by Myers, Amy
He peered beneath Dolly’s wheels into the suspended pit and the circular staircase going down to the basement, in which a few stores and sand buckets were stored. Alongside him was the massive block and tackle equipment suspended on frames attached to H-shaped girders on the motorhouse roof. Its purpose, Tatiana had told him proudly when the premises were converted earlier this year, was to pull engines out of the motorcars. Horses, he had traitorously thought, required no such maintenance. Not quite knowing why, he went down the staircase and through the interconnecting doorway to the basement of the repair house where Fred stored the larger spares and tools. Did he expect to find Thomas Bailey or some other spy hiding there? If so, he was disappointed. There was nothing living there. He ran up the steps into the repair house where Leo was working on what appeared to Auguste’s inexpert eye to be a pile of waste rubber.
‘What time will Fred be back?’
‘Around twelve, he said, Mr Didier. I won’t go till he gets here, whether Miss Hart comes or not.’
Telling himself he felt reassured, Auguste returned to the kitchens. His mind was still not entirely on the intricacies of ice creams, mousses, terrines, raised pies and the thousand and one details of trying to organise a banquet to take place at a distance. It was a hard job to refrain from intimating that Pierre might have forgotten the horseradish sauce, or the marinated olives, but even more impolite for him to sneak around checking himself, especially as Pierre was fully conscious of what he was doing. He would have to leave those tasks until Pierre and the staff left, which they had agreed should be no later than twelve thirty in view of the fact that they would be in again at five for a frantic two hours of packing and last-moment tasks before leaving to join the royal train at Victoria.
Auguste was still amazed at the lack of thought devoted by diners to the hours of work that went into the preparation of the delights they took so much for granted; the hours of straining purées through muslin, the time spent on the spun sugar that adorned their pièces montées. Yet it was all necessary. Particularly for tomorrow. His Majesty had an uncanny knack of noticing the thousandth and first detail, were it to be forgotten. He was always polite in pointing it out but it would be remembered.
At twenty to twelve Tatiana appeared once more. ‘Only Maud, Agatha, Isabel and Hugh left in the lounge now, thank goodness. They have every appearance of staying for ever. What’s happening in the motor house?’
‘Leo is there. Neither Hester nor Fred has arrived yet but I will be here to see all is well. You must go home to sleep and prepare for tomorrow.’
Tatiana wearily shook her head. ‘Not till everything and everyone is settled in the motor stable. I’ll stay here until you leave. I won’t get in your way. I could do some washing-up.’
‘You could not,’ Auguste said firmly, alarmed. The staff had been outraged at Madam President’s appropriation of their tasks when she was discovered helping the scullery maid out on one occasion.
She laughed. ‘Very well. Perhaps I could help you cut things up instead.’
He eyed her suspiciously. ‘You could not.’
‘May I make some cocoa, then?’
‘You may.’
Hester Hart arrived at five to twelve and drove her Serpollet into a motor house. She inspected the remaining three motorcars and identified them. Like the Serpollet, she was steaming, in her case at the injustice done to her by Roderick and Phyllis. Just because Phyllis Lockwood had a baron in the family many generations back, who had performed some service in losing the American colony for England, her pedigree was deemed superior to hers. Phyllis was persona grata here, despite being a mere picture-postcard actress, and she, despite all she had achieved, was non grata. It was like school all over again. Well, when her picture appeared in the Illustrated London News, posing with the Dolly Dobbs, and when she sat at His Majesty’s side as the triumphant driver thereof, their faces would rapidly change. Some of His Majesty’s best friends were in trade, just like her own father.
Hester threw one of the rugs Fred provided for passengers into the rear seat of the Dolly Dobbs and stalked into the repair house which Leo was about to leave.
‘Where’s Fred?’
‘I’m here, miss.’ Fred appeared at the outer doorway. ‘You can go now, Leo.’
Leo thankfully obeyed.
