by Rhys Bowen
I was lost for words.
“Say something,” she said at last.
“I’m very happy for you, if that’s what you want, Louisa,” I muttered at last.
“That’s just the problem. I’m not at all sure it’s what I want, Bella. I mean, I want Billy to have the chance to get on and make something of his life. But Australia is so far away. I was wondering . . .” She paused and looked up at me. “If you’d come with us. You’re all I’ve got, Bella. And when it comes to childbirth and things, well, I’d be scared to be all on my own.” And she reached out and took my hand. “You will come, won’t you? Billy will take care of everything.”
Thoughts whirled around inside my head. I didn’t want to abandon my only sister, but what would there be for me on a farm thousands of miles away from home? The chance to marry a farmer and be stuck in the middle of nowhere. And what of my cooking ambitions? The chance to lead my own life? It struck me that for the first time I had to put myself first.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Louisa. But I can’t. I have dreams of my own. I want to become a good cook—a proper chef. I want to make my own way in life, not be a hanger-on, the poor unmarried sister in your life.”
“I’ve heard there are plenty of unmarried men in Australia,” she said.
“Farmers and cowhands and uncouth, uneducated men. I want more for myself, Louisa.”
“And you think being a cook will get you the respect and status you desire?” she said sharply. “A cook is also a servant.” Then I saw tears well up in her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. It’s just that I don’t want to move so far from you.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t want you to move so far away, but I have found a place where I feel that I belong, Louisa. I love my work. I’m learning more every day. You should see the cakes I can make now.”
I gave her an encouraging smile, but she turned away, still upset. It crossed my mind that she was a little like my father, who also sulked when he couldn’t get his own way. But in this case, it was not over a trifle. A move to Australia would be overwhelming for anyone.
“Maybe when you are settled and you can tell me what conditions are like and how far you are from towns, I’ll consider it. I may even come for a visit,” I said. “But not now. Not when I’m just beginning to find a place for myself in the world.”
“Very well,” she said stiffly. “Then you had better hug your little sister one last time because we may never see each other again.”
“Are you leaving so soon?” I asked, horrified.
“No, not until the summer at the earliest,” she said. “Billy’s father has a land agent working to find the best farmland, and we have to secure a passage.”
“So of course I’ll be seeing you again, you silly goose,” I said. “Do you think I’m not going to visit you between now and the summer?”
She gave a sad little laugh. “Of course you are. It’s just that once we say goodbye, it will really mean goodbye.” She took my hands and squeezed them tightly. “Do think it over, Bella. My mind would be so much more at ease if I knew you were going to be with me in that far-off land.”
“I will think it over, Louisa,” I said, although my mind was already made up.
I felt guilty when I saw the hope in her eyes. “It could be a wonderful adventure, you know. They have kangaroos and koala bears and all sorts of funny things.”
“Louisa, I can’t marry a kangaroo,” I said, making her laugh and easing the tension.
I spent a miserable few days feeling alternately guilty and angry that she had put me in such an untenable position. Of course I didn’t want to go to Australia and live on a farm. But I saw the fear in Louisa’s eyes, and she was so very young. Then I reminded myself that I had put my family first since my mother died. I had endured years of humiliation and servitude for Louisa. Now I wanted to become an expert cook—but more than that, I wanted to be an independent woman with the means to live life on my terms. Now it was time for me.
I threw myself with enthusiasm into improving my cooking skills, even creating what might become signature dishes, while we waited for daily bulletins on the queen’s health and her recovery from her current illness. Then one day at the beginning of February, when the snow had turned to slush, making walking outside even more unpleasant, Mr Angelo summoned us all together. He had an announcement from Her Majesty. The queen felt that she was not going to get better as long as she stayed in London. She was anxious to go to the Riviera immediately. Apparently, she had spent her winters on the Mediterranean coast several times before. In the past she had stayed at hotels or villas belonging to other high-born people and only taken her personal maids and attendants. However, this time a brand-new hotel had been built specifically for her. “It’s called the Excelsior Regina, if you can believe it,” Mr Angelo said with a grin. “A whopping great place with a whole wing for the queen and her retinue. So this time she plans to take a good portion of her household.”
