by Rhys Bowen
“On the contrary,” Mr Angelo said. “I was merely thinking that this young woman shows promise in terms of becoming a pastry chef and could learn much from your expertise.”
The expression softened a little. “Ah well, in that case . . . I suppose I could teach her a thing or two. As long as she doesn’t get under my feet.”
“Oh no, Mr Roland,” I said in my most respectful voice. “I really want to learn and will be most grateful.”
He stood looking at me for a long time, then he sniffed. “Well, let’s give it a try, and we’ll see how it works out.”
“I don’t envy you, working with him,” Nelson muttered when I returned to my place at the table beside him. “He’s a right little prima donna, that one. But it’s good that Mr Angelo thinks you have potential.”
I blushed, realizing that my transfer meant he had been passed over. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push myself forward,” I stammered. “I’m sure I did nothing to ask for any favouritism.”
He laughed. “Don’t be upset yourself. I know my own limitations, and a light hand with pastry is not something I’ll ever have. So good luck to you.” He leaned closer to me. “You’re a really special girl, you know. Look, how would you like to come for a stroll with me next Sunday afternoon? We might take tea somewhere, eat something we didn’t have to cook?”
He was looking at me hopefully. What was wrong with me, I thought. He was a nice boy. How could I afford to be too proud to accept his offer?
“I’d really like to, but . . . ,” I began and watched his face fall. I was about to say that my sister was getting married and I had to have a fitting for my maid of honour dress. I swallowed back those words at the last second. Of course Helen Barton didn’t have a sister.
“It’s all right. I understand,” he said quietly.
“No, you don’t.” I looked up into those light-blue eyes. “I have a friend getting married,” I went on, trying to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I’m helping her with her preparations. She relies on me.”
“I didn’t realize you had anybody in London,” he said, still looking uneasy. “I thought you came down from the north.”
“She was one of the things that made me want to be in London,” I said. “She’s one of the only people in the world I’m close to. We were children together, and when I knew she was getting married here, I took the big chance . . .”
I saw his expression relax. “I see. And when is this wedding?”
“In two weeks. After that, I’d be delighted to spend an afternoon with you.”
“You would?” His face lit up.
“I would,” I repeated.
He was still grinning to himself as he returned to his work. What have I done? I wondered as I got on with my own peeling and slicing. Louisa seemed happy enough with her future. What right did I have to want something more for myself? Then I decided that it wasn’t as if he wanted to marry me. Perhaps he, too, just wanted some pleasant companionship on his days off. It was lonely working away from home. I might even enjoy an afternoon out with a friend.
Louisa’s wedding took place on a rainy afternoon in November. We were whisked under umbrellas from the carriage to the church, while the wind threatened to turn those umbrellas inside out. Louisa looked lovely and absurdly young in her long veil. The way she smiled up at Billy relieved any worries I might have had. She loved him. And he was looking down at her with the same adoring gaze. Suddenly I felt a pang of jealousy that no boy had ever looked at me that way. What did it feel like to be in love? I wondered. How would I ever have a chance to meet someone who would mean everything in the world to me?
As I watched the wedding ceremony proceed, I found myself overwhelmed with a great surge of conflicting emotions. I had locked my feelings away when I was sent into service. All except anger, that is. Anger and betrayal. I had felt that my father had let me down in the worst way, robbed me of my childhood and my dignity. He had not tried to find a humble sort of job himself, I had thought. He was not going to sink below his rank, but he was quite willing to sell his daughter into slavery. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Maybe I had judged him too harshly. Maybe he had been sicker than we knew, and the alcohol had already poisoned his liver. I found that I could feel forgiveness, and love for Louisa and even a spark of hope for my own future. I was going to become a first-class cook, and maybe one day I would meet someone who looked at me the way Billy was gazing at my sister at this moment.
After the ceremony had concluded, the rain had eased enough to have a photograph taken on the steps of the church, before we were taken back to Billy’s house for the wedding breakfast. I was glad that I had not succumbed to my fears and asked to live with Louisa’s in-laws when I found that I was seated beside Billy’s cousin at the long table. He was a skinny, pimply boy called Algernon, whom Billy’s mother referred to as “our Algie.” Memories of my schooldays told me that algae was something that floated on top of ponds. I found him equally unappealing, especially when he slurped his food and chomped loudly.
“Our Algie’s doing very nicely as a bookkeeper for the railways,” Billy’s mother said, giving me a little nudge. “You could do worse.”
I could do a lot better, I thought. I made the excuse of needing to help Louisa change into her going-away outfit. Then she was off in a carriage to Paddington Station and going on her honeymoon to a hotel in Torquay.
“Have a lovely time,” I said as I hugged her.
“I hope so,” she whispered. “I’m terrified, actually, but I expect it will be all right. Billy’s kind, isn’t he? He’ll be gentle with me.”
“Of course he will. And you’ll have time to get to know each other better.”
“Yes.” She took my hands. “After this, nothing will ever be the same again, will it?”
“No, it won’t,” I said. We stood, looking at each other with wistful smiles, she probably remembering, as I was, those days as children when our mother was still alive and we curled up beside her while she read a book to us, or when she played the piano while we danced. How long ago it all seemed.
