Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “I’m really sorry, sir,” I said quietly, “but I prefer to wait for a man that I can love.”

  “I’m sure you’d come to love me,” he said. “I’m a loveable sort of chap. Ask any of my mistresses. They’ll tell you how well I treat them.”

  “I’m sure you are a very nice man,” I said, “but that’s not the sort of life I want for myself.”

  His gaze turned suspicious. “You’re not one of those women, are you? You know—a damned sapphist?”

  I didn’t know.

  He chuckled. “You really are a little innocent, aren’t you? Women who like other women.”

  “Oh no.” I blushed with shock at such a suggestion. I hadn’t even known such people existed. “I want to have a husband and family one day, when I meet the right man. But until then . . .”

  “Until then, you are turning down the heir to the throne of the most powerful country in the world. I have to say I admire your integrity, young woman. I find you damned infuriating, but I respect your decision. Never let it be said that I have forced myself on a woman.” He stepped back from me. “Well, I’d better let you get back to your kitchen pots and pans, hadn’t I?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He must have heard the relief in my voice. “I’m not really that repulsive to you, am I?”

  “Not at all, sir,” I lied. “I think you are a handsome man. But . . .”

  “Not the man for you, eh?”

  I nodded, gratefully.

  “Go on then. Off you go.” He slapped my behind and shoved me ahead of him through the archway. I don’t think I breathed again until I was safely inside the hotel. I went up to my room, splashed cold water on to my face and rinsed out my mouth.

  CHAPTER 26

  The day of the Carnival procession dawned bright and clear. This was good news as apparently the year before there had been constant rain during the pre-Lenten days and the parade had to be cancelled. We cooks all made our way down to the town together at twilight. Mr Williams and Mr Phelps gave the impression that they really didn’t want to attend such a foreign and pagan event, but felt they should to remind themselves how civilized we were in England. But they seemed to warm to the prospect as we neared the centre of town and passed booths selling all kinds of flags, trinkets and foods. “A genuine Italian gelato,” Mr Angelo exclaimed. “I haven’t had one of those since I was a boy. Of course we are only a few miles from Italy here, aren’t we? Do you fancy one, Mr Phelps?”

  “I think I might,” Mr Phelps agreed, looking at the mounds of brightly coloured ice cream. Mr Williams and Jimmy both thought they’d like to try one, too. But the temperature had dropped, and I was already feeling a little chilly, so I declined, regretting it later as I watched their expressions of ecstasy. The Place Masséna, that big square with adjoining gardens leading down to the seafront, was brightly lit with flares and torches as well as the usual gas lamps, and already packed with people. The crowd was a delightful melange of peasants in their bright striped skirts and shawls mingling with loud drunken working men plus well-dressed families. There were also many people wearing outlandish costumes: Pierrots and pirates and Red Indians. Stands had been erected for those who wished to pay for a better view, and there was a special one of these, right at the front of the parade route, reserved for the queen and her party.

  “The queen likes to be part of things,” Mr Angelo muttered. “They throw flowers from some of the floats. She likes to collect the flowers and throw them back at handsome young men!”

  We were smiling at this as we tried to find a spot where we would have a good view of the procession. Eventually we forced our way through the crowd and took up our places, packed in like sardines. The large woman standing next to me smelled strongly of garlic and unwashed body.

  As darkness fell, the queen and her party arrived. There was polite clapping as she was half escorted, half lifted to her viewing platform. The rest of the royal party took up their positions around her. I was interested to see that they were sitting on ordinary hard benches, like the rest of the stands, although a couple of cushions were provided for the queen to raise her high enough to see. I noticed that the Indian munshi was not being allowed on to the seats near her. Count Wilhelm was blocking him, perched at the end of the narrow wooden bench. It certainly wasn’t the sort of accommodation that the queen was used to, but she didn’t seem to mind. I could see her face, and she seemed as excited as a young girl, waving to people and pointing things out to her grandchildren. There was no sign of her Highland guards. Tonight she really was just Lady Balmoral, enjoying herself like everyone else.

