Elevenses (Mid-Morning Tea)

Anne:

I wiped my hands and took the path down toward the road. I'd been making scones when, ten minutes ago, a cannonball shot through the kitchen door and caught me round the knees—my son, crying his heart out. "There was—there was some children d-d-down by th'r-road. They was playing, and, and, and I wanted to join them, but—," and the rest got mumbled into my skirts. I could guess at it, anyhow. Teasing, taunting, and jeering.

I knelt down and took him in my arms. He wound his arms around my neck, and buried his face in my shoulder. "There, love." I rocked him a little. "Are you hurt anywheres?" His head shook back and forth, not up and down. No, then. That was a relief to me. "There, dearheart, don't take on so. It was wrong and cruel in them. It's 'cause they don't know you. No one as knew you would—."

"But Louise Borchier—." was all I could understand out of the mumbling.

"Louise Borchier was one of them?"

"Yes, Mam."

That was another story. Louise Borchier had come by with her mother only the week afore, and Erik had taken her up the hayloft to peep at Miao and her new litter. I had got my son calmed and comforted. Now I was going to have it out with her.

The pack of them were still hanging about the road when I got down there. I didn't swoop down on them like a hawk on a chicken yard. Anyone can go and shriek like a harridan. I am not just anyone.

I smiled and called, "Louise Borchier, might I have a word with you a space?"

"Yes, M'me Touchet." She came over, all obedient-like, and I led her to the bench under the linden tree.

"How's your mother, Louise? Keeping well, I hope?" Louise was a gangly child of ten, with short black hair and greeney eyes.

"Yes, M'me." Ten minutes is the same as a hour to a child. She'd probably gone and already forgot what she said to my boy.

"Your mother does needlework as any woman'd be proud of. She's been sewing for the inn for close on three years now. I don't know anyone as sews a finer seam nor hem. Her mends are near invisible, and everything she makes up new is as fine as money can buy."

"Thank you, M'me. She—she'd be glad to hear you say so."

Louise had some wits in her head. That was well answered. Good, then. My words would not fall on barren ground. "It's no more than the truth. I'm always glad to see her, when she comes by with the week's work. But that you know, as you often help her carry it."

"Yes, M'me. She's teaching me to sew. Not on the inn's goods, though. I'm still learning."

"That's how it is with me and my niece Amelié. I'm teaching her to cook. Her cakes aren't ready for serving to guests as yet. Like you and your mother. Friends is guests as much as paying customers, and there's always a cup of tea and something fresh from the oven for her and for you. Like the scones I've been making this morning. If she's been to a lot of trouble or mended some clothes as a favor to me, I always send home a pie or a loaf with her in thanks. With six of you children, I know that gets ate up and enjoyed."

"Yes, M'me." Her little face showed she was thinking what to say. "She says coming by your kitchen is as good as a Sunday."

I knew that. Her mother had said as much to me, and often. Madame Borchier had six children to feed, a husband with troubles, and endless work at home. A visit to someone else's kitchen, where she could sit a space, be served with food and drink she didn't have to make herself, and chat awhile without six children calling, "Mam, Mam!" was a welcome thing to her, near as important as the money.

"And the francs she earns come in handy, too." I continued. "Your family seems small to me, 'cause I'm the twelfth child of seventeen—seventeen living, that is. But a few francs can mean the difference between meat in the pot or none at all—Did you know that at Rheims, the inn could buy tablecloths and sheets and towels, near as good as what your mother makes, and a deal cheaper? We could send out our mending, too. They've got sewing machines, see, and your mother sews by hand."

Her eyes went all dark and stricken.

"Then there'd be no more cups of tea or tartlets, and no more francs for doing our sewing. But having your mother doing our sewing isn't charity. She earns every sou. It's consideration of others."

"But why are you telling me this, M'me?" she whispered.

"Because, and mark me well, I will see to it your mother never sews another stitch for the inn, if I ever hear, or hear tell of, you picking on any child so much littler than you, no matter what he looks like, whether he's my son or not."

She gasped, and the tears came to her eyes.

"Even if you're only in a group what's doing the teasing, I'll still do that, 'cause it means they're saying and doing what you'd say and do."

"But that wouldn't be fair!" she burst out.

"No, it wouldn't. But it'd be right, because of what you done to Erik. And when your mother came to ask me why, I'd tell her it was because she has a cruel and wicked daughter."

"Oh! Oh, M'me, please, don't! I'm sorry, I am, truly! I didn't mean it!" She was crying. Well, so had Erik.

"That'll depend on you, now. You can tell Erik that, when you come by on Thursday, and ask him to forgive you. You can go now, Louise. Just you think over what I said. What you do has consequences."

I never knew I could be so hard as I've become, these last four years. I didn't use to be. But that was before I had Erik. I can't make the whole world love him—I can't carpet and pad it all—but I damn well can make this part of it respect him.

