by Rhys Bowen
After that, a second carriage drew up. A pretty young girl with almost white-blonde hair braided around her head was riding in this one, along with a chubby man who looked around with distaste, as if this luxurious palace of a hotel did not measure up to his expectations.
“Who is that?” I whispered to the maid standing beside me. “Are they royal relatives?”
“I think she’s Princess Sophie,” the maid replied. “She’s some kind of young cousin of Prince Albert’s from Germany. She came to stay at the palace once. She was really nice. And the gentleman with her is her betrothed. They call him Villie. I don’t know anything about him.”
“She looks awfully young to be married, doesn’t she?” I whispered.
“I think she’s eighteen. I suppose that’s a good age if you are royal,” the maid replied, her voice a little louder now that the royals had gone into the hotel. “But you wouldn’t catch me wanting to be tied down with a husband and children at least until I was twenty-five. I want to see a bit of life first.”
“Quite right,” I agreed and found my thoughts going to my sister, Louisa. Married at seventeen, what did she know of the world? Would she later come to regret that she had tied herself to this man and his family? I might be poor and have no connections, but at least I was free to choose my own destiny. This thought perked me up considerably as I made my way back to the kitchen to help with the luncheon.
CHAPTER 20
The luncheon must have been well-received because the dishes came back almost empty and there were no complaints, except for a visit from the lady of the bedchamber in charge of the royal children, giving us instructions on the nursery food. The children were to be served bread and milk for their tea, and their diet was to consist of nourishing soups and vegetables. Plain food, nothing spicy or foreign, we were told. Boiled eggs for breakfast and the occasional fish were also recommended. Jimmy was given this assignment.
“Cooking the nursery food?” he asked, making a face of despair. “How am I ever going to learn to be a proper chef if I have to make bread and milk? Even my old mum couldn’t mess that one up, and she was the world’s worst cook. It’s a wonder any of us grew up without being poisoned.”
“Then just make sure you create the best bread and milk ever made,” Mr Angelo said, smiling at Jimmy’s horrified face. “And eggs boiled to perfection. That is a task at which most cooks fail.”
Shortly after the lady had departed, we received another visitor—the despised munshi in person. He swept into the kitchen with a swagger. “Her Majesty has sent me to inform you that she wishes to give a little dinner party this evening since the prime minister is staying nearby. Dinner for twelve. Make sure it is an interesting menu.”
“Our menus are always interesting,” Mr Angelo said, putting down the cleaver he had been using with a decided thump.
“I would not say so,” the munshi replied. “Again and again, I request special food, knowing that my diet must be suitable for my religion, and what do I get? I get chicken with no flavour. I get a pea soup that you call a dal. And what am I to eat here, I ask myself.”
“The same as the other servants, I should imagine,” Mr Angelo said.
“You insult me. I am not a mere servant,” the man said. “I shall report this to Her Majesty and have you dismissed.”
Mr Angelo smiled. “I don’t think so, mate. The one thing Her Majesty loves more than you is her food. I’m not going anywhere. You, however, should be careful if you want to stay around.”
“What do you mean by that? Do you threaten me?” The man’s eyes flashed.
“Not me,” Mr Angelo replied, “but I can tell you that you don’t go down well with the rest of the court.”
The munshi gave a little snort of derision. “As if I don’t know this. But they are jealous that I am the queen’s favourite, and they can do nothing about it.” He stalked out of the room. The other cooks broke into chuckles.
“Blasted cheek,” Mr Angelo said. “We’ll beat him at his own game. We’ll make him a vegetable dish every meal and put so much spice into it that smoke will come out of his ears.” Then he clapped his hands. “Well, you heard the man. Dinner for twelve.”
This didn’t seem to worry Mr Angelo one iota, but it sent me into a bit of a panic. Until now, I had looked upon this assignment as a lark, a challenge, a time to prove my worth. Now it struck me that I had to live up to expectations. A dinner party would not be satisfied with ices and rice puddings. I tried to think what Mr Roland would have done. At least an impressive gateau. I thumbed through the cookery books. Mille-feuilles cake à la chantilly. Yes, I could do that. I could always guarantee that pastry would turn out well. And oranges were abundant here. An orange cream served in orange shells? That seemed doable, too. And for a third? I thought of a bread and butter pudding, to remind them of home, but alas we had no stale bread. This was one of the disadvantages of being in someone else’s kitchen. So I decided I couldn’t go wrong with profiteroles—who doesn’t like them?
Everything turned out to my satisfaction. I stacked the profiteroles into a tower and drizzled them with chocolate. Chef Lepin walked past and nodded. Mr Angelo seemed to approve, too, although he didn’t say anything.
The dinner party went smoothly. We were even sent a message of congratulations that the queen found the whitebait to be particularly tasty and that Lord Salisbury had commented on the clever oranges. I was too worked up, and too relieved, to feel like eating anything at that moment and went out through the servants’ door at the back of the hotel into the cool of the night. A great canopy of stars hung overhead, such as I had never seen since we left Hampstead Heath. A pall of smoke always hung over London. One never knew if there was a moon or not. I stood gazing at the stars, trying to remember constellations my father had shown me. Suddenly I was aware of voices coming from directly above me.
