An Appetite for Violets (17 page)

I lay down the page and covered my eyes, squeezing them so tight that I felt the blood pounding. With grim determination I opened them again and read onwards:

—and it seems they played false behind my back. Next Teg comes to me and says she is with child by Jem and don’t know what to do. I walloped her as hard as I could, for she is a wicked lewd creature and has stolen Jem when he was bound to you. Yet A Hungry Dog will eat Dirty Pudding is all I’m saying and Teg has been kicked about the floor aplenty by my reckoning.

Now dear, do not be too miserable but I must tell you all now. The two were brought before Mr Pars’ deputy, Mr Strutt, and he has pronounced Jem must marry her to spare the burden on the parish. He also said that as I have no other cook maid, Teg may stay on at Mawton where she will be useful. We are all astonished at this judgement but Mr Strutt is a modern man who says he lives only by practical rules and so long as Jem labours on the estate they must not take from the Parish. So you see he has no knowledge of how things are done properly here at Mawton and what high morals are held by Mr Pars. Indeed he has made such unfair judgements of Mr Pars he is in danger of being slighted by all of us loyal retainers. Now Biddy, I must tell you they was married last Friday at Mawton Chapel—

I threw the letter down, then tore it into pieces. Florence was calling my name from the kitchen, but I wanted only to run to my chamber and sob on the floor. Yet I could not get out of cooking that scavey meal. I could have beaten Mr Kitt with a frying pan for all the trouble this dinner was causing. As for Jem Burdett, to be flayed, gutted, and spitted alive was too good for him.

So the beef was scorched black on one side and ran blood on the other. The pudding would have made a fine cannonball. Half of what I planned lay unmade. It was Florence who found me out, dripping tears into the chops. I pointed to my heart and mimed a knife stabbing hard inside it. ‘
Mon amie,
’ Florence crooned – her calling me friend made me weep even faster. Then she picked up an apron and began to cook beside me. It was to her I owed the edible parts of that meal.

The sad fact of it was, my diners scarcely noticed. I believe Mr Pars did pass a comment next day on the blackened chops, but no one else could tell. So that was English fare, I thought. I could work my finger-ends to bare bones and none would taste the difference. I recollected the delicate timing and tasting at the
Maison de Santé
and knew that beside it our English stuff was rough indeed.

*   *   *

As soon as I could I left word that I was ailing, and took to my chamber for three miserable days. I threw myself down on my bed and pictured again the joy of my first meeting Jem, our first soft words, our first hard kiss. ‘Oh Jem, I did love ’ee more than she ever could,’ I whispered to the soggy hollows of my pillow. I saw again our bitter parting, and wished I had been sweeter to him. I pictured our marriage procession to Mawton Chapel, Reade Cottage built again as our home, the unborn babies I would never bear. I wallowed in a right pit of misery. Day after day I left my bed only to stump to the door to fetch food left by Florence and to empty my pot in the yard.

But each night I had a visitor. A knock came at my door, very soft and very secret.

‘Biddy,’ a gentleman’s voice whispered secretly. ‘Open the door.’

Each time I rolled over and faced the wall. But I could not stare at that cracked yellow wall for ever. By the third night I had cried myself dry and a young heart hammered in my breast again.

‘Will you come out with me?’ asked the voice. ‘Paris is devilish fine by starlight.’

My love for Jem had died. You are free and in Paris and have a gentleman admirer, I told myself. I had kept him waiting and he had kept returning. Through the slats of the shutters the sky had darkened and the lamps were lit. I grinned like a vixen and called out to Kitt Tyrone to wait till I was dressed.

‘No sir, you cannot come inside.’ I held the door open barely an inch. He carried a candle before his face and his eyes fixed on the narrow bed behind me.

‘Come now. Give a fellow a reward. It is my last night in Paris.’

‘Then we should look about the city,’ I said, quite fixed in my determination. ‘Indeed sir, I have the very place in mind.’

I threw back the door and his glance moved from my face, and down the ruffled majesty of the rose-red gown. I knew the scarlet bodice made my waist neat and slender, topping skirts that massed in glorious frills and furbelows. I felt like a Miss from an elegant fashion plate, and Kitt’s glance told me he saw the change in me too.

