by Sky Sommers
‘Yes, but the drapes as well?’ Grizelda asks and winks at me.
‘The drapes? What’s wrong with my drapes?’ I look at them. Nice, tasteful, creamy.
‘Stolen,’ Grizelda says, savouring the word. ‘Lady Chatelaine said she recognised the fabric. She picked them out herself.’
‘Really? I’ll have to ask my supplier. He does have ties to the palace, but he assured me, they were obtained by lawful means,’ I say.
What the man had said was ‘Nobody would miss them.’
Why would he steal from the palace?
Grizelda rises, ‘I have to be going. ‘Not because of this, I just have a long walk back.’
Before Grizelda is out the door, the previously packed room is practically empty.
My most valued customers have left in rather a hurry.
Without paying their cheques.
You are kind enough to feed them and they use the first excuse they get to stiff you.
I look at the few diners left.
No aristocrat amongst them. Not one.
Well, at least the common folk are loyal.
If I don’t want this business to go under and this place to become, indeed, a house of ill repute, I need a trend setter of the highest calibre to dine here.
I’ll need to ask Tom and his wife to come to dinner.
On the house.
But first, I will need to ask him why he lied to me.
* * *
After all the guests are gone - which took all of five minutes - I take the horse and head straight for the palace gardens.
‘I need to talk to Tom,’ I tell the guard fifteen minutes later.
He wolf-whistles but leads me into the royal maze.
I only have to wait ten minutes before the man appears.
‘Grace? What a pleasant surprise! Is your restaurant not open tonight?’ he asks.
‘It was. People had a sudden urge to leave.’
‘Food-poisoning?’
‘Theft.’
‘What can I do for you?’ he looks concerned.
‘You can do me the courtesy of explaining why you lied to me about the curtains,’ I say.
He blanches. ‘You’ve never been one to mince words, Grace,’ he says.
‘You said nobody would miss them. As it happens, Lady Chatelaine recognised them since she picked them out and she has told the village gossip I use stolen things in my decor.’
‘That’s why everybody left early…’
I nod.
He smiles dryly, ‘I think Lady Chatelaine is the only one who does miss them. She brought the fabric along from Aliterra as part of her dowry and for some strange reason she decided to gift them to us. As curtains. So, they are ours to do as we please. Her sentiment is misplaced. My wife hasn’t been in that room for years, she wouldn’t know they were ours even if she saw them. Nor would she miss them.’
‘We’ll have to test that theory, I’m afraid,’ I say.
He looks interested.
‘I could use you two dining at my restaurant so business would pick up. Because you and your wife would never dine at a place of ill repute, would you?’
He nods. ‘Agreed.’
‘If you think I am going to apologise for calling you a liar, then I’m not,’ I say and he smiles.
‘Would never dream of it. Not a woman of your caliber. I must say, I like your directness, Grace. So, unlike the ladies at court,’ Tom says and takes my hand.
‘I’m no lady and far from court, but that is very kind of you to say, Tom.’ I place my arm on his shoulder and he inclines his head, taking in the praise.
I see the corner of Ella’s yellow dress disappearing into the hedge.
She just saw me holding hands with a man who is not Peter.
Before she runs and yells for the whole world to hear, I need to do some damage control.
‘Excuse me, I must be off,’ I nod and quick march to the closest tree. Seeing Ella two hundred feet away already, I break into a sprint.
Surely enough, before I can catch up, she’s home, flinging herself at Peter, yelling ‘Daddy, daddy, SHE is cheating on you! She was kissing some aristo in the King’s gardens.’
Peter looks at me and raises his eyebrows.
‘We just closed up. When did you have the time?’ was all he asks as Ella disentangles herself and skulks away, her job done.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then what’s the kerfuffle?’ Peter asks, leading me to our room.
A private discussion. As if Ella wasn’t listening in at the door.
‘Ella saw me talking to Tom and I guess she misinterpreted what she saw.’
