Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel

by Rhys Bowen

  “It is my duty to assist new cooks,” he said stiffly, “especially visiting cooks from abroad.”

  I fetched the ducks, already dressed and ready, thankfully. I was not very good at taking off heads and feet.

  “A simple roast duck, with an orange sauce, might be a good way to start,” he said. “The secret is to prick the skin in a thousand places, place it in a moderate oven for an hour, bring it out, let it stand for the fat to run off, then baste it, put it back in a hot oven to crisp the skin.”

  “Is this how you are serving it tonight?”

  “No, that would be an insult to my talent,” he said. “I serve the traditional magret de canard. The breast of the duck cooked in its own fat until the skin is crisp, and then I shall serve it with figs and balsamic vinegar and local honey.”

  “And you do not think I am capable of this dish?” I demanded angrily.

  “I wish to save you from too much work,” he replied. “It is not easy the first time one has to run a kitchen alone.”

  “You’re right,” I admitted. “I will stick to the roast bird tonight, and perhaps later you will show me the secrets of the duck breast.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  I wondered what I might serve to accompany the duck, something that would not require too much preparation or finesse, then I decided that I would treat the royal party to a bouillabaisse—that rich seafood soup of the region. I’d even risk putting garlic in it. Jean-Paul noted the smell of what I was cooking.

  “Ah, so now you have decided that our local food is worth eating,” he commented.

  “I’m trying to keep the menu simple so that there is not a lot of last-minute preparation,” I said. “I’ve made chocolate pots de crème for their dessert.”

  Even though the dishes were not complicated, I found I was quite tired and decided that I needed fresh air. I had been working since dawn. I took off my cap and apron and went out into the garden. It was a heavenly day, warm with the promise of spring. I stood beneath an umbrella pine tree, breathing in its scent, until I heard voices and realized that Her Majesty’s party was also in the gardens. How silly of me to have forgotten that she had said she wanted to take a turn outside. The voices were coming towards me. The one thing we had had drummed into us as servants was that we should never be seen by our masters. And the last thing I wanted was for the queen to talk to me in the presence of her family. She might ask more questions about my childhood. I shrank back behind the pine tree as the royal party approached, the queen being pushed in a bath chair by the munshi, her grandchildren at her sides and Princess Beatrice following dutifully behind with the queen’s doctor and one of her ladies-in-waiting.

  The trunk of the pine tree was not broad enough to hide me if they came closer. I tried to retreat through a shrubbery of tall bushes, oleanders, gardenias and camellias in full bloom. The scent of the blossoms was heady. As I pushed my way between bushes, there was a metallic clunking sound, and something dropped to the ground. I pulled a branch aside and peered down at the soil beneath. It was a gun.

  Trying not to get scratched or have my eye poked out, I bent to retrieve it, picking it up cautiously in case it was still loaded. Who might have dropped a gun in the bushes? I wondered, then it dawned on me that the anarchist might have followed the queen up here last night, wanting to finish off what he had attempted in the square. But perhaps there were too many people milling around. Perhaps someone had recognized him, causing him to throw the weapon deep into the bushes and flee. I should hand it over to the queen’s secretary, and it would be up to him to decide if it should be turned over to the French police. I wondered if they had recovered the bullet that struck the count and if so, whether the police could identify whether a bullet was fired from a certain gun. In any case, there was probably no way of tying a weapon to a certain person.

  Sir Arthur was not in the sitting room, and one of the gentlemen of the household said he had not seen him since luncheon. He had probably escaped for a snooze, the man said. I realized I was carrying a gun and hid my hand in the folds of my skirt. I hesitated, then decided this was important enough to wake him up if necessary. I had to tap on his door several times before a tousled head appeared, glaring at me.

  “What do you want?” he demanded fiercely.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir Arthur,” I said, “but I was walking in the garden, and I found this gun. It had been thrown into the bushes. I wondered if it was the same weapon that shot at Her Majesty yesterday.”