Problem is, the time is coming—and I can see it coming—when he'll outgrow this place. He'll need to learn more than what I can teach him—more than anyone here can teach. I had my first glimpse of that when that fiddle sounded out over the garden, last week.

How do I find someone what can teach him to play like that? Finding someone as was willing to teach him wasn't like to be as easy as getting old Bertrand. Him, I got by telling him I didn't like for a man his age to be going off home of nights, in the cold, to an empty house with nothing in his belly, and he should stop in my kitchen for a plateful and a glass of wine, say, two, three times a week, if he was of a mind to.

He said as he couldn't afford it, and I told him no one who eats in my kitchen pays a sou for what's served him. He came. All through that first supper, he could hardly find his mouth with his spoon for staring at my little boy, but two nights after, he said, as he left, that whatsoever Erik looked like, it was clear he took after me at heart, and was a fine lad.

Next time Bertrand came, he brought his fiddle. To give us a bit of a tune after dinner, in thanks, he said.

Neither Erik nor I ever had to ask Bertrand to teach him. He offered without ever knowing that had been my aim from the start. Bertrand saw how Erik looked when he played, and that had been enough. My son plays as well as his teacher, these days, and I tell old Bertrand he's a credit to his teacher. Of course, Bertrand still comes by for his supper. I don't use a body and drop him. I've done wrong in my life, but never so bad as that.

Perhaps I could go and have a word with the priest and the music master at church. I imagine, if I try, I can find the key as'll get my Erik in their doors. That will stave off the day I'm dreading—the day when his mind has grown beyond this place.

But that day is coming. What will my boy be like when he's six? What do I do when I can't give him enough chores to tire him out so's he can sleep at night?

What do I do when he finds out I've told him lies?

Pretty Near Perfect Scones

(Adapted for the contemporary kitchen)

Ingredients:

2 ½ cups all purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

½ teaspoon salt

½ cup sugar

6 tablespoons cold butter, cut in small pieces

1 cup raisins

1 egg

1 cup (8 oz) of plain yogurt or sour cream

½ teaspoon vanilla

Milk for brushing the scones before baking.

Preheat the oven to 425F, (220C). Spray a cookie sheet with cooking spray, or grease lightly with shortening. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and sugar into a large bowl, or into the container of a food processor if you have one. Stir to combine.

Add the cut-up butter. If you have a food processor, pulse until the butter is invisible and the mixture is uniformly crumbly. Pour the mixture into a large bowl.

If you don't have a food processor, use a hand mixer—don't run it too fast, or flour will go everywhere—again, until the butter is invisible and the mixture is uniformly crumbly.

Mix in the raisins, by hand, with a spoon.

Beat the egg, yogurt (or sour cream) and the vanilla extract together in a small bowl, until the mixture is smooth and uniform. Add the egg mixture to the rest of the ingredients, and stir by hand until your dough will only just hold together.

Form your dough into lumps about 1 ½- 2 inches in size. Put on the cookie sheet. Brush the tops lightly with milk. Bake until golden brown—about 10-12 minutes, but keep an eye on them. Eat warm or at room temperature—store in an airtight container. Keep two or three days, unrefrigerated.

These scones are very, very good. Much better than any coffee shop scone you ever tasted—they're moist and stay tender. No frosting or jam is needed—although they are great with jam.

Erik:

I washed and dressed, partly with the aid of Darius. Nadir had gone off to find someone who was willing to be interrogated. We had worked out beforehand that I would continue to play the part of an invalid who was too weak to sit up and too fragile to bear bright light or loud noises, and participate in the questioning from my bed, with the curtains drawn, thus concealing me—and my mask. The sad truth was, I would not have to feign my weakness, merely exaggerate it. I had very little strength.

We three had discussed how to approach the subject of the cook and her son—if he was indeed her son—during our questioning. Rather than attack the topic directly, I would begin by asking about the history of the inn, and go on from there to the excellence of the food. That was not an area where I felt I could speak with authority, but the tea that was sent over was uniformly good, and the scones that accompanied it later that morning were not unpleasant. From talking about the food, it was only natural to talk about the cook, and thence on to the child.

If necessary—if someone thought I was asking too many questions about the cook and her son, if I seemed too curious, we, or I, would intimate that I knew a doctor who would be interested in the boy's case, and might be able to help. I truly didn't want to have to say that, though—to create a false hope, where none was possible. It would be such a cruel lie.

Nadir had no doubt that he was the cook's own son—and was inclined to take my disbelief lightly. God only knows how he thought the boy came about, in that case.

I—found my thoughts turning in an unwelcome and painful direction. Without morphine to dull the edges, everything was painful.

What hurt most of all, at that moment, was memory—my memory of that night, when, if that child was my son, mine and Christine's—that night when he was conceived.

