A Marchioness Below Stairs

by Alissa Baxter

  She looked up at George’s elegant four-story house, which was situated on the north side of the Square. It faced a central lawned area, laid out in shrubberies, and enclosed by black iron railings.

  Tapping her mother on the arm, she said, “How lovely to have our own spot of greenery in the middle of London, Mama.”

  “Indeed, my dear.” Her mother looked around the beautiful Square and smiled happily.

  They entered the house together, with George bowing ceremoniously as his new wife crossed the threshold of their London home for the first time. Isabel looked from one to the other, and then stepped discreetly aside. It was awkward to be playing gooseberry to her mother and her new husband, but it couldn’t be helped. Her mother had insisted she would be lonely if Isabel did not come to London with her.

  However, Isabel knew her mother had an ulterior motive for asking her to stay – she was hoping that she would fall in love and accept a marriage proposal by the end of the Season. Now that her mother had found joy with George, she wanted everyone to be as happy as she was. Isabel didn’t have the heart to tell her, once again, that her cherished hope was in vain.

  George’s London home was as tastefully decorated as Chernock Hall, and Isabel looked around with approval as she was led upstairs to a sizeable bedchamber on the second floor. The rich blue curtains at the sash windows, which looked out onto the Square, matched the sumptuous bed hangings on the four poster bed, and the oriental carpets on the hardwood floor were soft to her feet as she kicked her slippers off, and walked across to the Spode pitcher on the dressing table.

  She poured some water into the matching basin, and splashed it on her face, before lying down on the bed. She breathed in deeply. The air was redolent with the scent of a large bowl of roses which had been placed on a nearby sofa table. She rested for twenty minutes or so before putting her shoes back on and walking downstairs to the airy drawing room, which was situated on the first floor. Her mother was seated on a sofa, clasping a stack of invitation cards in her hands.

  She smiled and patted the space beside her. “Sit down, my dear. George sent notice to a number of his friends that we were coming to London today, and we already have invitations to a couple of evening parties, a rout, a dinner party, and a card party!”

  She handed the invitations to Isabel, and continued: “I thought London would be quite thin of company at this time of the year, but it appears there are already a number of people in Town. I have sent a reply to Lady Rupert, whose evening party we have been invited to tomorrow evening – it won’t be a large affair, George says, and it will ease us into the social rush.”

  Isabel and her mother spent the next morning shopping for various bits and pieces, before they paid a visit to an exclusive modiste who exclaimed that she was delighted to have the dressing of Madame la Marquise. Isabel put in an order for a new ball gown, a couple of morning dresses, a carriage dress, and a pelisse, as well as a couple of sturdier dresses in a dull, serviceable grey. When her mother raised her brows at this, Isabel said: “They’re for when I work in the gardens at Axbridge, Mama. I cannot weed the flowerbeds in my muslins.”

  Later that afternoon, George drove them in an open carriage to Hyde Park to take the air, before they returned home and dressed for the party that evening. Lord Rupert had a large house in Grosvenor Square, and when they arrived, a throng of guests were already walking about the grand reception rooms, talking and laughing and playing cards at tables which had been set up in the salon.

  George introduced Isabel to a number of people, who welcomed her with varying degrees of warmth. The gentlemen were particularly friendly, but many of the women had a coolly assessing expression in their eyes as they murmured polite greetings. Isabel did not let them bother her. Ever since she had been widowed the previous year, she had become accustomed to women treating her with wariness upon first being introduced to her.

  What was it Mary Wollstonecraft had written? She turned to her mother after a particularly frosty greeting from a widowed matron of around her own age, and quoted softly as that lady walked away: “But women are… all rivals… and view each other with a suspicious eye.”

  “Hush, dear!” her mother said, with an admonishing look. “Remember what I told you about quoting Wollstonecraft in public!”

  Her mother left her side then to speak to an acquaintance, and Isabel’s gaze swept around Lady Rupert’s stately drawing room. Her shoulders stiffened when she spotted Mr Wetherby. He bowed, and walked across the room to her.