So Louisa went off on her honeymoon, and I went back to the palace, slipping away while everyone was outside throwing rice after the departing couple, and before I had to face Algie again. It was dark and raining heavily by the time I approached the servants’ entrance. I was walking, my umbrella tilted forward as I battled the wind, when somebody stepped out in front of me. All I saw were legs and feet. I stopped, expecting the person to step aside. When he didn’t, I looked up and saw Ronnie Barton smirking at me.
“Had a nice day out?” he said. “Carrying a valise with you? I wonder where you went, when you said you know nobody in London.”
“It’s none of your business,” I replied. “Please step aside and stop bothering me.”
“The end of the year’s getting closer,” he said, ducking to step under my umbrella to put his face inches from mine. “I hope you’ve been working hard on your little assignment I gave you.”
“Go away and leave me alone.” I was tired, and angry. I tried to shove him aside.
He gripped my wrist with unexpected strength and twisted it back. “Don’t you try to brush me off, my girl.” He almost hissed out the words. “Don’t you ever forget I hold your life in my hands. Have you ever seen the Old Bailey? How about Holloway prison? Not very pleasant, I’m told. And of course that noose is even less appealing. But at least it’s quick. Drop. Snap. Goodbye.”
“Helen?” I hadn’t heard the footsteps behind me. I spun around.
“Nelson,” I exclaimed.
Ronnie stepped out from under my umbrella.
“Are you all right, Helen?” Nelson asked. “Is this man bothering you?”
“I’m really glad to see you, Nelson,” I said. I slipped my arm through his. “Would you take me inside, please?”
“Of course.” Nelson looked over at Ronnie Barton, who had backed off a few paces. “Leave her alone, understand me? Go on. Beat
it.”
“All right. Keep your hair on. I’m going, for now.” Ronnie sized himself up against the much taller Nelson and turned to leave. Nelson took my valise from me, opened the gate and allowed me to pass through ahead of him.
“Has she told you the truth yet?” Ronnie called after us. “I bet she hasn’t.”
The gate closed. We reached the door, I closed my dripping umbrella and we went inside. I found I was shaking.
“Who was that man?” Nelson asked. “A rejected suitor?”
“No, my brother,” I replied. “He and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. I try to stay well away from him.”
“What did he want? Asking you for money, was he?”
“No, not money,” I said. “He was asking me for a favour I can’t deliver. Being quite persistent about it.”
“Don’t worry, you’re quite safe from him here. You’re amongst friends,” he said.
Then he added, as we made our way along the passage to the stairs, “What did he mean about telling the truth?”
What could I say? It passed through my mind that I could tell Nelson exactly what I had done. He would understand. But I realized I couldn’t burden him with a secret that couldn’t be shared with the rest of the cooking staff. And I might even compromise his position if it ever came to light that I had lied. No, I had to keep my secret to myself.
“It’s something I can’t tell you at this moment,” I said. “Nothing shocking. Nothing bad, I promise. But just something about my past life that I can’t share with you yet.”
He was looking at me earnestly, those clear blue eyes troubled. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Helen, because if so . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Not trouble in the way you are thinking,” I said. “Just something that’s awkward and needs to be sorted out. Something that involves my brother. Please trust me, Nelson. I have not done anything that would make you think less of me, I swear.”
“Of course you haven’t. You’re a nice, refined girl with high standards. I saw that from the beginning.” He paused. “So will you come out walking with me next Sunday?”
“I’d like that very much,” I replied, and realized that I was telling the truth. I needed a friend and an ally. And it was rather gratifying to have someone who thought I was special. His whole face lit up with such a sweet smile that I found myself smiling back.
CHAPTER 8
It was strange that, having seized one opportunity, following my father’s advice, I should have the chance to seize another. I had been making good progress with Chef Roland, to the extent that he actually called my shortbread passable and my cream puffs “not bad at all.”
For my part, I was relishing the chance to make such an assortment of cakes, biscuits and pastries, even if I did have to endure his temperamental nature. One day he was chopping candied peel very finely when he sneezed. He turned his head away, of course, but the knife sliced into his finger. He let out a stream of French, including some curse words which were outside my childhood vocabulary.
One might have thought he had been attacked with a hatchet instead of just cutting his finger by the way he was carrying on. I rushed to get a wet cloth to stop the bleeding. “Calm yourself, please,” I said to him in French. “It is not so bad, I assure you.”
“Not so bad?” he wailed.
Mrs Simms had heard the outburst and came over to assist. “Whatever has happened, Mr Roland?”
“I’m doomed, my career will be ruined.” He pulled his finger from the cloth and held it up, while blood dripped down.
“Nonsense, it’s just a little cut. It will heal,” Mrs Simms said, not showing much sympathy. “We’ll bind it tightly. Go and get the first aid box, Helen.”
“No, I must go to the hospital right away,” he insisted. “It needs stitches before it’s too late.”
He wouldn’t listen, and in the end a hansom cab was called for him, and off he went.
