by Amy Myers
“I understood your husband died tragically some years ago.”
The duchess paused. “You are right, Comtesse. You, too I understand, have no husband.”
“You are misinformed, I am glad to say. Alas, we are frequently parted when his work takes him from me.”
“I imagine he encourages you to find your own amusements.”
Eleonore smiled. “We are a most devoted couple. He can at all times have faith in me. So important, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. As His Majesty himself commented when he urged me to accompany him to the wedding today since we both are without our dear spouses.” Louisa was wasting no time in letting everyone know that her hour of glory was about to dawn again.
Eleonore continued to smile. “What a charming sentiment. Pray, do let us take coffee together this morning, Your Grace. I should so value your opinion of my gown.”
*
Belinda too had taken her breakfast in the breakfast room, but she was not thinking about the coming wedding, but of Thomas Entwhistle. He should know immediately of the outrageous discovery she had just made in her chamber. She cornered her host in the morning room after breakfast, quietly perusing his copy of The Times.
“Belinda?” Entwhistle rose to his feet, dropping the paper, for once in most disorderly fashion, through surprise. He was not pleased. First, he had heard some disturbing information, and secondly, his aim was to remain completely anonymous in this household and to be singled out by a Montfoy was annoying.
“This is your house,” Belinda continued tartly, reading his expression correctly, “and you and not Arthur would wish to be responsible, I trust, for what happens within it.”
“To a degree.”
“This, Thomas, comes within that degree. Someone has removed the Montfoy diamonds from my room. My maid has been with me many years and is above suspicion. Can you say the same of your staff?”
Entwhistle thought quickly. If that crook Tudor had been pilfering … No, he could not imagine he’d had the nerve, in view of what he paid him. “I thought that I could,” he replied quietly.
“Or it may have been one of the guests,” Belinda said.
This was getting serious. “Let us be quite sure they are not merely mislaid, Belinda. And then, could I suggest that we leave this unpleasant matter until after His Majesty has departed tomorrow? There is, after all, a wedding today, which I am sure you would not wish marred by the presence of police or indeed even by enquiries of this delicate nature.”
“Very well, Thomas, but then I shall insist on a full investigation.”
“Of course.” Entwhistle looked concerned, as indeed he was. “We will see what has transpired, Belinda. And incidentally, I do trust you will give me the honour of escorting you to the wedding.”
There had once been a time when Belinda had thought how convenient, and indeed pleasant, it would be if she and Thomas could marry. It would seem a just step on the part of fate. Arthur’s squandering of the Montfoy money (still unknown to Gerald) had been no fault of hers, and fate surely owed her something in recompense. However, delightful companion though Thomas was, their relationship had never grown closer. At first she had put this down to the fact that he lived abroad. This explained his occasional old-fashioned way of speech and his accent being almost too reminiscent of the era of the late queen; it might also mean his affections lay with another in France. However, by now she had come to the reluctant conclusion that he was one of those Englishmen who was simply not interested in ladies. Now, with this sudden warmth, she began to reconsider her verdict.
*
In the kitchens, the absence of the sun on this May Day morn was not noticed. There was heat enough from the huge ovens which had been hard at work since four in the morning. Auguste muttered a despairing prayer to Le Bon Seigneur since undoubtedly wedding banquets tasted better in the sun, but though the sun teetered on the point of emerging, it coyly refused to do so completely. The banquet, Auguste informed the sun, was not until two o’clock, and if it would kindly arrange to emerge by then he would be most grateful. Dancing round the maypole, which would follow the luncheon, was not so enjoyable in the rain.
Meanwhile, everything worked with precision in Mr Ethelred Perkins’ kitchen under Auguste’s direction — though he was forced to admit it would have worked as well under Mr Perkins’. One maid had been appointed simply to announce the deliveries shooting rapidly and continuously through the door: ‘Two dozen turbot, fifty lobsters, eighteen salmon, two dozen halibut, twenty watercresses, ten bunches of chives, churn of cream … ’ Her voice was already hoarse but she was more efficient than most liveried toastmasters, relishing her moment of glory as kitchen staff hurried and scurried to her every announcement. Auguste worked with all the concentration he could muster, much relieved that he was not expected to attend the wedding. The greater the distance between himself and Gregorin, the better.