‘As you wish,’ he said, offering me his arm.

XX

Maison de Santé, Paris

Being Plough Sunday, January 1773
Biddy Leigh, her journal

Restaurant

A food or remedy that has the property of restoring lost strength to a sickly or tired person; a distillation from the juices of light, flavourful meats; stimulating conserves, bouillons and other good and sweet-smelling ingredients. In the same manner, the establishment of a Restaurateur or Restauratrice: one who has the skill of making Restaurants.

The most remarkable method of the Restaurant Maison de Santé, Biddy Leigh, Paris 1773

We let the crowds carry us towards the river. All about us towered the great city of Paris lit by greenish oil lanterns strung along the streets. We passed the hulks of popish churches and silhouettes of great palaces all turreted against the violet sky. On the Pont Neuf bridge we were pressed in the crush that strolled amongst crowded street stalls. At a haberdasher’s stand, Mr Kitt halted to buy me a ribbon.

‘You choose the colour, sir,’ I said.

He smiled indulgently as he rifled through the tray of silks.

‘This one matches your eyes.’ It was a soft, mossy green. All evening I wound it about my fingers, stroking its shiny satin.

Then the coxcomb went and spoiled it by asking, ‘Biddy, did you take a look into my sister’s chamber? You did promise.’

Here we go, I thought, and said very meekly, ‘I never precisely promised, sir.’

‘Well, did you discover anything?’

I knew the sassafras oil was not a matter I could speak of.

‘No, sir.’

He looked at me steadily, and I stared back, eyes wide.

‘So why is my sister going to Italy?’

That at least needed no pretence.

‘I did hear her say she were going to Italy for her health.’

He shook his head impatiently.

‘She seems healthy enough to me. She was off to her perfumier or somewhere tonight. Took the carriage, too. No, there’s nothing ailing my sister.’

*   *   *

The thunder of firecrackers interrupted us, and we moved to the riverbank. As we lingered he slipped his arm around my waist and I made no move to stop him. With a shivering bang a shower of fireworks lit the sky, bleaching the city like a painting on a stage. We leaned on the balustrade, breathing the cold winter air that tasted of gunpowder. Then the skies lit again with silver stars dropping slowly to earth.

‘I’ll never forget this night in all my life,’ I said, speaking softly into his ear.

*   *   *

From the moment the liveried doorman opened the door of the
Maison de Santé
I was in a cook’s heaven. The trouble was, Mr Kitt was not right pleased when he saw where I’d led him.

‘Good God, it’s not one of those ridiculous health places is it?’ He surveyed the powder-faced men and languishing women seated at tables. A hostess in a gown of blue silk swept us to a candlelit corner. A moment later she had left us staring at a large card written in French.

‘It’s the top fashion,’ I told him fiercely, studying the list of refined French dishes on my card. ‘And the most forward cooking you will find in Paris. Please, it will be like a dream to taste it. Thank you, sir,’ I added quickly.

The lady returned and addressed Mr Kitt most genteelly. ‘Monsieur, would you permit me to tell you a little about my
carte de menu?
In my profession as
restauratrice
I may be permitted to judge my clientele.’ She set her powdered head on one side and assessed him with two penetrating pale blue eyes. ‘I think – often, you have little appetite for anything save a restorative
eau de vie.
You are as sensitive as a duke, but those about you, ah,’ at this she shrugged prettily, ‘wish you to attend to coarser matters. So my prescription to you is a nourishing health supper to soothe your overtaxed physiognomy.’

In the face of this charming analysis Kitt could only agree.

‘Do you honestly believe all that hogwash?’ he asked, when we were alone again. I took a long look at the wealthy diners, the lavish gold clock, and heavy silver cutlery.

‘I think she’s a mighty clever woman, meself.’

*   *   *

After downing half a bottle of brandy, even Mr Kitt reluctantly admired the chandeliers of glass fruits, and wondrous mirrors that stretched from ceiling to floor. When the dishes arrived, he pronounced the delicate
Potage de Santé
to be no better than dishwater, though I could taste mushroom and thyme in the gleaming broth. To him, the delicate portions of pigeon and fish were criminally small, but I barely listened, savouring every tender mouthful.

