by Myers, Amy
Sir Thomas looked round at his five colleagues, whom he had carefully positioned to separate the opposition. True, this involved his directly facing the obnoxious Pipkin, but no matter. Angelina was by his side, conveniently placed for him to exert his full charm upon her.
He beamed at the committee, exulting in the almost palpable tension. Ah, the power of being able to mould people to his way of thinking. The thought of those who had sworn vengeance on him over the years gave him particular pleasure, for he knew they would never succeed. Conversely, few ever got the better of him, and he never forgot the rare occasion they did, just as he never forgot a face. Sooner or later they would pay – and especially one. He’d been made a fool of, and it would never happen again. Particularly not tonight, much as Pipkin was eager to try.
Already, his chest puffed out in happy anticipation of Sir Thomas’s downfall, Samuel Pipkin was reading the minutes of the meeting that had heralded the crisis. ‘Although the Society’s year runs from 23rd April to the following 22nd April, and the chairman holds his position for four years, Sir Thomas Throgmorton moved that his chairmanship should end on 23rd April 1900, and not 22nd April, relying on Rule four bee bracket small roman three unbracket of the Society’s constitution. It was agreed after discussion that further consideration be given to the matter and that it be resolved at our next meeting in order to allow plenty of time for suitable plans to be made for the Event.’
Sir Thomas glanced confidently round the table. ‘And has anyone had further thoughts on the subject before we vote?’ he asked off-handedly, as though expecting silence. But it was patently clear from the voices that immediately broke out that anyone had, if not everyone. (Beddington was asleep.) The indignant bellow of Pipkin, however, carried the day.
‘I still maintain your suggestion is preposterous, sir, preposterous. The rule makes it clear that the chairman shall hold the post for four Society years. Your chairmanship, sir, was inaugurated on 23rd April 1896 and you, sir, therefore desist from being chairman on 22nd April 1900.’
‘I disagree, as you know, Mr Pick – er Pipkin.’ (He did it on purpose, seethed Samuel. ) ‘The rule also clearly states that the chairman shall hold the position for three years of three hundred and sixty-five days and one leap year. The year of 1900 is not a leap year. My case is, therefore, that, my fourth year being one day short, I remain chairman until and including 23rd April 1900. The chairman elect, yourself, sir, will take over the position on the 24th. This is the law.’
‘Then, sir,’ sneered Pipkin, ‘in the words of your Mr Dickens, the law is an ass.’
‘You are the ass, sir,’ said Sir Thomas calmly, ‘if you cannot understand plain English.’
‘I think, Sir Thomas,’ Oliver put in, doing his best to keep a strictly serious face, ‘that your point overlooks rule four bee bracket small roman two unbracket, which states that the Society’s year shall run from 23rd April in each year until the 22nd the following year; it makes no allowances for variations in the calendar; this must surely take precedence over rule four bee bracket small roman three unbracket.’
Sir Thomas fixed an unsmiling eye on Oliver. Young figureheads on committees were meant to be seen and not heard, particularly since it had not escaped his notice that Oliver had arrived with Angelina. He was a playwright; he should leave legal matters to his peers. Sir Thomas turned his best Dickensian frown on the young man. ‘They are two separate rules, Mr Michaels. I see no reference’ – ostentatiously he studied the parchment sheets before him – ‘to any link between the two rules. Common sense decrees that rule four bee bracket small roman three unbracket is spelled out so precisely for good reason. Do you not agree, Lord Beddington?’ Sir Thomas raised his voice, and with a harumph of a start Lord Beddington was restored to consciousness.
‘Quite,’ he grunted, and collapsed back into semi-oblivion.
‘Mrs Langham?’ Sir Thomas turned graciously to his neighbour. ‘Do you have a comment?’
‘Oh,’ replied Angelina, fluttering her eyelashes and looking modestly down. ‘I’m only a woman, of course, but it does seem to me, Sir Thomas,’ bestowing a bright ingenuous smile on her chairman, ‘that it might be rather difficult for the Society to do full justice to the memory of Mr Dickens on the birthday of Mr William Shakespeare in a centenary year to be devoted to the Bard of Avon.’