I looked up. A balcony ran around the rooms on the first floor, and several gentlemen were standing on this, smoking. The scent of their tobacco wafted down to me.
“Doesn’t she see he’ll have to go?” said one of the voices. I thought I recognized it as that of Lord Salisbury. It had that fruity, hearty quality of a politician used to speaking loudly in Parliament.
“He’s an embarrassment. An utter disgrace.” I thought I recognized this voice, too. I had definitely heard it before. There was a slight Scottish hint to it. Dr Reid, the queen’s doctor, maybe? “Claims his father was surgeon general in India. Why, the man was no more than a hospital orderly. This munshi person is completely lower class. In his own country, he would be despised and shunned by polite society. And here she is, taking him everywhere with her. It’s a complete embarrassment. We all threatened to resign, you know. It didn’t faze her one bit. He has her bewitched, if you ask me.”
“She always was influenced by a handsome male,” a third voice pointed out. This one was higher in pitch and staccato in delivery.
“This man is not even handsome. Exotic at best, and thoroughly objectionable.”
“Not to her. With her, he puts on a different face. As sweet and charming as the ices she so loves. What can we do to make her see that she is making a fool of herself and of her country?”
“I gather the local people here think he is some kind of captive Indian prince,” the second man added.
“Gentlemen, I fear it is worse than you imagined.” This was Lord Salisbury again. “He is not just an embarrassment but a danger to our national security. You’ve heard of Rafiuddin Ahmed?”
“The barrister chap? The one who heads the Muslim Patriotic League?”
“And what is that?” the third man asked.
“A group that’s actively working against our nation. Wants to drive the British out of his country. Wants self-government for the colony.”
“Good God. And this munshi is connected with him?”
“He is. Great friends, in fact. We have information that the munshi has been privy to top secret documents and has passed along thei
r contents to this Muslim League person.”
“Privy to top secret documents? How is that possible?”
“She allows him to stay in the room when she opens her dispatch boxes.” The voice sounded disparaging. “And she’s soft enough that who knows what she discusses with him, or what he peeks at over her shoulder.”
“But that’s a treasonable offence. The man is a damned foreign spy.”
“So it would seem.”
“Has the queen been told this?”
“She has, but refuses to believe that her dear munshi would ever do such a thing.”
“At least we can say we are safely away from the British court.”
“On the contrary,” Lord Salisbury said angrily, “I have received information that this Rafiuddin Ahmed is on his way to Nice, if not already here. Clearly planning to meet with the munshi.”
“But this must be stopped at all costs.”
“I agree,” Lord Salisbury said. “We will do what we can to make sure the two do not meet. I’m sure it can be arranged that our men intercept him and quietly escort him on his way. But if the munshi still has access to secret documents, what is to stop him from communicating in writing to all and sundry?”
“The queen must be made to see sense.” The higher voice snapped out the words.
“And who will accomplish this?”
“Perhaps the Prince of Wales. He dislikes and distrusts the man as much as we do. For all his philandering, he’s a sensible chap and has our country’s best interest at heart.”
“He likes to stay well away from his mother when he’s on the Riviera. She doesn’t approve of his mistresses.”
“Protocol demands that he comes to pay his respects. I’ll have a chat with him, and perhaps he can make her see.”
“It seems to me that there is an obvious solution,” the higher voice said, this time speaking slowly and in measured tones.
“And that would be?”
“To do away with the munshi.”
There was a nervous chuckle. “And how do you propose to do that?”
“There are all sorts of strange diseases down here, you know. The water is notoriously bad. Put something in his food, for God’s sake.”
“You are not serious, surely?”
“Deadly serious. The man has to go. It’s up to us to make that happen.”
“And how do you propose to bring this about?”
“You’re a doctor. You must know what can kill a chap and how to make it look like food poisoning.”
“My dear man. I’m a doctor. I’ve taken an oath to preserve life, not end it.”
“Not when it is in the best interests of your client, of the public good.”
“Not even then. I’m sorry. I should go and see if the queen needs me before she goes to bed.”
I heard a door shut above me.
“He’ll come around,” the higher voice said. “If not, we’ll just have to find someone else.”
I waited for a while before I dared to move, but hearing no more voices, I crept back inside the servants’ entrance and into the kitchen, where the scullery maids were clearing away the last of the saucepans.
“Sit down and eat,” Mr Williams called to me. “You look worn out.”
I pulled up a chair beside him, and he ladled me a bowl of chicken soup, made from the less desirable parts of the capons and the offcuts of the garnishes. It was just what I needed, slipping down without effort, and I gave him a grateful nod.
“Rather strange, isn’t it?” he went on with his pleasing Welsh lilt. “Being so far from home. Everything’s a bit different. A new kitchen, new challenges. It’s no wonder we feel a bit topsy-turvy.” Then he gave me an encouraging smile. “I expect it will all work out. I think you’re doing just fine.”
I felt tears welling in my eyes. The yeomen cooks had hardly acknowledged my existence before this trip. Now he was not only keeping a fatherly eye on me, he was actually complimenting me.
