Isabel swallowed her disappointment. She had so hoped to prepare genuine Indian dishes, but it made sense that their food could not be exactly the same when the ingredients were different.
She stepped closer as the cook picked up a roasting chicken from a platter at the edge of the table, and placed it on a marble slab. “Now – I cut this chicken into eight pieces, trim off the fat and fry it in ghee until it has browned. The British prefer to braise meat in stock at all times, but we fry meat in ghee or fat.” He shot her a piercing glance. “You understand? If you fail to fry it, it will not have the authentic flavour.”
“I will remember,” Isabel said, trying to ignore Simmonds, who was bristling beside her.
The cook cut up the chicken before taking the pieces over to the cast iron range where he started to fry them in a large pan.
“Come over here.” He gestured in their direction.
Isabel crossed to the range, with Simmonds dragging her feet behind her, and closely observed what he was doing. After he had finished frying the chicken, he removed the pieces and set them to one side.
Walking back to the kitchen table, he sliced two onions on the wooden chopping board, before crushing five cloves of garlic, chopping a few green chillies, and grating some root ginger. Returning to the range, he added the onions to the ghee and fried them for a few minutes, before adding the garlic and root ginger to the pan.
“Now I take one teaspoon of turmeric, the chillies, two teaspoons of ground black pepper and two cloves. Then I cook them all for a couple of minutes.” Isabel, who had brought a notebook and a pencil along with her, took them out of her basket and sat down at the kitchen table to take notes.
The cook added the chicken pieces and some stock to the pan, before leaving the contents to simmer with the lid on.
“Now we will make a pilau.” He turned away from the range. “All our dishes are dressed with rice, cayenne and the best spices of Arabia. The pilau is –” He broke off as the kitchen door opened, and Isabel turned to see who had entered the room.
The blood drained from her face when she saw Mr Bateman standing there. What was he doing here? He barely glanced at her and Simmonds, before turning his attention to the cook, who was wiping his hands on a piece of cloth.
“Mr Bateman,” the cook said. “How may I assist you, sir? It is a little early for the midday meal although you may smoke the hookah if you so desire.”
“I am aware of that, Tanuj. I was passing, and wanted to place an order for a dinner party I am hosting later this week. Mr Spencer is not in, so I came downstairs.”
The cook nodded, and the two men discussed the dishes he wished to order, before Mr Bateman gave Isabel a cursory look, and left the room. Isabel’s heart raced. Even though his eyes had only held hers for the briefest moment, their expression had not been promising. In fact, he appeared furious. She swallowed the knot in her throat, and tried to concentrate as the cook demonstrated how to make a perfect lamb pilau, but the entire time he was showing her his cooking methods, she was thinking about what she would say to Mr Bateman the next time she met him.
Chapter Fifteen
Isabel and Simmonds left the restaurant a couple of hours later, using the servants’ entrance this time. Isabel walked up the stairs to street level, and glanced cautiously around. Mr Bateman was not in view. She breathed a sigh of relief, but it was premature. As they stepped into the street she spotted him, leaning casually against a street lamp on the opposite side. “Let us walk on, Simmonds. Make haste.”
Isabel hurried along, with her maid struggling to keep up with her. She looked over her shoulder when she was halfway down Baker Street. Mr Bateman ambled behind them. She wasn’t fooled by the leisurely way in which he strolled. He was most definitely following her. She had just reached the front gate of their house, when Mr Bateman strode towards her.
“Go and change your dress, and then come downstairs to the drawing room. I wish to speak to you.”
Isabel eyed him warily. It would be better to get this confrontation over sooner rather than later, so she gave a brief nod. Her maid opened the wrought-iron gate and Isabel followed her down the servants’ stairs, and then up to her bedchamber. Simmonds changed her gown, tut-tutting all the while, but Isabel ignored the soft clucking sounds she made as she pulled a clean morning dress over her head. Her stomach was in a tight knot and her fingers trembled. She had no desire to face Mr Bateman in his current mood.
