The Cook Page 9
Conrad was lying stretched out on his bed. His tall chef’s hat was still on, half crushed beneath his head.
“Now listen carefully,” Conrad began. “It’s all in the blending . . .”
For half an hour Conrad explained the preparation of the sauce while Harold listened with an aspect of complete absorption, his brow slightly furrowed and his gaze completely steady. It was an expression which no one else had ever seen him assume, and which would have surprised him had he been able to observe it. But it only came over his face when Conrad was talking about cooking, when he was doing something in the kitchen to assist Conrad, and when he was reading the cook books. On all other occasions he wore the same dreamy, sensitive expression which Conrad had noted upon first seeing him.
Harold asked a few questions after Conrad had finished, and then inquired as to what time Conrad thought he should begin.
“Right after lunch, no later. That way you will have time for three attempts, should something go wrong. Can you get away from the mill?”
“Yes, I’ll just leave. Father will have to stay. He won’t like it, I know; I suppose you’ve noticed that he doesn’t stay at the mill any more on Saturday afternoons?”
Conrad said he was aware of that: “Nor does he ever go on Sundays.”
“No, he doesn’t.—It’s funny,” Harold continued after a moment, his usual dreamy expression replacing his look of studied concentration, “very funny about Father. He used to love the mill. He used to love going there—not that he really had to. It’s so well organized that he has little more to do than watch it in operation. But it gave him something to do, something to build his day around. But he has been changing—just within the last few months. He no longer likes to go there. And sometimes he doesn’t get there until the afternoon. And then when he does get there I have the feeling that he would like to leave and come back here. I haven’t talked to him about it, but I think he would rather stay home all the time. You’ve noticed that he never goes out any more in the evening. And he used to dine out at least twice a week, either at the Vales’ or at the Prominence Inn . . .” Harold trailed off in an abstracted way.
From the way he was talking he did not seem worried about his father’s health or state of mind.
“I’m sure he’s in excellent health,” Conrad said, reading Harold’s thoughts.
“Oh, I’m sure he is too,” Harold agreed. “It’s just strange that—I wonder why the dogs are kicking up such a fuss?”
The sound of furious barking had suddenly erupted in the night.
22
“It’s Rudolph. He’s drunk again and has fallen into the snow at the edge of the road; he can never make it all the way back from Cobb. It happens every night.”
Harold looked mildly surprised but said nothing.
“I’ll have to help him,” Conrad said, getting up. “Only the alarum of the dogs saves him from freezing to death.—We’re going to have to get rid of him. He’s as worthless as Maxfield, or almost. Maxfield has been in bed for a week now. And of course,” he added with a contemptuous snort, “there’s that gem of a maid—Betsy.”
“Has he?” Harold murmured vaguely. “I thought I hadn’t seen him.”
The two of them went downstairs into the moon-lit night.
Conrad told Harold he would get Rudolph—Harold hadn’t his coat with him. “I shall see you tomorrow after lunch.”
The white moon was resting on the far parapet of the Prominence, bathing the ancient structure in light, and Conrad stood contemplating it for a long time, ignoring the loud snores of the crumpled figure at his feet.
At last a thin smile relieved the fixity of Conrad’s expression.
A few minutes later he began kicking Rudolph to his feet.
When Mrs. Hill came into the kitchen, Betsy was still there stacking up some of the dishes. Mrs. Hill dismissed her. “That girl,” she said impatiently, “makes me nervous just watching her. I’m surprised we have any dishes left. But when we get our new sets . . . Now, isn’t there something I can do here?”
Conrad told her there was nothing more to do except put the glasses away, and he indicated the cupboard where they belonged.
The two of them rapidly got the kitchen in order, Mrs. Hill humming to herself the while. When she had finished she settled on Conrad’s stool, and he told her that he would have their broth ready in a jiffy.
“Is my broth the same as yours?” Mrs. Hill asked, as she did practically every night, and Conrad replied, as he always did, that there was little difference: “Mine is a tick more highly seasoned.”
