Chapter Five
“I have brought Mr Bateman to help you,” Cousin George said.
Isabel stared at Mr Bateman incredulously. “You know how to cook, Mr Bateman?”
“I worked in a kitchen under the supervision of a French chef for a couple of years,” he said, crossing his arms.
She tilted her head to one side. “A strange pursuit for a gentleman… Did you find it a rewarding occupation?”
“It was a way in which I could earn my living, and it proved to be an enjoyable post. I am quite prepared to take over from you, my lady.”
“It is no hardship for me to stay below stairs,” Isabel said quietly.
Cousin George nodded. “You have been placed in an insupportable position, my dear, with Fenmore arriving here so unexpectedly. I do believe, however, that you should not be seen to be taking flight. Besides, it is also no hardship for Mr Bateman.” He cast an amused glance at his friend. “He is being – er – pursued by Miss Wetherby. I believe he would like to spend some time away from her and her matchmaking Mama. I will inform the two ladies that he is indisposed.”
“I believe it will be best if Lady Axbridge assists with the meal preparations during the day, but dines with the rest of the guests in the evening,” Mr Bateman said.
“That is advisable. Tell me, my dear, do we have sufficient supplies for the meals that need to be prepared?”
“Your chef has laid in an extensive array of provisions for the house party,” Isabel answered.
“Excellent, excellent.” The crease disappeared from between his eyes. “You and your dear mama are managing my domestic arrangements admirably. Your mama will have her hands full thinking up ways to entertain our guests, now that we are housebound.”
Cousin George tapped the edge of the kitchen table with his fingers, a pensive expression on his lean countenance. “I have been meaning to petition Fenmore for a seat in the House of Commons. Having him unexpectedly under my roof provides an ideal opportunity for me to do so, but I will need to provide some distraction for the Wetherbys so that I can get Lord Fenmore on his own today.”
He spoke to Mr Bateman, and Isabel, after a quick glance at the clock on the wall, hastily turned her attention to the cakes which needed to be baked. When her cousin left the room a short while later, she glanced up to see Mr Bateman studying her.
“Let me assist you with those cakes, my lady.”
“Thank you. Becky!” she called. The maid, along with Molly and Simmonds, had disappeared into the dry larder when the gentlemen had made their unexpected appearance in the kitchen.
The young girl poked her head out of the larder. “Yes, milady?”
“Mr Bateman will assist us in the kitchen today. Please bring him a toque and an apron.”
Becky’s eyes widened. “Yes, milady.” She hurried to the kitchen dresser, and while Mr Bateman attired himself appropriately, Isabel cracked an egg into a bowl for the plum cake she was baking.
“Let me do that for you, while you grate the sugar.” Mr Bateman took the bowl out of her hands.
His fingers brushed hers and Isabel whipped her hands behind her back. “You – you need to leave out half of the egg whites.”
Flustered, she looked away and rested her gaze on the cake ingredients Becky had placed on the table. A sugar container with the words “East India Sugar not made by Slaves” inscribed on it caught her eye.
She picked up the container and took out the small cone, before grating the sugar into a large mixing bowl. “I am grateful Cousin George forbids slave-grown sugar in his household. I would be vastly uncomfortable baking with Caribbean sugar.”
Mr Bateman raised one brow. “I would be surprised if he did stock slave-grown sugar when he is seeking a seat in the House of Commons to work towards the abolition of slavery.”
Isabel stopped grating to stare at him. “I did not know that.”
“That is why Cherny is trying to keep Captain Wetherby and his son away from Lord Fenmore. Fenmore is known to have abolitionist views and the Wetherbys own a sugar plantation in Antigua. It makes for an awkward house party.”
“I cannot understand why Cousin George invited the Wetherbys here if they are slave owners.”
Mr Bateman picked up the open recipe book which Isabel had placed on the table. “I believe Mrs Wetherby is a close childhood friend of your Cousin Maria and it was she who invited the family.”