  “Your devoted slave, Lady Axbridge.”

  Isabel flinched at his use of the word ‘slave’. “Indeed?” she asked frigidly.

  He stepped closer. “Your beautiful face haunts my dreams.”

  “Well, your execrable behaviour in my cousin’s library haunts mine. It was beyond the pale.”

  He arched a sly brow. “I was a trifle in my cups, I must admit, but you did not appear averse to my attentions.”

  “Did not appear averse to your attentions?” Isabel enunciated each syllable in an awful manner. She studied him narrowly. “I could not make my feelings clear then, Mr Wetherby, as you were a guest in my cousin’s home, but now I can speak freely. I did not welcome your advances in the library at Chernock Hall and I do not welcome them now.”

  His lascivious gaze dipped to her décolletage. “As I once said, Lady Axbridge, a woman is often most captivated by the man she appears to be holding at bay.”

  “You are delusional, sir!”

  “I think not.” His pale blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen how you look at me.”

  Isabel stared at him in consternation. It was like talking to a brick wall. He refused to give credence to anything she said. Without a word, she walked away from him and spotted Mr Bateman in the corner of the room, speaking to Miss Wetherby. There was no need for him to engage her in conversation, now that they had left Chernock Hall, so why was he speaking to her?

  Of course, the younger woman was conventionally pretty with a slightly helpless air which some gentlemen might find appealing. Isabel had just not considered Mr Bateman to be one of those gentlemen.

  He glanced up then, and saw her, and after a brief bow in Miss Wetherby’s direction, left her side and crossed the room to where Isabel stood.

  “Lady Axbridge. I trust you are well?”

  “I am, thank you,” she said in a cool voice.

  A gleam of devilry appeared in his eyes. “You are vexed.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are vexed that I said that you were vexed. You are, indeed, doubly vexed.”

  “You, sir, are doubly infuriating.” She stood straighter.

  “Something has made you fly up into the boughs.” He considered her thoughtfully. “My conversation with Miss Wetherby, I presume?”

  “Why should I care whom you choose to speak to?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  “I am not jealous, if that is what you are implying.” She wrinkled her nose. “I merely question your taste.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, and Isabel gave him a speaking glance. A number of people had turned to stare in their direction. “Mr Bateman!” she hissed. “You draw attention to yourself.”

  “At least I am drawing something to myself.” The laughter faded from his face, and he looked down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Now, my dear, as your friend, I believe it is incumbent upon me to take you riding in Rotten Row tomorrow morning. You are accustomed to country hours, and I imagine you will enjoy the exercise.”

  She stared up at him for a long moment, before saying, rather hesitantly, “Thank you, sir. I would like that.”

  And so they settled into a pattern where Mr Bateman would call for her early in the morning and they would ride side by side on the Row, which, at a mile and a quarter long, was long enough for them to give their horses their heads. Fortunately, George kept a spirited mare in his stables, which needed the exercise, and she suited Isabel perfectly.

  They mostly
encountered grooms exercising their master’s horses, although a limited number of other ladies and gentlemen of the ton also eschewed late town hours and started their days with a good gallop in the park.

  Later, during the afternoon promenade, the carriages and horses on the Row were expected to move at a more sedate pace, and it was impossible for riders to allow their horses to break into a canter, let alone a gallop. So Isabel took the opportunity to ride with Mr Bateman early in the day, enjoying the freedom it gave her. Living in the city made her feel hemmed in at times after having lived in the countryside for so many years.

  She did wonder whether her frequent outings to Rotten Row with Mr Bateman might be noticed and remarked upon, but as most members of the beau monde were still abed at that hour, she did not worry overly much about any gossip which might link their names together. Besides, it was only on very rare occasions that she accepted invitations from Mr Bateman to take the air during the fashionable hour in Hyde Park.

