An Appetite for Violets (28 page)

‘Ah, how apt,’ crowed the count as the first course was removed and the next arrangement was laid. ‘My Temple of Venus.’

At the centre stood a vast painted temple peopled with figures in the robes of the ancients. Oh, it was prettier than any stone palace, for every column and ornament was made of dazzling white sugar. Our candles were again snuffed and the tiny flambeaux set in the miniature marbled walls were lit. The greatest conceit was that the dishes set about the table were an ox heart larded and stuffed, a side dish of lambs’ hearts devilled, even the vegetables were artichoke hearts in melted butter.

‘They are all hearts,’ I laughed.

‘To stand in place of my enchanted organ,’ said Carlo, his wizened mouth stretching coquettishly. I heard his brother snort and slam down his glass.

Leaning towards me, Carlo crowed. ‘He said Quentin’s niece would despise me.’

‘Indeed.’ I speared a little heart-shaped tart filled with souffléd sweetbreads. He was right there, then. My snappish mistress would never have played along like this. The memory of my mistress suddenly pricked me, and I gritted my teeth to beg the favour she had asked.

‘Carlo,’ I said sweetly. ‘I must ask your advice.’

‘I am utterly at your service.’ Being small as he was, he sat with his eyes quite level with my bosoms. He never even looked up to my face, the old dribbler.

‘My foolish servant.’ I swallowed hard. ‘Biddy.’ I cringed to say the name and took a rapid glug of wine. ‘It is a puzzle to me what to do with the – trouble she will produce.’

Carlo’s watery eyes drew themselves reluctantly upwards from my bubbies.

‘Trouble?’

‘The baby. I need to find someone to keep it. Good people. Biddy will return for it later.’

With a grimace of distaste the count drew out his snuff box and set a little hillock on the edge of his hand.

‘I believe the usual course is to consult the Convent of Sant’ Agnese. The sisters foster out such productions of sin.’

‘How will she find the place?’

His reply was interrupted by a gigantic sneeze, so large that a spattering of orange-coloured spittle rained down on me.

‘It is above Ombrosa. The mountain path leads to its gates.’ With a gigantic handkerchief he wiped the rubbery end of his powdered nose. ‘A few small coins should see the business done. But truly, my dear,’ and here he clasped my hand, quite unaware I was trying to wipe orange stains from my gown, ‘you must forget her. Send the slattern packing.’

‘Look, here is dessert,’ I said, mighty pleased to be interrupted.

Again many candles were snuffed as a flat board covered in dark cloth was carried in by four men. I mused pleasantly over its theme: we had admired the sea, and tasted the hearts of love – so what would Signor Renzo treat us to next? I confess I preened a little to think that the cook was straining his wits to impress me.

‘You will adore this,’ said Carlo, pulling me up to stand and so better view the unveiling. What did I expect? A pleasure park of cakes, or a paradise of sugar clouds?

The cloth was removed. I stared. A life-sized figure of a woman lay stretched before us on the table. Sleeping? No, her eyes were fixed open, as if she was dead. Then I blinked and saw as clear as day that the woman was like a waxwork, her skin supple, her hair loose. The marvel was that she was modelled all from sweetmeats: her gown finely worked from sugar paste, and her hair some sort of jellified tresses burnished with copper. Yet her face – mask-like and stiff – was remarkably flesh-like, enlivened by crimson lips and strange, half-living eyes quite glassy, green and staring. Dark lashes fringed the eyes; even the lace on her sugar gown was made from a thousand filigreed threads. I had a sudden recollection of that day when I had stood in the mirror at Mawton beside Lady Carinna. Here was that same woman – tall and chestnut-haired. It was me.

Murmuring in my ear, Carlo said, ‘Do you like it?’

Then reaching out to the figure’s half curled hand he snapped off a finger and sucked it between his flabby carmined lips.

I sat very still, my wine-soaked brain unpicking the puzzle. I vividly remembered Signor Renzo’s penetrating glances on his visit to my kitchen. It came to me very slowly, how he had arrived unannounced and kept me talking and all the time watched me like a hawk. What I had thought was friendliness was merely loitering to fix my image in his mind.

Beside me the count saucily lifted the sugar bodice to reveal two pink-tipped breasts. With a deft tweak, he broke off one cherry-like nipple.