  I handed him the revolver, and he stared down, examining it as it lay in his big hand. I watched his expression change. “Could well be. The chap came up here to get another shot at her but didn’t get a chance, or was recognized and beat a hasty retreat. Thank you, my dear. You were wise to bring it to me. There is a Scotland Yard man on his way out to take charge of Her Majesty’s security from now on. He’ll know what to do.”

  “You don’t think the French police should have it?” I asked cautiously. “After all, they are the ones who might know of anarchists in the region who might have had a plan to assassinate the queen.”

  “We’ll see what Inspector Raleigh decides to do. Personally, I fear the local police will be a bunch of bumbling idiots, but that’s just my prejudice against the French.” He gave a little chuckle and closed his door.

  As I started down the staircase, I could hear a woman’s voice, shrieking. Yes, “shrieking” was the only word for it. “Where is it? You must know. It’s gone. Vanished. Did you take it? I’m sure you did. You’re in the pocket of that doctor, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t dare linger any longer. Servants are not supposed to eavesdrop on the conversations of their betters. But as I went down the narrow hall back to the kitchens, I was dying of curiosity. One of the women in the royal party was missing something valuable. And it could not be Princess Beatrice or Lady Lytton. They were both in the grounds with the queen. Princess Helena, then? The unstable princess who had wanted me to buy drugs for her. Is that what she was missing? Her supply of drugs? But she had used the word “it.” I paused in mid-stride. Could the item be a revolver, by any chance? Could someone staying here at the Excelsior Regina have borrowed the princess’s revolver to take a shot at the queen?

  This was none of my business, I knew. I was a mere cook, not in charge of Her Majesty’s safety, but I found that I felt a fierce loyalty to her. She might be the queen, but she was an old woman. She was vulnerable. Perhaps that was why she wanted to be incognito when she came to the Riviera. Nobody should want to assassinate a mere Lady Balmoral. If she’d only come with a small party and rented a villa, she could have passed this off. But ordinary women do not bring regiments of pipers and outlandish Indian servants with them!

  I went back to my work and followed Jean-Paul’s directions for the roast duck. By the time it was finished, the skin was brown and deliciously crisp. The orange sauce I made to accompany it was sharp and tasty. And the bouillabaisse—I took a little taste, and it was delicious. I accompanied these with roasted potatoes, puree of Brussels sprouts and a macaroni pudding. The dinner was apparently met with approval; the footman who brought back the dishes reported that the queen had had a hearty appetite and commented on the fish soup!

  The only one who didn’t approve was Count Wilhelm, who was still recuperating in his bedchamber and who sent down a footman to report that he had complained bitterly that the dinner did not contain any good, healthy fleisch. Why was he not served the full scope of the dinner, and why was his tray not brought to him by the good-looking boy, Jimmy? I wondered how long he would remain in his room if he felt he was missing out on the full meal served in the dining room.

  Sir James Reid came into the kitchen just when I had finished clearing up.

  “I have just checked on our invalids,” he said. “And it is good news. I think we can rule out typhoid or cholera. It is a case of dysentery, although that disease is not to be sniffed at. At least it is not highly contagious. If they
have a satisfactory night, I think maybe they might try a little beef tea in the morning.”

  “Certainly, Doctor,” I said. “I have had beef bones simmering all afternoon. I’ll clarify and have some sent up to them in the morning.”

  “I congratulate you,” he said. “You are a most competent young woman. Most females would panic at the thought of having to feed a royal party alone, but you have pulled it off.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I blushed bright red.

  I went to bed basking in the doctor’s words. I had cooked for the royal party single-handedly, and apparently they were all satisfied. Maybe I would soon be a confident enough chef to run my own kitchen or even open my own restaurant? Pride comes before a fall, my mother always used to remind us. I should be thankful for what I had at this moment.