  Mr Bateman, true to his word, treated her as a friend. He was warmly interested in her life, without being invasive; he gave her brotherly advice about the members of the ton it would be best to avoid; and he lent her his assistance in getting the revised pamphlet she had written published. In fact, he had turned out to be a model acquaintance. That she found the current state of their association somewhat unsatisfactory she admitted only to herself in the darkest hours of the night when the memory of his intoxicating kisses flooded her mind and swept away all reason.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One evening a couple of weeks later, when they were dining en famille, Isabel commented on the fragrant curry her stepfather had just served her. “Your chef is very talented, George. Almost as talented as the chef at Chernock Hall,” she said, with a mischievous smile. “I would like to observe how he makes a curry, so that I can teach my cook at Axbridge how to do so. She has very little knowledge of Eastern spices.”

  “He is a talented chef, my dear, but he cannot take the credit for this curry. It was sent across from The Hindoostane Coffee House. It is an innovative concept, I must say. If given previous notice, the restaurant will send Indian dinners directly to one’s house. My chef has no knowledge of Indian food, so when I’m in Town, Watkins orders Indian dishes from The Hindoostane.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened. “What a novel idea! I did not know such a service existed.”

  After the meal ended, Isabel chatted to her mother in the drawing room for half an hour before excusing herself and walking below stairs to the butler’s room where Watkins was polishing the silver.

  “Your ladyship!” He wiped his hands hurriedly on a piece of cloth and put the silver jug he had been shining on the table in front of him. “How may I assist you?”

  “Mr Chernock mentioned The Hindoostane Coffee House to me, Watkins. You ordered the curry at table this evening from there, I believe?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Watkins said. “Mr Chernock is very partial to a good curry dish, and I often order meals to be delivered.”

  “Do you know who owns this restaurant?” she asked casually.

  The butler cleared his throat. “It used to be owned by an Indian migrant, your ladyship. He suffered some financial difficulties, however, and the restaurant is now owned by his previous partner – a man by the name of Spencer.”

  “And where might this restaurant be?”

  “It is 34 George Street, my lady, just off Portman Square.”

  “Thank you, Watkins. Good evening.”

  Isabel walked upstairs to the drawing room, a furrow between her brows. She had developed a taste for spicy food since she had sampled the curries Mr Bateman had prepared at Chernock Hall. Although she had dined in the past on the curries and pilaus her cook had made using recipes from Hannah Glasse’s The Art Of Cookery Made Plain and Simple, they had tasted nothing like the Indian food served this evening at the dining table.

  Hannah Glasse’s recipes contained more herbs than spices, and were prepared with coriander seeds, salt, peppercorns and lemon juice. And although they tasted pleasant enough, they lacked the piquant flavours of the spicier Indian food.

  There was a way that she could learn how to make these Indian dishes, however. Her mother would not approve of it, but there was no need to tell her. It would be a pity to waste such a perfect opportunity, particularly as George Street was so close to Portman Square.

  The next morning, she sat down at the writing table in her dressing room, and putting quill to paper, she wrote a short note, before sealing it with wax. She walked downstairs to the entrance hall where she asked Peter the footman to deliver it, before retiring to the library to catch up on her reading.

  She was engrossed in a history of the Ancient World when Peter entered the room with a letter addressed to her. Opening the note, she quickly scanned it, before putting it down on the sofa beside her. He had agreed to her suggestion! Now the only thing she needed to do was to convince Simmonds to help her.

  “My lady! I cannot assist you with this,” her maid said, when Isabel approached her. “It is a scandalous idea.”

  “But it would only be for a couple of hours each day for the next three days. There can be no harm in it.”

  “No harm in it? What if you are discovered, my lady? Your reputation would be ruined!”

  “But I won’t be discovered,” Isabel said calmly. “I will wear one of my grey gardening dresses, and my grey woollen cloak, and with one of your mob caps pulled down low over my hair, no one will recognise me. And the restaurant is only a short distance away. Once we leave Portman Square, all we have to do is walk up Baker Street to George Street.”