The best of English and French — his proud eye told him he had achieved this. The obligatory poularde à la Derby stuffed with truffles and foie gras (for His Majesty), bisque of prawn, consommé Comtesse Eleonore (his own invention) garnished with stuffed lettuce and quenelles de volaille, side by side with simple, colourful plates of asparagus, lobster salad, duck in aspic and egg and cucumber salad. And many, delightfully many more, both hot and cold dishes.
Auguste remained firmly on the servants’ side of the baize door, but all the same each visit to a remote larder represented an act of courage. Checking the refrigerators brought the fear of being thrust within their heavy iron doors by Gregorin, each game room of being hung like a pheasant on one of those huge hooks.
There was one other unpleasant task he had to perform. His Majesty’s breakfast still had to be presented to him. Auguste told himself he had nothing to fear; that incriminating plate of sandwiches had long since been cast into the cellar boiler. His Majesty could not possibly know of Auguste’s involvement, and so the only remaining question was His Majesty’s mood: was he furious at the thwarting of his night’s plans, or happy in their resulting fulfilment with his former mistress? The arrival of His Majesty’s breakfast was no simple matter. It was some way from the kitchens, involving a series of chafing dishes in a specially equipped service area next to his dining room. It also involved inspection by His Majesty’s detectives, equerries, aides and valets, not to mention Gold Stick. Finally, he found himself alone with His Majesty, and the royal kidneys had been served and approved. Auguste studied the mood carefully: a certain abstraction maybe, but no rage could be discerned. He therefore decided on a bold move.
“Your Majesty enjoyed last evening’s supper?”
“I did. You’ve got the bécassines for the wedding breakfast, I trust?”
“Yes, sir.” Auguste relaxed. All seemed well, and he awaited his dismissal from the Presence hopefully. He did not get it.
“You’ve met the Comtesse Eleonore, haven’t you?”
“I have, sir.” Auguste trembled.
“Ah. Rum woman. I’ve asked the Duchess of Wessex if I can have the pleasure of escorting her at the wedding.”
So that was it. His Majesty had decided no French countess was going to make a fool of him. Auguste rejoiced. Eleonore would once more be available as his confidante. And nothing else, he assured his conscience firmly.
*
At eleven thirty the bridegroom left with his best man (if Cousin Gerald deserved the adjective best) for the wedding that was to solve all his problems. He was remarkably cheerful.
“What are you going to do with all that money, Arthur?” Young Gerald asked nonchalantly. “I’ve one or two ideas that might help.” After his cousin was safely married to Miss Dollars-in-Plenty.
Arthur was never one for picking up hints. “I fancy the gee-gees,” he announced cheerfully. “And I’ll buy a house.”
“A house?’ Gerald was taken aback. “Farthing Court not big enough for you?”
Arthur perceived he had made a mistake. “Town hous
e,” he amended hastily.
“You’ve got one.”
“Another one.”
“Ah.” Gerald said no more, but he sensed a mystery, and it was his experience that where there was mystery there might be money.
*
At twenty minutes to twelve His Majesty descended the staircase, silk top-hatted, frock-coated, pearl-grey waist-coated, and cane in hand. The assembled party bowed or curtseyed, and a small girl presented him with his buttonhole. The king nevertheless was deeply displeased. Louisa had not yet arrived. On the other hand, the Comtesse Eleonore, looking more winning than ever in a delightful lemon-yellow gown and matching muslin-swathed hat, curtseyed deeply, and stood demurely by, awaiting the party’s departure. The king disliked unpunctuality; it reminded him too much of Alexandra. Of all people, Louisa should know that after all these years. As he advanced towards Eleonore, however, he heard a commotion behind him; frowning, he looked round to see a distraught Louisa rushing down the stairs, and all eyes turned to her in astonishment. She too was immaculately dressed in pale-yellow silk — save for her head on which a housemaid’s mob cap rested.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. A domestic accident,” she babbled. “My hats have been stolen.”