‘This is what I’m going to do,’ Hester peremptorily announced. ‘I’ll throw the door of the motor house open but stay inside until all the motorcars have gone. You keep out of the way. I want to talk to my fellow competitors. After that, I’ll sleep and you can take over.’
‘Open? But the motorcar’s a secret, ain’t it?’
‘That’s my business. Yours is to get on with your work until I’m ready.’
Fred, his views on women drivers unprintable, disappeared into his basement where he took pleasure in hammering very loudly, and Hester sat herself on the rear seat of the Dolly Dobbs from which she had a splendid view through the open doors of the motor house. She waited for her ‘friends’.
Lady Bullinger marched round the corner of the main building into the yard and noticed the door of the Dolly Dobbs motor house was open. There was no one about and temptation was too great. She hurried to the open doorway.
‘Something you wanted, Maud?’
‘That woman’ was seated inside the monstrosity, grinning out at her like Medusa. It gave her the fright of her life, and she rapidly changed her plans.
‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘Just curious about the Dolly Dobbs. No harm in that, is there?’ She stared fascinated at the vehicle.
‘Not at all. I’m delighted to see you. I was feeling a little lonely after my tiff with Roderick.’
There was a pause. ‘I can probably help,’ Maud eventually said gruffly. ‘We’re friends, after all.’ It might have sounded like a plea. If it was, it was misplaced.
The viper struck. ‘After what you did to me, Maud?’
Isabel crept up more silently, somewhat annoyed that Hugh had not insisted on collecting the Royce for her. However, it gave her an opportunity to peer in at the Dolly Dobbs. She jumped as she saw Hester Hart’s face grimly glaring at her.
‘Goodness, Hester. You quite frightened me. I thought the motor house seemed to be unguarded.’
‘How kind of you to be concerned, Isabel dear.’
‘I was going to guard it myself.’ Isabel was eager to please.
‘I’m sure you were, Isabel. Just like you always guard and care for everything and everyone.’
‘I admire motorcars.’ Isabel never recognised sarcasm.
‘And their drivers, I’m sure. Like Hugh – or is your preference still for coachmen?’
Isabel lost colour. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You must have a short memory, Isabel dear. I shall enjoy a chat with His Majesty tomorrow.’
Agatha tripped confidently and excitedly up to the open door. At last she could gain access to her own car, the Dolly Dobbs. And then decide her plans.
‘Good gracious, Agatha, you have a starting handle in your hand. How very violent.’
Agatha was speechless, staring first at the Dolly Dobbs’s occupant and then at the Dolly Dobbs herself.
‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ Hester went on, disappointed at receiving no reaction. ‘Of course, you haven’t seen it before. Such a pity since you gave Harold the money to build it.’ Still she received no real reaction. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ she demanded suspiciously.
‘Nothing,’ Agatha said slowly. Then she began to laugh, managing to hiccup, ‘It’s beautiful, quite beautiful. I wish you every success with it, Hester.’
‘I’m sure you do. Just as you’ve wished me success in everything in life.’
Agatha stopped laughing.
By twelve twenty Hester Hart had locked the doors of all the motor houses, including her own, and Fred had taken up his station outside the repair house, wrapped in a rug. He had been settled perhaps five minutes when he looked up to see he was no
longer alone and struggled to stand up, tripping over the rug as he did so.
‘So you’re on guard duty, Fred.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, you can go. I’ve decided to come after all.’
‘Mrs Didier told me to stay.’
‘She’s not here, and she didn’t know I was coming back. I am Miss Hart’s fiancé, it’s my duty to be here as arranged.’
True enough. Fred thankfully took his leave since there was no one left in the club to ask. Mrs Didier must be long since gone, and Mr Didier with her.
‘Leave your keys,’ Roderick said.
‘Spare set in the left-hand drawer, sir.’
Smiling his thanks, Roderick went into the workshop and through the adjoining door. ‘Hello, Hester.’