  CHAPTER 29

  In the morning I rose early, remembering the queen’s request, and walked down the hill to the market. A stiff wind was blowing off the sea, buffeting me as I descended the steep street. Clouds were building on the western horizon. It promised to rain later. I should get my shopping done quickly and return to the hotel before I was soaked. I heard footsteps coming up behind me and stepped aside to let the person in an obvious hurry go past. It was Jean-Paul Lepin. He reacted with surprise at seeing me.

  “So, you brave the market on such a blustery morning? You are indeed dedicated, mademoiselle. I salute you.”

  “The queen requested a repeat of the mushroom dish I served to her. Perhaps you would be good enough to recommend which mushrooms I should buy?”

  “Of course,” he said. “And if you decide to make another bouillabaisse, then I recommend that you start with the freshest fish from the stalls rather than that obtained from the hotel’s suppliers. I would not serve a fish dish if I had not personally picked out items from that day’s catch.”

  “I don’t think I dare serve them a fish stew two days in a row,” I said. “There was a complaint last night from the German count that I had not served any red meat.”

  “He was the one who was shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “A brave man. He took the bullet to protect the queen, I hear.”

  “There are two different accounts to that,” I said. “The queen said she thought he was trying to get out of the way and bumped into her, thus saving her life.”

  He chuckled. “We should let the former story stand. It may be his one chance in life to be considered a hero.”

  We walked on in silence, then he cleared his throat and said, “Mademoiselle, I should like to apologize for the other evening. I realized immediately that a well-raised English girl like yourself has certain standards. You English do not share the passion of the French race. And perhaps you were right—it was the fear, the heat of the moment that made you respond to me when I kissed you.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say. “I have had very little experience with men,” I said at last. “But I do know that I was raised to believe that a young woman waits for marriage before . . .” I couldn’t go on with that sentence, so intense was my embarrassment. “I was shocked when you invited me to a hotel with you.”

  He was frowning. “But mademoiselle, I fear that you misunderstood my intentions. I suggested we should go to my cousin’s hotel because I could see how upset you were. I did not think you were ready to walk all the way up the hill, and I thought a cognac and a chance to recuperate might be beneficial for you.”

  I looked up at him, not sure whether to believe this or not. “You said you wanted to get to know me better,” I pointed out. “With men, it seems that means only one thing.”

  A smile crossed his face. “You are right. Perhaps it does for some men. But the demands of my profession mean I have had limited experience with women, especially with women from a good family. I do not always have the right words to phrase things correctly. But on that occasion, I really did intend to limit it merely to conversation—and perhaps another small kiss or two.” He shot me an enquiring glance, then went on. “I assumed, wrongly, that you felt something for me, as I felt for you. And I confess I had joined in the celebration with a little too much wine. Can we forget it happened and wipe the slate clean?”

  “We can.” Conflicting emotions were fighting within me. I wanted to believe that his intentions had been honourable, but had they? And I wanted to let him know that I, too, had felt something for him. But the encounters with the Prince of Wales and with those awful men in the street were all too raw in my mind. And I still wasn’t sure that his intentions had been as honourable as he claimed.

  He gave a curt little nod. “That is good. From now on, our relationship will be only professional.”

  “Only professional,” I echoed.

  We came to the market, and Jean-Paul instructed me on which mushrooms were best for which kind of dishes. I bought some of each and even dared to add a small piece of truffle—to be grated over fowl or fish, Jean-Paul said. Then he bought a small piece of truffle for himself.

  “Do you have more commissions to fulfil?” he asked.

  “I thought I would get more whitebait, as the queen is fond of it,” I replied.

  “I, too, must visit the fish market,” he said. “And I would be happy to escort you back up the hill. However, first I promised to bring some of this truffle to a certain lady. She is very fond of such delicacies.” He paused, then added, “Would you like to accompany me to visit her? She lives nearby, and after we can be extravagant and take a cab together up the hill.”

  I was still flustered and confused. “Oh, I’m sure you do not wish my presence when you visit a lady friend,” I replied stiffly.

