Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 8. Chapter 8, Part One: 24th December

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Chapter 8, Part One: 24th December

Carême’s mid-morning break saw him running an errand to a Brighton jeweller. He’d placed his order weeks ago, and so was relieved the gift had been completed just in time.

The chef’s course home took him through the Pavilion grounds. Having used the West Gate, the domed grandeur of the Prince’s stables was to his left, and pleasantly laid paths and borders spread their leisurely way towards the marine villa.

However, far from an idyllic springtime saunter, Carême’s pace was brisk, for the leaden skies had opened up half an hour ago with snow. It fell gently and began clinging to the marble stucco rooves of the Salon’s onion dome as an incongruous fuzz. The white fluff also collected picturesquely on the tent roof of the Banqueting Room and its recently completed set of colonettes. Beyond this, behind and to its side, the golden weathervane of the moody Water Tower pointed its dragon tail towards France, and the black smoke of the Great Kitchen’s just-lit roasting fires rose up to mingle with the ill-boding cloud cover.

Carême quietly ruminated on how those fires would not be extinguished for days – perhaps a fortnight – for the poor of Brighton were going to be coming to the Kitchen Court seeking meat and liquid merriment. The chef simply hoped it was the poor receiving the Regent’s beneficence, and not a chance for someone like Donald Bland to funnel Royal vittles to brokers of ‘trend’ and pocket the money for himself.

The man reached the relative comfort of the Pavilion’s porte-cochère, or the covered entranceway for carriages before the home’s front door. Here he kicked the light accumulation of snow off of shoes, and brushed the same down from his shoulders and arms.

At his approach, a handsome but unsmiling youth in a livery uniform opened one of the glass doors for the chef. “Monsewer” was his only greeting.

Carême nodded at him and moved into the Octagon Entry so the young man could block out the wind at Carême’s back by closing the door again.

The chef loved this room. The architect had designed it thinking of days like this, for the angled back wall – to the left of the double doors leading into the house – had been arranged to host a fireplace. Now a warm and smokeless coal grate easily kept the cold at bay, inviting every visitor to loosen their winter attire and feel at home.

The paint scheme was also inviting, for an array of pale greys tricked out the raised panelled flanking the enormous, opposite-set windows, and carried up this grisailled subtlety to the plaster tent ceiling. At each of the eight meeting places of the ‘fabric,’ charming little bells in burnished silverleaf only hinted at the riot of colourful chinoiserie beyond.

Suddenly, Carême’s eye was caught by holiday cheer. A topiary of oranges, surmounted by a pineapple, stood on the reception desk in this room. It was placed next to the open visitors’ book where departing guests could thank the Regent for his hospitality.

He walked into the Reception Hall, immediately appreciating the architect’s forethought once more, for in this nearly windowless space – as large and rectangular as it was – Mr. Nash had arranged a stunning wall-to-wall clerestory where each of the arched panes of glass were polychromed with a long-tailed phoenix.

The walls of this room stepped up the decoration of the Octagon, as they were a pale blue-green with a tone-on-tone overpainting of Chinese dragons and coiling serpent motifs. But now the large, central rondels were covered with glossy wreaths of magnolia and holly berries above the pianoforte against one long wall, and the mantlepiece of the other.

Striding through the room to the open door on the right, Carême’s thoughts ascertained what was ‘wrong’ with the decorations, for, concerning colour, they were lovely, but without scent, these particular evergreen plants offered no real Christmas spirit.

Through this portal, into a vestibule leading to the guest chambers and their shared parlour known as the Red Drawing Room, another discreet door to the chef’s left was of the swinging variety – the staff access to the Pavilion’s end-to-end Service Corridor. Nash had even thought to submerge the portion of this corridor intersecting the Reception Hall. He’d stepped it underground so staff never need delay their valuable tasks simply waiting for guests to clear the Hall.

What Carême failed to notice, being lost in his own thoughts, was how a friend had been sitting quietly in the Red Drawing Room.