‘It is my intention,’ explained Sir Thomas loftily, then paused. Dear Angelina could not possibly have seen where this was leading her, but it would be unwise for him to provoke further outbursts of hysterical jealousy by divulging that he had no intention of celebrating Mr Dickens on 23rd April 1900, but of leading the Bard’s important birthday celebrations himself in such a dramatic year. That would come later. ‘I have my plans. No need to worry your pretty head about that,’ he said graciously, patting her hand in avuncular fashion.
Dear Angelina tried to restrain herself from pulling her hand away, and smiled understandingly. Her plans, after all, needed longer to mature. She could not bring herself to vote with him, but she would not alienate him – not yet. Her chance would come at Broadstairs.
‘And Mrs Figgis-Hewett.’ Sir Thomas bestowed another gracious smile, this time of forgiveness, on Gwendolen. But Gwendolen had no intention of being forgiven. There had been no question mark in his voice, she noted. Very well. Thomas should suffer. She was going to show him that she had a mind of her own.
‘I haven’t really decided,’ she cried shrilly, and a ripple of surprise ran round the table. ‘There is a great deal to be said for both sides, it seems to me.’ What it was, she didn’t know, but Sir Thomas was seriously alarmed. No trace showed in his voice, however.
‘Very well,’ he announced smoothly, ‘we will reflect further whilst we are at Broadstairs and—’
‘No,’ interrupted Samuel triumphantly, victory in his grasp, so he mistakenly thought. Mathematics was not his strong point. ‘We vote now, as already decided. All those in favour of Sir Thomas’s argument that his office as chairman expires on 23rd April 1900 kindly make your views known.’
With years of practice at waking up at the psychological moment, Lord Beddington jerked into consciousness. ‘Aye,’ he said in a pleased voice. Gwendolen sat in a miasma of conflicting emotions.
‘Mrs Figgis-Hewett.’ The full force of Sir Thomas’s personality was brought to bear on her. It was too much for a mere female. She shivered. If she disagreed, he would never speak to her again, never hold her arm as they walked the lanes of England in search of past literary glories, never clasp her hand as at that particularly exciting reading of Wordsworth’s Prelude, never again stride the moors as Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, never – ah her heart quickened – never again a swift brushing of her lips as in the dark of a Mediterranean evening they trod in the steps of Shelley. No, she would remain true, even if he had proved a rotten apple. But somewhere, some time he would pay. At Broadstairs.
‘Aye!’ she yelled out suddenly, making everyone jump.
Sir Thomas relaxed, forgetting to flash her a smile of gratitude, something he never failed to do in banking diplomacy. ‘And I myself make three in favour. Any abstentions?’ There was none. ‘Very well.’ Sir Thomas paused impressively. ‘So that is three in favour, three against. I therefore propose the only alternative allowed for in the rules. We must put the matter to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales in Broadstairs. As president for the year he has the casting vote.’
Samuel was stricken, victory snatched from him. Having heard a little of the interesting scene between Gwendolen and Sir Thomas after the Prince of Wales’s banquet, he naturally assumed her allegiance to him would be broken. Now, he was aghast. The Prince would be sure to support Throgmorton; he had the right background – well, half right. He was a banker and an important influence in Europe. What had he, Samuel Pipkin, inheritor of a fortune made in corsetry, to set against this? True, there was his own invention of the Pipkin’s Patent Health Corset, but they never awarded honours for that sort of thing. If
they had a woman as prime minister now . . . Never, never should Thomas Throgmorton usurp his place as chairman on 23rd April 1900. Over his dead body.
Whose, he did not stop to think. But at Broadstairs, Throgmorton should not escape him.
Now that the matter was as good as settled, Sir Thomas relaxed. The Prince of Wales would be sure to support him, with Beddington on his side. Her Majesty was well known to be partial to Beddington’s company, incredible as it seemed. He had paid court to her in his young days. Hard to imagine that Beddington ever had any younger days, looking at his peacefully slumbering, reddened face, bearing traces of years of good and ill. Sir Thomas complacently considered his own middle-aged locks, plentifully adorned with Macassar oil. He was only fifty-three after all, and a catch as far as Angelina was concerned. He was looking forward increasingly to Broadstairs.
