added, looking at the Countess, whose eyes slowly travelled to the other side of the room. “Each year one of the residents, who shall remain nameless, always offers to bring some. However, it never materialises on account of her habit of not settling her bills with the butterman.”
Lady Beatrice leant forward. “One would think the lady destitute, given that she asked her maid-of-all-work to carry home all the food that was left over.”
“But it’s absolutely not the case,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, still staring at the Countess, who was examining the toes of her shoes. “She just won’t open her purse. And I’ll make no mention about the amount she drank. That’s another matter entirely,” she added, her nostrils flaring. “Now,” she said, her voice softening as she turned to the Princess. “Is there anything you would like to bring?”
Mink hesitated, looking at each of the visitors as she wondered what on earth Pooki would be able to make.
“What about some pigeon pies?” suggested the Countess with a smile. “They’re always so delicious at a picnic, and I’m aware that you only have a maid-of-all-work, as I do. I’m sure she will manage them perfectly well. There are so many things one has to avoid without a real cook. I’ve had to forget that soufflés even exist. Still, at least my cooking brandy is safe.”
“God sends the meat, and the Devil sends the cook,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, pursing her lips.
Lady Beatrice leant towards the Princess, the butterflies on her hat quivering on their wires with the sudden movement. “If you ever need any extra help, I know an excellent girl who’ll come in the mornings to clean the boots and the knives,” she said brightly. Almost immediately she covered her mouth with both hands. Mink looked down at the carpet as her cheeks flared, while the other two visitors suddenly took an interest in the ceiling. Eventually the brittle silence was broken by the sound of a banjo coming from outside.
CHAPTER V
An Unfortunate Incident with the Blancmange
MONDAY, MARCH 21, 1898
GNORING the furtive glances of the soldiers parading outside the barracks, Mink strode swiftly down the palace driveway, the memory of the missed train quickening her step. One pace behind her was Pooki, in silent disapproval of the shopping expedition to the West End. As they approached Trophy Gate, they were spotted by the organ grinder, who grabbed his crank, despite having been moved on twice by the police that morning. The closer the Princess came, the faster the man turned, until the last of the birds fled screeching from the trees. Mink swiftly passed a penny to Pooki, who dropped it into his chipped cup, putting an end to the torment. She ran to catch up with her mistress, unaware of the gaze of the watercress seller, a tiny green bouquet clutched to his heart.
Not a word was exchanged as the pair crossed over the bridge. While Pooki kept her eyes on the ground, the Princess watched the cats’ meat seller coming towards them, pulling his barrow piled with horseflesh on sticks, followed by a procession of strays. Once at the station, they sat at some distance from each other on the wooden bench in the empty waiting room, the meagre fire losing against the March drafts.
“We could go for luncheon at the Tea and Tiffin Bungalow. It’s just opened in New Bond Street,” suggested Mink, hoping a curry might bring her round.
Pooki stared at the ground in silence.
The Princess looked at the top of her bonnet, then tried again: “I wonder whether the owner of the travelling zoo will remember to dress Albert in his red velvet trousers.”
Still the maid didn’t lift her head. Suddenly Mink’s irritation flared.
“I don’t know why you expect me to wear my old dresses. It’s your duty to see to it that I appear to my best advantage,” she protested, plunging back into the heart of the discord. It had started over breakfast that morning, the anniversary of her father’s
Lady Beatrice leant forward. “One would think the lady destitute, given that she asked her maid-of-all-work to carry home all the food that was left over.”
“But it’s absolutely not the case,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, still staring at the Countess, who was examining the toes of her shoes. “She just won’t open her purse. And I’ll make no mention about the amount she drank. That’s another matter entirely,” she added, her nostrils flaring. “Now,” she said, her voice softening as she turned to the Princess. “Is there anything you would like to bring?”
Mink hesitated, looking at each of the visitors as she wondered what on earth Pooki would be able to make.
“What about some pigeon pies?” suggested the Countess with a smile. “They’re always so delicious at a picnic, and I’m aware that you only have a maid-of-all-work, as I do. I’m sure she will manage them perfectly well. There are so many things one has to avoid without a real cook. I’ve had to forget that soufflés even exist. Still, at least my cooking brandy is safe.”
“God sends the meat, and the Devil sends the cook,” said Lady Montfort Bebb, pursing her lips.
Lady Beatrice leant towards the Princess, the butterflies on her hat quivering on their wires with the sudden movement. “If you ever need any extra help, I know an excellent girl who’ll come in the mornings to clean the boots and the knives,” she said brightly. Almost immediately she covered her mouth with both hands. Mink looked down at the carpet as her cheeks flared, while the other two visitors suddenly took an interest in the ceiling. Eventually the brittle silence was broken by the sound of a banjo coming from outside.
CHAPTER V
An Unfortunate Incident with the Blancmange
MONDAY, MARCH 21, 1898
GNORING the furtive glances of the soldiers parading outside the barracks, Mink strode swiftly down the palace driveway, the memory of the missed train quickening her step. One pace behind her was Pooki, in silent disapproval of the shopping expedition to the West End. As they approached Trophy Gate, they were spotted by the organ grinder, who grabbed his crank, despite having been moved on twice by the police that morning. The closer the Princess came, the faster the man turned, until the last of the birds fled screeching from the trees. Mink swiftly passed a penny to Pooki, who dropped it into his chipped cup, putting an end to the torment. She ran to catch up with her mistress, unaware of the gaze of the watercress seller, a tiny green bouquet clutched to his heart.
Not a word was exchanged as the pair crossed over the bridge. While Pooki kept her eyes on the ground, the Princess watched the cats’ meat seller coming towards them, pulling his barrow piled with horseflesh on sticks, followed by a procession of strays. Once at the station, they sat at some distance from each other on the wooden bench in the empty waiting room, the meagre fire losing against the March drafts.
“We could go for luncheon at the Tea and Tiffin Bungalow. It’s just opened in New Bond Street,” suggested Mink, hoping a curry might bring her round.
Pooki stared at the ground in silence.
The Princess looked at the top of her bonnet, then tried again: “I wonder whether the owner of the travelling zoo will remember to dress Albert in his red velvet trousers.”
Still the maid didn’t lift her head. Suddenly Mink’s irritation flared.
“I don’t know why you expect me to wear my old dresses. It’s your duty to see to it that I appear to my best advantage,” she protested, plunging back into the heart of the discord. It had started over breakfast that morning, the anniversary of her father’s
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