“Oh, Lady Morgan—”

She’d come up behind him and snagged his arm. “Just the person I was wanting to see.”

She led the chef through the ‘green baize’ door into the service passageway.

Maintaining her arm tightly through his as they walked, she added low and conspiratorially, “My enquiries into James and Audrey Keenan have finally been answered.”

“Oh, yes. And what information have you found?”

“The parish priest in Ireland confirmed their origin story; their age and names; and their parentage too. Lord DeWitt’s secretary in Ireland also corroborated the couple’s employment in their household kitchens, as well as Lord Aire’s butler in Yorkshire testifying to their satisfactory engagement with the Duke of Cambridge at his country estate when he was head of staff there. From this posit-ion, already in Royal employ, they came to work at the Pavilion two years ago with positive references.”

As Carême was digesting this information, he must have scowled, for Sydney Morgan was swift to add, “They seem on the up and up, as we would say back home, but truth to tell – one can never know.”

“Oui, Madame. One never fully knows.”

“Also, I needed to see you today because we’ve been given a delicate mission.” The hush-hush tone was back in Lady Morgan’s voice.

“Of what nature?”

“It’s from Prince Leopold. He’s worried about Charlotte’s constitution. She suffers dreadfully from the morning sickness and hardly eats anything at all. The father-to-be knows Charlotte needs her strength, and wants us to meet with her.”

“When?”

“Just about now. She’ll be rising and calling for her morning tea.”

“Comment ça.”

The pair entered the hurly-burly of the Great Kitchen.

Extracting his arm with a kiss on her wrist, the chef bowed and said politely, “Madame, s’il vous plaît. If you will wait for me while I give instructions, I shall return with something for the Princess.”

The chef went about his tasks.

Ergo, cunningly left to her own devices, Lady Morgan suddenly found herself ‘alone’ and nearly invisible amongst the swirl of action. Drifting to one of the two great preparation tables, she pretended to be taken by a delicate chive florette. It was a ruse and employed the mundane action of drawing it up to her nose as a means of spying on Charlotte’s lady’s maid.

Brigitte was standing at the end of this table, the Princess’ breakfast tray near the hand she used to lean on the wood in mid-flirt with François.

The maitre-d’ suddenly coloured and stood more erect; so did Brigitte. Carême had arrived with another chef-hat-wearing gentleman – one whom Lady Morgan immediately assumed was Herr Bauda, the sous-chef. They ignored Brigitte, who slipped out of the conference by mumbling something concerning “Sweet rolls” and “Pastry Kitchen”; the men continued discussing battle plans for the day’s dinner.

Oddly then, a young woman in chef whites retrieved Charlotte’s tray and set it much closer to Lady Morgan’s position. The novelist casually strolled her way to it while the undercook turned her back and returned her attention to something on the range. A man lingered there waiting for her, and Morgan instantly knew this was the Irish couple – James and Audrey Keenan.

Using deft motions, Morgan inspected the contents of the tray. It was what one would expect for a young lady’s wake-up service, except, inexplicably, there were two tea pots – one in highly polished silver; the other in humble, everyday crockery. The lids were off, and Morgan wanted to peer inside each—

“Begging pardon, mum,” Audrey said, returning unannounced with a boiling kettle, which she held via the facility of a folded towel under the bail handle. She filled each pot, giving the novelist a tantalizing whiff. One was heady, earthy Ceylon tea – that she knew – but, as for the other . . . .

“Ah, Lady Morgan.” Brigitte was back. She held a porcelain plate of sugar twist buns. “This is a surprise.”

“Nevertheless”—she smiled—“you had better run along to your mistress now. Carême and I will be up shortly to sit with her.”

“Ah, oui?” The experienced companion maid’s tone was controlled, first admonishing anyone telling her what to do who was not Charlotte, and secondly, it managed to simultaneously convey the displeased ‘irregularity’ of the Royal heir-apparent having people “sit with her” just out of bed.