Apart from unpunctuality, if there was one thing His Majesty could not tolerate, it was a woman improperly dressed. “Madam.” He bowed formally to the duchess, then turned to the comtesse and took her arm. Mightily surprised that her own methods of ensuring this happy outcome had been unnecessary, Eleonore took her place at the King’s side, comforting her conscience that the senna pods in Her Grace’s coffee could now work their wicked will without undue embarrassment to the duchess.
Desolate, Louisa returned to her room, and met Auguste on the way — not entirely by accident on his part. “It isn’t fair,” she blurted out.
“What is wrong, Your Grace?”
“Every single hat,” she moaned. “The big one with the roses, the dear little cloche, the straw — all thirty hats vanished. Even the black one for mourning. It’s that woman,” she confided. “It must be. She didn’t want to entertain His Majesty herself, but can’t bear the thought that I did, so she stole my hats.”
“How could she do that, Madam?”
But to this there was no answer, as a glazed look came over Louisa’s face, and without her usual merry laugh she hurried — almost ran — on her way.
*
“Vous êtes très belle, madame.”
In the bride’s room Jeanne Planchet sent her lady to meet her destiny, with fewer cares in the world. This morning had been arduous, with the bride’s aunt, the bride’s sister, a duchess or two and several other guests all volunteering their unprofessional services. For some inexplicable reason, something blue had had to be provided, something old and something new — the latter, in mademoiselle’s fortunate case, had proved no problem.
Mademoiselle Gertrude had said little. Nerves, thought Jeanne uninterestedly, much more intent on her own good fortune. She admitted her mistress made a lovely bride, and in her own miraculously restored good humour she devoted her best efforts to Mademoiselle Gertrude’s hair. After all, it wouldn’t be for much longer.
This morning Jeanne, too, had seized the opportunity for un petit mot with Mr Entwhistle, whom she had been most surprised to find at Farthing Court. She had quite calmly informed him that she could ruin this wedding if she were to speak of what she knew, and she was hardly surprised to find he agreed with her. What was it worth to him for her to say nothing? She suggested it would be quite a lot, and was hardly surprised to find he agreed with her again. The sum was easily enough to pay her passage to America, without Mademoiselle Gertrude, and what was all the more pleasant is that it had been instantly forthcoming and was already tucked inside her stays in crisp English twenty-pound notes. Revenge was very sweet.
*
At ten to twelve the bride descended the staircase and took her father’s arm. Gertrude reminded herself that she had made her decision and Pennyfathers never changed their minds. She couldn’t let poor Arthur down now; Farthing Court was crying out for a mistress, and the village of Frimhurst for a lady of the manor, even if she did intend to spend most of her time in parliament once she had won the vote for women.
They proceeded through the open doors, and she walked to the open carriage over a footpath of flowers strewn by village maidens. She had wanted to walk the whole way, but since the church was inconveniently nearly a mile away she had reluctantly changed her mind. At the church Bluebell, in a frock of the same colour as her name, would be waiting for her to perform her duties as bridesmaid, and His Majesty would have taken his place in the front pew. Not to mention three hundred or so guests who had made their way both from the railway station today and from the house this morning. Her path in life was set, and it would be as sunny, she vowed, as these lucky flowers portended. As if to reassure her, the sun at last emerged. Gertrude managed to smile. Marriage to Richard, she told herself, would have been very dull, and her fears over Arthur were merely last minute nerves to which all brides were entitled, even American ones, who knew exactly where lay their path through life.
*
Auguste flew round the kitchen with the ease of the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Never had his preparations for such a large wedding breakfast gone so easily. Aspics slid from moulds, côtelettes de mouton glacé glistened, stuffings remained obediently inside their hosts, instead of taking every opportunity of escape to the outer world, the huge sheaves of parsley detailed as emergency shielders of slight flaws in presentation were almost uncalled upon and cream remained good-temperedly uncurdled, as did the mayonnaise. The Sydney Smith Salad slid onto the lettuce leaves without a murmur of complaint instead of clinging in little balls of discontent.
May had arrived, spring could be greeted, the days of winter were past. Auguste rejoiced, humming happily to himself. So happily he even failed to notice he was humming the dance music from Eugéne Onegin, something he usually avoided since Tchaikovsky was Gregorin’s passion — in addition to cheese.
