Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 11. Chapter 10: Thursday, 26th December, or Boxing Day at the Doctor’s

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Chapter 10: Thursday, 26th December, or Boxing Day at the Doctor’s

 

 

In a reprisal of its performance from the morning before, the sun rose like a coal smothered in the folds of a grey blanket. Boxing Day arrived cold, and the Royal Pavilion – usually so warm and gay – seemed but a gem lodged in the heart of an iceberg.

The crews of the Great Kitchen were busying themselves with the post-breakfast clean-up. It was supposed to be the household’s Christmas, with a grand dinner in the Staff Dining Hall at noon. This was the occasion many had been waiting for, for the presents exchanged included a slip of paper to each of the kitchen workers from the Comptroller stating how much their end-of-year bonus would be.

However, news of the Nation’s dead baby prince cast a smothering pall over The Peoples’ holiday. It was one to match the dreariness of 1816 in general.

At one end of the room, outside his office door, chef de cuisine Carême stood in conference with sous-chef Bauda and maître d’hôtel Distré.

“Per the Regent,” Carême said, “His Highness and the Queen will take luncheon together in his chambers. A reduced dinner will be laid at four o’clock, Herr Bauda, in the Yellow Drawing Room. You know which items from yesterday are going for the staff’s dinner, and which can supply the relevées for the Family’s meal.”

“What about,” asked the sous-chef, “the zugar work monuments in the Banqueting Room? I suggest they be moved to the Ztaff Dining Hall so they can enjoy them there, and the Family – well, they von’t have to zee them again.”

“A sad necessity,” confirmed Carême, “but a good idea. Please have them moved, François.”

“Yes, Chef.”

As Carême carried on with instructions, the tensions between François and himself were nearly palpable. Although making for an awkward working relationship at the moment, neither dared touch upon what had happened between them early that morning.

“In addition, François, prepare a baba au rhum for the recuperating Princess. You know how, so I entrust it entirely to you.”

A flush of pride coursed through the maitre-d’. It was a badge of honour to be given responsibilities over a dish carrying the master’s name on it. “Oui, Chef!”

“And when you do, pull Thomas into it so he can learn.”

François was crestfallen. “Understood. I’ll pull in the boy.”

Before Carême had time to react to this, James and Audrey Keenan laughed at a private joke between them. The wife was at the range with an iron kettle, and her husband stood chopping vegetables at the preparation table opposite her. Their jolly – nearly ebullient – mood stuck out like a sore thumb in the downcast kitchen.

Without any warning, the three men turned the other direction to see an odd sight: Lady Morgan and Doctor Kitchiner entering from the courtyard entrance, both still bundled in their outer winterwear. Right behind them came two dour-looking men in cut-away uniforms – not military; more like a constabulary police force.

The Irish couple very obviously noticed the visitors’ presence, but tried to carry on for the moment unconcerned.

Suddenly, they bolted.

Audrey had the longer way to go, while James had a more or less straight line to the Great Kitchen’s other door.

He took off, but as soon as he cleared the preparation table, Thomas Daniels kick-slid a crate of cabbages right across the man’s path. As Keenan was glancing over his shoulder to gauge his wife’s progress, he fell head-long over the crate, spilling it. James twisted his torso to land on the hard stone floor with his back. That knocked the wind out of him, but not enough to prevent him from drawing his chef’s knife.

Without missing a beat, Thomas kicked it out of his hands, landing a hard blow on the back of James’ knuckles.

Just in time to apprehend him, two more of Kitchiner’s men arrived through the door from the Service Corridor.

Meanwhile, with her escape route blocked by the crate and her fallen husband, Audrey quickly mounted and clambered over the preparation table’s narrow side, but Lady Morgan arrived there at the same time. She was the one to halt Audrey’s escape by grabbing her upper arm. Rage coloured the noblewoman’s face. She slapped the cook, hard.

The two constables who had followed her, restrained Audrey from behind and immobilized her. Joined by James pinned between the other policemen, they were led back to where Kitchiner stood waiting.

Lady Morgan joined them, first grabbing the canister of the Princess’ special tea. She uncovered it, holding a pinch of it before the Irish couple’s faces.

“Chamomile? To soothe the Princess; to keep her quiet and calm.”

James and Audrey exchanged a brief, confirming look of guilt.