Lady Morgan – in the meantime – assessed the little snicker of approval coming off of Audrey Keenan. At least the undercook liked the French maid being dressed down, and by an Irish Lady at that.

“Yes. So see to it there are enough cups, oui?”

Brigitte played her ace, unnecessarily curtsying. “Oui, Madame.”

James, oblivious to the entire display of female intrigue, had slipped matching shawls around the tea pots. It was a relatively long trip to the other end of the house and up one flight of stairs. No Pavilion drafts would be cooling the hot beverages along the way.

The maid hefted the tray and departed.

Sydney Morgan engaged the couple, her smile fixed as she indulged in that casual, Irish way of word-dressing designed to get at what one wanted to know without seeming interested in it at all. “Back in County Dublin, where I’m from, a shawl is for the shoulders, not the tea pot!”

She laughed; the other two exchanged awkward grins.

“Say, I noticed,” continued Lady Morgan, “there were two pots on the Princess’ tray.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied James. “The Princess’ usual drink of choice is herb tea.”

“Oh.” Sydney Morgan pushed her luck. “May I taste some?”

“Begging pardon, mum”—Audrey chose to become offended—“but I’ve been in charge of making Charlotte’s teas for years at the Pavilion now. I know how she likes it.”

“Yes, but—”

James interrupted. “We would serve you a cup, ma’am, but there’s none ready-made, and we don’t have the authority to make a whole pot just for one, curious sip.”

“Well, then, just tell me what it is so I can try some of it back home – on my own.” She smiled in full deceptive innocence.

Audrey paled a moment. Her husband responded, gesturing to a sealed porcelain jar on the table. “Chamomile. The Regent himself ordered it given to her; to calm her nerves, you understand.”

Morgan laughed it off. “Of course! Why, of course.” But still she whipped the lid off the jar and took a deep whiff. It was the same herbaceous fragrance she’d scented coming off the crockery tea pot.

“Been drinking it, ma’am,” added James, “since she was a lass. Very fond of it she is too.”

Lady Morgan re-lidded the canister. “I see.” She copped a happy expression. “Very good. By all means, do carry on.”

She walked away, knowing exactly what she must do.

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Later, away from the great Central Corridor with its ceiling of skylights, up the leisurely paced North Staircase to the Chamber Gallery – and in the suite of rooms identical to the Regent’s – Chef Carême and Lady Morgan sat in morning levée with the Princess.

They were gathered around the sofa table in the antechamber: Charlotte slouching on the couch itself with her back to the window; the visitors perched on armless chairs drawn up to the table for the occasion. Brigitte stood with folded hands by the Princess’ side.

Morgan and Carême had a cup full of tea before them, while Charlotte ignored her buttered sweet-roll.

Brigitte served the Princess her third helping of herbal tea, and again, while Charlotte lackadaisically stirred in far too much sugar, Lady Morgan found herself acknowledging the scent of chamomile flowers, but couldn’t shake off the hint of something more medicinal being in the tea’s vapours as well.

Carême had brought his portfolio of sugar work architectural drawings and held them up across the table – away from Charlotte’s greasy fingers – while he expounded upon them. As he did so to the bored Princess, Sydney Morgan noted the cold, dagger-pointed glares the maid shot at Carême. Perhaps the Frenchwoman was merely miffed at the chef’s failure to detect Charlotte’s disinterest, or, Lady Morgan considered, it was possible someone felt jealous of a certain chef’s connections to a certain maitre-d’.

“And this one, Princess”—Carême was concluding his miniature lecture—“I title l’ermitage Russe; a Russian Retreat.”

Charlotte sparked to attentiveness. “Oh, yes! This is the superior example you made for the Banqueting Room inaugural.”

The chef was flattered she’d remember. “Oui, ma Princesse. Your first official dinner here.”

