Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “Very ill,” he said. “I hope it is only food poisoning, but I suspect dysentery from bad water. And I just pray it is not typhoid or worse.”

  “Worse? What could be worse than typhoid?”

  “Cholera. We now know that it comes from contaminated water. I don’t know what they were thinking, eating ices from a street stall in a strange city. The water probably came straight from the river, which also serves as the town sewer.”

  “This is terrible news,” I said.

  “I agree. You’ll have more work than you can handle.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that. I was worried about my colleagues. Typhoid? Cholera? It might spread through the whole hotel.”

  “I’m taking precautions and keeping them isolated. If they can keep down fluids, they will come through—although at the moment I can’t guarantee anything. Naturally I’ll do my best for them. I suggest you boil some rice with cinnamon in it, and we’ll give them the rice water to drink. That is settling to the stomach. And later some beef tea.”

  “Very good, Doctor,” I said.

  “And I will have a word with the queen’s secretary. I’ll ask him to requisition a couple of French cooks to help you.” He paused. “There is no way a young girl like yourself should be left to face this amount of responsibility alone. But you seem level-headed and capable. I expect we’ll all get through it, one way or another.”

  With those comforting words, he gave me a little pat on the shoulder and left me.

  I stood like a statue, trying to digest all this. My fellow cooks were so sick they might die. They might have brought cholera or typhoid to the hotel and put the queen and her party in danger. And I . . . I had scarcely considered my role now. I was the sole cook left to cater for a party of royal persons and their retinue. Well, there was nothing for it but to get going, I decided. They’d have to make do with simple meals and few choices until I had help. I got to work, putting on the rice and cinnamon to cook, then sent in an order for beef bones and calves’ feet for our invalids.

  I cooked scrambled eggs and bacon to be sent up to the royal dining room and managed a kedgeree and more bacon for the ladies and gentlemen of the household. I piled both on to a plate for the injured Count Willie and sent it up with a footman. I was just wondering what Mr Angelo had in mind for luncheon when I looked up to see Jean-Paul approaching me.

  “Your royal doctor has informed me of the distressing news,” he said in a most formal voice. “I am most sorry for your colleagues. I have told your doctor that I will put two of my reliable chefs at your disposal. I suggested that they take care of all the meals for the household while you confine yourself just to Her Majesty and her royal relatives, knowing your great devotion to your queen.”

  “Thank you, you are most kind,” I replied. “Your consideration is much appreciated.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I could sense the sting in the tail of his own speech. My great devotion to my queen indeed! He was mocking me for last night. But at least he was making my task bearable. Maybe he genuinely was trying to help me out.

  I decided on a simple poached fish dish and saffron chicken over rice for the royal luncheon, as we had cold chicken from the previous day. As accompaniments, the creamed celery of which they were so fond, and a mushroom soup. There was sponge cake left from the previous day’s tea. I soaked it in sherry and made a quick trifle. It might be nursery food, but I’d never found anyone who didn’t like a good trifle, especially if one added enough cream. Once that was all under control, I went to find one of the ladies-in-waiting and asked about the queen. Could I not prepare her something to eat?

  “She says she wants nothing,” Lady Lytton said. “She is still in distress. It is useless trying to talk to her when she is in one of her stubborn moods. I rather suspect she is determined to make us all see how upset she is over this latest affront.”

  I went back to my kitchen. I didn’t like to think that the queen was refusing to eat. That was a bad sign at her age. It meant she was giving up on life. And if there was a deadly disease like typhoid in the hotel, she’d be more susceptible if she was in a weakened state. My latest encounter with Ronnie Barton flashed into my mind . . . his outrageous suggestion that I cook items that would make the queen weak and therefore a simple grippe might finish her off. Suddenly I remembered times in my own childhood when I had been ill in bed. My mother had taken care of me and fed me tempting little morsels. I had an idea. I set to work and then carried out the tray myself to the queen’s bedroom.

  The dreaded Indian munshi was standing on guard outside her door.

  “What is this?” he snapped when he saw me approaching.

  “It is for Her Majesty,” I replied. “It is something to tempt her to eat and regain her strength. Will you take it in to her, please?”

  “I have been instructed to leave her alone. She wants to see nobody, and she needs to rest. So go away.” He waved at me as if I were an annoying fly.

  “I would like her to eat this while it is still warm. If you care about your queen, you will want her to make a speedy recovery, which she will not do if she refuses to eat.” I took a deep breath because he was quite a big man and he was blocking my path. “If you will not take it to her, then I will.”

  “You will not enter Her Majesty’s presence,” he said angrily. “You, a common servant.”

  “As you are,” I replied. “I know all about you, Mr Karim. I know you did not come from an educated family. You were sent as a table servant, which is several levels below a cook. Now step aside, or I shall have to find Sir Arthur and Dr Reid to assist me.”

  “Upon your own head be it, stupid girl,” he said, looking daggers at me.

  I tapped gingerly on the door, then opened it and stepped into the queen’s bedchamber. It was not a large room and rather overly furnished with the bed she had brought out from England as well as a large wardrobe and several chests of drawers. And being on the first floor it did not have the commanding view over the bay that my windows did. The queen was lying back, looking like a small doll against all those lace pillows.