‘But he kissed you?’
I furrow my brow, turning my back to our bedroom mirror where a stranger with the wrong hair colour and too slender a waist was winking at me from the golden oval frame. I’ll deal with my overactive imagination LATER. ‘Ella saw me from behind. Tom and I were standing close, saying our good-byes… My hand was on his shoulder,… I put my hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Like this. My other hand was in his…’ His hand is warm and calloused. When have his hands become calloused? I look over my shoulder. ‘If you look at it from this perspective, it does seem a bit…intimate.’
‘Incline your head a bit to the left,’ Peter says and I do. ‘Ok, how far was Ella when she saw you?’
‘A good 20 yards, maybe?’
Peter nods as I look up at him, ‘I get it. If this is what she saw from afar, I get it. Standing like this, it looked like you were kissing.’ Peter looks at my mouth and lets go of my hand. It slices through the void between us.
‘So, nothing happened?’ Peter asks, looking me in the eye.
‘Nothing happened,’ I sigh. ‘He did promise he’d bring his wife to dinner so our reputation would improve.’
‘You got him to come to dinner. Really? What did he want in return?’ Peter looks at my mouth again,
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing,’ I say.
‘I find it hard to believe that he is inclined to do favours without asking for anything in return, especially after what Ella thinks she saw.’
‘Tom and his wife are getting a multi-course meal out of it. For free. I say that’s a fair exchange.’
‘I’m serious, Grace. Did he try anything? Should I knock his lights out?’
I laugh, ‘Seriously, Peter. You know who he is. You’d be gaoled. Or worse, he’ll close down your paper. Besides, nothing happened. Ella saw wrong. Even if he were interested, I am not and I can handle myself. I’m not some meek lady of the court.’ I gaze up at him, hoping this IS the end of the conversation.
‘Well, if Tom WERE lusting after my wife,’ Peter says. ‘I couldn’t blame him.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Besides, if I did need to have a talk with him, I would. After all, I had good practice in…London,’ he whispers into my ear.
‘Really? Some mates of yours fancied me and I didn’t know about it? Do tell!’
‘ALL of my mates fancied you and I had to threaten them with dismemberment so they’d keep their hands and eyes to themselves and never say anything except their ‘thank yous’ and ‘pleases’.’
‘And all this time, I thought all of your mates were frosty with me because they didn’t like me,’ I tut-tut. ‘You’re ruining my ‘biatch who snagged their golden boy’ reputation in retrospect, you know?’ I ruffle his hair and he smiles.
‘Do you really mind?’ he asks.
‘Nope. I just replaced that reputation with the evil stepmother title in this story we are living in,’ I try to smile and fail.
‘You’re not that bad,’ he says, serious all of a sudden.
‘I’m awful. At least I know it. I embrace it. I…am an Evil, Evil, EVIL Stepmother!’ I say it like I mean it.
‘No. You’re not,’ Peter says and kisses me. ‘You’re just a stepmother. Live with it.’
It’s been awhile since he has held me like this. I breathe in his familiar scent and lean into him.
‘My hero.’
‘What if you and I had a date in the King’s gardens?’ Peter whispers.
‘They are not open to the public,’ I mumble into his shoulder.
‘Yes, but what if we sneaked in and I tried to have my way with you?’ His hand slips off my waist to pat my bum.
‘In the gardens? Hardly.’
‘That word…I like it,’ he mumbles into my hair.
‘Gardens?’
‘No, the other one. Short. Adjective.’
I chuckle. ‘Quite the word-smith. My, my, Master Goodall, are you trying to seduce your own wife?’
Ella
Monday, April 1st
Grace must be a witch. She must have Father under some spell. It’s the only rational explanation why he has forgiven her for everything.
I found Father at home when I raced back and immediately told him what I had seen in the palace gardens. When I tried asking about the divorce the next day, he looked at me like I had grown two heads. They are both acting like nothing ever happened!