Doctor Kitchiner took over. “Lady Morgan followed her suspicions and had a sample secreted away for my laboratory to analyze. Not chamomile—”

Lady Morgan threw it in the woman’s face. “Yarrow. A known and powerful abortive. You poisoned the Princess’ child!”

Audrey’s face washed over with a sneer of accomplishment. Almost possessed by a rebellious fever, she recited:

 

“The blood which here was streamed,

With justice to heaven cries!”

 

Sydney Morgan was stunned. These were part of the famous poem on Irish Independence by Robert Emmet, chronicler of the 1789 Revolution.

Audrey’s voice rose in volume.

 

“I claim it on the oppressor’s head

Who joys in human woe,

Who drinks the tears by misery shed

And mocks them as they flow.”

 

One of the constables tried to hush her, but Audrey only became more frantic to get it out.

 

“I claim it o’er his ruinèd isle,

Her wretched children’s grave!

Where withered Freedom drops her head

And man but exists a slave.”

 

Woman to woman, poetical mother to poetical mother, Morgan was desolately sad.

“But part of that poem also says, ‘By marked mercy may freedom rise, by cruelty unstained.’ For not all things are fair in love and war. Not all.”

Kitchiner cleared his throat and ushered the constables and prisoners out of the room.

 

 

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Irony always seems to dog the tracks of honest men; more so, the sincerer they are in their endeavours, the closer to his heels come the biting scorn of others.

So too appears to be the fate of Nations and their people. For British history had been altered irrevocably with Charlotte’s stillborn boy, but the nation went on about its business unaffected because it did not know. How many course corrections in the night transform what our daylight reality will be in the years to come without our reckoning them. How to tell time, then – properly – if one can never truly make out the hands moving against the Clock’s face?

Thus Britain, and the world along with it, had been changed in ways untold because of Charlotte’s miscarriage, but on Boxing Day 1816, none of those ways were yet imagined.

At precisely three in the afternoon, Carême rolled up to the Club. As he mounted the final steps, Kitchiner swung wide his portals.

The chef entered amidst the man’s smile and twin aromas from the pine-bough wreath on the Good Doctor’s door and the smells of simple, substantial food from within the house.

“Ah, mon très cher, Carême! Let me take your coat.”

While the Doctor closed the door, Carême sloughed his outer winter cape, which Kitchiner took and handed to the waiting door porter.

“Won’t you follow me?” Kitchiner proceeded down the corridor. The Club was particularly quiet today. All the office doors stood open and the chambers beyond them appeared dark and unpeopled.

Not trusting how alone they actually were, Carême asked in a confidential tone, “How fares the Princess?”

They had arrived at the lift. Kitchiner let Carême go first, then came aboard and spoke into the mouthpiece. “First floor, please.”

As the elevating platform began to rise, the Doctor removed his glasses and told his companion, “It is all so sad, but life must go on.” He turned professionally jovial. “I’m pleased to report Charlotte . . . is young and strong.”

They arrived at their floor, just one flight up from the street, and the main level of the establishment.

Kitchiner again led the way off the vertical conveyance and into the main corridor, heading back towards the front of the building. The Doctor continued with his original thought.

“Despite the Princess’ difficult time with pregnancies, there shall undoubtedly be many healthy, normal children born to the Royal Couple.”

To Carême’s mind, these wily assurances were fundamental projections of a deeply held hope. But, so most declamatory statements must ever be.

Light poured through the open double door at the end of the passage. Kitchiner explained: “This is the Front Room of the Club. A gathering spot for members to trade in . . . well, intelligence from around the world.”

The chamber spanned the entire width of the property along the Esplanade, and was thus as long as Kitchiner’s penthouse upstairs. Five tall windows brought an excellent view of the sea beneath their arches. Within this room, leather sofas and arm-chairs clustered about various tables. Some of these were stacked with Newspapers and Periodicals; Carême’s stray glance caught one pile topped with 24 heures, a Swiss daily from Lucerne. He’d seen many a copy in Paris, but none in England.

He could imagine the well-appointed room populated with men smoking cigars, holding papers and chatting with each other about events occurring far and wide. But today, the place was deserted.

“Perhaps,” Kitchiner said as he strolled, “we could convince you to roll up your sleeves and prepare something today. Something simple; untaxing, naturally.”