  No sooner were they settled than we heard the sound of a brass band in the distance. Shouts and cheers greeted the band, looking impressive in their bright uniforms, adorned with lots of braid. Behind them came the first of the floats. I don’t know what I expected, but it was enormous: a hideous caricature head of a man, some twenty feet high, on top of a cart dragged by a team of men. His mouth was open, and legs were protruding from it as if he was eating people. It was quite terrifying.

  “Germont,” the woman next to me said, grinning and giving me a dig in the ribs. Then a young man on the other side of me explained. The floats were often political comments. Germont was a politician who was intent on making money at the expense of the little people. More floats followed: a giant crocodile, more enormous heads, floats decorated with flowers, more bands and beside them men on stilts, clowns, tumblers, dancers in scanty costumes.

  “I bet she’s chilly,” Mr Williams commented as a young woman wearing nothing more than feathers passed us.

  The crowd around us cheered, jeered, shouted, and drank wine straight from the bottle—passing it around between them.

  The parade seemed to go on forever. I was growing tired of standing, of being shoved, and of being enveloped in the garlic odour of my large neighbour. Suddenly a loud popping noise was heard over the raucous din of the crowd.

  “Fireworks,” Mr Angelo said. “There are always fireworks after the parade.”

  But then there were screams. Someone else was shouting, “The queen! They’ve shot the queen!”

  Chaos ensued. I tried to see what was happening, but the crowd panicked, pushing this way and that, trying to flee from gunfire, wanting to gain distance from the royal stand. I tried to free myself and get to the queen, but I was borne forward in the crush of people. It was surreal. The queen’s been shot. The words were screaming inside my brain. I must see if I can help. But at this moment, my main worry was that I would trip and be trampled. When at last the momentum of the crowd slowed, I was no longer on the Place Masséna, but in a dark and narrow side street. I had no idea where I was. People were still streaming past me, and I caught snatches of conversation, “Anarchists! They shot the queen of England!”

  I wanted to make my way back. I looked around me, but there was no sign of the other cooks, no sign of anyone I knew, and I wasn’t even sure which way we had come. The crowd was making it impossible for me to retrace my steps. All I could do was to wait in a doorway until they had dispersed. Then a group of rowdy men approached, singing loudly. I shrank into the doorway, but they had spotted me.

  “Hello, chérie,” one of them said, looming up over me. “All alone, ma petite? Oh, that’s too bad. You need company. You come with us. We’ll give you a good time.”

  His speech was slurred. He was grinning like an idiot. They pressed around me. One of them took my arm. “Allons,” he called out. “Let’s go.”

  “No. Leave me. I don’t want . . .” My French was failing me in a moment of panic.

  “But we are such nice boys.” Another one stuck his face in front of mine. “You will like us, I promise you.”

  I didn’t know what to do. There were five of them. The rest of the crowd streamed past as if we didn’t exist. They were now propelling me along with them.

  “Leave me. I do not wish . . .” I struggled to free myself.

  “Ah, Colette, ma petite, ther
e you are.” A man’s voice boomed as a figure emerged from the darkness. “Take your hands off my little sister immediately. I have a knife, and I can assure you I am very good with it.”

  “We were looking after her for you, my friend,” one of my captors said, releasing my arm. “A woman should not be alone in a crowd like this. No offence.”

  “You should not have wandered off alone, little sister,” the newcomer said, addressing me now. He grabbed my sleeve roughly. “Come. We go home now.”

  I couldn’t think what to do next. This really was a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. Clearly I must resemble this man’s sister in the darkness. If I said I was not his sister, then I had no idea what might happen. He could release me back to the drunks. And he had a knife . . .