Mr Bateman awaited her in the drawing room and when she entered, he closed the door behind her with a decided click. He turned to face her. “Now, Lady Axbridge, I would like an explanation.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I do not see why I need give you any explanation, sir. I am a grown woman and I make my own decisions.”
“Does your mother know you are masquerading as a servant and visiting an Indian restaurant of all places?” he snapped.
Isabel looked away. Something in his voice compelled her to answer his question, even though she heartily wished him at Jericho. “No. I saw no reason to worry her, as it is only for a few days. I am learning to cook Indian cuisine.”
He raised his brows. “Indeed?”
“Yes. I developed a taste for the curries you made when we were at Chernock Hall, and when George told me that the delicious curry we dined on a couple of nights ago had been ordered from The Hindoostane Coffee House, I wrote to Mr Spencer and asked him if his cook would teach my cook and my cook’s assistant to prepare Indian food.” She raised one shoulder. “He agreed.”
When Mr Bateman merely raised his brows, she rushed on: “My cook at Axbridge Park has no idea how to work with spices, so I wanted to learn about them so that I can teach her when I return home.”
“I see.” He crossed to where she stood, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I do not like the fact that you are putting yourself at risk by donning a maid’s garb and walking in the streets alone.”
“I was not alone! I took Simmonds with me. I am not a fool.” The pressure of his hands on her shoulders made her heart race, and she took an involuntary step back.
He released her immediately, and frowned. “You are very beautiful, Lady Axbridge. Your title and position in life provide you with protection from would-be male accosters. However, when you dress as a servant, you open yourself up to all sorts of unsavoury characters who may try to take advantage of you – in the street and in the restaurant. Men gather to smoke and eat there. It is not a safe place for a young woman.”
Isabel shrugged. “I do not agree with you. George Street is all but a stone’s throw from Portman Square so it is unlikely I will be long enough in the street to encounter any men.” The decidedly sceptical look on his face made her snap: “Very well, I did encounter you. But that was pure chance. Did you see me standing at the front door?”
“I did. I was on my way to visit your cousin. That was your first mistake. I did a double-take when I saw a woman knocking on the front door of The Hindoostane. And then I recognised you.”
Isabel gave him a fulminating glance. “I am aware of my mistake. I shall use the servants’ entrance tomorrow morning.”
“You plan to return?”
“I do.”
“Did you not hear a word I just said? It is not safe for you to masquerade as a cook.”
“But why? I keep my head well down when I am walking in the street so that no chance acquaintance will recognise me. And as I go directly to the kitchen upon my arrival at The Hindoostane, it is very unlikely that any insalubrious male will see me and make advances towards me.”
He studied her for a long moment. “I cannot allow it.”
“Cannot allow it?” She drew in a deep breath, before exhaling slowly. “You, sir, have no authority over me. I am free to behave as I please. And I choose to continue my cooking lessons at The Hindoostane.”
“In that case, I have no other option but to inform your stepfather.”
“I am not under his authority, either,” I
sabel said in a freezing voice.
“That may well be, but if you were accosted in the street or at The Hindoostane, and he found out I had known about your visits there, but had failed to tell him of them, he would be justified in finding me to have been derelict in my duty.”
Isabel balled her hands into fists. “It is not your duty to take care of me!”
“No. But as your stepfather’s close friend, I am honour-bound to ensure that his female relative does not walk blindly into danger – even if it is of your own making.”
“I detest the restrictions Society puts on women in London! In the country, there is much more freedom.”
“This isn’t the country. It is a Metropolis inhabited by many undesirable characters – and there are dangers that women of a lower class face that you, in your elevated position in life and, dare I say it – innocence? – have never been exposed to. However, I am no tale-bearer, my lady, and I am willing to say nothing to your stepfather if you will consent to my terms. I will walk behind you to The Hindoostane for the next couple of days. How long is your lesson?”