I made my escape as soon as it was polite to do so and went up to my room. Once I had safely closed the door behind me, I sank on to my bed. I tried to put the conversation I had overheard from my mind, but could not. Several important gentlemen, including the prime minister and the queen’s doctor, were plotting how to do away with her Indian servant. Talk of intrigue, foreign plots and treason! If someone had told me about it, I should not have believed them, thinking it a wild exaggeration. But I had heard with my own ears. And I could tell nobody.
Why should you worry? I said to myself. It does not concern you. You are certainly not fond of this munshi. And if he is a foreign spy, he must be removed some way or another. But the talk of poisoning his food had unnerved me. After all, I was one of Her Majesty’s cooks. One of those who handled the food. If anything happened to the munshi, the suspicion would fall on my colleagues and on me.
CHAPTER 21
In the light of morning, the scene I had overheard did not seem real. I almost wondered whether I had dreamed it. I breakfasted, enjoying the taste of the still-warm bread and the tart sweetness of the apricot jam, then went to work. I made a batch of little cakes, maids of honour, and brandy snaps for tea. All of these kept well in tins. I had just finished the brandy snaps, rolling them when still warm around a spoon handle, when Chef Lepin came up to me. “What are these?” he asked.
I told him. “They are filled with cream before they are served.”
“May I try?”
I held out the one I had just finished. He took a bite. “Ah, they have spices. Ginger, I think, and a touch of cinnamon?”
“And brandy, of course,” I replied.
He savoured the one bite. “And an interesting texture. Lacy. Crisp. Perhaps you could share this recipe? There are now guests at the hotel who expect the English teatime.”
“Dear me,” I said. “An English recipe you consider worthy of cooking? Wonders will never cease.”
He looked at me and laughed.
“I’ll trade you. My brandy snaps for your octopus.”
He held out his hand to me. “D’accord,” he said, meaning he agreed.
I was unprepared for the jolt of electricity I felt when his hand touched mine. I must have stammered something about getting back to work. I could feel my cheeks flaming, and I suspected he was chuckling at my discomfort. He is teasing you, Bella, I told myself. He is using his French charm to make you uncomfortable. You mean nothing to him. But all the same, it was exhilarating to know that a man’s touch could have this effect on me. I had begun to wonder whether I was strange or cold because I had not been thrilled by Nelson’s kiss. Now I knew that I had just been waiting for the right man.
I soon discovered that working at the hotel was very different from being in the palace kitchens. There we were shut off from the life of the royal family. We had no idea who came and went, what small dramas unfolded. We cooked the meals, sent them off with footmen and mostly had no idea whether they were well-received or not, unless there was a complaint—which was rare. Here we were in close proximity to those we served. Our narrow passageways passed behind their rooms. Windows were open, and we overheard conversations. And we got glimpses of their lives.
After what I had heard the night before, I overheard another strange conversation that morning. I had just come out of the servants’ entrance for a breath of fresh air after putting various cakes and pastries into hot ovens. I walked around towards the front of the hotel, enjoying that breeze that came up from the seashore with a hint of salt to it. I was just rounding the turret at the end of the hotel when I heard a shrill voice saying, “But you must give it to me. I order you to.”
I glanced up and saw that windows were open on the floor above me. I thought at first that it was one of the royal children, but a male voice replied, “Your Highness, I am only thinking of your well-being. You know that your mother would not approve. She would be horrified if she found out.”
“You are not to tell her. I absolutely forbid you to tell her,” came
the female voice, now even more shrill and with a note of panic to it.
“Then I urge you to be sensible and to stop this nonsense while you still can.”
“But I don’t want to stop. It is my one pleasure in life.”
“That is your choice, but I will do nothing to aid it. Good day to you, Your Highness.”
This conversation left me as shocked and intrigued as the last one. One of Queen Victoria’s daughters, unless it was one of her grandchildren, and the voice had sounded too mature to be the ten-year-old girl. What did she want? And was that Dr Reid who was refusing her? Life was definitely more interesting in Nice, I decided. I was about to turn around and go back to keep an eye on my baking when I heard the strangest noise. It was part cry for help, part someone choking. I could not for the life of me place it, so I had to run around the building to see for myself. What was standing outside the queen’s entrance at the front of the hotel was a tiny cart, pulled by a white donkey, which was now braying and making those extraordinary sounds. A peasant selling vegetables? I thought, but I was sure that such a vehicle would not be allowed to stand in the forecourt beside the smart carriages. Then I realized.
How sweet, I thought. It must be for the queen’s grandchildren.
“Guess what I have just seen,” I reported on coming back into the kitchen. “There is a cart being pulled by a donkey outside the hotel.”
“Oh, that donkey cart, I heard about that,” Mr Angelo said, giving Mr Phelps a knowing grin. “Rumour has it that the queen came upon a peasant ill-treating his donkey. She was so shocked and upset that she paid for the beast on the spot. And now she keeps it stabled here so that she can ride around the area in a little cart.” He grinned as he turned back to me. “It’s outside now, is it? Let’s go and have a look. I’d like to see for myself.”