Carême hemmed. “Well, I don’t know . . . . ”

“My holiday larder is full. Perhaps take a look once you get upstairs and see if inspiration strikes.”

“I doubt, Doctor, inspiration will be lacking, but may I ask why you want me to cook at this gathering?”

“Simple.” He hauled up before the fireplace at the end of the room. The coals were lit and pumped generous heat into the unoccupied space. “In times of grievous woe, there is an honesty in hand-to-hand food prepared for one’s friends that all the tributes of gourmandise cannot match.”

Carême bowed, slightly. “Then I will acquiesce and look at what manner of provisions you have, and I’ll coordinate anything I make with Mrs. Lister’s dinner plans.”

“Excellent.” The Good Doctor radiated warmth.

Suddenly, the hollow grandeur of this space struck Carême as a metaphor for ‘the spectacle’ of an empty high-class life. Appearances may rule, and luxuries are often pointless simply for lack of another person close enough with which to enjoy them. The Doctor’s invitation to cook was an attempt to let pretence drop in favour of the personal connection they’d experienced preparing the sole several months ago. Carême would embrace the opportunity.

The Doctor gestured with his right hand. “Shall we?” He led the way into a second chamber whose double doors stood open at this end of the parlour.

A grand library was laid out for dessert service. The central round table, under a tiered crystal chandelier, was spread with a damask cloth. Upon this were arranged various sweets, buffet style. The item closest to the chef was a four-pound round of Stilton blue cheese. It sat on a silver platter with a linen napkin wrapping the comestible’s lower third.

In proper symmetry to this – on the opposite side of the table – sat a cake the same proportions as the Stilton, only this confection was a marzipan-encased ‘Christmas Cake.’ It made Carême smile to think such holiday fruitcakes were an unbroken tradition dating from ancient Roman times to the very present day.

Kitchiner explained, “After our meal, we’ll adjourn here to stretch our legs, and”—he motioned to a sideboard with decanters of Port and Sherry— “offer a toast to the Yuletide season.”

“Delightful.” Carême continued his way around the table. There were many plates of sablé and other sugared biscuits for the ladies to sample. When he got halfway between the blue cheese and the Christmas Cake, he encountered a third cardinal-point of the layout – a glistening blanc-manger, that classic moulded jelly of almond milk. Frosted grapes, in colours ranging from pale green to deep purple, surrounded the base of the entremet and glistened in crystalline sparkles.

Kitchiner, arms behind his back, came up to the chef. “Do you approve?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. A wonderful choice – a dish unaltered since Taillevent’s times in the 1300s until today.”

Kitchiner was pleased. “I knew you and I are kindred spirits when it comes to ‘understanding’ the value of culinary tradition.”

“Yes,” the chef agreed. “It means enjoying the past creations as living gifts; not mouldering curiosities for the library shelves.”

“Most assuredly so,” confirmed the Doctor.

Carême’s eyes were drawn to the fourth compass-point of the arrangement; an empty spot on the table.

“Ah, that!” exclaimed Kitchiner. “That is for the guest of honour – the Pudding – the King of every Englishman’s Christmas.”

“Enchanté. I look forward to seeing it later.”

“That you shall! But, I suppose we should be wending our way up to the other guests.”

Carême reached out and stayed him, hand on arm. “Before we do, and I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how is it the Keenans, as radicals, could have slipped past your security checks?”

“Simple, Carême, old boy – they weren’t radical when they were cleared for Royal work.”

“Comment?”

“The answer lies in the fact that terrorists – like heroes – are born by on-the-spot circumstances. Any one of us could answer the call of it if the stress and opportunities were ripe enough.”

A blushing sensation rose through the core of Carême. He understood this all too well, and said so. “Yes, Doctor, I witnessed for myself such things during the Reign of Terror. Neighbour against neighbour; brother against brother; children against parents – it was horrific.”

“Indeed. That’s why we hope a French-style revolution will never come to Britain’s shores.”

Echoing the Doctor’s words from before, Carême replied, “It’s all so sad, yet, life must go on. But what of the fate of James and Audrey? What will happen to them.”

The Doctor laid it out very matter-of-factly. “First, they’ll undergo ten days of systematic torture – mental and bodily – to reveal names of co-conspirators—”

“What if they acted alone?”