  “Your Majesty,” I said softly.

  She opened her eyes. “What do you want?” she asked. “I said I was to be left alone.”

  “Forgive my presumption,” I said, coming closer, “but when you have had a shock, you should be reviving your system. I’ve brought you hot sweet tea, which is supposed to be the best thing for shock, and I’ve made you what my mother used to make me when I was sick as a child. It’s a boiled egg with soldiers.”

  “Soldiers?” she demanded, sitting up now.

  I put the tray down in front of her. “That’s what my mother always called the thin fingers of toast. Because they stand up so straight.”

  “Soldiers.” She gave a little smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a plain boiled egg.”

  “Please try a little,” I said.

  She took a sip of tea. “This is not a China tea,” she said.

  “No, it’s an ordinary British tea, but it’s strong, and that’s what you need right now.”

  She looked up at me. “You’re a rather forceful young woman, aren’t you?”

  “Not usually, ma’am. It’s just that I was so concerned about you. And when they said you wanted to be left alone and not eat, I was worried that you might have given up on life and that you would just slip away.”

  She looked at me and laughed. “Can you see me just slipping away? My dear young woman, I was born to duty, and I do not intend to relinquish my role as empress and ruler of our great empire until the day that God calls me home. Which I hope will be many years from now. Besides, I have a jubilee to celebrate this year.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.” I noted with satisfaction that she had taken a finger of toast and was dipping it into her egg.

  “To tell you the truth,” she said, after she had taken a bite, “I was tired of all the fussing over me. My daughters were screaming and fainting and behavin
g like hysterical females. I just wanted to be left alone, to think. It makes one pause, when one faces one’s own mortality. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot at, you know.”

  “I heard, ma’am,” I said. “There have been several attempts on your life.”

  “All of them terrible marksmen, fortunately,” the queen said with a small grin of satisfaction. “But I have to confess this time it did rattle me more than I thought it would. In the past I had my dear Albert to comfort and protect me.” She sighed. “I still miss him after all this time. It’s a wound that will never heal until I am joined with him again.”

  “I understand that Count Wilhelm saved your life,” I said.

  She gave a derisive snort. “More by luck than heroism, I suspect. I think he was trying to get out of the way and accidentally pushed me aside. But we shall let the world think of him as the hero, shall we not?”

  I wondered if I should dare say anything about Princess Sophie, then did not have the courage to do so. She ate more bites of her breakfast, and to my delight she finished her boiled egg.

  “This was an excellent suggestion,” she said. “Were you instructed to prepare it for me, or did you do it of your own initiative?”

  “I am all alone in the kitchen at the moment, ma’am. The other cooks all ate Italian ices at the Carnival and have come down with stomach complaints.” I thought it wise not to mention that these complaints might be of a serious nature at this moment. I’d leave Dr Reid to impart that news.

  “You certainly can’t handle an entire kitchen alone?” She looked at me with concern.

  “I have two of the hotel chefs seconded to me, and I will be handling just your personal meals until the men recover. So if there are any particular dishes you would like, please have your table servant let me know.”

  “I did like those mushrooms the other day. Very tasty.”

  “Very well, ma’am. I shall go to the market tomorrow and bring back a selection for you,” I said.

  She was frowning at me now. “You seem to be a young woman of good family,” she said. “How is it that you became a cook? Was this an ambition of yours?”

  “Not originally, ma’am. I was orphaned as a young girl, alone in the world, and had to provide for my sister, so domestic service was my only option. Later I developed an interest in cooking and found that I had a certain amount of talent for it.”

  “You had no extended family to take you in after your parents died?”

  “I’m afraid my father was estranged from his family, and my mother had no close relatives.” I realized as I spoke that I was giving details of Bella Waverly’s family, not Helen Barton’s. Should I have invented a cottage in Yorkshire instead? Except that it was impossible to lie to the queen.

  “You poor child,” she said. “But I trust you are happy in your current situation?”

  “I couldn’t be happier, Your Majesty,” I said. “The chance to prepare fine foods and exotic dishes is the dream of every cook. And to be cooking for you—well, that is the proverbial icing on the cake.”

  She actually patted my hand. “Then I hope you shall stay with us for a long time, although I shall put some thought to finding you a suitable husband. I cannot think it would be the right thing for you to marry at your current level in life.”

  “I am in no hurry to marry, ma’am,” I said.

  “Nevertheless, a young woman is not fulfilled until she has a husband and children. I was not thrilled to be a mother to begin with. I found my babies tiresome. But look what I have now achieved. I have placed my progeny in all the great royal houses of Europe. If there were ever a conflict, I can call upon allies from many powerful nations—although I have to admit my grandson in Germany seems to have big ideas and is not showing the amount of respect one would expect for his grandmother, the empress.” She paused, considering this and presumably whether it was right for her to impart such thoughts to a lowly servant, but then she went on. “Which is one of the reasons I have invited Count Wilhelm into the fold. He seems to be a devoted lapdog of the kaiser. So the marriage to my young cousin is fortuitous at this moment.”

