, non?”

  “I will,” I said, regretting that I didn’t have any friends to tell. Once I took it off, she packed up the dress in tissue paper, and I paid her what seemed quite a modest sum. A quick calculation made me realize that I should spend some of my wages on more clothes while I had such a talented dressmaker at my disposal.

  “I would like you to make more clothes for me,” I said. “What do you suggest, and where should I buy the fabric so that it is of better quality? I know nothing.”

  She patted my hand. “Let me see what I can do. Come back in about a week, and I should have something for you to try on.”

  I couldn’t thank her enough, and I think I floated all the way back up the hill.

  By midday, the clouds had rolled away and the sun was peeking through. Mr Angelo was apparently familiar with chanterelles and had prepared them on previous occasions on the Continent. He cooked them in butter to be served as a side dish at luncheon and heard back from the queen that she was so delighted he had found the little orange mushrooms again.

  “You’ve got a good eye, my girl,” he said.

  “And Chef Lepin is going to show me how to use truffles tonight,” I said.

  “That French johnny seems to be getting rather familiar with you,” he said. “I’d watch out if I were you.”

  “Cook, he’s just pleased that I take an interest in his cooking.”

  “Oh, is that what he tells you?” He paused, then added, “He’s a handsome man. He’s foreign. And you’ve been sheltered all your life. Just keep it to the cooking, all right?”
<
br />   “Of course,” I said.

  My world seemed to be full of men with good intentions about my virtue.

  CHAPTER 23

  As soon as luncheon was over, I rushed up to my room, washed myself carefully to get rid of possible cooking smells, splashed on a little rose water and put on my new dress. Thank heavens Madame DuBois had made it to fasten at the front. She must have guessed I had no maid to do up hooks at the back. I brushed my hair and carefully pinned it up. I was going to take my shawl, but I decided that it looked old and worn and I’d rather freeze if necessary. I came down the stairs, crept around the other side of the building, where ordinary guests were housed (or, rather, non-royal guests, as the prices here were too steep for ordinary people), then made my way successfully through the gardens and out to the front gate.

  I hadn’t been waiting long before a smart carriage came up the hill towards me. It was open, as were most of the vehicles I had seen here, a light gig pulled by a handsome bay horse. Giles was holding the reins himself, and his red-blonde hair was blowing out in the breeze. He actually looked rather dashing. He pulled the horse to a halt beside me and jumped down.

  “Well, this is a treat,” he said. “Hello, Bella. It was so good of you to agree to come out for a spin with me. Don’t you look terribly nice?” And he helped me up on to the padded leather seat. “It turned out to be a lovely day for a spin. I was quite depressed this morning when I saw the weather, but it has cleared up beautifully.”

  He was doing what we English do when we’re a little awkward and tongue-tied. We talk of the weather.

  “It promises to be a lovely afternoon,” I agreed.

  “Yes, it does!” he said with enthusiasm, and I realized he wasn’t talking about the weather.

  We made our way slowly down the steepest part of the hill, then skirted around the back of the old town, coming out to the little port where fishing boats bobbed at moorings and fishermen sat mending nets. On the other side, the road started to climb again, this time hugging a cliff beside the sea. Below us was a spectacular drop to blue water, and to our left the hillside rose steeply, now dotted with occasional villas and gardens. We came around a corner, and I gasped. Giles grinned as if he had put on this view especially for me. Below us was a narrow bay. This time the boats at mooring were large pleasure yachts. Green hills dropped sharply on all sides, dotted here and there with occasional pastel villas, surrounded by lines of dark cypress trees or tall palms. A little town clung to the hillside with a busy port below us.

  We had exchanged a few pleasantries along the way: how I was enjoying Nice so far, whether I had attended any other parties, what I thought of French food. Mostly Giles had pointed out places of interest. He did so now.

  “That’s the town of Villefranche-sur-Mer,” Giles said. “It’s a free port. It helped the French king once against pirates or Italians or something, and now they don’t have to pay any taxes.”

  “How convenient,” I said, making him laugh.

  “I must say the idea appeals to my father, and to me, too. The death duties on our estate are going to be crippling when he goes. I only hope that I can afford to keep it on.” He gave a little shrug. “Like most men in my position, I’m not much use for anything else.”

  I thought of my father, being sent out to the army in India—a profession to which he was completely unsuited—and then being at the beck and call of guests at the Savoy. He must have suffered, knowing that had birth order been different, he would have been living a life of leisure, just the way I had suffered on finding myself as a servant to a nouveau riche family. How I would have liked to tell Giles the truth. How interested he would have been to know. But I couldn’t risk it. He’d only have to let slip one word at the wrong time to the wrong person, and it would get back to the Excelsior Regina and I would be dismissed.

  Instead I chatted on pleasantly as we skirted the side of the bay. “That road takes us out to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat,” he said. “Lots of lovely villas out there. Lots of money. Rothschilds and the like. And that old devil King Leopold has bought up all the property he could get his hands on. I suppose you’ve met him?”

  “I haven’t,” I said, “but the queen is dining with him this evening.”

  “They say he’s quite repulsive,” Giles said, “and with depraved habits. So it’s lucky you’ve managed to avoid him so far. But I presume you’ve met the Prince of Wales?”