“Does that include kitchen staff, Cook?” Jimmy, one of the apprentices, asked.
“It does, although I can’t see us taking you, boy. You’d get into too much trouble in the hot climes of the Riviera with those French girls.” And he grinned again.
“Don’t they have chefs at hotels?” Mr Phelps asked.
“They do, but the queen prefers her meals prepared the way she likes them, cooked by people she knows. And she’s suspicious of foreign cooking, as you well know.”
“So who will you be taking?” Jimmy persisted.
“Not me, I firmly hope,” Mr Francis said quickly. “I am near retirement and too old for such a strenuous journey, besides, I can’t take the heat any longer.”
“It’s only Nice, Mr Francis, not the Congo,” Mr Angelo replied, “but I will respect your wishes. It will only be a small contingent. We will mainly be cooking for an intimate party of her relatives. Should she decide to hold a bigger banquet, the hotel chefs are at our disposal. So who would like to go? I should like to take your wishes into account.”
He looked around the kitchen.
“I don’t think you’d want to take us ladies,” Mrs Gillespie said. “It wouldn’t be right for us to travel with the men, or to go out unescorted in foreign parts.”
“Quite right, Mrs Gillespie,” Mrs Simms said vehemently. “The tales one hears about those Frenchmen and Italians. No sense of decorum at all. They pinch bottoms.”
“I am a Frenchman and I resent that,” Mr Roland said. “I am as well behaved as any Englishman—better than most.”
“I’m not saying all Frenchmen, Mr Roland,” Mrs Simms said hastily. “Anyone can see that you are a proper gentleman.”
“Of course we’ll be taking Mr Roland,” Mr Angelo said. “How would Her Majesty survive without her cakes and puddings?” He gave a nod to Mr Roland. “Added to which we’ll need someone to interpret for us and to communicate with our French kitchen workers.” He looked around at us. “I think we should take two cooks—Mr Phelps and Mr Williams, as the senior men, if neither of you has strong objections?”
“Not at all, Cook,” Mr Phelps replied. “I think the air on the Riviera would be most agreeable for my rheumatics.”
“And I, too, don’t mind getting away from the winter rain,” Mr Williams added.
“That’s that, then,” Mr Angelo said. “Plus one of you young upstarts to do the basic prep. Nelson? You seem to be the most advanced in your skills.”
I glanced across at Nelson, who had turned bright red. “If you please, Cook, I’d prefer not to go so far from my mother, who is not in the best of health and relies on me, not having my dad around, you see.”
Mr Angelo sighed. “Very good, Nelson. I respect that sentiment. So I suppose it better be Jimmy instead, as the senior apprentice. In spite of my misgivings about temptations with French women . . .” There was a general chuckle from the assembled group. “Unless he has family obligations he can’t bear to tear himself away from.”
There w
as a big grin on Jimmy’s face. “Oh no, Cook. I’ve been dying to travel and see the world. Sign me up. I’m your man.”
“Well, that’s settled then. Myself, Mr Roland, Mr Phelps, Mr Williams and Jimmy it shall be. Those of you who are left will be catering for the members of the household who do not travel with Her Majesty.”
“And a nice pleasant time we’ll be having of it, too,” Mrs Simms muttered to me as we went back to our stations.
As I went to join Mr Roland in our part of the kitchen, he seemed quite put out, and I had to remind him that he had already added two teaspoons full of baking powder to the sponge.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, which in itself was strange. He wasn’t known for his gratitude and usually took full credit for anything I had baked. He had certainly never called me “my dear” before.
“Is something wrong, Mr Roland? Or are you just excited that you will be visiting your native land again?”
He looked around, then leaned closer to me. “Au contraire, Helen. I am not looking forward to it one bit. I dread the sea crossing. I suffer badly from mal de mer.”
“Surely the sea crossing is quite short? It is only an hour at sea from Dover to the French coast, so I’ve been told.”