“They still have compatriots of like sentiments, and they’ll cough up their names. In addition, we’ve shuttered their local den of criminality – a pub called The Barrel. The family who owned it, and several of the regular habitués, have been apprehended and will likewise spit up names, naturally. National Security is at stake.”

“And after the Keenans’ torture?”

Kitchiner shrugged. “That is up to His Highness to decide. After all, it’s a Family matter to him.”

The Doctor paused, defensively. It was all-too easily read upon the cook’s face that Carême was judging Whitehall’s techniques harshly.

He continued in a sharper vein, removing his glasses first. “I should warn you, Carême, so you know, that whenever the British mind is confronted with facts concerning English brutality at home and abroad, it quickly makes peace with itself and thinks, all in all – despite all evidence to the contrary – ‘British Empire’ is and was a good thing. A civilizing force on Earth whose ends absolve any savage means to form and maintain Her.”

“But . . . . ”

“It may sound complex, but the simple fact is, it’s automatic. At even the first syllable of criticism against ‘the English,’ we – with our insular natures – shut it out as so much Foreign balderdash. We know how good we are, despite what the greater world holds up as a mirror to our actual ugliness.”

“Gentlemen, am I interrupting?”

A female voice made them move to the front room. Lady Morgan strode towards them from the corridor doors.

The Doctor called out, “The woman of the hour! We might not have known yarrow was the culprit without Lady Morgan!”

She came up to the smiling men, the chill of the outside still upon her cheeks when Carême kissed her.

“Welcome,” the Doctor said. “I’ll excuse myself now and go upstairs. You two follow at your leisure.”

With that, Kitchiner was gone.

“How is it you are here?” Carême asked. “You said the Doctor had not invited you.”

“Oh, it was not, my dear ami, Kitchiner. The Regent had not wanted me, but he changed his mind.” Her smile was radiant at this point.

“Well, I’m very glad he did!”

 

 

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Several minutes later, after an elevated platform ride and a stroll through the Doctor’s combination greenhouse and biology lab, the old friends Lady Morgan and Carême approached the open doors to the Doctor’s penthouse retreat. Even before they could make their way in, the source of the good smells radiating throughout the building revealed their origins.

They entered unnoticed, for the bustle of activity and well-disposed voices seemed confined to the cooking-end of the room. Carême did perceive Kitchiner’s galley stove was lit and pumping a pleasant amount of warmth to this end of the space. He shrewdly closed the doors behind them to make sure the heat stayed in place.

“Après vous, Madame,” the chef said with a gesture.

Lady Morgan and he made their way to join the others. Both were surprised to see the Doctor’s rafters draped with garlands of evergreens. They swagged in great loops, decorated here and there with sprays of holly and mistletoe. The scent they offered the space was lavish.

A giant wreath of the same stuff hung on the wall of the cooking hearth, and Carême observed something similar in the left-hand corner of the room up ahead, but could not make it out. It flickered with pinpoints of lights.

“Ah, they’ve joined us!” Kitchiner called out.

Prince George and Mrs. Fitzherbert were seated at one end of the spacious kitchen table; the lady was pouring what Carême assumed was the Regent’s favourite cherry liqueur into a sherry glass. He appeared to be drinking more than was his usual, at least judging from the high colour on his cheeks. But with the all-too recent death of his grandchild, who could have blamed him?

“Lady Morgan,” Mrs. Fitzherbert said graciously, “though a day late, may I wish you a Happy Christmas.”

The mood was anything but joyous, and if compared to past gatherings hosted by the Doctor, the day’s atmosphere was cast in sombre hues.

“You are too kind, and may I wish the same for you, Madame. I’m delighted to be here.”

“As am I,” added Carême. “A bon Noël to you, and to Mrs. Lister.”

As if via a stage cue, the London caterer arrived from the working end of the table rather excited. “Good,” she said in a pat manner. “You’re just in time to do the honours; everyone else has already had their turn.”

She took the two late-arrivers to a large basin sitting in the centre of the workspace. “Take your stirs for luck,” Lister said, producing a large wooden spoon.

Lady Morgan evidently knew what was brewing, for she clapped her hands quickly and hopped like a schoolgirl. “What fun!”

The Doctor had to explain. “It’s an old custom, Carême. Everyone in the family has to make a wish and stir the Plum Pudding before it’s cooked.”