  “Oh yes,” I said with more emphasis than I meant. “I have met the Prince of Wales.”

  “I feel sorry for the chap myself,” Giles went on. “I mean, stuck waiting for his mother to die, having no real role in life. But actually I suppose I identify with him. I have no real role either. My father won’t let me take over any of the running of the estate. He thinks I’m going to drag it to ruin when he dies. I’m afraid he doesn’t think too much of me. I’m somewhat of a disappointment.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I prefer art to hunting, and I hated boarding school, not being very good at rugger. He thinks I’m a weakling. I’m not. I’m just not like him, that’s all. He comes from a long line of bullies. In fact, it is required of the oldest son to be a bully.”

  “But you’re the oldest son?”

  “Only son. Only heir, and I promise I will never be a bully, not even to my dog. Especially not to my dog.”

  His eyes met mine, and he smiled. I like him, I thought. He’s kind. He’s gentle. Then I reminded myself: This cannot go anywhere. A pleasant carriage ride on a fine afternoon. That’s all.

  Instead of taking the road out to the cape, we continued straight ahead, dipping down to a charming little bay edged with palm trees. Here he brought the carriage to a stop and motioned to a boy loitering nearby. “If you watch the horse, I’ll give you a good tip,” he said in French that was not as bad as he had portrayed.

  “Certainly, monsieur,” the boy replied eagerly and went to stand at the horse’s head. Giles helped me down, and we walked through a little park until we came out to the beach. There was another small harbour to one side, a stone jetty and a perfect curve of pale-yellow sand around the bay.

  “You see.” He gestured to it as he took my arm down a flight of stone steps. “Not at all like Nice, which is absolutely horrible. Stones that cripple you, and a steep drop-off once you’re in the water. Here you can stand or float to your heart’s content. Do you swim?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never had the opportunity,” I said.

  “Pity.” We started to walk across the sand. It was a novel experience for me, feeling the softness under my feet.

  “I gather the queen loves to bathe whenever she gets the chance,” Giles said. “I’m surprised she hasn’t ordered her household to join her. It is a trifle early in the year, I’ll grant you, but in a month or so you should give it a try. I’ll teach you if you like.”

  “I don’t even own a bathing costume,” I said.

  “I’m sure a local seamstress can run you up one between now and April. You’d love it. It is chilly in the spring, but bracing, and one feels so much better for being immersed in saltwater.”

  “You’ve been here before, have you?” I asked.

  “A couple of times. We stayed at Menton once in a rented villa, and once at Cannes, but this is definitely the nicest. My father is thinking of buying a villa here. Naturally, I’m encouraging him.”

  We walked along the edge of the water. Small wavelets rushed up towards our feet, then receded again, but the whole bay was remarkably calm.

  “Is your mother with you?” I asked casually.

  His face clouded. “She died when I was only six,” he said. “She was expecting another baby, and it did not go well. She was such a sweet, gentle being. She liked to take me on her knee and read me stories. I still miss her, isn’t that strange?”

  “Not at all strange. My mother died when I was a child, and I certainly miss her.”

  “Is your father still alive?”

  “No,
he died, too. I have one married sister, but apart from that, I have no one.”

  “Ah, hence being put under the queen’s protection. Very wise.”

  Working in her kitchen was hardly the same as being put under her protection. “I work for my living, you know,” I felt obliged to say.

  “Of course you do. It’s well known that the queen is an absolute slave driver. You’re not one of those maids of honour whom she keeps up until one in the morning, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’d be a disaster.” I grinned. “I get sleepy by ten.”

  “The queen is quite remarkable, isn’t she?” Giles said. “Nearly eighty years old and still stays up past midnight, bosses around her prime minister and has her hand firmly on the reins of the empire.” He glanced up. “Speaking of reins, I don’t suppose I should trust my horse to that boy for too long.”

  I gave a reluctant look back as we left the beach. Giles must have felt the same because he said, “Maybe next time we could arrange for a picnic. If you would consent to a next time, that is?”

  Again I hesitated. Then I heard myself say, “Of course. I would love to have a picnic next time.”

  His face flushed with joy. “Jolly good. I’m so glad. Most girls I meet find me a bit of a bore, I’m afraid. I’m not dashing like the rest of the chaps.”

  “Oh, I think dashing would be very hard to take in the long run,” I said, and he laughed.

  “I say, there is a splendid little patisserie in Beaulieu. Would you care for a pastry and a cup of coffee before we return—if you must go back, that is?”

  “I really must. I was given permission for a free afternoon, that’s all.”

  “Even though the queen is dining out?”

  “I’m afraid so. They really are quite strict with unmarried girls in the household.”

  “Of course. I understand. But how about that pastry?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to that,” I said. “The sea air has given me an appetite.”

  He smiled again as if I had given him a present. We returned to the carriage and proceeded into the little town. Again Giles found someone to watch the carriage, and we walked up a small high street to the pastry shop. The array of cakes and pastries was dazzling, and so intricately made. I chose a chocolate-covered oblong with caramelized hazelnuts and chocolate curls on top. Giles went for a baba au rhum.