  “Why do you want to learn to make such foreign food, my lady? Nasty stuff, it is. It burns the mouth and smells ever so strong.”

  Isabel shrugged her shoulders. “It has a unique taste, which I enjoy.”

  Her maid sighed. “I will accompany you, my lady, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”

  The next day, at ten o clock in the morning, Isabel and Simmonds left Chernock House via the servants’ entrance. With her head bent low, Isabel hurried up Baker Street, before turning into George Street, and knocking on the door of No. 34.

  She looked surreptitiously to the left and the right as they waited for someone to open the door. It took an age, but it was finally opened by a man-servant dressed in sober black. He stepped to one side, and they entered the house which had been transformed into a restaurant.

  Isabel’s gaze swept the ground floor rooms, which were neatly fitted up en suite, and furnished with chairs and sofas made of bamboo canes in the colonial style. A number of dinner tables, covered with crisp white linen, were scattered around the room, and Chinese pictures and other Asiatic embellishments, representing views in India, oriental sports, and groups of natives, decorated the walls, contributing to the relaxed ambience of the place.

  Isabel sniffed the air. “What is that strange smell?”

  The man-servant looked down his long nose at her. “We have a room set apart for smoking from hookahs with oriental herbs. You are the cook and the cook’s assistant, employed in the service of the Marchioness of Axbridge?”

  Isabel nodded her head.

  “In future, you must use the lower entrance. You should not have knocked on the front door.”

  Realising her mistake, Isabel’s cheeks flushed with warmth. It had not even crossed her mind that she should have used the entrance for servants and tradesmen. She would not make such a foolish mistake again.

  She and Simmonds followed the man-servant down the twisting wooden servants’ stairs to the basement, which had a cold flag-stoned floor and plain white plaster walls, and was lit by strategically placed tallow candles and oil lamps. They hung their cloaks on a couple of hooks in the corridor, which the man-servant pointed out, and passed a scullery, a china pantry, and a meat larder, before finally arriving at the kitchen.

  When she walked inside, Isabel breathed in the tantalising aroma of exotic-smel
ling food. The scent conjured up the foreign lands she had read about in the library at Axbridge Park, and somehow those faraway places seemed more real to her now that she had sampled piquant Indian food.

  The dark-skinned cook, who wore a colourful turban on his head as opposed to a toque, stood before a cast iron cooking range. He glanced up as they advanced further into his working quarters. The light which streamed through the overhead skylight illuminated the kitchen table in the centre of the room. To the left of the table, a large dresser stood against the wall, from which various sized copper pots, pans and jugs were suspended from hooks attached to the wooden front. Dinnerware, as well as pepper, coffee and spice mills, were stacked on the shelves.

  The cook moved across to the kitchen table, and placed a chopping block into a slot in the table. “You are the cooks sent from Lady Axbridge?” he asked, his dark eyes narrowing.

  “Yes,” Isabel said.

  “This is not usual – this arrangement. But my master agreed to it,” he said.

  “My mistress enjoys dining on curries, so she has sent me to learn how to cook them, as she lives mostly retired in the countryside where we have not learned to cook in the Indian way,” Isabel said.

  “Curries – curries – the British always say that word. But it is a lazy word. We label our dishes by specific names. That is the first thing to learn.”

  Isabel nodded her head, and the cook continued, “Observe me as I work. This chicken dish is Indianised British food and is called Country Captain. Greatly enjoyed by the many gentlemen who come here for their midday meal, but not actually eaten in India…”

  “But we wish to learn how to make authentic Indian food – not Indianised British food.” Isabel frowned.

  “That is not at all possible!” the cook said, opening his arms wide. “There are no fresh spices available in England. In India, we cook with fresh spices. The ones we use here have been on a ship for half a year. So we – what is the English word? – adapt. The curry powder which is used in Britain is not used in India.”