“Not the way she travels.” Again he glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “She takes the train to Portsmouth, then the royal yacht to Cherbourg. That’s an overnight of being tossed around. I know. I did it once. Never again. And to be frank with you, I do not have any great love for my countrymen from the south. Those people in Nice, they are more Italian than French. Scoundrels and brigands the lot of them.”
“But think of the lovely sunshine and the fruit and flowers.”
“Like all young girls, you are a romantic. Me, I think of the bad drains and the typhoid.”
I laughed. “I can see you are not at all a romantic, Mr Roland,” I said.
“I have learned that life is hard and dreary, Helen. We are born, we work, we create things of beauty that are devoured in a few seconds . . . and then we grow old and die.”
I was still smiling, and in a way flattered. It was the first time he was talking to me as if I was a person and not an underling. “I hope there is more to life than that,” I said. “I must admit my own experience until now has not been wonderful, but I am hopeful about the future.”
“You will no doubt find a young man, fall in love, marry and leave me—just when I have found an assistant who is not impossible to work with and who actually seems to have some talent.”
“Thank you, monsieur. I am honoured that you think so,” I said in French. “But I have no intentions of falling in love until I have learned to be a good pastry chef.”
He frowned. “How is it that you know my language? Have you ever been to my country?”
“No, monsieur,” I replied. “I was educated as a young girl. I came from a good family, and my father spoke excellent French. But he and my mother both died, and I had to go into service.”
“So you see, life is hard,” he agreed. “But now I remember. When I cut my finger and I uttered a few choice words in French, you understood, did you not? You told me to calm myself.”
I nodded. “I didn’t know the exact meaning of some of those words, but I understood the sentiments you were expressing.”
“Now that I know you speak my language, I shall enjoy having a chance to converse occasionally. I find that I’m losing the facility, having not spoken it for so long.”
“You have been in this country for a long time?” I asked.
“I came as a child,” he said. “My father was a pastry chef before me in Paris, and then he was invited to London to work at a Gunter’s as a confectioner. I learned my profession from the best.”
“You certainly did,” I replied. “Your petits fours are exquisite. I hope to learn many things from you when you have time to show me. How long do you think Her Majesty will be away?”
“She usually stays for at least two months. Two months of bad water and hay fever from all those blossoms.” And he sighed.
I went away rather stunned. I had seen Mr Roland as a difficult individual who saw me as a necessary nuisance. Now it seemed as if I might have a chance of a real relationship in the future, even a modicum of friendship!
After this, the kitchen was in a hustle and bustle of preparation for the grand voyage. Mr Angelo agonized over which of the cookery books should be taken with him, as well as his particular favourite pots and pans. “I must have all my recipes. That is obvious. And I know they tell us they have a well-stocked kitchen,” he said, “but will they have a mould just right for Her Majesty’s favourite blancmange? Or a turban for that game terrine? And my fish poacher? Do they know how to poach fish in France? And how do I know what kinds of fish will be available in the local markets?” The pile of equipment he could not do without rose higher and higher. I wondered how they’d manage to carry it.
There was a discussion about what they were going to wear. It was no doubt warmer in southern climes. The men complained they only had dark suits for their days off. How could they acquire linen suits? Mrs Simms and I watched it all with amusement.
“Like a pack of women, they are, wondering what to wear and whether they’ll look fashionable in France,” she muttered. “But I’m that glad we’re not going. I wish they’d be gone and we could get back to peace and quiet and our proper routine again.”
As it happened, they found out they were to leave sooner than they expected. Her Majesty, or rather one of her secretaries, decided that it would be a good idea if her cooks went ahead so that the kitchen was up and working by the time she arrived. So there was added panic that they had to leave in two days. The good news was that they were to take the usual boat train to Dover and then cross the Channel to Boulogne by the shortest route. This would remove the long sea crossing, but instead it would be an extended and uncomfortable journey to the South of France by train if you were sitting up all night in a third-class carriage.
I felt they were rather ungrateful to complain. They’d be going abroad, seeing the world, actually travelling through Paris. I lay in bed that night, picturing what it would be like to travel. My father had been to the Continent as a young man, before being commissioned into the Indian Army. He had seen much of the world. Maybe someday . . .