Either he refuses to believe Grace cheated, which is absurd, because I told him what I saw and if he believes her over me, then that’s the same as him believing that I lied!
Or she made him forget. She does have a lot of herbs she keeps adding to sauces and people come to the restaurant in droves. Maybe she put some special herb in Father’s tea?
Or given that his newspaper is failing and she has the money and the title, not to mention the ear of the king, then maybe Father has chosen to turn a blind eye for the fear of him and his children being tossed out? The very least. I’m quite sure the Beast would take the side of his step-sister. If she asked him to…gods only know what the king could do to Father! Maybe Father forgetting is not such a bad thing, after all.
Although, I can’t think which is worse, Father believing I’m a liar, him accepting his fate or Grace making him forget anything ever happened.
I don’t think they’re playing an April’s Fools joke on me.
In any case, I’m doing my own cooking from now on. I don’t want my memory to be erased by a tea or sauce or something she puts into my meal.
Chapter 10. The Royals
Grace
Looking around, I can’t find a single surface in my kitchen that isn’t laden with food. I check everything is ready for the nine-course dinner. The amuse-bouches made from fois gras, the boeuf a la tartar, the vitello tonnato, the clear fish soup, the rack of lamb with rosemary potatoes, the sauteed chicken livers, my famous chocolate cake, the stuffed grilled nectarines and oranges to cleanse the palate after the meal.
I decided to keep it simple, but elegant. Tom told me the food at the palace is quite bland. He might have said that in a misguided attempt to compliment my cooking, but I hope the palace cook never hears him say this blasphemy out loud. Belle would never hire anyone who is sub-par.
Tom and his wife should be arriving soon.
Over the past few days my restaurant business has dwindled as all of my regular customers have somehow found a will to dine at home.
‘They’re here,’ Greta whispers, grabs the menus she has just finished writing and runs to meet the guests.
Ella darts into the kitchen, pale as her apron. ‘I’m not serving them.’
‘Why? Don’t you want the king eating out of the palm of your hand?’ I ask.
‘He is…it’s…’ She makes the sign of the crown with her hand behind her head. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Ella narrows her eyes at me and I nod. ‘You’re going to make me serve them, aren’t you?’ She looks white as a sheet, leans into our table and puts her hand to her mouth.
I shake my head, ‘Who do you take me for, an evil stepmother? If you don’t want to serve, you can help out here, in the kitchen. I have Greta to marry off as well, she’ll do.’
Ella exhales in relief, but still looks worried.
‘If you’re wondering if he saw you bring John up to your room through our kitchen…’
She bites her lips and nods.
‘Well, that, young lady is why you shouldn’t bring boys home before you marry and why you shouldn’t parade them around the house for everyone to see.’
Ella colours to her roots, ‘I didn’t… I haven’t… How could you even…’
‘A boy tutor. Up in your room. Not in the kitchen or another public place where everyone can see what you are doing. Do you think it is a stretch to assume that you’re not really studying, but…ahem…doing the deed? And don’t care who finds out?’
‘NO! That’s not what happened! I just didn’t think…’
‘No, you didn’t think, did you?’
She shakes her head, mortified.
I peek out the tiny round window in the swinging doors separating the kitchen from the restaurant floor. I spot Prince Charming, their majesties’ philandering offspring trying to avoid the eyes of every single female in the room. Boinked them all, have you? What Ella or any of the other girls find in that lad, is beyond me. May heavens grant patience to his future wife. And his in-laws, for that matter.
I wipe my hands, change my apron and motion for her to unload the dishwasher. ‘Don’t worry, I have explained everything away, like I always do. He doesn’t think any less of you. Luckily for you, the prince also has private tutors,’ I say and head out to meet our distinguished guests.
‘Good evening, Your Majesties,’ I say and curtsy more for Belle’s than for Beast’s sake. I mean we ARE in public. ‘Greta will be your server tonight. At the moment, there are no other guests to bother your tête-à-tête,’ I say and bow out, catching a few of the passers-by gathering outside our window, whispering and trying to catch a peek at the royals.