Auguste Didier fidgeted impatiently in the anteroom adjoining the private room, awaiting his summons. When he had arrived, he had already had a few doubts about the wisdom of this enterprise. Now, thanks to Emma Pryde, he had grave misgivings. Lacking the strict upbringing of Auguste’s Provencal father, Emma had no compunction about listening to the conversations of others – particularly when they might affect herself. In this case, she was fond enough of Auguste still to take at times an almost maternal interest in his affairs, particularly his romantic ones, which irritated him greatly.
‘It’s only another of these daft societies,’ she had explained to Auguste. ‘They meet here once a month just to have a good old shout at each other. Old Boney sounds better on his night off than that lot yelling at each other I can tell you.’ Old Boney was her pet parrot.
‘But if His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales is president, Emma,’ Auguste had said, shocked, ‘surely it must be a highly honourable society.’
‘Old Albert Edward,’ remarked Emma, with scant respect for her next sovereign, perhaps born of past intimacy, ‘is a good sort. He agrees to these things, then he regrets them once they’re done and he has to get off his bum and do something. Generous, is Bertie,’ she said absently, perhaps remembering past favours. ‘If you want to hear what this lot’s like, you come and listen to this.’ She had taken him from her private dining room into the anteroom. Putting her fingers to her lips, she drew him over to a small serving hatch. ‘’Ere.’
At first scandalised, then intrigued, Auguste found it impossible to resist the lure of the cut and thrust of battle from within. Thus, by the time his summons came, he was considerably more gloomy about interrupting his precious Fish Fortnight holiday than he had been earlier, even for His Royal Highness. He tried to encourage himself by thinking of the delightful fish menu he had selected, calculated to please everybody, and began to look forward to its getting the accolade it deserved.
‘Ah, Mr Didier.’ Sir Thomas rose, greeting him expansively, almost shaking hands with him before he realised that, chef to the Prince of Wales or not, Didier was merely a cook, and hurriedly directed him to a chair discreetly repositioned well to the side of the table, where he could not contaminate the committee. Angelina politely turned her chair to face him, earning Thomas’s displeasure. Lord Beddington dozed on.
‘And how is Norfolk?’ enquired Sir Thomas blandly.
This nonplussed Auguste, who had no idea that he had been appointed in his absence chef to His Royal Highness. Fortunately he was saved from rendering the Prince of Wales’s tactful gesture to the Society void by Sir Thomas adding: ‘Or are you part of the Marlborough House set?’ laughing at his little joke. Servants did not have sets.
Auguste opened his mouth, reflected and acquiesced. It could do him no harm to accept this undeserved royal patronage. One for Emma! He murmured something deferentially indistinct, which seemed to satisfy Sir Thomas, and moved on to safe ground: food and his menu.
‘Voilà!’ With a flourish he handed the results of his day’s labours to Sir Thomas, who stared at it blankly.
‘What is this?’ he enquired politely.
Auguste was taken aback. Fancy anyone not knowing what a mousse de homard was. ‘It is a delicate warm mousse of lobster, monsieur, followed by turbot with quenelles of crawfish—’
‘No, no, no, my man. Why are you handing me a menu?’ Sir Thomas interrupted impatiently. ‘You are here to receive a menu, not give me one. You are here to get your instructions.’
Auguste gazed at him, heart sinking. There had been some mistake. To get instructions? Was this what Auguste Didier had descended to? Was it for this that Auguste Didier was proposing to forgo a precious portion of his holiday? He would leave immediately. Then he reflected. How could he give offence to the Prince of Wales? He was, after all, half English. His English half might be committing treason by so doing. He gulped. He must try what reason could achieve.
He would point out that he was on a fish-cooking-instruction holiday – no, he could not do that now that he had been classified as chef to His Royal Highness. Subtlety was called for.
‘Only the very best of fare must be provided for such an important banquet, monsieur, and in Broadstairs only fish surely may be considered.’