It had been of a piece with the rest of my sorry existence—a hideous disappointment, made all the worse by the certain knowledge that it had all been my fault.

…Christine asking, pitifully, in such a thin little voice, "Is it over?"…

I heard Nadir. "One moment, M'sieu. I will see if he is awake."

I said, feebly, "I'm here."

"Monsieur Makepeace—." said Nadir. I was registered as Guillaume Makepeace. I think it was a joke on Nadir's part. "Monsieur Hussenot has consented to answer a few questions for you." They entered the room. Hussenot sounded, from the weight of his footsteps, like a man who enjoyed his food.

"Ah. How kind of you." I said. "Forgive me if I don't greet you properly. Please, won't you have a seat…?"

"Thank you, Monsieur." He had a bluff, hearty voice, slightly nasal. I heard a chair being shifted, and I caught a glimpse of a slightly elderly man, with a red face, white hair, and a beard. He was somewhat paunchy, as I had deduced. "I'm glad to spend a little time with you, if it can help take your mind off your sufferings. Terrible things, sufferings."

He had no idea. "I am very grateful. Now, this inn is such a charming place, I would very much like to know something about it. You are the innkeeper here?"

"Yes, I am, with the help of my wife, and two of our granddaughters." he replied

"They must be a great comfort to you. Are you also the owners?"

"Me—? Oh, no, M'sieu. I wish that I were! I only run it—run the half of it, I should say. I book the rooms and oversee the maids, the wait staff, the stables, and so on. Madame Touchet runs the rest."

"You don't own it… Then, who does?" I was surprised—an absentee owner is unusual. Most people live over the shop… "Won't you have a cup of tea, Monsieur Hussenot? I confess I am becoming fascinated."

"Oh, thank you. I don't know who owns it—it used to belong to the Boulanger family, but they sold up, over three years ago, lock, stock, and barrel, as they say. This was a pretty run-down joint then, let me tell you! And in a little nothing of a town, barely a fly-speck on the map. That's why they put the railway exchange here, because it wouldn't interfere with anything. It didn't seem like it would be a good investment to me, but if I could tell a thing like that, maybe I would own this place…

"Let me tell you how it was," Hussenot continued. "Over three years ago, when my good-for-nothing daughter-in-law went and got herself remarried, she dumped our granddaughters on our doorstep! Just dumped them there! As if our two dear girls were trash! And we were living on my pension from the telegraph then, and it wasn't nearly enough…" I braced myself to endure this whole boring tale.

"We saw an advertisement in the newspaper, that there was an opening for an innkeeper here. 'Special preference given to married couples, of good character. Need not be young but must be active and honest. No culinary duties of any kind will be required. Apply in person'. And it gave the address. So we came here, and instead of the owner doing the interviews, it was a young fellow from this law firm in Lyons. And there were all sorts of people applying. Didn't think we had a chance, really. He talked to us, we talked to him…"

Hussenot's voice had a very soothing quality, somehow. It would have been easy to fall asleep, but I became alert when he said, "So I asked the young man, 'But what about the cooking? You can't run a place like this without food!'

"He said, 'That's all been taken care of; a very superior cook has already been engaged. She'll arrive here in a few days, with a letter of introduction. She's a young woman with a baby, respectably married and all, but her husband's gone abroad, and may be away for a long time.' And then he tells us about how our duties end where the kitchen begins. The cook was to have the authority to hire and order, bid and forbid. Even if she wanted to tear out the kitchen and remodel it, it was to be done, all as she pleased."

Hussenot took a swallow of tea, and then went on, "I never heard anything like it! And her only a she-cook, too! If it were a man-cook, a master chef de cuisine, that would be one thing, I thought, but that was back then, before I'd eaten a bite of her food."

"The food here is quite extraordinary." I ventured.

"Thank you, sir! And so says everybody. Her cooking is what's made this place. Not just this inn—the town! There are shops here now, that wasn't before, because the inn draws people, and when the ladies and gentlemen go for a walk to work up an appetite, they like to do something. And folks come all the way from Paris, just for the food here—they write for a table weeks, even months in advance, sometimes."

"What was your first impression of the cook—Madame Touchet?" I asked.

"That she was awful young—which she was. And too pretty to be a good woman—I mean, when a girl has a figure like hers, the men won't leave her alone—usually. But then, there was the…baby."

TBC…and soon!

A/N:

Sue Raven: No sooner said than done! I'm changing the category slightly—to mystery. It seems to fit better…

Ellen: Yes, unless I start getting flames about the recipes, I'll include appropriate ones here and there. Expect some profound rice ones around dinner time.

Sat-Isis: a squee? A squee from a fan? That's enough to make ME squee! Thanks!

M-o quinn: I hope this continues to intrigue you. I don't want to reveal too much too soon…

Mia26: I'm doing my best on the updates. Chapter four is well underway already.