“It will be up to you to finish Her Majesty’s tea, my girl,” Mr Angelo said. “I see he’s done the eclairs, but the scones have to be made fresh. Can I trust you with the scones? You make them just before they are to be carried in, so that they are still warm. And you know that she doesn’t like raspberry jam. Just strawberry or apricot, and the cream whipped very thick. Got that?”
“Yes, Cook,” I said, feeling both scared and excited at the same time. It was up to me to feed the queen. Mrs Robbins at my former establishment had made very good scones—at least they had tasted good to me. So I made them just the way she did—with very cold butter, double cream, a dash of vanilla extract. I brought them out of the oven when they were just turning golden on top and wrapped them in a napkin. Off they went on the trolley with the rest of the tea things.
I realized that Chef Roland might not return in time for the queen’s dinner and asked Mr Angelo if I should start preparing one of the puddings.
He looked at me quite kindly. “Luckily, it’s a quiet night with no guests at dinner except for Princess Louise,” he said. “I think we can get away with a Bavarian cream, don’t you? I’ll send Mr Williams over to help you. He’s not bad at puddings.”
And one of the yeoman cooks was dispatched to my table. He didn’t look too pleased at the thought of helping me, when I was clearly his junior, but I smoothed things over by saying, “I’m very grateful you have the time to show me how to do this. I would have been a bundle of nerves if I’d had to create a pudding for Her Majesty by myself.”
He grinned. “Put enough cream and sugar in it, and she doesn’t care,” he muttered. “Oh, and a good splodge of brandy. I don’t know how she eats the way she does. And drinks, too. Do you know she has a different wine with each of the courses? And sherry before the meal and port after it. And she’s going on eighty, too. She must have a cast iron stomach.”
“Miss Barton?” I looked up to see Mr Francis beckoning to me. I thought that we had been overheard gossiping about the queen and expected a rebuke, but as I walked over to him, he said, “Take off your apron at once. You’ve been summoned.”
“Summoned?” I looked at him in horror, my first thought being that Ronnie had gone to the police.
“Upstairs,” he said. “A footman has been sent down to fetch you.”
“Upstairs? You mean to the queen?”
“So it would seem,” he said.
“Oh gracious, what have I done?” My heart was beating so fast that I could hardly breathe.
“You’ll find out when you get there, I dare say,” he went on. “Get on with it, then. Don’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”
My fingers would not obey me as I tried to undo my apron strings. I hung it up on the wall, smoothed down my skirt and went out into the hallway. A footman in black velvet livery was standing outside the door.
“You’re the one, are you?” he asked in surprise.
“I’ve no idea,” I stammered. “I can’t think what the queen would want with me.”
“She sent me down to fetch the cook who made the scones today. That’s all I know.”
“That was me,” I agreed.
“Come on, then. Follow me.” He led me at a great pace along the hallway, through a heavy door and out into a different world. A great marble staircase curved up ahead of us, with a red carpet going up its centre. Up we went, so fast that I had to pick up my skirts and was out of breath by the time we reached the top. Then he hurried me along a broad gallery where portraits of former monarchs frowned down at me, and there were statues in niches. There was a thick Axminster carpet underfoot, and the walls were covered with rich brocade. I hardly had a moment to take this in as the footman came to a halt before double doors, then opened one cautiously.
“The pastry chef that you requested, Your Majesty.”
With that, I was almost pushed inside. I stepped into a large sitting room. It was a pleasant sort of room, not too grand, with tall windows that opened on to the grounds at the side of the palace. Velvet sofas and armchairs were arranged around a mar
ble fireplace in which a healthy fire was glowing. In one of the high-backed chairs, a little old woman was sitting. I had seen pictures of her aplenty, of course, but she seemed even smaller in person, her feet resting on a footstool. In truth, up close for the first time, she looked like anyone’s grandmother, a white shawl around her shoulders and a lace cap upon her head. She looked up in surprise as I entered.
“You’re a girl,” she said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” I attempted a curtsy.
“I thought all my cooks were men,” she replied. “Where is my pastry chef?”
“I am only an under-cook, Your Majesty,” I replied, “but Mr Roland, who normally makes your pastries, met with an accident this afternoon, and I had to step in and take his place. I am sorry if my efforts did not measure up to your usual standards.”
“An accident? I trust it was not too severe?”
“He cut his finger, Your Majesty. But he felt that the cut required stitches, so he was taken to a local hospital. However, I expect he will be perfectly fine by tomorrow and able to resume his activities.”
She was looking at me critically. “You’re nicely spoken for a servant girl. What’s your name?”
Oh dear. I was about to lie to a queen. Images of the Tower and dungeons swam into my head. “It’s Helen, ma’am. Helen Barton.”
“Well, Helen, I’ve summoned you today because we found the scones to be particularly delicious. We both commented on them.”
That was when I noticed that she was not alone. A portly man with a neatly trimmed grey beard was sitting in a high-backed chair across the fire from her. I’d seen images of him in newspapers. The Prince of Wales. He was looking at me appraisingly.
“Mama, you did not tell me that you were employing young women in the kitchen these days,” he said.