As we tackled a restorative of orange flower cream I gazed at the other elegant diners; the ladies chattering and fluttering fans, the gentlemen making easy conversation. ‘To be one of them, it would be like living in fairyland.’

‘It is only money that buys them an elegant appearance, Biddy.’

Mr Kitt’s mouth formed a pretty sulk as he reached for the brandy. ‘You are worth a dozen of any of them.’

‘I fear you’ve pulled too hard on the bottle, sir,’ I laughed. ‘It’s me, Biddy Leigh you are talking to. Oh sir, try these
Biscuits Palace Royal.
They are marvels.’

His dark eyes were bleary, but still sensible.

‘No, Biddy. Look at you tonight.’ I searched for mockery in his expression but found none. ‘You are pretty, you have good sense. The damn shame is, in a better world you could rescue me.’

‘Rescue you from what, sir?’

He laughed sourly. ‘It doesn’t matter. But truly, you are good and practical as well as pretty.’

‘Come off it, sir. Soon you’ll marry some rich Town-Miss and never even notice the likes of me again.’

‘That’s the trouble, Biddy. Everyone I know trades happiness for cash. Most people don’t even know what love is.’

‘And you do, sir?’ I was teasing him, for I reckoned he had only the daftest schoolboy notions in his head.

He smiled a twisted smile. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure my uncle has plans for me, too.’

‘Can you not make your own way in life, sir?’ I asked gently.

He stared mournfully into his glass. ‘I’ve never settled to anything. Even Carinna has more learning than I. And I’m not brave, Biddy. I can’t win against my uncle. Damn it, I try to put on a careless appearance, but all is confusion.’ Then he laughed sadly. ‘You must think me an odd sort of fellow.’

I shrugged. ‘Aye well, everyone thinks I am an odd ’un too.’

‘There we are then,’ he said, raising his glass with a tight smile. ‘To us two “odd ’uns” thrown together in this bewitching city.’

I raised my glass. I did like him too, that was the rub. He looked back at me fondly.

‘’Tis a sad fact,’ he added. ‘Forget all the flimflam. This is the best night I’ve had in a very long time.’

I took a sip of brandy and felt a burn behind my eyes. ‘’Tis for me too, sir. Best in my whole life, I reckon.’

*   *   *

Once we had left Paris and were rollicking along the roads of France I couldn’t help but dream of handsome Kitt Tyrone. And it were not just that bonny man that haunted my dreams, but the visit to that wondrous
restaurant.
After Mr Kitt had finally slumped across the table in a drunken stew, I talked long and earnestly with that clever lady
restauratrice.
The secrets she shared were like gold to me. I learned that food was not mere food, if that makes sense. ‘They pay for all of this,’ she said, with a gesture of her graceful hand that jangled with cameo bracelets, towards the gilded room, the private tables, the diners who toyed with silver forks. The food had to be perfect, of course, but food might be perfect and still slip down gutter alley for a ha’penny. The
idea
of a thing is what makes it an item of fashion. I would never forget that lesson.

As for the gentleman, I knew he was a gamester and a dreamer. But in the private chambers of my heart I did like Kitt Tyrone. That moment in the restaurant often returned to me, when we had talked with no restraint. He was naught but a lonely mixed-up boy beneath all his citified manners. I believe that for a spell our two souls did chime with each other, not as servant and gentleman but as plain man and woman.

And it cheered me to know that Kitt Tyrone had chased Jem clean out of my heart. Why, Teg was welcome to the idle lummocks. And to my satisfaction I had escaped with my commodity intact. Though Lord knows there was a spell when I could have ravished my mistress’s handsome brother and unbuttoned his clothes from his lily-white body. We had been all alone in the swaying darkness of the hackney and he asleep, his lashes like dark feathers and his lips just parted and wet. As I leaned across his senseless body I smelled spirits and pomade mixed with the tang of hidden flesh. His lips were full and slack and when I lowered my lips to his, he tasted of brandy and baby’s sweet skin. For a terrible moment he roused himself, returning my kiss with hungry passion. Alarmed, I pulled away and happily, he slept on. Oh, I thought that kiss I stole the sweetest morsel I ever tasted.

‘Daydreaming again?’ My mistress’s voice made me jump.