by Amy Myers
Indeed, Auguste had suddenly wondered if it were a different village. He could have sworn the White Dragon pub and the row of adjacent cottages had had ordinary tiled roofs, yet abundant thatch was everywhere. He must have had his mind on ortolans (much more eager to oblige His Majesty in May) and not his surroundings.
Oak, ash and thorn
Guard Montfoy morn.
Mother elder sacred be
Blessed be Montfoys in their fee.
A very old lady stood respectfully at the side of the road, having chanted her poetical offering. “The blessings of Tir Nan Og be upon you, young man.” Yes, this was indeed a happy village. Or was it? Something made him glance back, the black-clad old lady was staring after him with an expressionless face; it occurred to him that in former times the word ‘witch’ would have fitted her perfectly. And wasn’t Tir Nan Og some kind of Celtic pagan paradise?
*
He had dismissed witches from his mind by the time he had returned to the house and replaced them with the glories of the coming days, devoted to the wonders of preparing a wedding banquet, glories only slightly diluted by the fact that His Majesty was one of the guests. At least the wonderful kitchens of Farthing Court had not changed. As he had entered, the smell of roast guinea fowl met his nostrils, and the comforting figure of Ethelred Perkins could be seen whisking round his spotless and obedient kingdom, a kingdom over which Auguste would now reign for three glorious days.
Ethelred executed a neat bow, and beamed. “In your absence, Mr Didier, there has been excellent news from the fishmonger — the halibut is of sufficiently high standard to serve, and the gardener assures me the hothouse strawberries will after all be available.”
Very wise of them, in Auguste’s opinion. “And the asparagus?”
“But of course.” Ethelred appeared shocked that Auguste could have presumed that in his constant battle with the gardener to relinquish his produce he would have been other than the victor.
“And the consommé?”
“Clarification now complete.”
Auguste’s contented eyes fell on his allotted table awaiting him, well-scrubbed and with knives, ladles, spoons all laid in correct campaign style — and on the delightful young kitchen maid standing respectfully by it, ready for his next orders.
“Mr Didier, can I hazard a guess that from your deep knowledge of His Majesty’s requirements, and from the fact he has chosen not to bring his own chef, that you have on occasion had the privilege of cooking for His Majesty?”
“I have, yes.” Privilege was not quite the word he would have chosen, however. “In fact, I can now only cook for His Majesty.” Auguste explained his difficult position.
Ethelred’s eyes grew round with horror. “But my dear sir, every honour must be accorded to you. I will notify Mr Tudor immediately, and Mrs Honey must be informed at once. The bedroom allotted to you is not fitting for a relative of His Majesty.”
“It is absolutely fitting,” Auguste interrupted in some alarm, lest Ethelred prostrate himself before him. “I am here as a chef, not as His Majesty’s relation. I am employed by Mr Pennyfather.” It suddenly occurred to him that he might therefore receive a fee, but decided that since Cousin Bertie was involved this was unlikely in the extreme. He was merely a feudal retainer who owed services to his lord in return for — for what? In his case, happiness.
“At the very least,” Ethelred said earnestly, “you must now have sole access to the servants’ bathroom. We shall all be honoured to have cold hip baths in our rooms.”
“No, I beg of you.” How could he make this charming youth understand he wanted to be one of them again?
“I insist. The honour is ours.”
Reluctantly, he had given way, and the morning had hummed and glowed, as twenty kitchen staff slid efficiently about their work. Ducklings were salted, stocks were prepared, game lovingly checked in the larders, gardens routinely inspected, ices churned, with not a word of dissension. And all this wasted on a master away for much of the time. Did Mr Entwhistle keep Ethelred Perkins bottled up like a genie until such time as he rubbed his magic lamp?
The delightful chief kitchen maid allotted to Auguste was a village girl by name of Jenny Potter, who seemed to think that raising her eyes from the task in front of her would secure instant dismissal, and displayed the same eager acceptance of whatever he demanded of her. Only one item had caused a problem. The Jersey vegetables imported for the dish of green beans cooked with shallots, chervil and cream.