Lady Morgan took the stirrer, closed her eyes and stuck it in the thick mass of raisin-studded dough. She moved it around, and mouthed something below the level of hearing.

Once done, she handed back the spoon. “Thanks ever so much. I haven’t done that in years!”

“Your turn.” Mrs. Lister coaxed Carême to her side of the table.

Being new to the custom, the chef was a little reluctant.

“Like this,” Elizabeth said. “Take the spoon, close your eyes and make a wish for the one thing you most desire in the coming new year.”

Carême did take the spoon, but as he hesitated, Mrs. Fitzherbert recited gently from memory:

 

“Stir up, we beseech thee,

The wills of thy faithful people.

Bring forth the fruit of good works,

That they may be plenteously rewarded.”

 

As he stuck the spoon into the uncooked pastry batter, he wished for greater harmony to exist between himself and François.

No one watching the chef from the outside could have guessed, except perhaps, Sydney Morgan.

Carême opened eyes to applause, and Elizabeth Lister handily lifted the bowl to dump the contents onto a floured cloth laid flat on the table. She picked up two corners, tying them twice, and then guided Carême to hold the spoon still in his hand under the knot while she tied up the other two ends.

“There,” she announced. “Now I’ll set it into the pot of water I have simmering on Kitchiner’s ‘Sauce Stove,’ and by the time we’re done with dinner, it’ll be ready to eat.”

As Lady Morgan settled in a chair next to the Regent’s wife – preliminary to exchanging some breathless court gossip – Kitchiner caught Carême’s attention and led him towards the long side of the room fronting the street.

Now the chef could understand what was hanging in this corner of the penthouse: an evergreen tree, which was suspended by its top from the ceiling. From the tip of many of its sturdier branches, glass spheres the size of large apricots flickered with tiny flames inside.

“The lights are an invention from across the pond, although over there they don’t put them on trees like this,” Kitchiner said.

“How do they work?”

“Simple really. Fill half full with water – to keep the glass cool so it does not break from the heat – add some oil, which will rise to the top, and set in a floating wick. Presto!”

“The effect is so . . . charming.”

“Why, thank you.” The Doctor was truly flattered. “But I doubt me the novelty of lighting Christmas Trees will ever catch on.”

“That’s a pity.”

The pair moved back along the range to get a better view.

“It is,” agreed Kitchiner, “but as I pointed out in the market, the tradition of having a Christmas Tree is dying out in England. Another ten years, and I’ll wager you’ll see none hanging from London ceilings.”

Carême’s hand brushed a tray. Glancing down, the Doctor grew enthusiastic; his eyes twinkled. “Ah, you’ve uncovered my tartlets filled with rice pudding and dried cherries. Later on I will sprinkle them with brown sugar and run a red-hot salamander over them.”

Carême had a hard time concealing his revulsion. “Why?”

“Burnt Cream, old boy! It’s an ancient schoolboy tradition at Eton. Boys left behind at Christmas were fed Burnt Cream on the Holiday.”

The chef mulled it over. Crème brûlée . . . . It sounded schoolboy indeed. “I doubt, Doctor, the novelty of eating it will ever catch on, as you say.”

“Then that’s a pity as well!”

“Besides the entremets, what else is planned?”

“Ah, yes, the full menu. For the soup course we’ll have a ham and parsnip potage, and Mrs. Lister’s brown bread with a devilled terrine of pease and aubergine to spread on it. A rillette, I believe you’d call it.”

“No meat?”

“No, only vegetables.”

“Then I’d call it a pain de légumes.”

“I stand corrected.” The Doctor smiled.

“And the rest of the meal?”

“The entree will be grilled steaks with potato puree. And the main course will be a grand turkey pie. Followed by dessert downstairs, as you know.”

Carême turned over possibilities. “Purée of potatoes, you say?”

“Yes. What have you in mind?”

“Potato croquettes.”

“Wonderful!”

After that, Carême took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. He and Mrs. Lister camped out at the far end of the table with her basin of mashed potatoes.

As he loosened them up with a spoon, Carême became chatty. “Your anecdotes from your adventures catering, to London’s best and brightest, are similar to ones I’ve had.”

Elizabeth Lister kicked hands on hips in surprise. “Do tell, dear Chef!” After a warm laugh, she added, “But I suppose the dealings of caterers the world over provide privileged access to all manner of goings on. Things outsiders normally wouldn’t know about.”