Everything was now ready, down to the last truffle in the garnish. Soon the happy pair, His Majesty and the guests would be back, ready to celebrate the day with champagne and more importantly, an Auguste Didier banquet. He had noticed with some disquiet that the white may was still in the house, despite Mrs Honey’s best efforts to remove it, but cheered himself by reflecting that if anything was going to prevent this wedding, it now had very little time left to bring it about. All the same, the disquiet refused to go away, and he found himself listening for the slightest sound of the guests returning. It must stem from Entwhistle — he tried firmly to think of him thus — and the general air of enchantment over Farthing Court, for he could not rid himself of the thought that something evil lurked here. However, it was too late now; once the ingredients were cooked, only tasting would tell if poison lay within.
He suddenly cried out in horror, “What are you doing, Jenny?” The girl was actually decorating a trifle with caviare.
“I’m sorry, Mr Didier.” She was appalled at her mistake. “My grannie says that this be an unlucky day.”
“It certainly would have been for those who like trifle,” he pointed out.
“She read the tealeaves, you see.” Her mind was still not on trifle. “She’s looking forward to today, she says.”
“We all are. A wedding is a happy day.”
“No. She’s looking forward to the downfall of the Montfoys.”
“By his lordship’s marriage?” Auguste was taken aback. “Don’t know. But something nasty,” said Jenny darkly. “They can all sense it in the village. Delighted, they are.”
“But the Montfoys are popular surely. They’ve been in Frimhurst for hundreds of years.”
“My gran hates them. And so do the Spades. The Montfoys threw them out of their home.”
“Why does your grandmother hate them?”
“Her dad were one of them. Wrong side of the
blanket of course, but they did nothing for him. All the same the Montfoys, take what they like and give nothing back. That’s what my gran says.”
“Not the present Lord Arthur, surely?”
“You ask Bessie Wickman, Mr Didier.”
Auguste decided not to. In his opinion, Bessie was hardly an innocent village maiden, and could well take care of herself. In half an hour not even Bessie Wickman could untie the knot that would bring prosperity back to the Montfoys.
*
The Frimhurst bells rang out joyously partly because of the knowledge of the imminent influx of new money, but mainly because the beer supplied by Mr Entwhistle to their ringers had been very copious indeed. The bride and groom were coming out of the church, closely followed by His Majesty the King. Frimhurst had a new Lady Montfoy. The bride retrod the flower-strewn path, and a shower of rice (carefully arranged by Bessie to hit her full in the face) rained down its promise of fertility. Over three hundred guests swarmed out into the churchyard, and the village people congregated on the green, waved hats and curtseyed to everyone and no one. They too were joyous. One more day, a few rounds of the Sellingers dance round the maypole, one more performance of the (newly) famous Frimhurst Horn Dance, and the White Dragon would be safe and not least they could all get back to work. Even the school had been given a whole day off today instead of the usual grudging hour to watch the infants dance round the maypole.
The bride, smiling in relief that the die had been cast, climbed up into the carriage, her groom beside her, ready to drive to the home she fondly thought was now hers. Arthur uneasily remembered the fact that sooner or later she had to be disillusioned, but congratulated himself that Gertrude, like all his ladies, would most certainly be his devoted slave after the events of the night to come.
*
Auguste greeted the sun which had now reluctantly decided to remain out. The champagne had flowed, the banquet was over, and the guests were gathering to walk to the maypole ceremony. Looking at the remains of a feast could be a mournful experience for a chef — or a joyful one. What had been eaten, what remained, could tell a poignant story or a happy one. Auguste surveyed the tables in the ballroom, where the gold and silver decorations and flowers (stripped of their green leaves) presided complacently over the empty fruit bowls and glasses beneath them. The plates from the main two-course dinner (consisting of forty alternative dishes each) had been removed together with the left-over food. He went into the serving room where many of the food dishes still remained. Why had the lobster salad been avoided, and the canetons rôti devoured? He would have expected the opposite, especially since diners were now unaccustomed to such a method of dining, where desserts, vegetables, salads and roasts could all make up a second course, and assiettes volantés — flying dishes — came straight from the kitchen with choice delicacies. The art of eating changed with the number of those dining, and according to the interest or otherwise of the conversation; after so long he thought he had grasped the principles but he was constantly surprised.