“It is from 10 o’ clock until midday,” she said grudgingly.
Mr Bateman nodded. “I will enter the restaurant after you have gone inside, and I shall read my newspaper in the smoking room while you have your lesson. Then at midday, I shall leave, and wait for you outside to follow you home.”
Isabel stared at him. “You would put yourself out in that manner – merely to ensure my safety?”
“I would.” He eyed her contemplatively. “The very fact that you have not informed your mother or your stepfather about your cookery lessons shows that, on some level, you know your behaviour is inadvisable.”
Her gaze slid away from his, and she stared at the plush Axminster carpet beneath her feet. He had, in effect, hit the nail on the head. She had known her mother would kick up a fuss if she informed her of her plan to visit the restaurant, and so she had kept her deliberately in the dark.
She had been relatively free to behave as she pleased, living in the countryside. Her husband had been confined to his sick-bed during the last years of her marriage, and she had filled her days with all manner of activities which he had not been able to censor, as he had been unaware of them.
She had ridden her mare around his estates, without a groom, and she had gone for long walks without Simmonds or an accompanying footman. Her marriage had raised her to such a high position that she could, in essence, do very much as she desired, as she was no longer a young unmarried girl in constant need of chaperonage. She had been instead a married noblewoman, without a husband in tow, and had become used to an unwonted level of personal freedom in her movements.
This was one of the reasons she had hesitated to accept her mother’s invitation to accompany them to London – no matter how much she enjoyed her parent’s company, when she lived under her roof, Isabel was, in many ways, under her authority once again, and she chafed at the limitations which had been put on her actions. And now Mr Bateman was limiting her independence even further.
She raised her eyes to his. “Very well, sir. I agree to your terms. However, I beg leave to inform you that I find your high-handedness intolerable. I am not a young schoolgirl, unable to fend for herself.” Turning on her heel, she crossed to the other side of the room.
“My, my – you do dislike having the reins taken out of your hands. I am surprised, when on other occasions you have been so sweet and malleable.”
Isabel frowned. “I cannot remember ever behaving in such a manner with you.”
“You cannot?” He grinned. “I can recall at least one occasion…”
A betraying warmth rushed to her face as he continued to study her with a wicked glint in his eyes.
“Sir! It is not gentlemanly to – to mention an occasion which I only wish to forget.” She put up her hands to her burning cheeks.
He strode to her and tilted her chin up, a rueful smile playing about his lips.
“At some point, my dear Lady Axbridge, we must have a frank conversation. But not yet.”
She stared at him helplessly. Somehow he had the ability to undermine all her carefully built defences. While her mind told her to avoid him at all costs, her heart and her body were drawn inexorably towards him whenever she saw him – like a doomed moth to an all-consuming flame. She was, in effect, at war with herself. The life she had mapped out for herself looked sadly lacklustre in the face of the excitement of her almost-daily encounters with Mr Bateman.
She had to ignore her traitorous impulses, however. If she followed them, she would, in all likelihood, end up married to him, and then he would have full rights over her, like a slave-owner to a slave. She would be a fool to allow that to happen to her again.
Chapter Sixteen
True to his word, Mr Bateman was waiting in the street at 10 o’ clock the next morning when Isabel and Simmonds left the house via the servants’ entrance. Isabel glanced across at him, before hurrying up the road. When she looked back, he still strolled behind them. Although it irked her that he had imposed his will on her, on another level it was reassuring to know he was there, waiting in the wings, if she needed assistance.
Not that she was concerned that any of the gentlemen who frequented the restaurant and smoking lounge would somehow make their way below stairs and accost her. But the cook’s assistant, who had made an appearance shortly after Mr Bateman had left the kitchen the day before, had been overly familiar in his manner towards her. She only hoped he would not be there this morning.