“Goings on,” Carême repeated with his own good-humoured chuckle. “That is a fine way to put it!”

“As an independent, for-hire chef, you must have been in great demand.”

“Ah, oui. From bourgeoisie to grande-dame – I’ve seen the homes and secrets of many.”

“Bou-jee”—it was time for Mrs. Lister’s own repetition—“that’s a perfect new adjective; I’ll have to remember that one! As for London’s ‘best houses,’ the good Doctor puts in a good word for me with those he thinks . . . . Well, with those whose acquaintanceships might benefit both Kitchiner and myself.”

And the Regent, Carême thought to himself. The chef glanced over what he had to work with, and turned all-business. “I’ll need a dish,” he told Mrs. Lister, “where I can beat two eggs and another one filled with breadcrumbs.”

“Oh, yes, Chef, right away.”

As the matronly woman trundled off to hunt up the ingredients for the crisp, golden shell of the croquettes, Carême allowed his mind to once again consider how their careers overlapped as caterer-spies. He had a soupçon of how her intelligence-gathering operations meshed hand-in-glove with the Doctor’s security mechanisms.

Carême suffered an inexplicable moment of looking at the plump middle-aged woman and seeing himself. Such a fleeting realization made him glance at Kitchiner, because that insight signalled the eccentric Doctor was Lister’s Talleyrand – no one casually looking towards Kitchiner would suspect the power he and his cook wielded over world affairs.

The chef’s moment of introspection was broken. Elizabeth Lister returned not only with the two requisite items he’d called for, but the needed ingredients to complete the dish.

He broke in a pair of eggs, and poured on a good slug of cream. He mixed all well together and reached into Lister’s open spice box for salt and white pepper, which he was relieved to see.

In another moment, Carême gasped. Just barely in time had he arrested the woman’s hand from adding a huge pinch of Allspice.

Aghast, the Frenchman thought, in spying, yes. But in food, they did not resemble one another at all!

After this near-miss, the pair of cooks harmoniously formed the croquettes into cylinders with their hands. Next, Mrs. Lister double breaded them – first in flour, then in eggs and breadcrumbs – and laid the assembled morsels on a platter.

Once they were all formed, Lister smiled. “I’ll call a boy up from the Club kitchen. They’re all set up to take and fry them down there.”

“Ah,” Carême instructed, “tell them, no more than three minutes on each side – turn only once!”

“I will.”

After a clean-up, Carême rolled down his sleeves, put on his jacket and re-joined the group at the table. The Regent was in mid-sentence.

“. . . And that’s why,” George concluded.

Mrs. Fitzherbert kindly filled Carême in. “His Highness was just now saying—”

“We were saying”—the Prince cut her off—“Fitzy, dear, how much I appreciate Kitchiner’s evergreen decorations. It’s made me recognize how the smell of Christmas is missing from the Pavilion’s exotic decorations. Virginia magnolia leaves do not smell; nor do the pineapples. Festive, yes. Christmas, no.”

“True.” Mrs. Fitzherbert, undaunted by the Prince’s growing inebriation, added, “He was saying there’s no match between fragrant greens versus the villa’s pop and colour.”

George slurred slightly. “Quite right.”

“And he used to have such Christmases as a lad with his brothers and sisters growing up at Buckingham House.”

“Indeed,” agreed the Prince, “splendid, family Christmases at the place we called the Royal Nursery. What fun we had in London!”

As the Regent soon slipped into a moment of maudlin introspection, Lady Morgan smiled and asked Mrs. Lister, “Speaking of London, how goes this year’s Social Season?”

The caterer chortled. “Oh! With the weather being so dreary, people are throwing more balls than ever. Anything to celebrate the end of the Wars, and stay indoors.”

“It sounds exhausting for you,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert in commiseration.

“Oh, it is.” Elizabeth placed her hands on the table and inspected them. “Quite frankly, I’m tired. So I’m glad to get away to Brighton for a few days and cook with dear friends.” She smiled at Kitchiner.

“I heard,” the Doctor confided in low, conspiratorial tones, “they’re building an ice house in your neighbourhood.”

“Oh, it’s true!” Lister failed to hide her enthusiasm. “A huge excavation – the size of an opera house – all underground and going to be bricked over with a dome to keep the ice cool all summer long. It will be such a convenience to send a boy down there anytime I need to make ice cream, or chill a pudding.”

