A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (20 page)

Bridie sipped the dregs of her coffee. She wouldn't
be home; she'd be fighting for a cause in Spain, with James. Yet again she felt the wave of discomfort and guilt that had been sweeping through her on and off since they had arrived. ‘I'll miss you too, Mam. All of you, but it's something I have to do. You must remember that, and tell Da.'

Her mother called for the waiter and paid. ‘Come along. You sound as though it's forever, but the time will fly. What's more, your French is so good that you will adore Paris, and love the course, but you'll ignore the debs who will be there, finishing their “finishing”. Instead, you will make sensible friends, and come back showing off, until Mrs Moore slaps your wrist.'

An elegant woman walked by, with a white poodle on a lead, which made her think of Raisin and Currant.

Bridie said, ‘You'll look after the horses, and the foal? Primrose is coming along so beautifully. Dave, Clive and Young Stan know what to do. Young Daniel is doing very well, but there will be others that Matron will want to send to riding therapy. Tell Young Stan that Fanny's trained sufficiently, but to keep an eye on her.'

‘Everything is set up for the few months you're away, so stop fretting. Now come along, you carry three of the hat boxes and I'll take two, and I promise not to buy any more on the way to the train tomorrow. Madame Beauchesne will wonder where we've got to, or worry, because she knows too well.'
Her mother handed her the hat boxes. What would her father think and when would she actually wear the frothy concoctions? Bridie smiled. Well, whatever her mam did was wonderful in her da's eyes.

That night, in bed, trying to sleep, it wasn't Spain that kept Bridie awake, but the thought of the Haute Cuisine Institute, and trying to imagine what it would be like. Her mother had told her that one of the tutors was a cousin of the Allards, who had looked after her da following the explosion which took his leg. It wasn't during the war, but afterwards, when he had been helping them to clear shells along the old front line.

She lay on the bed, not in it, such was the heat of Paris in June, and remembered the Allards coming to Easterleigh Hall six or so years ago. The chef had spent more time in the kitchen, applauding all her mam was doing, than strolling the grounds. He had shown Bridie how to make shortcrust pastry, unaware that her mother had shown her when she was eight. She checked her clock at three a.m., and then the next thing she knew it was dawn.

Bridie arrived at the Institute alone, at her own insistence, and with her mother's map. Her mother would leave for home today, and had no need of it. ‘It's best I go alone, Mam. It's not school, it's more like a university, and I need to seem independent and strong,' she'd said.

She climbed the wide steps to the impressive old
building, which had ancient gas lights on either side of the doors. She halted, peering back to the corner. Her mam was still there, hiding under an umbrella though it wasn't raining. She grinned, loving her to the depth of her being. She called, ‘I love you, Mam. Remember that, and thank you for guarding me, all my life.'

Her mother lowered the umbrella. People were sidestepping her, probably thinking, ‘
Folle Anglaise
.'

Evie waved. ‘Caught in the act. I love you, Bridie Brampton, we all love you. Make sure you write to tell me how your day went. Are you sure you won't let me stay just for another night?'

‘Go home, Mam. I'm a big girl now.' She waved and blew a kiss as other girls arrived, some climbing the steps uncertainly, some boldly. Her mam returned her kiss, and walked away.

Bridie felt utter relief, because as long as her mother remained, the lie loomed too large, and the need to stay with her family grew stronger.

When she entered the foyer the girls were standing still and silent, staring up at the high ceiling with its chandelier, then, as one it seemed, they turned to look at the gracious staircase. Bridie said in English to the girl next to her, ‘By, it's grand, isn't it? I wonder if the kitchens will be as posh. Ours at the Hall is old-fashioned and we still use the stoves, not electric or gas, but we produce good food for the guests. I want to get better, though.'

The girl, red-haired, tall and obviously older than
Bridie, spread her hands and replied in French, ‘I cannot understand.'

Effortlessly Bridie switched to French. ‘It's beautiful.'

‘Your French is perfect.' The girl was smiling. Her eyes were almost the same green as Aunt Grace. Bridie felt her heart twist. She wanted to go home, and be content to let the world do what it had to do.

