Carême in Brighton — a mystery novel - 5. Chapter 5: The Gasolier Rises & Eavesdropping

Chapter 5: The Gasolier Rises & Eavesdropping

The exact dividing line between Summer 1816 and Autumn 1816 was nearly impossible to identify. The gloom of the previous winter hardly had a chance to fade before the tilt of the Earth’s axis returned Europe to darkening days and lengthening nights. Furthermore, Nature seemed determined to present much worse. She seemed ready to promise a crueller winter yet to come, one where starvation could hunt across lands apparently slipped back to primeval conditions.

But in the insular, escapist world of the Regent’s Pavilion, workers had been pushed to their limits, and through great efforts, the architect’s vision for the extreme ends of the marine villa had come to fruition. The stone-stuccoed tent rooves – as enormous as they were – were all buttoned up and dry, waiting with calm for the season’s first freezing rain to test their guttering systems against freeze-thaw’s notorious prying action. For sooner, rather than later, wandering English couples strolling by the property would cast eyes over to see snow settle on this European Taj Mahal of the vanities, so far out of context, plopped as it was in the centre of brick and coal-dust Brighton.

In any event, the frozen precipitation was still a remote threat on this fair September day. The weather was so unaccountably fine, Lady Morgan had fetched her friend from his kitchen office at mid-morning. She knew he’d be free for an hour or so, before his rush to see the day’s dinner set out by 3 o’clock. The chef’s routine was dependable, so she ‘took possession’ of Carême when she could.

Now they walked side by side along the Steine, an elevated strip of communal open land the Prince of Wales abutted the east lawn of his Pavilion property against. Still the demesne of the Brighton backbone – the fishermen – their nets were picturesquely run atop wooden racks to dry above the grass.

The singular pair of world-renowned novelist and chef strolled towards the Gardens, a public park of tall oaks and shady benches upon which to sit and listen to the not-so-distant surf roll in.

“You strike me as tired, my dear Carême.”

The chef inhaled some fresh air. “No more than one would expect. The Pavilion is a hive of activity, as Charlotte will be arriving today. Tomorrow most of my time will be taken up preparing pièces montées for her welcoming dinner.”

“Oh, how exciting – your sugar work architecture.” She chuckled warmly. “I will never forget what you told Talleyrand a few years ago. You said, ‘Prince, there are three disciplines of architecture: stone, wood and pastry. I excel at the third, most difficult of all.’”

Sydney Morgan laughed again, clutching at his arm. Carême smiled – warmly, too – but honestly, he didn’t see anything particularly droll about what he considered a straightforward statement. Being an aerial architect of molten sugar was just as demanding as bringing a pleasure palace to an English fishing town.

They found a lonely wooden bench and sat down in the Gardens.

“Will Lord Morgan be at dinner today in the Blue Drawing Room?”

“Oh, yes. This morning he and a few friends – all men, of course – rode out early to Rottingdean for a picnic.”

“Oui? Rotting . . . . ”

“Rottingdean. It’s a picturesque village a mere jaunt up the coast. I should organize an outing for us up there too, someday. You and me, and François?”

“You are too kind, Madame. But it is difficult for both of us to be away from the Pavilion at the same time. Work obligations, you understand.”

Lady Morgan diplomatically refrained from asking if more than ‘work’ was dividing their domestic interests. Instead, she leaned back while raising her face to the sun. Her manner became drenched in nostalgia. “Oh, Carême, do you know what this reminds me of?”

“No. What, Madame?”

She sat upright and took his hand like an eager schoolgirl. “Our afternoon teas with monsieur Denon! Just Lord Morgan, yourself and I with our host – poring over his fascinating drawings from Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign and exploration.”

“Ah, yes. They were wonderful, relaxed afternoons.”

“His windows would be open to the rue Saint-Honoré, with all of its modern noise and hustle, and we’d be so removed from it, looking upon the glories of an ancient civilization never before seen by Western eyes.”

“I can tell you,” assured the chef, “Dominique-Vivant Denon is planning on publishing all of his surveys as hand-coloured engravings – in extra-large folio format.”

Lady Morgan sighed. “I must have one when he does – no matter the expense. How gleeful it makes me feel. He must document his findings for Europe to see.”

“And that he shall. Afterall, France did some good in Egypt.”

Sydney Morgan’s mood changed. “Good in terms of uncovering the Rosetta Stone, yes. But not good when considered from Bonaparte’s war crimes.”

“The massacre?”