Jenny’s eyes grew round in horror. “Green beans? Oh no, Mr Didier, I couldn’t do that.”
“Do you think such a simple dish out of place on the menu, Jenny?” Auguste was perplexed. “His Majesty, while an admirer of the most intricate recipes, likes simple food as well.”
“It’s not His Majesty, sir. It’s my grannie.”
“She is not dining here, is she?”
She shook her head miserably. “No, but she do say beans are the food of the dead, and green is the colour of the fairies.”
“And you believe that?” He was incredulous, and suddenly recalled Gertrude’s stipulation over the table arrangements. Even she had excluded his food from her ban, however.
“The fairies don’t like it if they think humans do mock them, so Grannie Potter says.”
“Your grandmother is not responsible for the menu for His Majesty’s supper,” Auguste said as gently as he could, “and Jenny, fairies are kind creatures.” Memories of fairy godmothers in Charles Perrault’s collected tales came hazily back to him.
Jenny’s eyes dropped. “Oh no, sir. You’re wrong,” she said, but so quietly that he did not hear and he thought his argument won.
*
By the servants’ dinnertime, the majority of the guests and the bridal party had arrived, and Auguste’s schedule was working smoothly. This morning the ice cream for the bombes, this afternoon tammy cloths and spoons would come out for jellies … That moment of satisfaction had arrived when his brain said stop; the menu and its organisation could be seen as one glorious whole instead of a series of disjointed operations and apparently insurmountable obstacles. Never had he worked in such a peaceable kitchen. Indeed the whole household below stairs seem to reverberate with remarkable good nature.
At five to twelve the upper servants congregated in Pug’s Parlour, the butler’s room, in order to parade in ceremonial style to join the lower servants in the servants’ hall for dinner. He now knew Mr Tudor (who, Auguste had discovered, rejoiced in the splendidly British forename of Stuart), Mrs Honey, beaming in bombazine, lace cap over her grey curls, Lord Montfoy’s valet, the head housemaid, and the under butler and Ethelred, but from today their number would be greatly swelled by the personal servants of the guests. Auguste was asked to escort Mademoiselle Jeanne Planchet, lady’s maid to Gertrude Pennyfather, in to dinner, presumably on the grounds that they were both French.
Auguste had found it oddly pleasing to be back in the world of the servants’ hall, remembering his days at Stockbery Towers, and he relaxed in the familiar formality of advancing two by two to attend dinner with the lower servants. Hierarchy here counted for as much, if not more, than it did to the people whom they served, which he found both ridiculous and charming.
Jeanne was a handsome rather than a pretty girl, with a sullen expression, dark eyes, heavy jaw and magnolia white skin. Attractive to men, of that there was little doubt. She did not appeal to him, but many would find the earthy energy expressed in that face irresistible.
“Paris? You come from Paris?” Her eyes lit up at Mrs Honey’s introduction.
“I have worked there, mademoiselle, in the rue Daru.” Auguste looked back with mixed feelings on that time in his life. It was there he had met Tatiana, there he had parted from her, and near there too that her uncle, Pyotr Gregorin, who had vowed to murder him, also lived.
“Ah. By the Russian church.”
“So you know it. Have you worked nearby?” Auguste was surprised, for it
was a small community and a close one.
Caution entered her voice. “I did not like my employer and left to work for Mademoiselle Pennyfather. Like you, monsieur, I wished to see the world. Especially America.”
“But your mistress prefers to live here.”
“She will change her mind,” Jeanne announced. “She is a lady of good sense. Monsieur, do you remember the petit restaurant in the rue Pierre le Grand? Ah, the cooking. It is superb.”
“And I can promise you it will be superb here also.”
“For His Majesty perhaps,” she snorted.
“And for you, mademoiselle. Look.” He pointed to the huge roasts ready for Mr Tudor to carve on the tables before them.