“Oh.” Isabel frowned as she put the sugar cone back into the container. She began sifting the flour. “When the slave trade was abolished, slavery should have been abolished as well. It is a disgrace that it continues.” She looked across at him. “Do you not agree?”
“I find my fellow countrymen somewhat inconsistent.” He placed the recipe book back on the table. “The protestations over sugar, rum and tobacco products are admirable, but there are very few protests about the importation of slave-grown cotton. Raw slave cotton is imported from America and manufactured in our textile mills. That apron you wear is made from cotton. So is your cap, and I daresay that charming gown you are attired in. Refusing to use slave-grown sugar, yet walking around in slave-grown cotton seems hypocritical to me.”
Isabel drew in a sharp breath, and absently rubbed the cotton material of the slightly out-of-date morning dress she had donned that morning to work in the kitchen. A number of the garments she wore on a daily basis were made of cotton. Many of her gowns were muslins woven in India, of course, but she wore cotton stays and morning dresses. Yet it wasn’t something she had given much thought to in the past. She frowned. “Why is so little said about the cotton trade?”
He picked up the blanched Jordan almonds from the table, and poured them in the marble mortar. “The slavery abolitionists have chosen the easiest targets to protest against. The cotton trade is far too important to the continued wealth of this country for any protests against it to be taken seriously.”
She sighed. “And we cannot walk about unclothed…”
The minute the words were out her mouth, she wished them unsaid. The gleam in Mr Bateman’s eyes as his gaze swept from the top of her head to the tips of her toes was unmistakeable.
Her cheeks grew as fiery as the coals in the kitchen range, and Mr Bateman looked even more amused when he studied her face.
She stared speechlessly at him, finding it impossible to look away, until he said, “Let us make haste, my lady. If we don’t, these cakes will not be ready in time for breakfast.”
“In-indeed… Here are the dry ingredients.” Isabel handed him the bowl, and turning on her heel, she rushed to the other side of the room to check on the bread in the oven. The further away she stayed from Mr Bateman, the better.
She eyed him surreptitiously as he issued instructions to Becky and Molly. He seemed entirely at ease in the kitchen, and she had the subtle impression that she had been demoted from Captain of the ship to Captain’s clerk. Gone was the leisurely gentleman from yesterday, taking his ease at a country house party. Now he appeared brisk, efficient and utterly in command.
The footmen arrived an hour or so later, and Isabel sank gratefully onto a chair after all the breakfast dishes had been taken upstairs. Becky placed a pot of tea and a couple of tea cups on the kitchen table before them, and Mr Bateman drew up a chair beside Isabel’s.
She handed him a cup of tea, and said in a rush of words: “I trust that Cousin George will be able to make progress in the movement to abolish slavery. It is a terrible thing in this enlightened age that one human being can still be the property of another.”
“You would have knowledge of that,” he said quietly. “Were you not once sold yourself?”
She wrapped her arms around her middle. How did he know about her father’s actions? “I would never deign to compare marrying into a life of comfort and luxury to those poor wretched souls, sold into abject misery.”
“But you were still sold, my lady.” His voice was gentle.
Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away. “You speak ou
t of turn, sir!” She looked down at the kitchen table. “Did Cousin George inform you of this?”
“I heard the rumours about your broken engagement, and how you married Axbridge shortly afterwards. That was just before I left England. However, I cannot believe you threw Fenmore over willingly. You have a very revealing face, my dear.”
She ignored the endearment as she stared at him. He hadn’t answered her question. The circumstances which had surrounded her marriage to the Marquess of Axbridge had been kept private. Very few people knew her father had forced her to end her betrothal to the man she loved as he had been unable to resist the bride price the Marquess of Axbridge had dangled so temptingly before him.
Marrying an old man in ill health, who had seen her merely as a pretty decoration to be displayed in his home, had been deeply distressing. But knowing her father had allowed the Marquess to pay him a substantial amount of money to settle his debts as part of the marriage settlement had been heart-breaking, as it had shown her that he viewed her merely as his property, another slave, just as Mr Bateman had pointed out.