Tatiana, emerging with some cocoa for Fred and Hester, was just in time to see Fred leave, much to her surprise. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Mr Smythe came to stand guard after all. He told me I could go, and I didn’t know you were around, ma’am. I didn’t think you’d object.’
She had no grounds for objecting, so she let him go. After all, if Roderick and Hester had made up their quarrel, it was no business of hers.
She looked at the two mugs of cocoa on the tray, uncertain what to do. She decided to take them to the stable. Roderick must be inside but she wanted to be reassured he was still there. The door to the repair house was open. As she approached, she could hear Hester and Roderick talking in the adjoining motor house. Obviously what had happened earlier in the evening was under animated, even acrimonious discussion, and discretion being the better part of valour, she retreated. She would return on her mission at a more convenient time.
By the time she returned to the kitchen, Pierre and the staff had vanished, and she went to find Auguste. He was deep inside one of the larders in the passageway to the rear door, investigating a refrigerator. He grinned shamefacedly. He had assured her he would be finished by the time she returned.
‘I just wanted to be sure the curry sauce was of the right consistency.’
‘How long will you really be?’
‘Twenty-five minutes,’ he suggested cautiously. ‘I shall have to grind coffee and whisk the egg whites for meringues, purée the—’
‘Very well.’ She fidgeted in the kitchen, lifting lids and covers until Auguste could bear it no longer. ‘What is wrong, Tatiana? Are you impatient to go?’
‘No. I suppose I’m anxious about Hester Hart still. Fred has gone and Roderick has come back.’
Auguste considered. ‘Let them sort out their quarrel. They’ll hardly attack the Dolly Dobbs themselves, and if they are both there, no matter whether they are speaking to each other or not, no one else will attack it. And if anyone comes to attack Hester, he’ll stop it. The last thing he’d want to do is attack her himself.’
‘All the same I’ll take some more cocoa over before we leave.’
‘You’re right. Cocoa is soothing for the stomach. No one could quarrel over cocoa.’
It seemed Auguste’s belief was to be tested. As Tatiana set off across the yard at one o’clock, she realised the discussion had developed into a full-blown quarrel. She heard Hester’s shouting, shrill voice, ‘Marry you? You fool, as if I ever would,’ and instantly retreated. Cocoa could do little here, and lovers’ quarrels had nothing to do with the Dolly Dobbs or, therefore, with her.
Thankfully she escaped with Auguste five minutes later out into the peaceful starlit night of Petty France.
Chapter Five
Today presented a sartorial problem: was he cook or gentleman? Auguste pondered. Gentlemen were not called upon to present themselves in kitchens at six thirty in the morning, which suggested working clothes were called for, but on the other hand cooks did not have to be presented to His Majesty King Edward VII five hours later. He compromised with his new grey flannel lounge suit, swathed in the white protective clothing of his trade, and sending more formal clothes by train. He must remember, he told himself, to change hats; a terrible vision of His Majesty being presented with the sight of a bowing suit from Savile Row topped with a chef’s hat propelled him from bed so that his brain could occupy itself with more practical matters. Even so, as he bathed, soap and sponge were mingled with visions of huge jellies wobbling into splintered fragments and hayboxes soaked with sauces and gravies from inadequately sealed containers.
Motorcars and His Majesty – the combination was far from attractive, and combined with the onerous duties of the banquet, and supporting Tatiana, he had to suppress a craven desire to creep back under the sheets and forget all about Thursday. Tatiana was already up, and from the cheerful noise in the dressing room the daily battle had begun between Eloise’s wish for her mistress to do her credit and Tatiana’s to jump on to or under a motorcar at the earliest opportunity. Eloise had insisted on travelling to Kent with the other ladies’ maids, where arrangements were to be made at Martyr House for them to repair the ravages of road travel to their mistresses’ toilettes before luncheon, and for the ball this evening.