“Rosbif … ” Jeanne’s nose wrinkled in disdain and Auguste sighed for those who could not appreciate the glories of the country they were in while they mourned the one they were parted from.
*
“And this,” Arthur waved a proud hand towards a small stone building resembling a ruined Gothic chapel; it nestled on the edge of the woodland, shrouded in carefully planted ivy and bushes, “is the folly where the seventh Earl killed his cook.”
Gertrude was entranced and demanded entrance. She was not disappointed. Inside the walls were adorned with the means of slaughtering any number of cooks, ranging from bows and arrows to South African War bayonets and Maxim guns. Swords hung menacingly over the fireplace, a deer’s antlered head hung dusty and gloomy between them, a small cannon poked invitingly out from one corner, more antlers adorned the walls. Only an occasional table, one armchair, two decanters and a glass spoke of life not death.
“He murdered him here?”
“He was the cook. He strangled him, because the picnic arrived late for the shooting party. I suppose you’d call it murder.”
“I would,” Gertrude said decidedly.
“Things were done differently in those days.” Arthur’s offhand words might have been meant as an explanation or even apology.
“I’m glad. I’m sure Father wouldn’t want to risk Mr Didier’s neck.”
“Of course not. Didn’t your father tell me he was related to the king?”
Gertrude stared at him. “I’m sure looking forward to getting into your parliament. It seems to me I’ll be able to do some good.”
“Good? In parliament? You’d only be in the Lower House,” Arthur pointed out, puzzled.
“Arthur dear, that’s where democracy and justice dwell.”
He thought about this. “You may be right, Gertrude. It was the House of Lords that condemned the seventh Earl — he was hung by a silken rope though,” he added in satisfaction.
Gertrude swallowed. There was work to be done in this country. Arthur was a darling, but totally blinded by the stultifying past. Once married, he would see her point of view; as a partnership, she working from the Lower House and Arthur in the Lords, they could change the course of history. When she was lady of the manor, she’d bring some fresh air here too. The best should be kept, the worst should go. Poverty banished, Merrie England remain. She thought fondly of Frimhurst village, and of the pleasures to come. It occurred to her as they walked back across the gardens that she had given little thought to one of the usual pleasures of marriage: the marital bed. She dismissed this momentary cloud, consoling herself that her dabbling in the dew might bring about a transformation in Arthur’s lovemaking — sorely needed if the meagre and unexciting foretastes she had so far received were anything to judge by.
“And this,” Arthur was saying of a naked Venus spouting forth water from her mouth, as were eight little Cupids at her feet, “is the fountain erected by the eighth Earl. His wife is said to have poisoned the water.”
“What happened?”
“He died.”
“And who else?” Gertrude asked.
“No one — oh, except a gamekeeper and his dog. They’d been forbidden to drink from it though.”
“Did the dog know that?”
“I say, Gertrude, you’re not taking me seriously.” Arthur was hurt.
“Oh, but I am, darling. Very seriously.”
*
At a quarter to three the guests were beginning to make their way across the formal gardens and greensward beyond with its view down to the lake, and across to the Great Meadow which lay between it and the ancient woodland, where the grand ceremony of erecting the may-pole was to take place. This meadow was so called from the attempt of an eighteenth-century Montfoy to imitate nature with art. The field had been firmly reclaimed from nature, then replanted with less stubborn grass and carefully selected wild flowers chosen to give ample opportunities for posy-gathering throughout the year, and kept confined to the outskirts of the field and selected places within in order that no change of footwear would be involved when picnics were taken in this country setting. Queen Marie-Antoinette was said to have gathered inspiration for her Petit Hameau at Versailles from hearing of this felicitous spot.
Beyond the Great Meadow lay Home Farm’s Five Acre Field with its newly planted crop of prehistoric stones. On rising ground, the stones were perfectly silhouetted against the skyline, and Bert had argued long and hard with the farmer to have the maypole ceremony there. For once he had lost.
“Where’s Arthur?” Richard Waites, in the vanguard of the guests, was a little surprised at Gertrude’s having sought him out to escort her to the maypole ceremony. Not that he had any objection.