“But tell me”—she plopped dish-rattling elbows on the table—“why a palm tree for a Russian church? And why chicken-wire windows, made of sugar, of course, for such an ermitage?”

Carême coloured a bit. He tried to be as plain-spoken about it as he could. “It is a new school of Art called le pittoresque. Elements from one place or time are shown juxtaposed against others.”

Charlotte wasn’t following.

Lady Morgan lent assistance. “As I understand it, Mr. John Nash, your father’s architect, is a leading figure in the ‘Picturesque School’ over here. For example, have you noticed the small, Gothic rose windows he has placed on the Pavilion’s onion domes? They don’t belong there by any stretch of logic or application, and yet they produce a very harmonious effect for the eye.”

“Oh . . . . ” Both Princess and lady’s maid got it. “It’s a damn curious thing to do when—”

Sydney Morgan cut her off, knowing the other was about to insult Carême. “But, artists will be artists.” Her sidelong glance at the chef, with eyes snapping back to the Princess’ own, drove the message home.

Charlotte collapsed on the sofa cushion, sighing an apology. “I’m sorry, Chef Carême. Here you are, so gallantly trying to lift my spirits, and I . . . . Well, and I simply feel in too much pain to even remember my manners. Do forgive.”

“Naturellement, for there is nothing to forgive. But, are you in much discomfort, Princess?”

“Yes”—she straightened up and drained her now-tepid tea—“I am.”

Brigitte de Saint-Exupéry re-filled the cup once it was back on its saucer.

The Princess inattentively stirred in her usual three spoonfuls of sugar. “The old bother! It really is such a horridly unfair thing . . . . ” She nibbled on some buttery flakes. “Morning sickness is, that is.”

“From what I’ve observed,” Lady Morgan said, trying to offer comfort, “moving past the three-month mark, young mothers-to-be don’t suffer from it anymore.”

Above a gay, princessly laugh, Charlotte replied, “Well, I do!”

“Doctor Kitchiner and I saw Your Highnesses in the market yesterday.” Carême suspected correctly: even the mere suggestion of the Prince Consort’s existence would raise her spirits.

Charlotte replied with glee, “With all the people; you saw! But my Leopold, he ambled us home, right through the South Gate, just to walk us straight through the North Gate again, sans entourage! We had a lovely, beachside stroll after that in perfect quiet. It was divine, although the overcast weather was not. When will this beastly winter of the summer of 1816 end?” As she had aimed the tail end of her rhetorical question in Brigitte’s direction, the lady’s maid raised her shoulders, and then – with pursed lips – shook her head.

Returning her attention to her guests, the Princess continued, “Sometimes I have my doubts.” She was back in the doldrums again, glancing around. “Sometimes, I don’t like this place – too many eyes about me. I much prefer Claremont House. It may be small, but it’s all Leopold and I need to be happy. And it does my spirit no good to be in Brighton so often in pain.”

Carême and Lady Morgan exchanged meaningful looks. Before the chef could ask what kind of pains, the Princess went on in a pettish way.

“How dreary I find dinner at the Pavilion right now. No reflection on your skills, Monsieur, but these trying and testing days leave me with no appetite to sit and look amused for hours while the men drone on so about famine in Russia, revolts in Dublin, starvation in India – again – and on and on and on. It’s horrendously dull and bores me to tears; and they’ve only just stopped talking about the Congress of Vienna.”

Carême thought this was much too cavalier an attitude coming from the head destined to wear The Crown of the English Empire – but naturally, he said nothing.

The Princess grew thirsty, and after having swallowed half of her cold tea, suddenly showed considerable interest in her pastry. She took a heaping teaspoon of sugar and liberally doused the buttered flakes of her roll with it.

Tearing off shreds and chewing crunchingly, her elbows landed on the table once more. “My Consort is always correct in his judgement . . . thinking, I mean. He is so bright and attentive to details, I rely on Leopold’s ears to gather the intelligence I need but am blind to during my current condition. Ergo, this is why I prefer to sup alone with him at night, here in our chambers, so we can privately chat about the day’s activities.”