“I must try yours sometime,” Mrs. Hill smiled.
“Yes.—And Daphne, how was her weight tonight?”
Mrs. Hill told him, and then began adding up the number of pounds Daphne had lost since her arrival.
“She won’t put them all back on, will she, Conrad?”
“Never,” he assured her.
“And she will continue to lose?”
“Yes, provided she eats what I feed her.”
“Oh, she will—I know she will!” Mrs. Hill exclaimed. “She loves your food and she says she always eats until she’s full—and she can’t understand that. And she claims she never has that hungry feeling any more.—She’s such a sweet girl.” As Mrs. Hill said that a dreamy expression came over her face—it was easy to see where Harold got his from. “And Daphne is such a pretty girl,” she continued after a moment; “I just couldn’t help thinking as I looked at her next to Harold at dinner tonight how nice they looked side by side—he so fair and blond, like all the Hills, and Daphne with her dark beauty. I can’t help thinking . . .”
Conrad sipped his broth. “She will look nice in white,” he said, very matter-of-factly.
“Yes, she will,” Mrs. Hill murmured, and then lapsed into silence, the better to savor the image.
At last Mrs. Hill returned from the future: “She is supposed to go home this Sunday—do you think there is any chance of something happening if she leaves?”
“Do you mean, will she gain weight?”
“Yes—will you be able to send all of her food over? Or will it be safe for her to eat Paul’s cooking—I mean, provided you tell him how to cook for her?”
Conrad riveted Mrs. Hill’s eyes into focus—they had a tendency to flutter—and replied in no uncertain terms:
“It would be better if she stayed. Much better . . . much, much better. No matter what one tells another cook it is not possible to guarantee the dish. So far, judging by the weight Mr. and Mrs. Vale are putting on, Paul has followed my instructions to the letter. But I cannot be certain he will continue. And as for resuming my catering and delivery service—that was an expedient at best. The results have been far superior since she came here. I am sure you agree. Living here is good for her. She should stay. On no score do I recommend that Daphne leave the Hill mansion until everything is settled—I mean everything. There is no reason to incur a risk which is unnecessary, and returning to the Vale mansion is not necessary.”
Mrs. Hill understood Conrad perfectly, and as he talked she nodded in agreement, her lips tightening: it was the marriage that mattered, and that was all.
She finished her broth before she replied, “I shall speak to Eva Vale tomorrow and insist that Daphne stay. I shall tell her that you refuse to be responsible . . .”
Conrad nodded.
And as Mrs. Hill started to leave: “You know,” she said, “our samples of china should arrive this Saturday . . .”
Though it was quite late Conrad went into Cobb. There were no customers at Shepard’s, and standing at the bar he drank a few steins of beer. Nell had a little gossip for him.
“I hear,” she said, “that Ester Hill sees Lance Brown practically every day now. They say her parents don’t know about it and that she has to sneak away from the Hill mansion.”
“People exaggerate,” Conrad reminded her. “What else do you hear?”
Nell replied that that was all people said, exc
ept that Ester seemed to be getting very heavy. “They say she’s suddenly begun putting on weight—rather like young Miss Vale a few years ago when just all of a sudden she started to gain and didn’t stop until she was as big as a house.”
Conrad finished his beer. “Miss Vale is only the size of a small cottage now.—When Charles comes in, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow, either here or in the kitchen.—Do you have my clothes in order for Tuesday?”
When the samples of china and glass arrived, Mrs. Hill told everyone that as soon as lunch was over they would have to vacate the dining room: there was to be no lingering over extra cups of coffee, and second and third desserts—she and Conrad wanted to be alone. They had something to discuss. She also told Mrs. Wigton she wanted all of the table-cloths and napkins available.
Conrad unpacked the samples and set them on the dining-room table. Betsy brought in the table linen and stacked it on one side of the table, as she was told. When she saw the samples of glass and china, her mouth literally fell open; obviously she had never before seen anything so magnificent and expensive-looking. But she recovered quickly, commenting: “Oh, my! Aren’t we getting fancy now!”