‘Pray excuse me,’ I mumbled, and hurried out of the room. My thoughts were boiling like frizzling milk; I rushed headlong away from that dining room as fast as I could, my throat tight and burning. God’s gripes, I had entirely misunderstood the cook’s friendliness. You fresh-air witted lump, I reproached myself. Why, he must have thought me a right soft creature to gawp and giggle for him while he impressed my features on his memory, all in return for a few base compliments. With my head sunk low I hurried past the count’s footmen, in search of Mr Loveday so we might leave on the instant.

The count could go hang. My mistress too, who had sent me here, to this den of perfumed goats. It was Mr Pars’ fatherly words that chimed guiltily in my ears, that I should mind my reputation and not be flattered by my mistress. Perhaps I should have listened to my old Mawton steward, as good Mrs Garland had advised. Instead, here I was playing the harlot – and for what? I had no words for the mortification I felt as I rushed about that maze of corridors.

I set off down a gilded staircase that I fancied led to the visiting servants’ quarters, but my head was all stir-about, and some minutes later a dead end startled me from my temper. Now I had got myself lost and vexedly strode up and down, looking for the way back to the villa’s entrance. It was then I noticed a stairway to the kitchen. I stood at the head of it and heard muffled bangs and cries from far below. After checking that no one saw me, I gathered my vast skirts and crept silently down the stairs. At the bottom a bare corridor stretched to the white kitchen from which all the hubbub came. I listened keenly and heard Signor Renzo’s voice complaining, though what he said I could not rightly tell.

Some whim of curiosity made me look about the place. First, I peeped into a room that was stocked like a dry larder. Next was a scullery recently used, piled with dirty pots. Still the kitchen clatter continued, so I tried a third door. One glance proved it was what I sought, so I stepped inside and pulled the door fast behind me.

The silence was sudden and heavy with sugar dust. I was inside a small confectioner’s workshop, a most curious place where the air tasted sweet as nectar. Before me stood half a dozen tables, each with a line of cord stretched above it. Flowers, jewels, and tiny creatures hung unpainted on those strings, dangling like snowy carvings as they dried. Beneath them, sugar-fangled shapes lay moulded on eggshells, and beside them the sugarmaker’s tools, fairy-size blades, and forklets of brass and ivory.

At the far end of the room I found what I was seeking. Drawings of my own face hung high on a wall – my portrait modelled curiously in lines and dots both front ways and sideways. Below them, on the table, was a pair of my own hands pressed from a wooden mould in yellowish marzipan. Here was a tress of my hair made of liquorice strands, a sketch of my mouth, and a dish of waxed cotton eyelashes. A mix of wonder and disgust held me, for it was very queer to see myself so artfully dismembered. I stood and stared a long time, unable to pull myself away.

Then with a
click
I heard the door open and the bulky height of Signor Renzo blocked the way. He looked mighty surprised to find me there.

‘So this is how you use me.’ I jabbed my finger at the sketch of my face. ‘You steal my face while pretending to help me. You should act on the stage, for you have an astonishing talent to deceive.’

He faltered and made a bow.

‘I am sorry I offend you. The count told me—’

I rolled my eyes heavenwards. ‘The count? The count is a nincompoop. We both know that. It is not the count, it is your play-acting that offends me.’

He swallowed and lifted his big hands helplessly. ‘My Lady. I hope you might like it.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘A compliment to your beauty.’

‘Well I don’t like it.’ I pointed at what looked like a model for a rigid pink nipple. ‘It is shameful, sir. To –’ I tried to express what offended me so much ‘– to display me like a dish.’

Lord knows it was also a great compliment. But the nub of it was I’d mistaken his measuring stares for a manly liking of what he saw, and had got myself in a tearing great huff. ‘No doubt you pretended to care for my inferior baking, too?’ I said pettishly.

‘No, no. I did not pretend. It is not usual to meet a woman who—’

‘Yes? Who what?’

He rubbed his brow then raked his fingers through his black curls. ‘Who thinks like me.’

His words silenced me. So it was true, that inkling I’d had these last few days. We did think the same. It was uncanny. A hot blush began to bloom from my bosom and neck to my face. Vexed, I stepped sideways, pretending a new fascination with the pictures.

‘My Lady, you do not like it, even a little?’ he asked, with a hint of insolent teasing.

