To her relief, Caroline managed to avoid many of the guests during the morning. Although delighted to see Caroline, they were busy with their recipes and didn’t stop for discussions on her well-being.
Just my presence in class probably answers their questions, Caroline thought as she chose a monkfish from the selection and carried it to the table where she was paired with Ahmed. Caroline was pleased to work with Ahmed, who discreetly whispered that he hoped she felt better.
They’d listened when Tomas demonstrated the knack of making fish stock. Now, everyone was intent on preparing a knock-out dish for dinner, focusing on the finer points of fish preparation and perfecting their recipes with the help of both chefs. As the expats mastered a bouillabaisse, the twins learned how to bake a bass in sea salt crust. Bridgette had a salt cod puree recipe and planned to serve it with a gratin of carp.
Fran and Sally were working in the adjacent kitchen. Caroline could hear their laughter and wondered if their conversation included gossip about Caroline’s collapse the previous day.
‘I remember a chef on the TV show Saturday Kitchen,’ Ahmed announced. He was staring at the monkfish, and, adjusting his spectacles, continued, ‘The chef made a monkfish dish by wrapping it in nettles and I think there was some sort of pesto-based filling.’ He picked up a pencil and contemplated a recipe.
‘That sounds interesting and somewhat different,’ Caroline commented, ‘shall we try it?’
‘I’m not sure we’d find any nettles, but I know there is basil in the garden, which we could use for the pesto.’ Ahmed’s face lit up. ‘Shall I go and have a look?’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea, and while you do that, I’ll look through the recipe books and see if there are any other suggestions for cooking monkfish.’
Caroline watched Ahmed take a bowl and almost skip past the open door to the garden. She wandered over to the dresser and began searching through the fascinating collection of cookery books. She recognised many top chefs whose works were stacked neatly in the culinary library, and her fingers moved over hardcovers by Delia, Jamie, Nigella, Gordon and Heston.
A tome by Paul Bocuse lay alongside Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cookery.
But her eyes were drawn to a tiny book entitled Whistler’s Mother’s Cookbook. Caroline recognised the cover. It was of the well-known painting of the artist’s mother, Anna McNeill Whistler, and Caroline was intrigued.
‘You’ve found one of my favourite books,’ a voice behind her quietly spoke.
Caroline felt her heart lurch and, turning the book in her hand, spun around to see Waltho. ‘Oh, have I?’ she asked.
‘Yes, it’s a collection of books and letters from James Whistler’s estate, including a manuscript of recipes, which his mother kept,’ Waltho explained, pointing to the book. ‘He called it her bible, and this edition was printed almost fifty years ago.’
‘It looks interesting.’ Caroline flicked through the pages to stare at sketches by the artist alongside recipes and excerpts from his mother’s letters.
‘It’s a fascinating account of the Whistler household in the mid-nineteenth century when they lived in America, Russia and Britain.
‘A glimpse of Victorian housekeeping,’ Caroline said.
‘And of Mrs Whistler and her famous son’s interest in food.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t.’ Waltho shrugged. ‘Lauren had it in a collection.’
Caroline was instantly reminded of her outpourings the previous evening at the mention of Lauren’s name. Now, feeling acutely embarrassed, she knew she had to apologise.
Caroline glanced over Waltho’s shoulder to ensure they weren’t overheard.
‘I am so sorry about last night,’ she began, ‘I can’t imagine what came over me to make such a fool of myself and burden you with my stupid blubbering.’
Before Waltho could interrupt, Caroline stumbled on.
‘I understand you probably want me to leave because I can’t be such a responsibility. After all, I fainted in the church and put everyone out, and then you wasted so much of your time listening to me drone on and on.’
‘Caroline,’ Waltho sighed and took her arm. ‘Stop it.’
Biting her lip, she looked up. ‘I really do understand if you want me to…’
‘Please.’ Waltho’s grip was firmer ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’
‘But I…’
He dipped his head to look into her eyes. ‘There is no need to express regret. I am humbled that you shared your difficulties and trusted me.’