“Yes,” she insisted, “his slaughter of three thousand Muslim soldiers who had already surrendered at Jaffa. Such Christian brutality will haunt Western and Middle-Eastern affairs for generations to come.”

“Oui, Madame. There is no covering such actions under the notions of Glory.”

“As we’d say in Ireland, a crime is a crime is a crime. There’s no avoiding it.”

“Bonaparte’s order was a radical action, and it has no excuse.”

“Exactly. Sometimes I feel the political climate today forgives any radical action, as long as it advances a certain party towards their goal.”

Carême had to chuckle a bit. “Are not your novels political, advocating for the solemn cause of Irish Liberty?”

Sydney Morgan paled. “They are and they do pressure, dear Chef, but through peaceful means. The leverage my work exerts on the upper classes aside, I remain filled with personal abhorrence that the Republican Movement is willing to seek out violent methods for overthrowing the British Empire’s colonization of Eire.”

“No doubt you are right.” Carême attempted to return the presence of the sunny day back to his friend’s consciousness. “And, as for our shared ‘old times’ in Paris, we puzzled over many an enigma together.”

She smiled and clutched his arm once more. “That we did!”

Lost in the happy moment, Carême suddenly remembered the amount of work lying ahead of him. “Oh, my! Tomorrow François and I have such a lot to do. Did you know the Regent gave orders to try and complete the Banqueting Room by this time tomorrow? He wants his welcome home dinner for Charlotte to be the first held there.”

“Ah, I see. You are making your pièces montées for the completed space.”

“Oui.”

“How many?”

“There are three sideboards, so one large sculpture for the central buffet, and two smaller ones that will be moved to the table when François sets it up for the Second Course.”

“Oh, my dear Carême, I can hardly wait to see them tomorrow. I’m so happy.”

So was the Frenchman. He placed a hand atop hers. “You cheer me, Lady Morgan. It is for eyes like yours – eyes that see and appreciate how much work it takes – that I build my edible pavilions of sugar.”

The mood was such, Lady Morgan ventured, “You must feel so isolated sometimes; an artist among politicians.”

“Well,” the ched admitted, “I do have François. We are in a strange adventure, in a strange land, oui – but we are in it together, despite those who look on us with suspicions.”

Sydney Morgan patted her friend’s hand, but then withdrew it and cast her glance off towards the sound of the sea. “Suspicions. Yes, that’s what it’s like to be a . . . in England.”

Carême’s head twisted a bit. “To be a . . . ?”

She turned and lowered her voice. “An adherent of the Church in Rome.”

Carême understood. An underground Catholic in a land where George’s father was somehow to be worshiped as a holy man. “Yes, it is,” he replied simply. A light suddenly went off in his mind concerning Kitchiner’s duties – and the Regent’s circle of intimate friends. He asked delicately, “Tell me, is Mrs. Fitzherbert also, a, shall we say, religious woman?”

It wasn’t delicate enough to keep Lady Morgan from being astounded. After a pause rich with internal debate, she turned candid. “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“And the Doctor – the Prince entrusts him with such private matters, and issues of the Regent’s personal safety because he too adheres to the same faith?”

“Yes, Carême. So you see, the Prince was risking much to bring you into his inner family circle. He and Fitzy are married; have been for nearly 30 years now, but all of this is a State Secret. George’s political enemies would kill to get a hold of this information – it could bring down the whole monocracy.”

“That means Charlotte is a―”

“Yes. She is, but no one must ever know.”

Carême refrained from smiling. This was indeed intelligence not to be dispatched without careful deliberation.

“I feel I must reinforce my earlier message for you to watch your step in the Pavilion. Many are incensed that a foreigner like you should have such daily contact with the Prince. There are rumours among the staff that someone is out to get you.”

Carême brushed it off with a chortle. “My dear Lady, success will always breed contempt. Being well-hated is a sign I’m doing my work correctly!”

“Well, I’m serious. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

A new concept entered the chef’s head. “If you would like to help―”

“Yes, anything.”

“Perhaps you can do a little research on a pair of the kitchen undercooks.”

“Discreetly?”

“Always.”

“I mean, involve our friend Doctor Kitchiner in this?”

Carême smiled in his suave, Gallic way, letting it speak a decided “No” when it would be rude for his words to do so. “I leave it entirely up to your wisdom, Madame.”

What Carême had diplomatically failed to state was why he had his suspicions on the couple working for him in the first place.

Time was pressing for the chef, so he politely stood and held his hand for Lady Morgan to follow suit. As the friends returned through the Gardens, Morgan bade farewell at the street leading to Castle Square, obviously with intent on her mind. She dashed across the road, leaving Carême with the wily novelist’s assurance of “Leave it to me.”