Unfortunately, he was there, standing beside the cook when she walked into the kitchen. The smirk on his spotty face made her skin crawl. His gaze swept over her figure in an insolent manner, and Isabel resisted the urge to give him a sharp set down. She contented herself merely with a fierce frown.
Mr Bateman had been correct when he had pointed out that her position in life had protected her from the advances of undesirable males. Masquerading as a servant, she was fair game to any man who might take it upon himself to approach her. She was woefully ignorant of the lives of working-class women, and the struggles they faced. But now, without the armour of her title, she was as vulnerable as they were, and it had given her a new awareness of the kind of existence they must lead on a day-to-day basis.
She listened as the cook outlined the dishes he was making that morning, and carefully observed his cooking methods. She couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, however, when she and Simmonds eventually left the kitchen at midday. Spotty-Face had stared at her throughout the morning. Thankfully Simmonds was with her, and had given the youth such basilisk glares that he had kept his distance. They had just exited via the servants’ entrance and were walking home, when Spotty-Face pushed past them and barred their way.
“Not so fast, wench,” he said, with a leer.
He grabbed Isabel’s right arm and her left wrist in a vice-like grip, and she froze. He was much stronger than he looked. She winced as his fingers dug into her flesh, “Unhand me now!”
His grasp on her arm only tightened, while his other hand all but crushed the bones in her wrist. Simmonds hit him with the basket she was carrying, but he did not let go of Isabel and she felt a wave of pain pass over her. But before she could say or do anything else, Mr Bateman wrenched the youth away from her. Spotty-Face lost his balance and sprawled on the road.
Mr Bateman stood over him. “Get up!”
The youth staggered to his feet. Mr Bateman grasped his arms, and turned him to face Isabel. “You will apologise.” His face was forbidding, and the expression in his eyes so icy that Isabel would have pitied the object of his wrath if he had not been such a vile specimen of humanity.
“Begging your pa-pardon, Miss,” he stammered. Gone was the young man’s bravado. His skin was pale, and there were visible beads of sweat on his forehead.
Isabel, with a jerk of her head in Simmonds’ direction, hurried away. She only hoped she would reach the sanctuary of her home before
Mr Bateman came after her.
Fortunately, he did not catch up with them and she entered the house via the servants’ entrance without further mishap, with Simmonds clucking beside her all the way. Isabel made her way to her bedchamber, where her maid changed her dress, and she submitted to her ministrations in a dream-like state. Shaken to the core, all Isabel wanted was to have a good weep, but she did not give in to the urge. Her wrist and her arm ached, but she must not be weak. This was a situation of her own making, after all.
Someone knocked on the door of her bedchamber, and a housemaid entered the room to inform her that Mr Bateman awaited her in the drawing room. Isabel frowned. Perhaps she could send a message that she was not at home? But then he might believe she had not returned to the house, which could lead to him kicking up a dreadful dust. No, the best thing to do was to go downstairs to the drawing room and face him. She would have to get the meeting over with sooner or later, and, on balance, she would prefer it to be sooner.
She entered the drawing room ten minutes later, wearing a long-sleeved morning dress, which effectively hid the bruise already developing on her upper arm. Her aching wrist had already turned blue and she only hoped he would not notice it.
Her hope was in vain. Mr Bateman strode to her, and gently took her wrists in his hands. His face whitened when he saw the bruising on her left wrist. “That little cur.”
Isabel’s hands trembled. “Mr Bateman – thank you for assisting me. I am most grateful.”
He looked down at her, his face set in grim lines. “I could inform you that I told you so. But, in this instance, I am not happy to have been proven correct. I hate to see you hurt, my dear.”
She moved her arm stiffly and he frowned. “Is your arm also bruised?”
She bit her lip and nodded, and he released her wrists and strode to the other end of the room and back. “After you left, I took that brute back to The Hindoostane and informed both Tanuj and Spencer of his conduct. He has been turned off without a reference.”
A Marchioness Below Stairs Page 11