Never Resist Temptation (28 page)

T
he Countess of Storrington awoke at noon feeling hungry. She rather fancied a bit of French pastry. She could, of course, descend to the kitchen and make something, but one of the disadvantages of being a peeress was not being really welcome in the kitchen.

At least Mrs. Simpson was no longer there. Once Anthony had ascertained that the Simpsons' interactions with Edgar had been motivated by simple spite toward Jacobin, rather than a more sinister malice, he'd pensioned them off to a cottage on his most distant estate. Jacobin's old friend, the cook from Hurst Park, was now installed in the kitchen at Storrington
Hall. But Jacobin had learned that as mistress of the house her relationship with the servants required a certain formality.

Still, there were many, many superb things about being a rich and fashionable countess.

After a shaky start, Jacobin had been a success with all but the stuffiest members of the
ton
. Edgar's murder trial in the House of Lords became the public sensation of the day. By the time he was convicted and hanged with a silken rope, such being the dubious privilege of a felonious peer, most of the details of Jacobin's past life were public knowledge. All Anthony's family connections rallied round, and a number of older members of society came forward to support the daughter of Auguste de Chastelux, whom they remembered with affection from pre-revolutionary Parisian jaunts. The Prince Regent pronounced himself immensely amused that a countess had been employed in his kitchen and jovially offered to take her back into his service. The
coup de grâce
was an appearance at one of Lord Hugo Hartley's rare dinner parties, where Mr. Chauncey and Lady Caroline Bellamy had been persuaded to join the company. Although a few sticklers might (and did) note that the couple's daughter and niece were otherwise engaged that evening, there were very few people who cared to be regarded as higher in the instep than Lady Caroline. The new Lady Storrington's acceptance was assured.

Among the younger and more dashing, Jacobin was seen as a heroine and amassed an entertaining circle of friends. She'd even conducted a
pâtisserie
lesson for a
group of young married women. They'd spent an enjoyable afternoon making French pastries and a terrible mess in the kitchen. She and Anthony had to dine out for the following three nights to let the servants recover.

The single most superb thing about being a rich countess was the earl. It was time, she decided, to issue her daily forgiveness for getting her into the condition that had cut short the season in London and made her so wretchedly ill every morning that she had to remain in bed. He would, to do him justice, have gladly stayed at her side, mopping her brow with cool cloths and holding a basin at the ready. But she'd snappishly sent him on his way when he'd woken to find her retching and offered sympathy.

She would, as always, make it up to him.

Pondering the probable whereabouts of her husband, she climbed out of the ancestral bed, pulled on a lace-trimmed robe, and wandered over to the window for a good stretch and a look at the weather.

The weather was fine and the garden urn exceptionally well dressed. Around its slender neck it sported a starched linen neck cloth tied in a perfect waterfall.

Excellent.

 

He met her at the door. “Recovered from the journey, I see. Unless it was something else that made you so charming this morning.”

She cast him a nasty look, and he laughed.

“Come in,” he said. “I have a present for you.”

“Diamonds?” she said hopefully.

“I think you have enough jewels for the moment. Something better.”

Instead of leading her into the saloon, he opened the door on the other side of the vestibule into what had been an unused storage room.

“Oh, Anthony!” It was perfect. It had a long marble table with an ice trough built in beneath it to keep the surface cold; a huge ice closet; the most modern range and oven; copper pans and molds in every shape and size hanging from hooks. Everything, in fact, that a well-equipped pastry room demanded.

“How did you do it?” she asked, hugging him tightly enough to squeeze the breath from a weaker man. “How did you know what to buy?”

“I didn't, of course. I left it all up to Jean-Luc. He arranged the whole thing before returning to France.”

Jean-Luc had been in England recently when his employer, the Duc de Clermont-Ferrand, and his household had made a month-long visit. Jacobin had tried to persuade him to come and work for them, but he refused, he said, ever to spend another winter in the brutal English weather. Jacobin's protest that the climate of northern France was little better fell on deaf ears. Jean-Luc was happy with the dessert-loving
duc
and his friend Michel, the
duc
's maître d'hôtel. He'd dined
à trois
with her and Anthony one night, and escorted her to a masquerade when Anthony had to attend an all-male political dinner. But Jacobin knew, despite her husband's indulgence, that their old friendship would be forever circumscribed by the barriers of rank.