‘No, it is not but I hope it will be. I was taught by my mother and my aunt, because I am a cook and need French. It's a beautiful language, and my Uncle Jack and Auntie Gracie speak it too.' She was speaking in French, her words running one into the other out of sheer nervousness. She said, again in French, ‘I am a cook. I need to improve. Let me say that again in English, slowly, if you would like me to?' The girl nodded, and so she did.

A small group of girls near them were whispering together, and now Bridie heard, ‘Oh, my God, did you hear, she's actually a cook. I thought they'd all be like us, finishing.' The girls tittered and agreed.

A man's voice boomed from the top of the stairs, speaking in French. ‘Welcome, ladies. If you will follow me, we will start immediately. There is much to learn.'

The French girl with the red hair walked alongside Bridie, as the British group pushed past them, their Chanel perfume lingering like a choking cloud. She repeated in English, ‘I am a cook, I . . .' Then in French, ‘Now I've forgotten.'

Bridie told her again, quietly, adding, ‘Don't worry, we have three months.'

The French girl said, ‘Four. We have four months.'

Bridie just nodded because she only had about three, perhaps less, because then it would be August and James would be here. They were at the entrance to a huge salon. A smart woman dressed in black stood in the doorway, indicating places on the small, close-packed circular tables where the girls were to sit. On the stage was a long table covered in a white damask cloth, set up with what seemed like hundreds of wine bottles. The woman pointed Bridie to a place at the table with the English girls, and the French girl to a neighbouring table.

Once seated, the French girl turned, and told Bridie that her name was Marthe Deschamps. Bridie introduced herself as Bridget Brampton, but commonly called Bridie by her friends, ‘So Bridie to you.' She repeated it in English, slowly.

She turned back to the girls on her table. One had just whispered, ‘Can you see her hands? I expect they're really rough.'

‘You girls, however, may call me Bridget.'

They flushed, and then rallied and introduced themselves as the Honourable this, that and the other. She grinned, because in her home no-one used titles if they could help it.

A man in a dark suit made an entrance, sweeping between the tables, heading for the front. His black hair looked dyed, and was cut short. His neat
moustache was similarly dark. He sprang up the three steps onto the stage, and introduced himself as Monsieur Favre. He talked in heavily accented English about wine, to the thirty or so girls who sat around the room. There were five girls to each table. Bridie saw that Marthe was struggling to understand, as were several others around the room. Still sitting, she shoved her chair across to the neighbouring table. It scraped on the wooden floor.

Monsieur Favre stopped, looked and called, ‘Ah, Miss Brampton, I believe. Are you on the move for any reason, or merely because you felt like it? Are you bored, perhaps?'

The girls at her table tittered. She stood, and said in French, ‘Certainly not, Monsieur Favre, but you risk boring those French students in the class who understand little English. I was taught, as a cook, that I should learn French. I suspect that here, in France, it is not suggested that French cooks absorb English. Why would they, when recipes are invariably in the French language?'

She did not sit down, but waited for his reply. First he repeated in English a precis of all she had said, then fingered the white wine bottle he had been using to explain the bottling process. He pursed his lips. Bridie felt the eyes of the room switching from him, to her, and back again, and wondered if this was to be the shortest course for any student in the history of the Institute. She almost turned, to walk out, rather than be humiliated, but saw the
Honourable Edith Hardcastle tittering at the table, and whispering to her friends. No, she'd wait it out.

Monsieur Favre now held the bottle up to the long windows along the length of the room. In his fractured English he said, finally, ‘Indeed, Miss Brampton, you are quite correct. Usually we have an interpreter, as our students from across the Channel perhaps do not have our language. Out of courtesy we thought we would speak your language; however, I promote you. For today you are our interpreter, and let us see how well you manage.' He gestured to the stage. ‘Join me, Miss Brampton, and remedy the shortcomings of the Institute.'

The girls tittered again. Bridie made her way between the tables and mounted the stage, her heart beating so hard it seemed to be about to burst up and out through her throat. Without pause he commenced in French, explaining how to taste and examine wines by developing an evaluating technique he described as ‘
sensorielle'
, and suggested that those who were not writing notes should do so. She hesitated for a moment over
sensorielle
, but took a stab at ‘sensory', and from his single raised eyebrow and slight nod she knew she had guessed correctly.