‘No.’ But I said it without any force. What would Lady Carinna have thought of all this? Most likely she would have enjoyed the flattery. So I did my best to dampen my disappointment down.

‘Very well. I like it a little. But I hate it more.’ I was talking nonsense.

‘It is never my wish to offend you.’

‘Do not mind it.’ I shook my head in irritation. ‘You did all that work.’

He looked up then, his sleepy-lidded eyes flashing. ‘If I could make amends? What could I do, My Lady?’

I made a move to leave. As I passed him he laid his heavy hand on my sleeve. I glanced down at it; above the fine hands I noticed curling black hairs on his arms. And then, so close as we stood, the smell of animal blood and male sweat reached me, unnerving me.

‘I know you have a fine palate, Lady Carinna. If you wish to taste something remarkable—’

‘To taste what?’

‘Oh, it is not suitable. My words run too fast.’

‘I will not be offended. Tell me.’

My eyes searched his face: exploring the shadows and bristles of his broad cheeks. Oh, he was a burly, ill-favoured fellow, but something rattled me whenever I saw him. His eyes, as dark as treacle, returned my stare. For a giddy moment our gazes locked, like groping hands in a pitchy well. Then I turned away and began to fuss at my gown.

‘It is now time to hunt the first black summer truffles,’ he said very fast. ‘For many cooks it fulfils a lifetime’s desire. It could not – make all good again, but if you wished—’ Again his speech ebbed away and he stood very still in his servant’s pose.

‘You want to take me truffle hunting?’ I laughed out loud, for I was very tight-wound.

‘It is a wonder of nature,’ he said in a tempting, eager tone.

I stared at him in disbelief. Lord, the fellow was as crazed about food as me. ‘And the count will not know?’

He shook his head and said, ‘No.’ Then he looked at me with such fervour that I asked myself the question, What would I, Biddy Leigh, like to do?

‘Very well,’ I said cautiously. ‘You may take me.’

XXX

La Foresta

Being Lady Day, March 1773
Biddy Leigh, her journal

An Unrivalled Chocolate Ice Cream

Take a pint of good cream, a heaped spoonful of best chocolate scraped, put it in when the cream boils and stir them well together, add the yolks of two eggs and sweeten it to your taste, let the eggs have a boil to thicken it. When cold put it in your freezing pot of pewter and plunge into a wooden pail. Pack about entirely with pounded ice and salt. When the mixture begins to firm about the sides stir it about with the spaddle so that all may be equally thick and smooth and frozen.

As made for Biddy Leigh, by Signor Renzo Cellini, Easter 1773

I was fretting by the window when I saw a cloud of dust moving up the road. I hurried to the glass and fussed with the tricorne pinned to my hair, and tightened the cream linen stock at my neck. Jesmire was loitering at the door, her skinny arms crossed as she eyed the flowing green of my riding costume.

‘So he’s not even sending his carriage these days? Seen through you, has he?’

‘No, he has not,’ I said, pinching my lips to give them colour. I whirled about, enjoying the lively freedom of my riding skirt. ‘It’s a bother, but I must make a show on that horse he gave me. Now you will behave yourself in front of the count’s man, won’t you?’

Her mouth dropped open, showing long yellow teeth.

‘Just who do you think you are, to speak to me like—’

I had no time for this. Signor Renzo was dismounting at the front door.

‘If you won’t be civil, Jesmire, get out of sight,’ I hissed. ‘Go on, go!’

With my heart drumming fit to burst my gold-buttoned coat, I sat myself down as serenely as I could on a parlour chair while Mr Loveday answered the door.

When Signor Renzo lifted his hat and made a bow, I saw he was slick from the heat and mighty uncomfortable. And to see him so awkward and hunched in our parlour, all stuffed in a brown velvet coat and breeches – just to see him made me feel mighty awkward too.

‘Signor Renzo,’ I said, sounding breathless. ‘Shall I call for tea?’ I had baked some pretty cakes to show him my light touch, but now he was here before me I could not bear to think of us clinking plates inside that echoing room. ‘Or shall we go? Yes, we should go now.’ I stood and nearly tripped over my long skirt, so that he jumped toward me and caught my arm. I snatched it away, fearing Jesmire might barge in and catch us in what she would call a shameful embrace. We were both of us jittering like seeds in a tossing pan.