She had saved her family’s fortunes, but she had lost her dignity and freedom in the process. And the irony of it all was that Julian’s father and his older brother had died a few years ago and her erstwhile suitor had eventually come into the fortune which her father had once deemed so lacking.
She picked up her cup of tea and took a quick sip. “Slavery in all its forms is abhorrent.” She glanced up at him then, and caught her breath at the sympathy she saw in his eyes.
* * *
Later that day, Isabel turned this way and that as she examined her reflection in the glass in her bedchamber. Her pale green silk evening gown, embroidered in a delicate leaf pattern, glowed in the candlelight. The broad, square neckline and moderately puffed sleeves were bordered by gold lace, which matched the softly scalloped lace which trimmed the overskirt. She tweaked a ringlet into place.
“Will I do, Simmonds?”
“My lady, you look beautiful.”
“Jewellery?”
“The cameo necklace and earring set?”
Isabel nodded, and stood still as her maid attached the gold filigree necklace, with the oval cameo in the centre, around her neck, before fastening the matching earrings. “My evening gloves, please.”
Simmonds helped her pull the long white gloves up her arms and Isabel took a deep breath as she prepared to leave her bedchamber. Her mother had spun some story to the Fenmore party and the Wetherbys that she had been nursing Cousin Maria all day, which was why she hadn’t made an appearance as yet. But now she had to face them all.
When she entered the drawing room, there were only two women present. Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton sat on the settee. They turned at Isabel’s entrance and the older lady smiled graciously at her. “My dear Lady Axbridge, I hear from your mama that you have been attending your cousin on her sickbed. I hope she is feeling more the thing?”
Isabel sat on a chair across from the two ladies, near the blazing fire. “Good evening, ma’am, Miss Hamilton.” She smiled at the younger woman, who had risen to curtsey. “My poor cousin is taking a while to recover from the influenza. She believes, however, that she will be on her feet within the next week.”
“That is to be hoped,” Lady Fenmore said. “It is dreadful to feel so pulled, particularly with a houseful of guests.”
“I hope you are comfortable, Lady Fenmore?”
“Indeed we are, my dear. And what a splendid library your cousin has. Miss Hamilton spent a large portion of the day there browsing the shelves.”
“Your cousin caters for readers of all tastes, Lady Axbridge. I curled up in a window seat this morning, and read Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” Miss Hamilton said.
“Byron is one of my favourite poets, although my mama is wont to believe he is excessively melancholic.” Isabel’s shoulders relaxed. Both Lady Fenmore and Miss Hamilton’s manners were impeccable in the face of a difficult social situation. She had, of course, met Lady Fenmore when she had accepted her son’s proposal all those years ago, and she had been most gracious and kind. Now, her demeanour was just as sympathetic, and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s chosen topic of conversation was not to be faulted.
She was about to ask Miss Hamilton her thoughts on Byron’s earlier works when she saw the other lady’s expression change as she looked across the room. Lord Fenmore and Cousin George had arrived.
Lord Fenmore was splendidly attired in evening dress, and his patrician features softened as he approached Miss Hamilton. It was clear he had eyes for no-one else, even though he bowed politely in Isabel’s direction and murmured a greeting.
Very shortly afterwards the rest of the guests followed them, including her mother who was conversing with Mrs Wetherby, who seemed quite put out about something. When her mother came over to her a few moments later, she murmured, “Mrs Wetherby is concerned about Mr Bateman’s indisposition.”
“Ah. I see. I did wonder.”
Isabel smiled and made polite conversation with the various members of the house party, including the Vicar who had come up to the Hall for dinner, but it was as if she were acting on a stage, while watching her own performance. How detached she was from it all! What a blessed relief to feel so numb, as if her feelings had been frozen into the ice sculpture Mr Bateman had so painstakingly created earlier in the day. She had watched with fascination as he had taken his scalpel and created the magnificent eagle destined to adorn the centre of the dining room table.
