On which challenging statement, Lord Joshua entered, easily catching the tenor of the exchange. ‘There will be no need, Mrs Russell. I am more than satisfied with the arrangement.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Sarah found it difficult to keep a stern countenance. She was human enough after all to be tempted into what could only be described as a little crow of triumph. But she suppressed the urge.
‘Of course not, Joshua.’ The Countess’s smile was deceptively sweet as she lifted her face towards his lordship. ‘I would imply no other. I merely wondered about Mrs Russell’s history.’ She patted a chair beside her, an obvious gesture that Lord Joshua had no difficulty in ignoring. ‘But another matter, my dear. I would wish to entertain. On Friday. Is there a problem if I arrange a little dinner party?’
‘No.’ Apart from some surprise at the request, he could think of no suitable reason why not. Other than a disinclination to spend an evening in the company of Olivia’s set.
‘Then I would like to hold a banquet for some particular friends. A French banquet—something a little out of the ordinary, to impress, you understand.’ The curl of her lips in Sarah’s direction was lethal in intent. She cast an eye over the light dinner menu for that evening again with delicate disdain. ‘Nothing of this nature, of course. So plain and uninteresting, do you not think? Only two main courses and a mean selection of side dishes apart from the dessert. Do you think that our kitchen might be capable of producing something suitably impressive, Mrs Russell?’ Sarah’s earlier challenge was thus returned in good measure.
‘Of course, my lady. A French banquet.’ I will do it if it kills me in the process. But her heart sank at the prospect.
‘I really do think that we should employ a French chef, Joshua. So much more imaginative and exciting.’ The Countess sighed heavily and dramatically. ‘I suppose that I must leave it in your hands, Mrs Russell, on this occasion. I trust that I shall not be disappointed.’
‘We shall make every effort to ensure your satisfaction, my lady.’
Sarah took herself back to the kitchen, seething in anger.
‘What on earth is the matter, my dear?’ Mrs Beddows replaced a lid on a steaming pan and wiped her hands. ‘Is it That Woman again?’
‘Yes! Of course it is! Can we produce a French banquet for twelve guests on Friday night?’
‘A French banquet?’
‘The Countess wishes to test our mettle, Mrs Beddows. And if we are found wanting, she will insist on his lordship appointing a French chef!’
‘Does she indeed?’ Mrs Beddows bridled, her slight bosom swelling. ‘You tell me what we need and I will cook it. We will not have that hoity-toity madam or a foreigner interfering in my kitchen! What do I cook?’
‘I have no idea. I have never been to a French banquet.’ Sarah thought, tapping her fingers against the heavy dresser with its array of blue porcelain. ‘But I know someone who has.’
Thus a series of notes passed rapidly between Sarah, Judith and her mama, Lady Beatrice Faringdon, resulting in a formal manuscript arriving in Hanover Square, inscribed on thick cream vellum, being a copy of the menu for the French banquet served on the fifteenth of January in 1817 by the Prince Regent himself within the splendours of Brighton Pavilion.
Sarah, Millington and Mrs Beddows sat down to dissect it with varying degrees of horror and near-hysterical laughter at the splendour and scale of it.
‘We cannot do this, Mrs Russell. Indeed we cannot,’ Mrs Beddows finally decided, aghast, slapping her hands down against the table top. ‘Four soups, followed by four fish and then—well, I never!—thirty-six entrées, four of them with side dishes—and thirty-six desserts. Not to mention eight patisserie! And look at this. Turbot with lobster sauce, pike with oysters…eel with quenelles, truffles and cock’s combs.’
‘Roast larks in pastry lined with chicken livers!’ continued Millington. ‘And truffles mentioned six—no, seven times in all!’
‘Such extravagance!’ Mrs Beddows shook her head. ‘With the best will in the world, we cannot—’
‘No, no, Mrs Beddows. Of course we cannot.’ Sarah patted her hand consolingly. ‘But look. We can follow the same pattern of courses and simply select what we require. We can use some of the same dishes, but not the most extravagant. Alter some of the ingredients if necessary. And if we give them their French title… Millington can be sure to tell the Countess when she asks, as she most assuredly will. And since his lordship has placed no restrictions on our expenditure, then I suggest that money should be no object!’
‘Well… If you think so… ‘ A competitive spark had entered the cook’s eye.
‘I do. We have something to prove here. We will also, I suggest, serve it à la française, with the dishes arranged in the middle of the table so that the guests help themselves and then pass them on to their fellow guests. Very fashionable in the greatest houses, I understand, and highly inconvenient for those who wish to sample a dish from the far end of the table, but if that is what her ladyship wishes…’ A wicked little smile crossed Sarah’s face as she contemplated the possibilities. ‘What’s more, I shall write out the menu, à la française, which will be highly uncomfortable for everyone if they do not recognise the dishes. Haute cuisine is what she demanded, so haute cuisine is what she will get. Whatever happens, we do not want one of the Countess of Wexford’s creatures lording it over this kitchen.’
‘Certainly not.’ The agreement was unanimous.
So they would do it. The servants’ hall declared war. The result was a positive tour de force. A French banquet in exemplary fashion, served by Millington and the footmen with style and panache. The guests were impressed beyond measure. Millington, when asked, wielded French phrases as expertly as Mrs Beddows wielded her boning knife. The turbot à l’Anglaise (turbot without lobster sauce) was mouthwatering, the noix de veau à la jardinière (veal with fresh vegetables) exquisite, the côte de boeuf aux oignons glaces (roast beef garnished with glazed onions) a perfect dish, the meat cooked to a tender delight. As for the petits soufflés d’abricots—one of a handful of memorable desserts—what could one say? Olivia Wexford’s guests could not but be impressed.
The results were beyond expectation. Lord Joshua sent his compliments and words of approval to his housekeeper and cook with suave and amused appreciation. Never had he been host to so fine a banquet in his own home. Not a vestige of a grin was allowed to warm his stern features as he recognised Mrs Russell’s throwing down of a culinary gauntlet. It had certainly added an element of tension and comment to an otherwise tedious evening. A frisson of sheer pleasure.
The servants, flushed with effort and triumph, ate well from the left-overs and probably would do so for days. It was a pleasure to toast the achievements of Mrs Russell and Mrs Beddows in the half-dozen bottles of claret spirited magically from the proceedings in the dining room by a cunning and slick-handed Millington.
The Countess of Wexford was furious, her pleasure in the whole evening spoiled beyond measure, but unable to express her true sentiments in the face of such overwhelming satisfaction, particularly from Lord Joshua. She had lost this battle and had to accept it with a gracious smile and flattering words. Her fingers curled around her fruit knife like a claw.
So the evening ended with food for thought. A delicious pun, Lord Joshua thought, much entertained at having seen the light of battle in the eyes of his intriguing housekeeper. And there was an undoubted gleam in his eyes, a gleam that could be interpreted as pure mischief, as the Countess took herself off to her bed at the first opportunity without a word and a disgruntled flounce. He had not been so amused for many weeks.
There was no further discussion of a French chef.
Chapter Five