The chef continued on to the Pavilion’s east lawn. A nagging professional decision he still had to make haunted him as he entered one of the veranda doors into the southern withdrawing room.

John Lightfoot and his Table Deckers were busy, focused on dressing the dining table now running down the centre of the space. The chef nodded his approval at him, and the professionals continued with their tasks. As Carême strolled through the room, he placed his hands behind his back and became lost in concentration; so much so, the chamber’s pretty decor of blue chinoiserie and imported Chinese silk lanterns hanging regularly around the room’s perimeter barely broached the artist’s consciousness.

So too was the noise of bustle and heated voices coming from the open doors to the Banqueting Room, and so, when he entered this massive space, he was stopped in his tracks by a spectacular sight.

For where he’d only to this point seen a plain plaster dome, now all the stuccowork and paint decorations were in place. Enormous, painted palm leaves fanned out on a blue-sky background from the centre of the ceiling in almost breath-taking realism. Suspended below this was a nearly life-sized flying dragon carved out of wood and polychromed with scales and open bat wings. Clutched in its talons was a ring, and hanging from this ring was the rising object that robbed Carême of his wits.

A crystal chandelier, at least three stories in height, was being hoisted into position. Many of its lead-glass bangles chimed in euphonious harmony as the lighting device inched its way into position. Below the ceiling dragon’s clutches, crystal chains descended to the top of the fitting, and from here projected a sun-burst. Several lengths of spiky triangles – done in brilliant mirrored glass, with the longest on top – glinted the flames coming from the main body of the pendant, for some twenty feet below, the central band of the fixture supported the busts of six silver dragons. Their necks and wings, which were each the size of a man, bent their open mouths skywards. Satin glass lotus pods erupted from their lips. Here jets of light were shaded by the glass, each flame coming from a tank of compressed coal gas hidden within the body of the chandelier.

The workmen kept shouting injunctions to one another: “Not so much your side”; “Keep it nice and easy over there”; “Slow and steady on your end.” They referred to it as a ‘Gasolier,’ and suddenly Carême’s attention shifted to the other four gas fixtures. Simpler versions of the main fitting, each was suspended from a craned phoenix head erupting from the centre of the dome’s pendentives.

These had the same mirrored sunbursts, the same crystal ropes, but the main body was entirely lotus leaves in satin glass.

Carême saw two workmen testing the one closest to him, for these, presumably like the central Gasolier, were counterbalanced so a footman with a pole could hook onto the bottom of the device and pull it down. Now the workmen tested the lights hidden inside, and the lotus leaves lit up beautifully. The men raised the smaller chandelier into position to see how it looked. It looked spectacular. Ten-foot torchieres were also being tested. These were porcelain columns in two sections – black below and blue above – with gilded Chinese dragons curling around the top lotus-leaf blossom. These lamps stood around the perimeter of the space, lighting every corner of the room.

The central Gasolier made one final shimmying set of crystal clinks as it slid into its full-height position, and in Carême’s head, he knew he was witnessing something historic. For surely nowhere in Europe was another lighting fixture to match this one’s grandeur and size. He doubted there’d be a larger crystal chandelier anywhere in the world for a hundred years.

As he began to walk through the commotion of the space to the Decking Room’s door, Carême glanced at the magnificent gilt sideboard where his sugar work pièce de résistance would go for tomorrow’s dinner. He wondered how anything he’d produce could compete with the flights of full-on fancy comprising every inch of this dining room.

He was still thinking about this as he entered a Decking Room devoid of footmen, but stocked with cleaned and polished silver to be set out for today's main meal, when all at once, a different sound caught his attention; a very human one. He slowed his gait as he approached the door into the Central Service Corridor. Here resided a door with steps doen to the Pavilion's cold storage rooms, and it was open.

The wily chef glanced about to make sure he was unobserved, then peeked down the stairs. The Kitchen Comptroller and teenager Thomas Daniels were having a heated discussion on the first landing.

Carême placed himself out of sight of them, against the wall bordering the door frame, but well within earshot of the two. The back of his head rested on the wall, and his heart rate went up with the thrill of possibly being caught spying like this.

The chef’s ears rang.

The Comptroller was lecturing the lad. “Carême is selfish. He cares for no one but himself.” There was a pause before he continued. “Don’t scoff. You know it too. Look at the way he’s taking money out of the pockets of undercooks like you.”

Carême heard Thomas’ distinctive laugh. And the chef knew any derision shown within sight of the Comptroller’s face was sure to goad the man.