When Green announced that dinner was served, Isabel led the procession of guests from the drawing room into the adjoining saloon, and then beyond to the dining room. Fortunately, she, as the highest ranking female at the house party, would sit at the foot of the table at Cousin George’s right, while Lord Fenmore, as the highest ranking male guest, would sit on the right side of her mother at the head of the table. She would not have to speak to him, thank heavens. It was a small mercy, especially as it was obvious he was in love with Miss Hamilton.
After the guests had taken their seats, the Vicar said grace and the meal began. They were served the first course, which was the soup Isabel had prepared only a few hours previously. She supped the broth cautiously and breathed a sigh of relief. It tasted just like soup should taste, which was all she could hope for at this point.
“You are not too fatigued, Cousin Isabel?” her cousin asked.
Seeing the inquiring light in his eyes, Isabel smiled. “I am quite well, thank you.”
After the first course was completed, Cousin George served her from the platters closest to him on the table, and poured her a glass of wine. A multitude of dishes were spread across the table, including roast partridge, a number of jellies, a variety of vegetables, custards, puddings and game. Isabel glanced at the array of food, and swallowed nervously. Hopefully it would be up to the standard the guests expected.
Cousin George carved the roast beef and the partridge, before he proposed a toast to the general health of his guests. In response, Lord Fenmore said, “We thank you for your fine hospitality, Chernock. Indeed, I have been saying to Mrs Beresford that you have a genius at work in the kitchen. I travelled to India as a youth and enjoyed their curries. For years I have been asking my chef to replicate the recipes, with little success. He is averse to the flavours of the East and stubbornly adheres to French recipes. If it is not too much of an imposition, would you send your chef up here so I may compliment him, and request he share his secrets?”
Cousin George froze. “Of course, of course, Fenmore. Green will send a message to him. I am sure he will be delighted to write down some of his recipes for you.”
“No, indeed, I would like to meet this genius and compliment him on his efforts,” Lord Fenmore insisted.
Cousin George nodded at the butler. “Please ask my chef to come upstairs, Green.”
Isabel’s stomach dropped. How on earth could Mr Bateman avoid coming upstairs after Lord Fenmore had specifically requ
ested to speak to him? It would smack of great incivility and impertinence if he sent up some excuse. But to meet Lord Fenmore face to face would invite disaster.
Her heart raced and her forehead became unpleasantly clammy. She stopped eating, and waited in a fatalistic way for the sword of Damocles to descend upon their heads. Poor Cousin George would be humiliated beyond belief and it would be impossible to avoid the scandal which would spread as a tasty on-dit throughout the ton, the moment the guests left Chernock Hall.
Minutes ticked away, and Isabel gave her cousin a sidelong glance. He looked outwardly calm but a fine sheen of perspiration was visible on his forehead, and he held his glass of wine a little too tightly as he brought it to his lips. A lot was at stake for him. She did not know if he had approached Lord Fenmore as yet about the seat in the House of Commons, but the upshot from this evening could be that Lord Fenmore would be ill-disposed to assist him in any way.
The door to the dining room opened eventually, and Green entered, followed by Mr Bateman. However, it wasn’t Mr Bateman. Isabel gazed in astonishment at the caricature before her. Mr Bateman must have raided the amateur theatrical closet in the Little Parlour.
His closely-cropped blond hair had been covered by a wig, and his chef’s toque perched on top of it. A large curling moustache had been affixed over his mouth, and he had changed into a footman’s livery, of fancy coat, knee breeches and stockings, over which he had swathed a large white apron. He looked like a cross between an English servant and a Frenchman gone mad.
He bowed politely to the assembled company, and Lord Fenmore said: “I congratulate you, my good man, on preparing the best curry I have tasted this side of India. Your master has assured me you will not be averse to sharing your recipes.”
Mr Bateman bowed again, and spoke in rolling accents: “It ees indeed un honneur that Monsieur le Comte has requested my présence above the stairs.”
“What spices did you use in your sauce, if I may ask?”
Mr Bateman spread his arms wide. “I utilise many, many spices, Monsieur le Comte. Particulièrement ginger, cayenne, turmeric, cumin and fenugreek. C'est un mélange.”
A Marchioness Below Stairs Page 4