I came downstairs the next morning to find the kitchen in a state of panic.
“What on earth is happening?” I asked Nelson, who was busy stirring the porridge for the servants’ breakfast.
“It’s Mr Roland,” he whispered. “He’s had an accident. He was going to the—you know—in the middle of the night, and he tripped over the suitcase he had open on his floor. He’s fallen and twisted his ankle so badly he can’t walk on it. He may have broken it.”
“Oh, poor Mr Roland,” I said. “If he can’t walk, how can he possibly travel to France?”
“That’s just the problem,” Nelson said. “He can’t. Cook is in a right state.”
Even as Nelson uttered these words, Mr Angelo stormed into the kitchen. “Of all the stupid things to have done,” he blustered. “Can’t walk. Can’t travel. What are we going to do now? That’s what I’d like to know. We don’t have a pastry chef. None of us knows a word of French beyond the names of dishes we have to cook. That’s not going to cut the mustard, is it? How are we going to make our way across France, eh? And who is going to order for us at the market and talk to those foreign blokes at the hotel?”
“Excuse me, Cook,” Nelson said, “but Helen here speaks French.”
There was an instant silence in the kitchen. Eyes turned to me. I felt my cheeks burning.
“You do?” Mr Angelo asked. “You actually speak French, more than la plume de ma tante?”
I nodded, finding it hard to make myself speak. “Yes, Cook. I speak quite good French.”
“Was one of your parents from that country?”
“No, Cook. But my father was well travelled and we
ll educated. I learned French at school, and we sometimes spoke it at home.”
“Well, blow me down with a feather,” Mr Angelo said. “Young woman, you are full of surprises. You seem to have a bit of talent when it comes to pastry, and you speak French. I see no alternative: we’ll have to take you with us.”
“Me, Cook?” I could hardly get out the words.
“Yes, you. Go on then. You’d better go and pack your things.”
I almost flew up the stairs with excitement. I was going to France. It was only when I reached my room that the truth hit me. If one went abroad, didn’t one have to carry a passport? I didn’t have one, and if one had to be procured for me, how could it possibly be in the name of Helen Barton? Surely I would need to produce a record of my birth before they’d give me a passport. I’d just have to come up with some reason why I couldn’t travel. A sudden case of the grippe . . . That’s when it occurred to me that that was just what Mr Roland had done. He had made it clear he hadn’t wanted to go to France, and miraculously he’d hurt his ankle badly enough that he couldn’t go. How convenient for him.
I went downstairs again and found Mr Angelo wrapping blancmange moulds in newspaper, before putting them into a crate. “This one is her favourite,” he said, looking up at me. “I doubt they’ll have a mould in the shape of a rabbit, and she’s liked this one since she was a girl.”
“Cook, I’ve just had a worrying thought,” I said. “I presume one needs a passport to travel abroad. I don’t have one.”
“Neither do any of us, ducks,” he said. “But we don’t need it. We have a letter of passage to say that we are part of the queen’s retinue and they are to let us pass without hindrance. I’ll have to have them add your name to it, but apart from that, Bob’s your uncle. Now get cracking. We don’t have any time to waste.”
CHAPTER 12
I was going to France! And not just France, but the French Riviera. It seemed almost too good to be true. I half expected someone to tell me that a mistake had been made and a female servant was not allowed to travel after all. I retrieved my valise from under my bed and started to pack my pitiful wardrobe. Nothing I had was vaguely suitable for a fashionable resort or a warm climate. I had my uniform, one winter dress, one cotton shirtwaist (now a little tight), one summer skirt that had been let out from the days before I became a servant, my one good outfit from Louisa’s wedding and a winter cloak. That was it. For a moment, I wondered if I could pay a rapid visit to Louisa and see if she had any extra clothing she could lend me. I had seen her trousseau, and it was quite generous. But I reminded myself she was shorter than I, and also I was too proud to ask for favours. But she had given me a golden guinea for Christmas, which was still tucked away in my purse, and I had my earnings since October in a savings account. Maybe when we reached France, I could find a dressmaker and have some suitable clothing made.