“Such structures always fascinate me,” said Sydney Morgan. “So much effort for a utility storeroom that would make a Roman emperor blush at the extravagance.”

“Well, I fancy the one they’re building on the edge of London now will be even larger than the one buried beneath the Pavilion’s grounds.”

The Regent looked suitably dinged, but before he could reply – or Lister apologize – Kitchiner interjected with his own news.

“Carême, old boy, did I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m doing it! I’m writing my book on food, diet and cookery.”

“C’est merveilleux!” Carême diplomatically pretended as if the Doctor hadn’t already said as much a mere hour ago. “And what title will you give it?”

“That I am still debating, but with Lister’s help, the London Committee of Taste is busier than ever. I want to vet every recipe and make sure it works. I strive to balance flavour with nutrition—”

“Spoken like a true M.D.,” the Regent cut in. The Prince laughed, so the others could too.

“I look forward,” said Carême, “to having one of the first copies.”

“That you shall, my friend. That you shall.”

“And what,” George asked Carême, “have you prepared for us today with your own hands?”

“Crème croquettes des pommes de terre, Highness. Such hot dishes, along with meat-based kromeskies, were ones preferred by Napoléon.”

“Is that right?” said George, perked up to learn something new about a personal ‘hero’ of his.

“Yes, Your Highness. Deep-fried morsels such as these were favourites of the Empereur, although he was embarrassed to be seen eating them.”

During the saying of this, the respective host and hostess of the party rose from the table. Kitchiner assured everyone had a glass of white wine, while Lister fetched the warming soup terrine, bread and pain de légumes.

As the caterer dished up a bowl of the ham and parsnip potage for each guest, Kitchiner announced, “Tonight’s supper will be service à l’anglaise – that is, course by course.”

Fitzy ventured to ask Carême, “What is it he means, Chef?”

“No doubt, Madame, the Doctor is teasing me about how I only ever serve dinner à la française, that is; in two respective table courses where all the dishes are laid out at once.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kitchiner added. “Two ‘Tables’ – first, soups and entrees; followed by a second setting of roasts, vegetables and desserts.”

Carême smiled. “You make it sound as simple as it’s intended to be.”

Everyone began eating.

“Simple?” asked the Doctor. “But elaborate enough that such a meal can last three hours or more.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert gasped.

Carême reassured her. “With a half-hour break, naturellement, to reset the table.”

“Why is it”—the Prince wagged his spoon in Carême’s direction—“you always start with soup? You never vary, and yet I believe there’s a new way now in France – something called an hors d’oeuvre.”

“Well, Highness, the answer is related to why I only do service à la française. I serve soup because it is the great equalizer. All mouths will have the same flavour at the same time. It’s communal and democratic, like the service itself, which forces neighbour to serve neighbour as equals.” As he dabbed some vegetable spread on a piece of bread, Carême grew wistful. “Soon after the Revolution, we would have neighbourhood meals in France once a week. Whole streetfuls of Citizens would build a central table down the middle of the road, and food from every kitchen would be shared in warmth and conversation. There was so much hope back then . . . . We had actual equality.”

Carême stopped speaking then, realizing he’d probably put too much of himself on display.

“Anyway,” he wrapped up briefly, “that is why I prefer service à la française.”

“Mrs. Lister,” Lady Morgan interjected at this point, “the soup is delicious!”

“I agree!” added Mrs. Fitzherbert.

The men thought so too, shining with reaffirming smiles and nods. Carême took his first bite of the pain and found it very pleasant – if a tad overly seasoned.

“In addition, your Highness”—Carême had thought of something else—“it may interest you to know of another food trend in France. It’s having coffee at the end of a meal.”

“Instead of Port?!” exclaimed the Prince.

“Yes, indeed. The fashion was begun, again, by Bonaparte. He ordered it served to countermand the sleepy effect that may come from long, State Dinners.”

“Very interesting, Carême. But your former emperor won’t need fret over State Dinners ever again.”

The effects of George’s long day of drinking were catching up to him; it was not for nothing the man’s chef de cuisine had swung the conversation around to sobering caffeine.

“The new peace treaty with France,” continued the Regent, “saw to that. He’ll never have power again. Not even over a laughably small island like last time. No, not again.”