  Amusement flashed in his eyes. “Ah, but you see this lady friend is over ninety,” he replied. “She is my grandmother. She lives nearby.”

  “Oh, your grandmother,” I said.

  “So will you accompany me?”

  Again I hesitated. “I should be getting back for my food preparation,” I said. “I find myself in charge of breakfast as well as the other meals.”

  “Of course. It was thoughtless of me to suggest this. But my chefs are at your disposal when you need assistance, you know.” I could tell he was disappointed.

  “I really would like to visit your grandmother with you,” I said, “but I feel the responsibility very strongly. One does not wish to make any errors when feeding a royal party.”

  “I understand completely. But I have to tell you that I am very impressed with your cooking skills and with your organization. For such a young woman, you seem very calm.”

  “Except for the other evening,” I said. He looked at me and laughed.

  “So why do you not stop at my grandmother’s house with me for a small second? The cab will whisk us up the hill speedier than we could walk.”

  How could I say no?

  “Very well, if you really would like me to accompany you,” I replied.

  He looked pleased. We went to the fish stalls, and Jean-Paul made sure I was given the freshest whitebait, while he himself selected wings of skate and a big bag of mussels.

  “So tell me how you cook this fish,” I said as we walked together. I didn’t know the French word for skate.

  “La raie?” he asked and told me how he prepared it.

  I was expecting his grandmother to live in the old town, like Claudette’s mother, but instead we walked until we came to a handsome white building surrounded by a garden. His grandmother lived on the ground floor. She was a tiny, delicate creature wearing a white lace cap. She kissed Jean-Paul many times, calling him her angel. Then she wanted to kiss me, too, but Jean-Paul said hurriedly that I was just a colleague from the hotel—a fellow chef. She seemed really interested in this. A woman as a chef? Whatever next? And I saw her giving him an enquiring glance. He refused a coffee and a pastry, telling his grandmother that I was needed to cook for the English queen. She was suitably impressed and took my hands as I made to leave.

  “Come to visit me again, any time,” she said. �
��Life is lonely for an old woman, although my grandson comes whenever he can. He is a good boy. He cares for his family. Very important, don’t you think? Family?”

  I agreed that it was. When she learned that my parents were both dead, that my one sister was married, and that apart from that I had nobody, she smiled up at me. “Then I shall be your new family, no?”

  “Your grandmother is delightful,” I said as Jean-Paul led us to a taxi rank.

  “As are all of my family. A race of delightful people.” He gave a cocky little grin.

  “They are all here in Nice?”

  “All of them. My parents. My father owns several businesses, including a patisserie. My three sisters are married, and I have twelve nephews and nieces. I am the youngest. They despair of me.”

  As we went back into the hotel, I sensed that something had somehow changed between us. A barrier had been broken down, and I wondered if it was intentional that he had wanted me to visit his grandmother. Had he wanted to show me that he was a good, reliable man after all? The thought that he had wanted to reassure me was a comforting one.

  I cooked breakfast for the royal party, including another boiled egg for the queen, as she had so enjoyed the first, then sent up more rice water and warm beef tea to the four invalids and set about preparing luncheon. I would serve some of the mushrooms in an omelette and save the more robust ones for a meat dish in the evening, maybe a steak and mushroom pie? I was pleased with that idea as it allowed me to show off my pastry-making skills.

  Luncheon went smoothly, but I was sitting down to my own meal when the dreaded Count Wilhelm came into the kitchen. I have to say he did look rather pale and unsteady on his feet, and I immediately felt a stab of guilt that I had thought he might be exaggerating his wounds.

  “You, girl, where is the chef?” he demanded. “I wish to speak with him instantly.”

  “I am the chef, Your Highness,” I replied. “My colleagues are indisposed. Can I help you?”

  “The food does not agree with me,” he said. “Last night—that stew of fish that was sent up to my room. My home state is far from any ocean, and my stomach is not used to fishes. Vat is more, the bay leaves should have been removed.”