‘You can let them in,’ the Queen says and waves at her loyal subjects through the window.
Now, all that is required is for her to like my cooking. We are business partners, but she has never dined here yet.
‘Won’t you join us? Please?’ Beast’s grey eyes dart to Belle who is inspecting the twisted spoon under her amuse-bouche.
‘Who makes these? I’ve never seen one quite like it!’ Belle pronounces.
‘The silversmith, Your Majesty,’ I reply.
‘He never does anything like that for me!’ Belle pouts and I silently pray her meal does not end before it’s even begun. ‘Tell me, how did you make him do it!’ she orders, pointing at the chair half-way between her and Beast’s end of the table. ‘Sit!’
‘She’s not a dog, darling,’ the king intervenes, ‘And I have already invited her to dine with us.’
‘You have?’ Belle’s eyes bore into him.
When she receives no answer, she rolls her eyes, ‘Fine! Now don’t you say you only prepared dishes for us, because I know you serve your folk the same thing you serve at your restaurant each evening and not leftovers either. So, girl,’ Belle motions at Greta, ‘bring your mother a plate and some cutlery and keep bringing the food.’
Beast looks at me and shrugs apologetically.
‘Now, tell me, how you made the silversmith obey you. I mean I’ve heard of your…what do you call them…interviews? Where you just sit there and cast a spell over whoever you are talking to so they divulge their deepest, darkest secrets…’
Tom.
‘…or tell all even if they didn’t mean to…’
Grizelda.
‘…or do your bidding, like the silversmith. What’s your secret?’ Belle asks and leans in, with her chin on her elbow, nearly squishing the boef Greta has placed in front of her while she wasn’t looking.
Belle is laying her capricious ruler image on a bit thick. By now
, we do have other diners, so I know she is playing to the audience. Whatever rocks her boat, I guess.
‘I ask people nicely,’ I say, mixing the raw beef with the egg, capers and cilantro and sprinkling the mixture with some lemon pepper. ‘For the silversmith, I drew him a picture and gave him the silver and some money for his work and asked when would he have time to make it and agreed a date when I could pick the spoons up and since he didn’t want any money, but an opportunity to see what I use the spoons for, I invited him to dine at our restaurant whenever he could spare the time to get away.’
I was met with stony silence.
‘You asked when would he have time? And offered to pay AND you gave him means of work? Why? He’s a silversmith, he should have means,’ the queen says, taking a bite of the vitello tonnato, ‘Ooh, the veal is lovely and tender, but I cannot quite distill the flavour of the sauce…’
‘Tuna,’ I say and add, ‘With capers and anchovies. Yes, he should have means, Your Majesty, but since he doesn’t have work often, he doesn’t have the means to purchase the material required for his mastery. So it is easier for him, if people bring him material they want something to be fashioned from. An old grandmother’s brooch could be made into a lovely pair of earrings, for instance.’
Beast nods, ‘I’ll make sure we request his services soon and make sure he has the materials and the payment up front. Thank you for telling me. I didn’t know,’ he says.
Yet you travel your kingdom far and wide as a pauper once a month.
The Prince lounges about as if he was at home, his lanky frame spewed over one of my comfortable upholstered chairs, idly flicking his dark locks from his eye, surveying the room as if he’s looking for someone. ‘Say, don’t you have an elder daughter who helps out as well?’ he asks.
‘I do, Your Highness, but she is…unavailable. If you’d like something, please ask Greta and she’ll be happy to help,’ I say and Greta nods, staring at the Prince with a goofy smile on her face.
Oh, no, not you, too.
He waves and smiles at her, all the wile scanning the room, finding all the aristo girls staring or preening. The room has filled up. It’s a good thing I made soup and fried chicken for the common folk. My gamble paid off.