By way of rebuke, Thomas said, “I for one don’t blame François or Carême for getting the straight dosh for what they make with their own hands. Shure seems democratic that way.”

“It’s not egalitarian! It’s egotistical . . . . ” The Comptroller sputtered to a halt. Perhaps Thomas’ expression told the accountant his words were lost in the youth’s ideals.

“Besides”—Thomas drove the nail home—“I like the man.”

Donald Bland made such an unguarded, gut-wrenched sound of pain at this point that confirmation suddenly congealed into Carême’s head who the Comptroller’s mystery lover was.

“Listen,” Thomas continued in more measured tones, “think of it from my position, please, Donald. Carême’s presence in the Great Kitchen is a great opportunity. Others line up to pay for the chance to work with him, to be his student, and they pay dearly. Yet, here I am, earning a salary and getting taught by him for free!”

“But, still―”

“Besides their cost, these lessons are worth a great deal to young professionals like me. You have to understand―”

“All I have to understand”―the Comptroller’s clip slowed to a menace―“is a Froggie cook like that greaseball will not last long around here. I’ll see to it myself, even if I have to . . . . ”

Carême slipped away, wanting to hear no more.

A few minutes later, his mind returned to more pressing subjects, the chef entered the Great Kitchen. All was action and well-oiled coordination as various teams worked towards the completion of the day’s dinner.

He glanced up at the clock. The regulator’s large and easy to read face told him it was 10 minutes to Noon.

As if sensing his desire, sous-chef Bauda and maître d’hôtel Distré appeared by the chef’s side. A few moments later, a thorough status report had been delivered by Carême’s two aides, and he was satisfied matters were well in hand.

Parting from them, Carême went to his office, slipped off his jacket, slipped on his apron and sat down. Leaning against the desk was his drawing board. He pulled it up, scowled at the flight of Chinese fancy he had been considering for tomorrow’s dinner, and then glanced up. Thomas had reappeared at his station with a crate of the fresh vegetables he’d needed from the cold cellars.

Carême inhaled deeply, stood and abandoned his drawings on the desk. Instead, he placed his chef’s cap dignifiedly on his head and checked himself in the mirror.

A short time later, he’d gathered a few things on a tray and went to Thomas. He stood in front of the boy, holding up an implement he’d retrieved from the tray. It had a handle, a cone-shaped bell of continuous wire and a flat bottom.

“Do you know what this is, Thomas?”

The lad wondered if it was a trick question. “She’s a whisk.”

“Correction: She’s a sauce whisk. Always use one when making a quick roux. Let me show you.”

To Thomas’ amazement, the greatest chef in Europe took his tray and stepped to the nearest hot burner on the range. He put on it a small saucepan.

“Sauce velouté; observe.”

With a deft hand, Carême scooped a pat of butter which went into the pan. “The proportion for a basic quick roux is equal parts butter and flour. Stir.”

Carême handed over the sauce whisk, and the undercook moved the butter around the bottom of the pan to melt it completely.

The chef dumped in the flour. “Whisk slowly, and you will see the starch and fat amalgamate.”

Thomas did. The liquid of the butter was taken up by the flour to produce a pale nut-coloured substance slightly thicker than whipping cream.

“Do you yet see cooking bubbles?”

Just as the chef asked this, the roux appeared to burst everywhere in the pan into a molten mass of foam. “Yes, Chef.”

“At this stage, cook by whisking continuously for two minutes. No more; no less. The taste of the raw flour is being converted to warmer, more caramel notes. This is important, but do not let it burn.”

Thomas stirred and continued to watch the roux slowly, which, degree by degree, became more and more golden. He counted the seconds.

At exactly the two-minute mark, Carême handed the boy a small syrup pitcher. “In here,” he said, “is a half-pint of veal stock. Whisking all the time, pour it over the roux.”

When Thomas did, the first few drops of liquid made the flour and butter mixture sizzle, but adding the rest slowly produced a flawlessly smooth sauce. It was delicately scented, and glossy on top.

“This,” Carême said patly, “is why it’s called a ‘Velvet’ sauce. It is done, Thomas. Take it off the heat and taste.”

Thomas retrieved his tasting spoon from his apron. He coated the back of it with some of the piping hot sauce. It tasted like none of its individual ingredients but a brand-new thing. Smooth, flavourful, inviting – it would enhance almost anything.

“Now, Thomas, season it to your taste and I will try it.”