Carême reconsidered his slighting of the young woman’s sagacity, and felt a bit ashamed. This led to the chef announcing brightly, “To cheer you up, I will personally prepare a treat for you and the Prince Consort tonight.”

“What is it?” A sprinkle of sugar fell from the young woman’s mouth.

The lady’s maid was also quite engaged with learning the answer.

“A baba.”

Crestfallen, Brigitte apparently considered this far too humdrum.

Despite the maid’s folding of arms with a dubious expression, Charlotte sat a little straighter and smiled. “Oh, how jolly well mysterious, considering I don’t know what that is!”

At that moment, the little gathering indulged in free and easy laughter.

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Hours later, the main course of the Royal Couple’s late-evening meal having gone up thirty minutes before, the Great Kitchen was shuttering itself at nine – as usual – while Carême, François and Thomas placed the finishing touches on Charlotte’s and Leopold’s dessert.

The original baba au rhum had come into being during the reign of Louis XV’s pretty Polish wife – the one who not so famously uttered the line that cut off Marie-Antoinette's head: “What, the peasants have no bread! Let them eat brioche, ha-ha . . . . ”

She might have instead suggested they eat her favoured baba, baked in fluted moulds said to resemble the flaring skirts of contented old women, for as Carême knew the true Polish tradition, this slowly risen yeast cake was prepared with rye flour, and such staples were cheaper and more readily available to a France in crisis in the 1760s. But sadly, history cannot rewrite itself except in wistful or deceitful ways – never the practical.

And the rum? Ah, the chef whose inspiration to take the somewhat plain-Jane baba of the tea table – which was, no doubt, a stale one by the time he got his hands on it – and spoon a luxurious dark rum syrup over the top, has been lost to culinary folklore.

Suffice to say, it was now an item a hungry Parisian proletariat could splurge for as an everyday treat from Carême’s pastry shop; the baba au rhum was famous throughout France – especially the master chef’s version.

And glistening on one of the Pavilion’s silver platters was just such an example. Admiring it, Carême felt sure it would please the young couple sequestered at supper on the opposite side of the house. Whipped cream filled up the centre where the plain tube section of the baking pan had been, and on the exterior of the cake’s rum-burnished, mahogany crenulations, precise dollops of more Chantilly creme were being hand-piped by François under Carême’s watchful eye.

“No; no,” François chided Thomas. For the ‘chucklehead’ was following in Distré’s wake with perfectly cut diamonds of candied angelica. “That’s crooked! Straighten it.”

Thomas quickly saw which decorated highlight was amiss and righted it to a proper up and down.

Just as this team of two completed the final garnish, they looked up. It struck François that the kitchen was suddenly depopulated from when he first began his task a few minutes ago. In fact, now only James and Audrey Keenan were working. Near to them, to François’ embarrassment, Brigitte de Saint-Exupéry stood observing the man at his task; Carême slyly observing her at hers.

The chef de cuisine gently lidded the dish with a large silver cloche, and Gris Thorndyke lifted it to walk the dessert upstairs. As Chief Footman, it was his appointed prerogative and pleasure to receive compliments due the Great Kitchen’s staff. He was trailed out by Charlotte’s lady’s maid with her pot of herbal tea for the Princess on a tray.

As Thomas collected the used utensils and bowls, returning them to the sink, Carême and François settled into shared observations.

“Villon, I am concerned the Princess consumes too much sugar. It’s far better to try and curb its use for her here, in the kitchen. Babas have not so much sweetness.”

François surveyed the Keenans tidying up too. Audrey was sealing the canister containing the Princess’ special tea. His own thoughts towards Charlotte were not as flattering as Carême’s. He chuckled, telling the chef, “Certainly as a Princess, she’ll decide to have exactly as much sugar as she likes.”

Carême was not sure how to take the suddenly caustic remark, nor indeed, what mood inspired it.

