opposite her across the table. “Didn’t we Bertrand?”
Bertie Welch-Smith was unhappy. He thought the remark, just as they were finishing a meal provided by their host, to be unfortunate.
“Didn’t care for it a lot, myself,” he said with a frankness his wife should have admired. “Too many sauces. Like apple sauce with pork, or mint with lamb, or a spot of horseradish now and again, that’s about all. Oh, and a good custard to go with a pudding of course.”
Pamela hid a smile. She liked Bertie Welch-Smith. He was in his middle fifties, retired from a career in the army which was brave rather than brilliant. He had reached the rank of General in the old system of his father having purchased a commission for him, and then his turn for promotion having come fortunately soon. A single escapade of extraordinary valour in the Ashanti wars had brought him to the favourable notice of his superiors. He was not a naturally belligerent man; in fact, he was not unlike Freddie Dagliesh himself — good natured, rather shy, something of a bumbler except in his particular enthusiasms. For Freddie it was his garden, a thing of extraordinary beauty with flowers and trees from all over the world. For Bertie Welch-Smith it was mechanical inventions.
“You need to cultivate your taste more,” Violet said earnestly.
“What?” Bertie was already thinking of something else.
“Cultivate your taste,” she repeated slowly, as if he were foolish rather than merely inattentive. “The French are the most cultured nation on earth, you know.” She turned to Pamela. “They really know how to live well. We have a great deal to learn from them.”
Freddie stiffened and looked at Pamela in desperation.
“I think living well is rather a matter of personal preference,” Pamela said, with a smile. “Fortunately we do not all like the same things.”
“But we could learn to!” Violet urged, leaning forward across the table. The lights of the chandeliers winked in the crystal and the silver. The last of the dishes had been cleared away. Stockwell came in with the port. The ladies did not retire, since there were only four people present altogether. They took a little Madeira instead and remained.
“Do tell Freddie and Pamela about our stay in France, Bertie,” Violet commanded. “I am sure they would be most interested.”
Bertie frowned. “I had rather thought of going for a stroll. Take Freddie to see my new machine, what?”
“Later, if you must,” she dismissed his plea. “It is a harmless enough occupation, I suppose, but there is absolutely no requirement for such a thing, you know. There are valets and bootboys to polish one’s shoes, should they require it. Which brings something to mind.” She barely paused for breath, her Madeira ignored. “Do tell Freddie how you found poor Harrison and employed him. A French valet is a wonderful thing to have, Pamela; and a French lady’s maid is even better. I cannot tell you the number and variety of skills that girl has.” And she proceeded to tell her, detail after detail.
Bertie attempted to interrupt but it was doubtful in Pamela’s mind if Violet even heard him. Her enthusiasm waxed strong, and Bertie’s eyes took on a faraway look, although Pamela guessed they were really no greater distance than the stable, and his beloved machine.
“So very modern,” Violet gushed. “We really are old-fashioned here.” Her hands gesticulated, describing some facet of French culture, her face intent.
“I say!” Freddie protested. “That’s hardly fair. We are the best inventors in the world!”
She was not to be deterred. “Perhaps we used to be,” she swept on. “But the French are now … endlessly inventive … and really useful things …”
Bertie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked vaguely crushed.
“You should tell them about finding Harrison,” Violet glanced at him, then back to Freddie. “And French menservants are excellent too, not just capable of one skill, like ours, but of all manner of things. Bertie never ceases to sing Harrison’s praises.”
“Harrison is English!” Bertie said with umbrage. “Dammit Violet, he is as English as steak and kidney pudding!”
“But trained in France!” she retorted instantly. “That makes all the difference. His mind is French.”
“Balderdash!” He was growing pink in the face. “He speaks the language, because he spent time there. That was where we found him. But he was more than happy to return home again with us … his home. He made that very plain, at least to me.”
“I never heard him say that!”
Pamela hid a smile behind her napkin, pretending to sneeze.
“You don’t listen” Bertie muttered.
“What did you say?” Violet looked at him sharply.
“He said you don’t — ” Freddie began.
Pamela kicked him under the table. He winced and opened his eyes very wide.
Pamela smiled charmingly. “He said he won’t miss it,” she lied without blinking. “I presume he meant that Harrison won’t miss France, when he has been with you for a while. After all, you have adopted so many French ways, haven’t you? And you have a French maid yourself, so he can always speak the language, if he chooses.”
Violet looked confounded for a moment. She knew something had passed her by, but she was not quite sure what.
Pamela rose to her feet. “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” she suggested. “There is a clear sky and a full moon. I think it would be very beautiful.”
Freddie sighed with relief. Bertie’s face broke into a smile. Violet was obliged to agree, more so, civility demanded it.
The following morning Brodie woke Pamela with a hot cup of tea, and drew the curtains to a brilliant spring day, with light and shadow chasing each other across the land. A huge aspen, green with leaf, shivered in the breeze and the garden glistened from overnight rain. Pamela’s clothes were ready, since she had decided the previous evening what she would wear. After a few exchanges of pleasantries Brodie left to run the bath, and came face to face with Colette on the landing, looking efficient and very pretty, and to Brodie’s eyes, a trifle smug.
She looked even more pleased with herself two hours later when Brodie encountered her in the kitchen. She had just come in from the back door and, glancing towards it, Brodie saw a nice looking, if rather foreign, young man in the yard, somewhere between the coal chute and the rubbish bins. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though undecided whether to leave or return, but Colette did not look back, and indeed she flushed with colour as she caught Brodie’s eye. But there was no way to know if it was annoyance or embarrassment. Brodie thought the former.
A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.
The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.
Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.
“Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”
The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.
Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic
