Chapter Twenty Seven
A Simple Question Of Language
With Matthew and Tom freshly shaved, neatly groomed, both impeccably attired in full evening dress worn with white ties, their wives and sister-in-law perfumed and elegantly dressed in the height of fashion, the five of them now set off for the dining car which lay situated several carriage lengths away towards the front of the train. For the time being at least, with Nanny Bridges left in complete charge, all of them, even Edith, were thus freed from the customary worries of parental care. Laughing and joking, they wended their way along the succession of narrow, swaying corridors towards the dining car, the three women and two men, who together made up the Branson Crawley party, forming an eye-catchingly, handsome group.
Mary had chosen to wear a beautiful creation by Marcelle André, which Matthew had purchased for his wife in Paris while passing through the French capital the previous year on his way back from addressing the League of Nations in Geneva. Made of aubergine silk chiffon, with lace inserts, moulded closely to her hips, Mary's dress fell in soft, replete folds towards her ankles while Edith looked especially svelte sheathed in a Chanel flame peach full length evening gown made of bias cut silk with piecing, and, like Mary, also wore long white gloves.
For her part, while Sybil was much more modestly dressed than either of her two older sisters, and, in Tom's admittedly biased view she looked absolutely stunning in her choice of a simple printed silk chiffon dress of ethereal blue and lavender shot with hints of purple, with handkerchief points, reaching to just below the knee and which showed off her still beautiful and slim legs to full advantage. Apart from the pearl headband with its spray of ostrich feathers in her hair, and worn to match both her necklace and ear-rings, Sybil's only real concession to the spirit of the occasion was that, and for the first time in years, she too wore white evening gloves; something which, had caused Saiorse, never one to be backward in coming forward, to ask of her mother, when she came in to say goodnight, if it was particularly cold in the dining car.
In the matter of jewellery, as in her dress, Sybil had opted for equal simplicity and wore, matching her headband, the single strand of splendid pearls and the pendant pearl ear-rings that Tom had given her several years ago, to mark her promotion to matron, and for which, at the time, Sybil had chided him gently for his "wanton extravagance" while at the same time delighting in the pearls which were of very fine quality indeed; which, unbeknown to her, Tom had obtained through one of his many and varied contacts, in this case, the Irish captain of an elderly tramp steamer who had plied the South China Sea for upwards of thirty years before retiring to a snug little place on the north bank of the Liffey, close to Eden Quay, down by the Customs House in Dublin. Thereafter, Tom had the pearls made up into both a necklace and ear-rings in a jeweller's just off O'Connell Street.
As for Mary, she had chosen to wear the magnificent diamond "Grantham tiara", along with its own matching set of ear-rings and necklace, all three pieces which she had inherited from her late grandmother, and thereafter had re-styled. However, on seeing Edith, not only resplendent in her Chanel peach gown, but also wearing the stunning ensemble of diamond tiara, necklace and ear-rings that Friedrich had bought for her to commemorate young Max's birth, on the whole, Mary rather wished she hadn't bothered to flaunt her own jewellery, as Edith's pieces bedazzled and quite eclipsed her own; producing audible gasps of amazement from several of the other ladies present at dinner when, shortly before eight thirty, with, arm in arm, Matthew and Mary leading the way, with Tom now arm in arm between Sybil and Edith, the Bransons and the Crawleys finally made their entrance into the dining car.
Here they were greeted not only by Michel, the immaculately attired Chief Steward, who in perfect, yet also heavily accented English, assured Matthew that he was most honoured to welcome "M. le comte de Grantham" and his party to the dining car, but also by the soft murmur of polite conversation, discrete laughter, and the chink of silver cutlery upon bone china.
The tables in the dining car either seated two or four people and were all covered by spotless white damask cloths which, like the accompanying napery, silver cutlery, fine china and glassware all bore the unmistakeable monogram of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, the silverware and the crystal sparkling in the lamplight. With five of them for dinner, two adjacent tables had been reserved for them and on their arrival, having been shown to their seats by Jules, the equally immaculately turned out young steward, deputed to the task by his superior, Matthew and Mary took the table laid for two adjacent to the window, while Edith, Tom and Sybil took the other, and which could accommodate four people.
And it was here, in the lamp lit, marquetry enriched panelled splendour of the dining car of the Rome Express, in between perusing the extensive menu, while Sybil and Edith chatted happily with Matthew and Mary, that Tom sat and looked about him. The interior of the carriage was truly opulently appointed; carpeted, with plushly upholstered chairs, half glazed partitions of etched glass and mahogany, and each of the dining tables discretely lit by its own electric lamp.
Throughout his now distinguished career as a journalist, Tom had encountered all kinds of people; thought himself to be a good judge of character and prided himself on being able to appraise himself almost instantaneously as to whether someone was what they purported to be, whether or not they could be believed, could be trusted, and it was this finely honed skill which Tom now applied to their fellow diners present in the dining car on board the Rome Express.
Briefly, he glanced down the full length of the carriage taking in the assembled throng, most of whom were very much like themselves; wealthy couples, of a variety of ages, all smartly dressed the men in evening suits and the woman in the height of fashion. However, seated at the next table along from their own, there sat an elderly, imperious, aristocratic lady, dressed in the deepest black and wearing clothes which some ten years ago the late Dowager Countess herself might well have worn. With her were a woman in the habit of a nun and another, very plainly dressed and much younger than either of the other two who, perhaps served as the old lady's paid companion.
Just at the precise moment the Bransons and the Crawleys arrived in the dining car for dinner, the older woman was in the act of saying something loudly and rather forcefully to the younger. On hearing her speak, and in a language which was obviously not French, Tom fell to wondering if she might be Russian, for following the 1917 Revolution, a large Russian émigré community had established itself in Paris. Those of its members who could still afford to do so, continued to holiday on either the French or else the Italian Riviera where they tried to carry on as they had done before the Revolution, much as if the late Tsar was still on his throne and Lenin and his Bolsheviks had not destroyed all they had held most dear.
Somewhat further along the carriage, two French army officers shared a table, while seated opposite them was a young couple, obviously very much in love and, judging by the affectionate looks they were giving one another and the softly murmured terms of endearment and pleasantries they were exchanging, probably only recently married; Tom wondered if they might even be on their honeymoon. As for the couple sitting closest to them on the other side of the dining car, they were something of an enigma. From the rings they both wore, they too were married, but, thought Tom, judging by their frequent furtive looks around the dining car probably not to each other.
Earlier that evening, while standing out in the corridor, in the course of chatting with the steward of their own sleeping car, when in fact, really, he should have been supervising Danny and Robert in the matter of their own ablutions and his laxity in this regard therefore leading indirectly to the matter of soap mixed with toothpaste, Tom had been made aware of some of the items available on the menu in the dining car. Even so, now he sat and gazed open-mouthed at the list of dishes on offer. Open mouthed on two counts: firstly because the extensive range of courses were truly both many and varied, and secondly because he didn't understand a word of the menu. The whole blasted thing was written entirely in French and, although Tom's late mother had been French, such rags as he had once possessed of the language had all but deserted him, and were, in any case, completely inadequate to the task now before him.
Glancing cautiously over the top of his own copy of the leather-bound, richly embossed menu, he heard Matthew quietly discussing the matter of the choice of wines with Michel, saw that Mary and Edith, even Sybil whose knowledge of foreign languages Tom knew to be no better than his own, all seeming to be coping perfectly well; heard their gasps of amazement at various items on the menu, heard too, Mary say in answer to something that Sybil had said: "Oh, that's absolutely divine darling. We had it at Castle Horton, at the Leventhorpe's ball last summer".
Of course, following the full acceptance by the Crawleys of his marriage to Sybil, Tom had attended a goodly number of formal dinners at Downton, both in the days when as the earl of Grantham his late father-in-law had presided over the proceedings and especially after Matthew had succeeded to the title on Robert's death in the summer of 1931.
That being the case, it seemed logical to assume that the courses on the menu would follow precisely the same order as they had done at Downton. On that basis, Tom decided that
"Consommé au Marsala"
was some kind of soup, but just what on earth was
"Compote de Madrilène en Gelée"?
And while he could cope with
"Filet de Sole Joinville"
and
"Haddock poché Métropole"
both of which were, he deduced, obviously fish dishes,
"Homard froid Sauce Mayonnaise"
all but defeated him.
Obviously something in Mayonnaise sauce, but what the hell was a "homard froid"?
The meat courses, or so Tom assumed them to be, were just as bewildering both in their sheer number and in their names:
"Poussin en Cocotte Ménagère
Caille de Vigne aux Raisins
Cuisse de Poulet grille Américaine
Rognons d'Agneau Vert Pré
Jambon Langue Roast Beef"
Had Cora been here she could, Tom thought, have probably told him about the third item on the list, but as it was he thought he had no choice but to settle for the last as that at least he could understand; until that was help came to him from an entirely unexpected source.
"Are we all ready to order?" asked Matthew affably. At that Tom covered his face in his hands, groaned audibly.
"Tom, darling, why, whatever is the matter?" asked Sybil touching him gently on the hand. "Aren't you feeling well? Perhaps something light? I know, why don't you try the "Oeufs pochés Daumon"?"
Standing by their table, not believing what he was hearing, Jules the young steward cocked a raised eyebrow. Foreigners! With all of what was on offer before him on the menu, this man was wanting what was essentially just a couple of poached eggs. Jules had no doubt whatsoever that, down in the kitchen car, when the Chef de Cuisine, M. Olivier, who was already not in the best of moods, perspiring heavily, and taking out his bad temper on one and all, got to hear about this, he would not be at all pleased.
"And just what, precisely, are they please?" asked Tom with barely concealed irritation.
"What are what?"
"What you just said".
"Why, they're..." Sybil looked at questioningly at Mary, who simply shrugged her shoulders.
"That's exactly my point..." began Tom.
At that, for Sybil, and also for the rest of them, realisation suddenly dawned.
"Oh darling!" Sybil exclaimed and began to laugh.
"What is it?" asked Matthew genuinely perplexed. He had been really looking forward to their meal and now it seemed that dearest Tom was unwell.
"It's this!" growled Tom waving the menu in the air. "If it was in English I could cope with it. But it isn't, it's written in bloody French!"
"That's because we're in France, darling" laughed Sybil.
"In France? Really? Well I never. Is that so?" grumbled Tom good-naturedly.
"Is that all? You really had me worried for a moment" said Matthew breathing a very audible sigh of relief.
"Yes, it is!" barked Tom.
"Oh, Tom, you poor, poor dear. Here, let me help" offered Edith solicitously, whereupon she proceeded to run through the entire menu, item by item, translating the various courses for Tom, while Matthew, Mary and Sybil sat utterly speechless at her unabashed linguistic prowess; first German, and now French.
"Thank you Edith" said Tom when at last she had finished, kissing her lightly on the cheek and bestowing upon her the warmest of smiles.
"Je t'en prie" said Edith, softly caressing her cheek where but a moment before Tom's lips had rested, and smiling at him just as warmly.
Of course, Tom was Edith's dearly loved brother-in-law and, it was therefore perfectly right and proper, in responding to Tom's heartfelt thanks, that Edith used towards him the familiar French form of "you". All the same, to Sybil, unless her ears had deceived her, there had been the slightest, but all the same unmistakeable stress placed upon the second word.
In the event, just then Michel, the Chief Steward arrived back with Matthew's choice of wine and the singular awkwardness of the moment passed. Thereafter, but a few moments later, with their orders given, Edith ordering both for herself, and also for Tom, all five of them now settled down to enjoy their evening meal, while outside, beyond the brightly-lit carriages of the Rome Express, the dark drew down, and night fell.