“I'm hungry,” she said. “I'm going to cook something right now.”

“Am I allowed to make a request?” Anthony asked.

“You don't need to. I know what you like.”

“Splendid. I'll leave you to it,” and he left the room.

She happily explored her new domain, discovering flour, sugars, spices, and other dry goods in a cupboard, while the ice chest had a compartment for eggs, butter, and cream. She set water to heat on the stove and assembled the ingredients for
choux
pastry. But after a while she felt lonely. He might have stayed to talk while she cooked. What was he doing, anyway?

She heard a noise upstairs, and her lips curved.

He was lying on the bed when she entered.

“That was quick,” he said.

“I have a new recipe for profiteroles. It omits the pastry.” She held up a bowl of whipped cream, then produced two strips of cloth from her pocket.

His eyes darkened with the intent look that never failed to make her hot all over.

“I do believe,” he drawled, “that I'm about to realize one of my deepest fantasies.”

“No,” she said, approaching the bed with purpose. “This one's mine.”

I've always been fascinated by culinary history, especially old cookbooks. There's nothing more fun than finding a really disgusting recipe and wondering “How could they eat this?” The oldest known cookbook was written by a Roman, Apicius. A highly concentrated fish stock was a staple of ancient Roman cookery and sounds completely vile.

The Regency period gave the world its first “celebrity chef” Antonin Carême, the Wolfgang Puck or Marco Pierre White of his day. Carême cooked for Napoleon, the Bourbon kings, the Tsar of Russia, Talleyrand and the Prince Regent. He also published several bestselling books. His works on pastries and desserts, confections as they were more generally called, laid down the foundation of classic French pâtisserie. When I read Ian Kelly's superb biography
Cooking for Kings
I had to include Carême's tenure at the Brighton Pavilion in a Regency novel.

In the end the demands of the plot prevented the great man's actual appearance in my book. He gets sick
so Jacobin is called to pinch hit for him. Carême did in fact suffer from chronic respiratory problems, made worse by the extreme conditions of heat and cold he worked in and constant exposure to charcoal fumes.

I tried to make my description of life in the Prince Regent's kitchens as accurate as possible. The huge Brighton kitchens were Prinny's pride and joy and he liked to show them to his guests. A picture of the main kitchen may be found on my website although, sadly, the crazy palm fronds decorating the pillars were added after my story takes place. As Jacobin discovered, Carême didn't like working with women and he became unpopular with the Prince Regent's staff for not sharing the income from the sale of surplus food. In fact his time in England was an unhappy period in his life and lasted little more than a year.

I wanted to include some of Carême's recipes in
Never Resist Temptation
and had a great time combing through his books. Along the way I found some of the oddities I enjoy. What do you make of a recipe that calls for “about one hundred middle sized lobsters' tails” but gives you the option of substituting carrots? Carrots? The dish is called
Chartreuse à la Parisienne, en Surprise
. Surprise indeed, and not a good one, to get a mouthful of carrot when you're expecting lobster.

Since Carême's English staff complained about the differences between English and French measurements, I compared some recipes in French with their translations in the English edition. In one place the original called for a piece of butter the size of a walnut which
in translation became a turnip. Either turnips used to be much smaller or the English liked a lot of butter. Yet classic French cuisine has a reputation for excessive richness.

I've been asked whether I tried any of the recipes in my book. Well, I'm not the greatest baker myself, and Carême's directions lack the exact measurements we're used to in modern cookbooks. How much, for heaven's sake, is a “plateful” of cream? What size plate?

I did think I should attempt
choux
pastry since it features prominently in the story. And I'll admit that though the technique appears not to have changed, Julia Child's recipe was a lot easier to follow than Carême's. You may find an account of my attempt to make “little puffy things” on my website
www.mirandaneville.com
together with additional Carême recipes for dishes mentioned in the book. If you try them please let me know how they turn out.

Miranda