The superciliousness of this remark irritated Mrs. Hill. “That will do, Betsy. You may leave. Please see that you do not return until you’re called. We do not wish to be interrupted.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Betsy curtsied, casting a final look at the glittering samples.
The process of selection then began: deciding what they liked best, and matching glass with plate, linen with glass and linen with china—and all with the décor of the dining room. “And this book will help us,” Conrad said. “It contains numerous illustrations of some of the most sumptuous tables ever set.”
Mrs. Hill let out a gasp of astonishment at the sight of the first illustration of truly luxurious dining.
“Do you think we’ll be able to teach Betsy how to set a table like that?” Conrad asked. “I wonder—I really wonder . . .”
Mrs. Hill’s murmured answer was inaudible.
23
Mrs. Hill reported that Daphne would stay for another month.
Conrad replied that a month would not be quite sufficient: “It will take six weeks. By that time she will weigh between one-twenty and one twenty-five.”
“Are you sure, Conrad?” Mrs. Hill smiled.
“Yes. You may order clothes on that assumption.”
They had agreed on the china and glass to be ordered and Mr. Hill had been called in to concur. His eyes popped when he saw the samples.
“Such china seems too fine to use,” he murmured.
“Well, we are going to use it,” Mrs. Hill retorted.—“Now look at this.” She held open the book of table settings. “This is the way we are going to set our table when the new china and glass arrive—isn’t it, Conrad?”
Mr. Hill stared at the beautifully colored illustration. “Do people really eat at tables like that?”
“Well, of course they do! And we will too. We’re going to teach Betsy how to set a table like this—aren’t we, Conrad?”
“We’re going to try.”
Mrs. Hill laughed. “Try is right! That girl! I might end up having to do it myself. With you helping me, Benjamin.”
“We might all have to do it,” Conrad conceded.
“Gentlemen,” Conrad was saying to the three men facing him, “we will all participate. The dictum ‘too many cooks spoil the dish’ must give way to the requirements of specialization. Besides, there will only be one in charge. I have brought the marinades.” He indicated two earthenware pots sitting on the table. “Charles, you will start on the meat dish tonight . . .”
They were sitting in the Shepard’s Inn at the corner table.
“Paul,” Conrad continued, “will do the soup and pastries. Harold will do the sauce for the birds—he has been working on it diligently for the past week—do you think you can do it, Harold?”
“If you have confidence in me, Conrad . . .”
“All the confidence in the world.—Charles will do the vegetables. I will prepare all the other sauces . . . The earlier we begin the better. I will come about ten. Harold . . . ?”
Harold said he would leave the mansion with Conrad: “Father will simply have to go to the mill that morning.”
24
Monday evening the temperature started to drop, and light snowflakes began to fall. It continued to snow throughout the night, and Tuesday dawned biting cold and with a veritable blizzard in progress. All the old snow had been covered during the night with a thick layer of blazing white; it was already more than four inches deep on the steps to Conrad’s room. As he came down, kicking off the snow on his way, he thought what a perfect day he had chosen for the special dinner: outside, miserable cold, everything obliterated by layers and clouds of white, and inside, a great hospitable fire, a great table laden with delicious food, warming wines . . . And to be in perfect health, with a gargantuan appetite, a refined taste—what could be better?
In the kitchen he found Eggy and Rudolph shivering and trying to get warm; they had apparently just come in from the shed. Harold was also there, waiting for him. “I made some coffee for you,” he said with a slightly embarrassed smile. “I hope it’s good . . .”
“Thank you, Harold,” Conrad said, “thank you very much. That will save us some time.”
Conrad, Charles, Paul and Harold worked very hard that day in the Prominence Inn kitchen. Nothing went wrong, and by seven in the evening Conrad and Harold were free to leave and dress for dinner.
Mr. Bayard had arrived a few hours earlier and was resting in the bridal suite on the top floor.