The woman had by now joined them on stage, and as he drew to a close, he explained to the room that he would be bringing spittoons to each table. They would activate the skills he had just outlined, and instead of drinking, they would use the spittoons. The next step would be to take a drink to
cleanse the palate, and spit again, and taste the next wine. At that stage they would write down their thoughts. He then bowed to Bridie, and gestured that she should resume her place at the table, to applause from the audience.

Bridie picked up her chair, which remained next to Marthe, and tried to fit it back into her place. The ‘Hons', though, had closed the gap. Bridie kept ramming until the girls were jolted enough to move, just enough. The atmosphere was frosty. The Honourable Beatrice Gordon said, sotto voce, but designed to be heard, ‘One does not exhibit oneself, if one knows how to behave.'

On the table to their left, a girl with a blonde bob turned in her chair and articulated impressively, ‘Or, of course, if one cannot speak the language.'

She reached across and held out her hand to Bridie. ‘Lucinda Fortnum, at your service – though my friends call me Lucy – and I know that you are Bridget. Well met, indeed.'

Monsieur Favre was at Bridie's table now, with two spittoons. The woman followed, carrying a tray with six bottles of chilled white wine. ‘You, ladies, will smell, swirl, sip, spit. Miss Brampton, I have managed to translate as I have travelled the room. However, when Monsieur Allard takes over this afternoon to conduct an exotic gastronomic tour, you will be needed. While I am here, he asked that I send his best wishes to your grandparents, Lord and Lady Brampton.' He winked and moved on,
stopping by Lucinda, ‘Enjoy your tasting, Lady Lucinda.'

There was a silence around the table. Lucinda leaned over from the other table, grinned, and held up her empty glass to Bridie's table companions. ‘Touché, I feel we can safely say, don't you?'

That evening, as Bridie strolled down the steps at the end of the day, Monsieur Allard followed her, catching her up as she reached the pavement. ‘You will find, Mademoiselle Bridie, that your mother will have taught you all that you need to know. Here, in your case, the best we can do is to refine and broaden. For many of the others, pouf, they merely want to be able to instruct a cook. You, my dear,
are
the cook, the magician.' He swept on, neat and small, but without a moustache, and his brown hair was longer than Monsieur Favre's.

Bridie set off in the direction of Madame Beauchesne's apartment, but paused as Marthe ran down the steps after her, her jacket swinging in the breeze. They strode along talking about their aims, and the kitchens they'd worked in, for Marthe was a cook in her father's restaurant in Lyon. They talked of the joy they felt creating dishes, the need to learn. Before they reached the first corner, they heard, ‘Wait up, you two.'

It was Lady Lucinda Fortnum, a good egg, as James would have said, with a wink. Together, still in French, they talked cooking and wine, for Lucinda Fortnum was determined to drag her family's estate
into the modern age. She felt the need to improve the gardens and perhaps charge people to have a look around. If this succeeded, then a restaurant would be essential. ‘There's such a ghastly great roof on the whole pile, needing to be repaired. All I have to do is convince the old dears that it's an excellent scheme,' she drawled. They reached the Café Adrienne, and by tacit agreement took a pavement table, ordering a coffee.

After coffee, they moved on to wine, and this time there was no spitting, just a lot of swallowing. It was unusual for Bridie, and within minutes she felt her mind slip into some easy place. After an hour they went their separate ways.

A letter from James awaited her at Madame Beauchesne's, and a cup of coffee, thick and black, which she needed. Madame Beauchesne, grey-haired, elegant and charming, had been a friend of the first wife of Lord Brampton, and was now a friend of Aunt Ver. She spoke perfect English but insisted that Bridie use her French, gently correcting flaws of accent and grammar, and applauding her tale of being a temporary interpreter. She listened intently to the descriptions of the girls she had met, the nice and the nasty.

After a dinner prepared by Cécile, the cook, who had trained at a similar institute, they listened to the wireless, though Madame Beauchesne leafed through her book on English gardens that Evie had brought as a gift while she did so. All the time Bridie was
aware of James' letter in her pocket and longed to retire to her room. As though reading her mind, Madame Beauchesne stirred as the gold clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine o'clock, placing the book on the side table, removing her glasses. ‘Bridie, my dear. I retire early, as you know, and this evening I feel it advisable for you to do the same.'