  He took my hand and dragged me forward. “Don’t struggle. Come quickly with me now,” he said, and finally I recognized the voice. In the darkness, I could make out his face. Jean-Paul Lepin, and his hand was grasping mine. Together we hurried away, out of the main stream of the crowd and into a quiet backwater of a residential square.

  “I have to stop. I can’t breathe,” I said at last. We had been going at a great pace. He stopped.

  “That was a foolish thing you were doing, alone on a night like this,” he said, glaring at me. “You were lucky I came along.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” I said. “I was with the other cooks. There were gunshots and somebody screaming and they were saying the queen had been shot then everyone started running and I was forced along with them and suddenly I didn’t know where I was and those men came.”

  The words came out in a great rush. I am not sure whether my French was grammatically correct or even understandable. Without warning, a great hiccup of a sob came out of my mouth. “And if you hadn’t come and saved me, I . . .” And I started to cry.

  Immediately his arms came around me, and he was holding me close to him. “It’s all right, ma petite. You are safe now. You are with me. All is well.”

  “But the queen. They shot the queen.” Tears cascaded down my cheeks.

  Jean-Paul stroked my hair. “Don’t cry. I don’t think she was struck.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but from what people were saying, the bullets missed her.”

  I looked up at him. His eyes were sparkling in the light of a street lamp. Then suddenly he was kissing me. And to my amazement I was responding to his kiss, my body pressed against his, feeling his heart beating against mine. When we broke apart, gasping, he was smiling down at me.

  “Listen, chérie, we do not have to go back immediately. My cousin has a little hotel nearby. Why don’t we go there for a while?”

  “Why would I need a hotel when we can make our way back to Cimiez now that the crisis has passed?” I asked.

  He chuckled as if I had said something amusing. “But you have had a shock. Would you not like a place to recover with a cognac, perhaps? And you and I—we could get to know each other better, away from the Regina.”

  All I could hear in my head was the Prince of Wales saying, “We could get to know each other better.” And those awful men, grabbing at me. I took a step back. “No!” I exclaimed. “You have formed the wrong impression of me, monsieur.”

  He looked puzzled. “Forgive me if I misunderstood,” he said, “I had no wish to insult you, but you certainly did not repulse my kisses. In fact, I got the impression that you would like to spend time alone with me.”

  My cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. “I was carried away. The fear, the chaos. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Oh, I think you knew and were doing it very well, too.” He couldn’t resist a grin.

  I heard my voice, high and cold. “I am shocked that you would think I am the sort of girl who would dream of going to a hotel with a man she hardly knows. I was raised in a good family. Or is it just because I am a servant now that I am seen to be easy pickings?”

  He took a step away from me. “But mademoiselle, you misunderstand me. I had no wish to . . .”

  “Of course you had a wish. You are like all men. You prey on us innocent females.”

  “I apologize, mademoiselle,” he said, stiffly. “I assure you I will keep my distance in the future.”

  “I must get back to the Regina,” I said. “The queen. The queen may need me.”

  “The queen needs you? And why might that be?” he demanded. “I think if she needs anyone, it would be her doctor, not a sous-chef.”

  The words felt like a slap in the face. “Thank you for saving me, monsieur,” I said coldly. “If you would just direct me to the quickest route up the hill.”

  “I will escort you.”

  “There is no need,” I said. “I am sure you do not wish to waste your time with a mere sous-chef.”

  “Nevertheless, I will not let you wander about alone tonight. I know my duty as an honest Frenchman,” he said. “Come. This way.”

  He took my arm and marched me off at a great pace. We did not speak a word as we went up the hill. I was out of breath and terrified that I might cry at any moment. When we reached the forecourt of the hotel, Jean-Paul gave me a curt little bow. “You will be safe now,” he said, and stalked off into the night.