Pierre would already be at Milton House together with his staff – and, unfortunately, Luigi. Auguste had a pang of uneasiness, but surely nothing could erupt between them at such an important moment. Pierre could be depended upon in a crisis – such as the time the ortolans had overcooked at a dinner held in Monsieur Louis Renault’s honour. Luigi, however, struck Auguste as the kind of man who would stick like marzipan during fine weather and at the hint of a storm vanish like oysters from a July menu.
At six thirty Auguste walked through the gates of Milton House, leaving Tatiana busy preparing the Bollée in their own motor house with Charlie Jolly. Eloise had insisted on the latter’s presence to prevent her mistress inspecting the underside of the Bollée’s frame dressed in lilac foulard and white linen.
A satisfactory sight met Auguste’s eye. Baskets, hampers and boxes were already being packed into waiting motor vans, and three hired Napier station buses awaited the accompanying staff. He entered the kitchen where a lingering smell of venison stew delighted his nostrils; the hayboxes were being packed with (well-sealed) casseroles. Jellies and ice creams, still in moulds, were conveyed as tenderly as new-born babes in baskets and ice cabinets to the vans. In the midst of the kitchen Pierre superintended his charges with an expert eye.
‘Are there any problems?’ Auguste asked anxiously.
‘Non, monsieur.’
‘And the salade?’ A particular point of concern if their delivery from Covent Garden had failed to arrive. ‘It is ready?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’ It was obvious from Pierre’s taciturnity and grim expression that Luigi had arrived.
Pierre could in any case be forgiven some gruffness for this was no ordinary shooting party luncheon or picnic, and the resident servants at Martyr House could probably be counted on to gloat rather than assist in a crisis. Their moment of glory would then appear the more brilliant at this evening’s ball supper, which was their responsibility. By that time Auguste would definitely have made his appearance as a gentleman, for even Bertie, King and Emperor, had reluctantly conceded Auguste could not present both meals without offending his hosts. This morning he was a chef, however. The transposition between the two worlds pleased him; he was sometimes acutely aware he was now fully accepted by neither, but there were virtues in detachment.
Luigi, Pierre, Monsieur Bernard and the rest of the staff in the royal train (in the baggage wagons) would be leaving Victoria Station at eight; the cavalcade of motor vans was to depart from Petty France at seven thirty to allow time for unpacking under the suspicious eyes of the King’s detectives – in case, Auguste supposed, of explosive strawberry bombes. He himself was planning to leave at about eight o’clock for a solitary walk to Hyde Park Corner for the eight-thirty departure of the Ladies’ Motoring Club. Fortunately Tatiana was taking his all-enveloping coat, cap, goggles and mask with her; a walk through London streets clad like Count Dracula did not appeal to him.
Luigi was an excellent connoisseur of wines, Auguste grudgingly conceded, but he dominated the elderly Bernard; however, he displayed only the slightest tendency to favour Italian over French wines. Today he and his staff were in charge of table decoration and service, and his task was not a light one. Nevertheless Auguste had firmly scrutinised the final choice of wines.
‘Naturally I am ready, dog,’ Pierre informed his enemy curtly.
Auguste’s heart sank. ‘Today, gentlemen, we work together; tomorrow you may kill each other.’
‘I shall be happy to oblige, monsieur.’ Luigi shrugged amusedly, as Pierre shot by him with a scowl and a sauce hamper.
When they had left, Auguste relaxed. He had half an hour in which to ensure with the aid of two kitchen maids and one under meat chef that those ladies not participating in the run could, if they wished, dine at the club. It would be plain roast beef— horseradish. There on a side table was the prepared horseradish sauce for luncheon today. Pierre had overlooked it.
Auguste rushed up the steps into the courtyard to see the last of the vans driving merrily round the bend of Petty France. The King would never forgive this crime. It was almost treason since the King had specifically demanded the presence of pressed beef on the menu. What to do? Run to Victoria? Tatiana would worry if he was late. He must take it himself on the Léon Bollée. Oneself was the only person who never let you down, Auguste told himself bitterly.