Conrad was standing by the large open fire at the rear of the private dining room when Harold and Mr. Hill came in. As Harold had said, Mr. Hill still pictured the dining room as it had looked when he used to visit it, and at the sight of the changes which Conrad had wrought—the heavy, lush drapes, the paintings on the walls, the great silver candelabra—Mr. Hill stopped dead in his tracks: he couldn’t believe his eyes. Indeed, he couldn’t have been more surprised had he discovered himself suddenly and mysteriously transported to the most exclusive dining club in the City.
Harold gently led him over to the fireplace, and to the tall saturnine figure in formal evening attire standing beside it. Instinctively, as if to assure himself of the figure’s good will, Mr. Hill held out his hand.
“Rennie Bayard will be along in a moment,” Conrad said easily. “Would you care for some sherry?”
One of the four waiters, standing like statues around the table, moved, and brought Mr. Hill a small glass of pale amber-colored liquid.
“Rennie said he is of good appetite,” Conrad smiled. “I am too . . . and you?”
Mr. Hill replied that he hoped he could do justice to the dinner.
Conrad answered that he was sure he would.
“But my tastes aren’t as refined as yours, Conrad,” Mr. Hill murmured in apology.
“It’s only a matter of training,” Conrad explained. “One must only concentrate on the taste he is experiencing while he has the food in his mouth—ah, here comes Rennie now.”
Mr. Hill and Harold turned around as the gentleman in evening clothes approached them. The word “rotund” might be the first to enter one’s mind at the sight of Mr. Bayard, but “well-fed” would be more apt, and as Conrad did the introductions, Mr. Bayard’s smile revealed large, solid white teeth—teeth which somehow seemed just made for eating with.
Mr. Bayard closed his eyes and sniffed the air, like a deer.
“The bouquet is a most rare one these days, most rare indeed,” he murmured. “Where did you get the sherry, Connie? Unearth a cache of it in Cobb?”
“If I told you, there soon wouldn’t be any left.”
Mr. Bayard chuckled. “True, Connie, too true. You had best keep your secret.”
Mr. Hill said nothing the while, and when he tasted his sherry again it was with a new and deep reverence.
Mr. Hill’s eyes flickered up from the floor to the face of the man he was so honored to meet, and he hesitated, smiling. He wasn’t quite sure what the question meant.
“If you can,” went on Mr. Bayard, “you’re in a very select circle.”
Mr. Hill smiled at Conrad and at Mr. Bayard.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about food,” he murmured quietly. And as both Conrad and Mr. Bayard continued to look at him as if they were expecting something more: “I’m afraid I’m what I’ve heard called a gourmand and not a gourmet—why, until Conrad came here, I didn’t even know what good food was. I just ate what was put in front of me . . .”
Mr. Hill began to perspire under the strain of his long speech, and as he spoke Mr. Bayard arched an eyebrow in surprise.
“Really?” He clearly found Mr. Hill’s demurrer hard to believe. “Well, be that as it may,” he smiled as Mr. Hill started to repeat his disclaimer of gourmet pretenses; “under Connie’s expert tutelage it won’t be long before all that’s changed. He—and I speak as one who has observed—has educated the most recalcitrant of palates. Connie—remember when you introduced Monte Springhorn to cuisine in contrast to food? Monte,” continued Mr. Bayard to Mr. Hill, “with all his money, had never even seen, much less tasted, a truffle. He was a meat-and-potatoes man. And one night Connie here . . .”
Mr. Bayard proceeded to tell Mr. Hill and Harold—who was standing beside his father, smiling and diffident—an amusing story concerning the aforesaid person’s initial contact with truffles and how he had carefully extracted them from beneath the poached chicken’s skin and pushed them to one side of his plate, thinking they were dried and burnt clots of blood, etc.
But Mr. Hill heard scarcely a word of the story: the mention of Monte Springhorn’s name had stupefied him. He was the wealthiest person in the City and one of the most politically powerful. The discovery that Conrad was on close terms with him shattered whatever remaining notion Mr. Hill had that Conrad was still, after all, only his cook . . .