François explained in a lower tone. “You are too nice to them, at least to that stuffed-shirt Bosche, Leopold.”

“Chef Carême, sir . . . ” Thomas interrupted them, instantly drying up what little good humour François was showing. “I’ve checked with the spit-jacks and the first shift of roasters. They will be up by 4 in the morning to stoke the fires and begin roasting the beef for the poor.”

“Good,” replied the distracted chef.

“Also, begging your leave, but I had a glance over your menu for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The number of entrees is staggering . . . . ” The teen boy’s voice trailed off in personal uncertainty.

This caught Carême’s attention. He was nothing if not a mentor par excellence. “Thomas, my boy, do not be intimidated; but do get a full night of sleep.” He placed a warm hand of encouragement on the lad’s shoulder. “Tomorrow’s activities will be like going into battle. Like any soldier, the best you can do is be prepared, and calmly fall back upon your training to get you through challenges. As you are prepared, I know you will play your part well.”

To this supreme compliment, Thomas Daniels smiled.

However, unmistakably to François’ eyes, the boy also blushed to receive this kind of personal attention and praise. The man quickly blotted out unbidden memories of feeling the same nearly a decade earlier with simmering jealousy; he became angry at both the boy and the maitre-d’s fickle lover.

Oblivious to any of this, Thomas said in a holiday-making tone, “And the Staff’s Christmas will promptly start at noon on the 26th.” The young man split glances between the Frenchmen. “I wanted both of you to know you are warmly invited.”

Carême rather curtly replied, “I won’t be here. I have other plans for Boxing Day, but thank you.”

This stunned François. It was the first he’d heard of it.

“Pardon.” Carême left them, heading to his office, his hand reaching around to take off his apron for the day.

There followed an uncomfortable moment for the gloating kid and dejected man. But François Distré pulled himself together and bid Thomas a cool but unhostile “Good night.” He then went to confront Carême.

When he got to the chef’s glass-boxed sanctorum, the chef was taking off his knife scabbard and locking it away for the evening. Unseen by François, Carême had to shove a certain package aside in his desk drawer to do it.

François closed the door behind him.

“My God”—François was impassioned but under control—“you flirt with him in front of me? And worse yet, puff up the ego of that block-headed boy.”

Carême stayed calm, turning the key in the lock of his drawer. “He has potential, and everyone has more to learn in their craft. In fact, I’d suspect he’s only slightly less educated on culinary matters than when I discovered you in Laguipierre’s kitchen.”

François dropped all pretence, mumbling “It hurts,” hoping it would soften his partner’s heart. It didn’t.

Walking towards the wall where the chef’s coat hung on a hook, he stopped behind François’ right shoulder. “It hurts me that you are sleeping with Charlotte’s lady’s maid.”

François thought for an impulsive moment to deflect; to try and laugh it off. Instead, he gave up and honed his tone with a slight vindictiveness. “I have to entertain myself somehow, considering you’re always with your new ‘friends’.”

Carême, slipping on his suit jacket, replied rather flatly, “Just because I’m not in the kitchen, it doesn’t mean I’m not working.”

After a drumbeat of deafening silence, François slammed the kitchen towel from his apron down in frustration on the desk. “You never consider me or my situation, do you?!”

Carême, stunned and perplexed, watched as François tore open the office door and stormed off.

François went back to the middle of the Great Kitchen, not really knowing what he was doing. In another moment he had stopped, and stood leaning on the still-warm steaming table, emotionally mute.

Lost in misery, he barely noticed the lights dim as the kitchen officially closed for the night.

A hand landed on his shoulder from behind. Cheering, masculine words erupted with an Irish lilt. “It’s about time you made good on that promise to let us take you out.”

Audrey strolled up smiling towards her husband, fixing her bonnet. Both were in their street clothes, and the kitchen was otherwise deserted, save for the three of them.

François stood upright. “Oui! Why not.”

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