“George, please.” Mrs. Fitzherbert laid a hand on his arm.

“Oh, Fitzy – this talk offends no one. Right, Carême? I mean, it’s just the new world order; the proper re-establishment of monarchy over men. Louis XVIII ruling France – and Russia, Prussia and Britain ruling over him. Otherwise, what else did we fight for?”

“Well, I for one,” chimed in Lady Morgan, “am glad the Wars are over. It took too long to bring peace to the Continent.”

“Did it?” George scoffed.

“What do you mean?” Doctor Kitchiner had suddenly gone off his soup.

“I mean,” replied George sharply, “British blood spilled on European soil entitles us to more power; more control there.”

The table seemed stumped.

The Regent proceeded as before. “And war is the best way to consolidate it. Already we’re supplying guerrillas in the southern part of the Netherlands to carve off a piece of Dutch territory to hand to Louis XVIII in France.”

“Why?” asked Morgan.

“Simple. We hope to lure Prussia into honouring their alliance with Holland and escalate the conflict into a war between the French and Germans. That way, with them both weakened and distracted, Our empire can keep expanding colonies around the globe for the British flag, unchecked.”

Again, the table’s occupants were stunned and silent but sober seeing the evil genius of the plot possibly working.

George drained his wine – and then his maraschino liqueur right after it – before saying, “What French Belgium needs is a King – one appointed by, and utterly beholden to, Britain.”

A maniacal grin arose at this juncture, and everyone else returned to their soup, suddenly conscious of staring at the Regent.

Carême shivered to think what the consequences of such national interference could lead to in a hundred years—

The Doctor broke the reverie. “And, Your Highness, just before we sat down to sup, I got confirmation via signal towers that the Royal Couple have safely arrived home at Claremont House in Surrey.”

“Oh, excellent news, Kitchiner. Excellent.” The mentioning of his daughter went a long way to sobering up the Prince. He explained to the rest of the guests, “Charlotte and Leopold set off today right after noon-time tea. I felt resting at home, away from all the excitement at the Pavilion, was best for her, the excitable child. Oh, Carême, by the way, the Princess departed by saying, ‘My compliments to the chef for the baba. Truly delicious!’”

“Merci. I shall pass along the praise to François, who made it for her today, following my strict guidance – naturally.”

The bubble of contentment was deflated by Kitchiner announcing, “And just so you know, Chef, the entirety of the Pavilion staff and functionaries have been debriefed. They’ve all been sworn to regard Charlotte’s ‘misfortune’ as a matter of strictest family confidentiality. A cover-story is being generated that the Princess and Leopold left Brighton on the 24th of December, and her grandmother, the Queen, on the 23rd.”

“The Nation’s enemies,” the Regent said, “will never know either, dear chap. Never!”

After the silence which followed this pronouncement, Lady Morgan sighed dreamily. “But Prince Leopold is strong; so strapping. Charlotte draws a great deal of strength from his calm decisiveness.”

“That character,” hazarded Mrs. Fitzherbert, suddenly doubting herself, “is what first swayed you – right, darling – towards a . . . a marriage.”

George grinned a little, totally disarmed. He took his wife’s hand, explaining to the rest, “What Fitzy is referring to is my initial refusal. I mean, Leopold came to England as part of the Czar’s high command, an unknown here, and somehow Charlotte and he spent time . . . . That is to say, naturally, when they first came to me, I said, no. I said to Charlotte she’ll marry a prince of my choosing, but . . . . But thanks to Fitzy’s warm advice, I got to know Leopold myself, and realized he’s a decent fellow. And I got to see how in love he and Charlotte really were – are.” The man teared up. “So how could I say no, when my own father had said no to us . . . ?”

As several napkins around the table rose to eyes, a pair of lads arrived from the Club’s kitchen below.

One grinning boy held a platter of still-sizzling steaks, and the other, Carême’s golden-brown croquettes.

“Ah! Our entrees,” Kitchiner said, rising to his feet. “Set them on the table. I’ll get the wine!”

A few minutes later, the kitchen boys gone back downstairs, each person served the food of the second course, and with a filled red wine glass raised in hand, Doctor Kitchiner offered a toast. It ran in verse form:

 

“Lift one to the future, by rights,

For no matter how dark the day,

We must thereupon set our sights

And cherish our Hopes, come what may.”

 

 

 

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