‘But unfortunately Mr Dickens rarely mentions fish, Mr Didier,’ said Angelina, smiling, ‘save in the plainest of references.’
‘No, no, no,’ interposed Sir Thomas as though this was entirely Auguste’s fault. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand at all, my man. It is not us who choose the menu, it is not you. It is Mr Dickens.’
‘Pardon, monsieur?’ Auguste was completely lost now. Surely this gentleman must know Mr Dickens died some time ago?
‘This is the Society of Literary Lionisers and it is the custom that the Grand Banquet should include only food approved and mentioned by the subject of the year. This year our Lion is Mr Charles Dickens. The choice of food is selected from his writings and our knowledge of his likes and dislikes.’
‘It hasn’t been easy, Mr Didier,’ said Angelina cheerfully, with a sidelong glance at Oliver. ‘Mr Dickens’s characters seem to have had very plain tastes in food.’
‘Nonsense, my dear Angelina,’ said Sir Thomas, for once irritated by her. ‘One has only to read the novels with care to see what appreciation lies behind every mention of food. And consider the fact that Mrs Dickens herself penned a cookery book, that she and Mr Dickens were visitors at Gore House—’
Auguste stiffened. ‘At Gore House?’
‘Mr Alexis Soyer’s Gastronomic Symposium of all Nations eating house. If you, Mr Didier, cannot find the recipes for anything on our menu, you should refer to the cookery books of Alexis Soyer which were approved by Dickens himself.’
‘Steak à la Soyer is included in What Shall we Have for Dinner? by Lady Clutterbuck, Mrs Dickens’s nom de plume. So, Mr Didier, you need have no fear at using this recipe,’ trilled Gwendolen.
Auguste had received a double blow. Not only had the dreaded name of Soyer been uttered, but Dickens had chosen the menu. Yet to the best of his recollection, he could remember no succulent descriptions of food in the novels, no overpowering sense of its central place in the affairs of men. An appreciation of food yes, but of cuisine? No.
Now his worst suspicions were confirmed. This Dickens was an admirer of Soyer and his cooking, and he, Auguste Didier, was commanded by his future sovereign to cook a Dickensian banquet à la Soyer. He could not endure the humiliation. Some escape must be found.
As if understanding his thoughts, the lady referred to as Angelina was looking at him with compassion. ‘I’m sure, Mr Didier, you will succeed very well. You have not earned your reputation for nothing. My friend Lady Jane Marshall was mentioning your name to me the other day,’ she emphasised innocently.
He almost smiled; the young Lady Jane from Stockbery Towers, now married to Walter Marshall and the mother of three budding politicians aged six, three and one.
‘I am most grateful, madame,’ he replied genuinely. Had she not spoken, he might have committed une bétise.
‘Soup,’ declared Sir Thomas,
anxious to get on with the matter of the moment. ‘Mutton broth or Scotch broth. Understand, Didier?’
‘But it is July,’ expostulated Auguste, all his good intentions of calm deserting him.
‘I know that,’ said Sir Thomas testily, angry that his idol had not produced lighter alternatives. ‘Any suggestions from your readings of Dickens?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Fish soup,’ intervened Samuel Pipkin brightly. ‘A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,’ he quoted dreamily from the Great Master, in his case Thackeray. ‘The Ballad of Bouillabaisse,’ he added for those not fortunate enough to be so well acquainted with the immortal works as he was himself. Auguste’s interest quickened. This Thackeray sounded a more sensible writer than he had thought him.
‘Pah, Thackeray,’ snorted Sir Thomas. ‘A mere plagiarist.’
Samuel leapt to his feet, spluttering with rage. ‘You will retract that, sir. You will apologise.’
‘My dear fellow,’ Sir Thomas smiled condescendingly, ‘you must agree that many of his scenes and characters are based on Mr Dickens’s—’
‘You lie.’
‘Mr Pipkin,’ said Angelina softly. ‘This is not the place.’
Samuel glanced at Auguste, and subsided into his chair. But the look he turned on Sir Thomas was inimical. Another unforgivable sin had been added to the catalogue of his crimes.