  CHAPTER 27

  I stood in the darkness, trying to catch my breath and compose myself before I made my way to the hotel. The forecourt was bustling with activity. Lights were streaming out, illuminating two police wagons standing outside with what I presumed to be French policemen beside them. There were newspaper reporters and a curious crowd, comprised of hotel guests as well as local citizens who must have followed the royal procession up from the town. I looked around for the queen’s carriage, wondering if she had been taken to a hospital instead of coming here, but to my relief I saw it being led around to the stables. I was dying of curiosity and worry by this time and searched for a familiar face. Off to one side, several of Her Majesty’s footmen were standing.

  I made my way over to them.

  “Is there any news? Is Her Majesty all right?” I asked.

  “Lucky, that’s what she is,” one of them said. “This must be the fourth or fifth attempt on her life, and every time they miss.”

  “They didn’t exactly miss this time,” the other said. “She might have been killed if that German count hadn’t pushed her to one side to shield her and taken the bullet himself.”

  To hear that Count Willie had been a hero was remarkable news indeed. “Count Wilhelm was shot? Is he dead?”

  “Nah, the bullet just grazed his shoulder. The shooter wasn’t much of a marksman, if you ask me. One of these fanatical students who want to change the world order.”

  “Is that who it was, a student?”

  “They haven’t caught him yet,” the first man said. “And I doubt they will. With a crowd that size, nobody saw anything until there were gunshots. And then there was a right panic, wasn’t there? Everyone running and screaming. Weren’t you there?”

  “Yes, I was, but I got swept away with the crowd.”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t trampled. Quite a few people were, weren’t they, Tom?”

  The other nodded. “These foreigners, you know. Too excitable. That would never have happened in London.”

  I bade them goodnight and went up to bed. It was only when I was alone in my room that the emotion of the evening overcame me. I had a good cry and realized something: since the day I had become a servant, I had never allowed myself to cry once. It had been a matter of pride that whatever was thrown at me, it could not break me. Now it was as if something had snapped, and I had finally allowed myself to have feelings. And with that came the realization that I had felt something for Jean-Paul Lepin and I had driven him away.

  When I came down to breakfast the next morning, there was no sign of my fellow cooks. Henri and several other French chefs were already working away in their part of the kitchen. Jean-Paul was not amongst them.

  “Have my compatriots alr
eady eaten breakfast or not yet arisen?” I asked Henri.

  “I have not seen them today, mademoiselle,” Henri replied. “Perhaps they oversleep after too much merrymaking last night. Did you go to the Carnival procession?”

  “I did,” I replied.

  “Your queen had a lucky escape, so I hear.”

  “Yes, so I heard. You didn’t go yourself?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve seen it all before. Too many people for my liking. Too much wine drunk.”

  “Has Chef Lepin gone to the market?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

  “Yes, he left early. I told him we had enough supplies because nobody ate at the hotel last night, but he wouldn’t listen. He was in a bad mood for some reason. Maybe he consumed too much wine last night.”

  I left him to his preparations and helped myself to bread, jam and coffee. Still there was no sign of Mr Angelo and the others. I was beginning to feel annoyed. If they didn’t show up soon, then the queen’s breakfast would be left to me. I was just leaving the table when Dr Reid came into the kitchen.

  “You’re Miss Barton?” he said in his soft Scottish accent.

  “Yes, Doctor. Can I help you? Does the royal party require something different for breakfast after last night’s shock?”

  “I understand that the queen wants no breakfast today. The incident has really upset her. She doesn’t feel like eating, which is unusual for her, and she will remain in her bedchamber. Count Wilhelm wants his breakfast to be taken up to him on a tray as soon as possible. ‘A good nourishing breakfast’ was how he put it.”

  “How is the count? Was his wound severe?”

  “No. Merely a graze. He will make a full recovery soon. But this was not what I came to see you about. Your fellow cooks, apparently they ate Italian ices from a stall last night?”

  “Yes, they did. I chose not to because I was already feeling cold.”

  “Then I’d say you had a lucky escape, just like the queen.”

  I paused, digesting this. “Are they ill?”