  “I understand that Her Highness, Princess Sophie, is not happy about the marriage,” I said.

  She looked surprised that I should have dared to mention this. “And how do you know of these things? Does Sophie frequent the kitchen?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I came upon her crying one day, when we were in the park. She was most distressed. I tried to comfort her.”

  “Sophie tends to be rather dramatic and too emotional, I’m afraid. Bad blood on her mother’s side. And she has been raised to be a rather spoiled young woman. Used to getting her own way. I can see that she is resisting marriage to a man who will clearly wish to dominate her. But alas, she will have to learn to compromise. Maybe she can even learn to tame her husband.”

  “But if she doesn’t love him?”

  “Love?” The queen shook her head. “I’m afraid that love does not often enter into royal marriage arrangements. They are solely for political reasons, and every royal person knows and accepts this. Sophie will learn to accept her destiny as we all have.” She paused, and a little smile crossed her lips. “I was one of the lucky ones. I was able to select my own spouse, and I married a man I could love with all my heart.”

  She pointed to the tray. “You may take this now. It was a thoughtful gesture on your part, and I much appreciated it. I shall take my luncheon up here, but this afternoon, if the weather remains fine, I may take a turn in the garden. You shall bring me my tray and talk to me again. At my age, I appreciate a fresh young face.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I took the tray, curtsied and backed out of the room, only once bumping into the corner of a large dresser.

  The munshi was hovering outside. “You were there a long time,” he said.

  “Yes, we had a lovely chat,” I replied. “She will be taking her luncheon in her chamber, but after that she may want to be pushed around the gardens.”

  I gave him a triumphant smile as I walked away.

  CHAPTER 28

  It was only when I was back in the safety of the kitchen that I realized what I had done. If the queen wanted to chat with me again, she might well ask me questions about my family, my childhood. And I would presumably have to lie. All I knew about Yorkshire I had gleaned from reading Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights: bleak moors where the wind whistled through chimneys. And I’d have to explain why my folks had chosen to live there and why I had no Yorkshire accent. Either that or come clean. Would the queen understand and appreciate why I took this one chance, or would she see it as trickery, sending me packing straight back to England? It was a risk I couldn’t take.

  I poached a fillet of sole for her, with a parsley sauce, then added a bowl of mushroom soup, a bunch of grapes and a small dish of trifle. When I presented it to her, she stared at it for a moment. “You obviously think I’m back in the nursery,” she said. “Next it will be bread and milk or gruel.”

  “Oh no, ma’am,” I replied, flushing with embarrassment. “I was merely thinking that when one doesn’t feel like eating, one needs food that just slips down without much effort.”

  “You are a thoughtful young woman,” she said. “And you may be right. You may leave me now. I don’t wish to be observed slurping my soup. I’ll ring for a servant when I am finished.”

  “And for tonight, ma’am? A lamb cutlet? A little chicken?”

  She looked up at me, her eyes remarkably young and twinkling. “No, I think I have languished long enough. I shall be eating with the family tonight in the dining room, and I rather fancy duck.”

  I smiled. “This is good news. I’ll see to it, ma’am.”

  She returned my smile. “And you won’t forget about my mushrooms tomorrow, will you?”

  “Of course not, ma’am. I’ll go to the market first thing.”

  As I backed away, she said, “Don’t work too hard. We shall understand if the fare is less elaborate than
usual. I realized from my boiled egg this morning that sometimes we appreciate the taste of simple things, rather than when good ingredients are disguised under myriad sauces.”

  “Absolutely right, ma’am. If the ingredients themselves are top quality, they should speak for themselves.”

  I curtsied, and as I opened the door, I saw the munshi hovering right outside.

  “Is Her Majesty recovering? Does she need me to assist her with her papers?” he asked.

  “Your Indian servant is here, ma’am,” I said. “Do you wish him to come in?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “I’ve already told him that. It is not proper that any man observe the queen in her night attire, and certainly not a man whose religion covers up their own women and keeps them locked away in harems. Tell him I will summon him when I am ready to go out later.”

  How I wished I could say something to her—let her know how anxious her household members were about this man and his ties to dangerous Indian agitators. But a cook does not advise a queen. I closed the door and turned to the Indian.

  “She says it is not proper that you should attend while she is in bed. And it is not acceptable that you should want to see any official papers.” I added the last part myself.

  I went back to the kitchen and started to think about dinner preparations. I had never cooked a duck in my life. I flicked through our cookery books. There were hundreds of ways to cook a duck, but also warnings that ducks were very fatty and that the skin was not appetizing unless crisp, but that the meat beneath the skin should not dry out. In the end, I had to swallow my pride and went over to Jean-Paul.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Chef,” I said, “but the queen has requested duck tonight, and I’m afraid we do not eat duck often in England. I wondered if you could recommend a dish for me to prepare.”

  Those dark eyes studied me for a moment. He’s going to turn me down, I thought. To make me fail. Then he said, “I, too, have put duck on the menu tonight. Go and get two more birds from the meat safe, and you shall prepare it with me.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said.