On Carême’s tray were open cellars of salt and three or four kinds of pepper. First went in a small pinch of sea salt. A stir and taste by the boy, and that was all right. As he reached for the cracked black pepper – instinctively eschewing the cayenne – he stopped. Something about the velouté’s smoothness made him instead reach for a small portion of white pepper.

Carême had been talking the whole time—“Proportions – two spoonfuls of butter and flour for a pint of hot stock . . . ”—but he stopped with a smile.

He took the youth’s hand with the tasting spoon, dipped it in the sauce and brought it up to his mouth. Holding the boy’s eyes, he tasted it. It was acceptable; there was nothing needing adjustment. Just as he was about to tell the lad so, his gaze slipped off the boy. François stood several paces behind him, one hand on hip, one hand leaning on a prep table, both eyes on Carême. While behind him, François’ none-too-pleased scowl was mirrored by one from the Kitchen Comptroller.

Carême patted the young man’s back. “Very well done, young Master Daniels.”

The youth blushed with the pride of achievement, while glares from the boy’s rear flared with jealousy.

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Hours later, the chef’s staff sat to their evening meal in the Household Kitchen. They’d pulled off a flawless dinner for George and his guests and could now settle for a bit. The day was not over though, for soon super would need to be prepared and served, and the day’s last clean-up performed.

Using this time-break for his own purposes, Carême sought out his sure-to-be brooding François, and thought he knew where to look.

He mounted the circular staircase of the Pavilion’s water tower with sometimes laboured breaths. Certainly the most commanding structure in Brighton, the dimness of the steps and the overall height made the chef somewhat dizzy. Nearing the top, Carême’s eyes adjusted to the light again, for the landing led out to a top level open to the twilight breeze and colour coming from the west.

And François was there, sitting on the handrail, dangling his legs over the hundred feet of air twix him and pavement. His head rotated realizing the chef had come. In another instant, he’d twisted his body too and was standing next to his partner while Carême admired the view.

The chef joked, “Leave it to you to find the highest place in town. I don’t think I would have ventured up here on my own.”

François, knowing they were safely by themselves, hugged him very affectionately.

Carême returned the embrace, and François kissed the man’s cheek, saying, “I like the peace and quiet up here.”

And it was true, for the younger man had grown to maturity in France during a time when privacy itself was outlawed.

The pair leaned on the handrail side by side and watched the sun slowly sink.

François said without emphasis, “The Princess suspects she’s pregnant. She’s been suffering spells of sickness in the mornings.”

“Oh.” Carême’s mind began running through recipes. “I’ll plan a list of dishes for her accordingly.”

He was so engaged in sorting out his riz à l'impératrice from his potage santé that he scarcely caught the sudden dim cast come to François’ eyes as he had said this. By the time he’d collected his thoughts, it was gone.

“Did you pause today to see the progress of the Banqueting Room?” the maitre-d’ asked.

“I did.” Carême caught his own enthusiasm. He tamped it down. “I was there when they raised the great lighting fixture. It was really”―the chef cast about for exactly the right underplayed expression―“le grand poisseux.” Uttering a euphemism meaning the big sticky, the tacky connotations had more than slightly betrayed Carême’s true sentiments in the process.

François chuckled. “Isn’t Marie-Antoinette supposed to have said that at her first sight of Versailles?”

Carême joined in the laughter. “My plagiarism has been sussed out. But actually, I believe, she merely commented ‘There are a lot of people around here.’ And I suppose she was right – whether about Versailles or Brighton.”

After a few moments of silence, François was lost again in his own thoughts.

Carême enquired, “And speaking of the concept of many people around here, how are working conditions with the Chief Footman?”

The maitre-d’ scoffed. “Gris Thorndyke? As well as can be expected, one might suppose, considering he’s convinced I took his position.”

“With the Banqueting Room opening now, he may find more obvious means to show you up in front of the Prince.”

“Let him try. I keep my eye on him, just as I keep my eye on all of them.” François took his mentor’s hand. “It’s just you and me in this cruel world.”

“Yes, and tomorrow will be long and complicated. And I have a radical idea – at long last – for our sugar work sculptures tomorrow. I will show you my sketches later this evening.”

François smiled, warmly. “I’m raring to go. Your first official dinner in the Banqueting Room will be a triumph, trust me.”

“I do, François. I do.”

That made the young man’s heart sing. Inexplicably, François said while stroking the chef’s hand, “The way you look after your wife, and your young daughter . . . it just. It fills me with comfort.”

“I know, François.” Carême drew the young man’s head to his own. They touched foreheads and locked eye to eye. “It’s because you and I, Villon, are both orphans of a sort.”

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