“The lord of the manor, Arthur told me, has to help lift the pole off the wagon. It’s expected of him.”
Richard noted some vicarious pride in this reply, and his frustration grew.
“It’s good luck,” Gertrude added defiantly, detecting disapproval.
It was Richard’s private thought that it was Gertrude who would need the good luck, but he refrained (just) from comment on her choice of bridegroom. He attacked on safer ground.
“How do you reconcile your suffrage aspirations with this love of irrelevant tradition and folklore, Gertrude? This is the twentieth century, and here you are revelling in prehistoric rituals.”
“Even in the States we have traditions.” Gertrude skilfully avoided answering, which did not go unnoticed. “Thanksgiving for example. Would you say that was irrelevant?”
“Not quite the same. I gather you don’t have lords of the manor in America.”
“A country grows from its roots, Richard. The stronger the roots, the stronger the growth up above.”
“Very neat.”
“You can’t not enjoy the English country traditions, just because you rarely step a foot outside London.”
“As Dr Johnson observed, he who is tired of London is tired of life. I am neither.”
“Which is why I’m marrying Arthur,” Gertrude retaliated, for once without thinking, and resting her arm in his. “You have no need of me.”
“I have no need?” he rejoined.
She blushed. “Someone like you would not need me.” She regained her composure. “You’re a diplomat, Richard, so don’t say anything that might mean we could not be friends. I’d not like that.”
“Impossible, Gertrude. It would be easier to make an entente cordiale with Germany than for you and I to be friends, as you say. Even diplomats speak their minds at times; how can a friend, much less a lover, stand by and see you rushing into disaster?”
The hand was withdrawn, and the voice became cool. “I believe I see my father over there. I will sit by him. Do excuse me, Richard.”
*
Horace had accompanied Louisa, Duchess of Wessex to the meadow, and was sitting on one of the two hundred cushioned seats specially covered that morning to resemble meadowy banks and tuffets, but was finding conversation difficult owing to Louisa’s hat. She was constantly twisting and turning in her endeavours to tell him exactly who each new arrival was; the turns were acceptable, the twists brought the sharp pheasant feather in her hat (for country wear) uncomfortably near his eye.
“What a dear girl Gertrude is,”
Louisa cooed, having just discovered Gertrude’s mother was dead, and aware that she was herself dressed by Worth; in addition, her complexion, coiffure and title were entirely captivating, even if they failed to captivate His Majesty nowadays. “And dear little Bluebell too.” Would all Mr Pennyfather’s delightful money make up for the disadvantages of being married again? She would have to forego her title and she supposed, change her way of life if she re-married, but on the other hand if her son married that horsy humourless lass he had his eye on, it would mean Louisa would become the dowager duchess, a title that had a very unpleasant ring to it. She slid a little closer, in order that her scent could do its share in the captivating of Horace.
Horace was devoted to his two daughters, but the words ‘dear girl’ and ‘little’ did not immediately spring to mind when he considered Gertrude’s forthright strength and Bluebell’s even more serious and determined chin.
“Why, thank you, Duchess.”
“Pray call me Louisa. This is a gathering of friends, is it not?”
Taken aback at this lowering of the drawbridge of what he well knew to be English social reserve, and overpowered by the scent of attar of roses, Horace warmed to her. “I certainly hope so,” he replied heartily.
“And the country seems so friendly, does it not?”
“Don’t you have a country estate, Louisa?” Horace was puzzled. He thought dukes had some kind of land attached to them.
Louisa did, but she saw little of it, being away much of the time. She had an excellent bailiff, a son who had inherited the estate and the title, and so her duty was done. “Ah yes, and the villagers are devoted to me, as here they will be to your daughter. Gertrude is fortunate.” As friend both to His Majesty and to Arthur, she knew perfectly well that Gertrude was going to have a rude awakening, but as she had no desire to be eliminated from royal approval, she put the matter from her mind.