‘Well…’
‘All that matters is that you enjoy your time here and maybe take stock of your situation to find a way to cope with your problems.’ Waltho was smiling. ‘Please know I will do whatever I can to help you.’
Caroline thought she might burst into tears.
She couldn’t ever remember anyone being so kind, and Waltho’s words were so gentle and soothing that it was all she could do not to reach up and kiss his wonderful face and wrap herself in his arms.
Shocked by her thoughts, she stepped back. Am I crazy? There wasn’t a prayer that Waltho would look at anyone like her. He’d aim for a much younger model if he ever got over Lauren. She knew she was too old, and her financial position was dire. No man in his right mind would give her a second glance.
‘Are you alright?’ Waltho asked. ‘Can I get you a drink, some coffee perhaps or water?’
‘No… No, thank you, I’m fine.’
Caroline knew that she sounded curt, and she could have kicked herself. Really, she had to apologise again, but as she was about to thank Waltho for his kindness, Ahmed came running into the kitchen. When he saw Caroline, she could see that he was elated.
‘Look!’ Ahmed called out. ‘I didn’t think I would find any in such a perfect garden, but I’ve a whole bowl full!’
‘What has he found?’ Waltho looked puzzled.
‘Nettles.’ Caroline suddenly smiled.
‘Nettles?’
‘Yes, he has a recipe in his head that he wants us to try, and it looks like he’s found a bunch of nettles in your perfect garden.’
Waltho threw back his head and laughed, and Caroline found that she was laughing, too. The feeling was unexpected. As her laughter subsided, she wiped a happy tear from the corner of her eye.
‘Not such a perfect garden, then.’ Waltho grinned.
Unexpectedly, Caroline remembered a snide comment that Stanley had made about her failed catering business. ‘You’re not so perfect after all,’ he’d said.
Turning to Waltho, Caroline said, ‘Who needs perfect?’
* * *
The morning class stretched on, and when everyone completed the finishing touches to their dishes, they gathered around the table to sip coffee and eat cake while listening to Daniel demonstrate different methods of meringue making.
Caroline sat beside the expats and stared at the slice of honey cake on her plate.
Mindful of Waltho’s encouragement to eat more, she took a dainty pastry fork and cut a slither. A gentle awakening of her senses made her aware of the delicate flavours of lavender, chestnut and thyme, and she was surprised by her emotional response.
The cake was beyond delicious; it was pure heaven, and she had to have the recipe. Tomas had made the cake and used honey from a local vendor at the market in Chauvigny. If there had been time, Caroline would have gone to find the beekeeper who produced such an excellent product.
On the other side of the table, Fran sat beside Sally and drank her coffee. She’d finished her cake and considered another slice as she watched Daniel whip up a froth with egg whites.
As the chef worked away, Fran glanced at Caroline. She was amazed that her plate was empty, and Caroline had taken a second helping of the honey cake.
Fran nudged Sally. ‘Look,’ she whispered, ‘Caroline is eating cake!’
‘So she is,’ Sally replied and peered over her mug. ‘That must be a first.’
‘Whip your camera out and capture it.’
‘Better not; she might stab me in the eye with her cake fork.’
‘I think it’s great, perhaps she’s feeling a bit better?’ Fran whispered. ‘I do hope so. I feel anxious for her as she always seems to have the worry of the world on her shoulders.’
‘Is there anything that we can do that might help?’
‘I’m going to try and include her in our conversations,’ Fran said. ‘Let’s make an effort to be friendly and sit with her later and have a nice chat.’
* * *
As Caroline ate her cake and was about to fork another mouthful, she realised that Fran and Sally were talking about her. She wondered what they had found to gossip about now. But before she could worry further, Waltho came into the kitchen and, finding a chair, sat beside her.
‘That looks good,’ he said as Angelique silently handed him a coffee and passed him a plate. ‘Honey cake, my favourite.’
‘It’s delicious,’ Caroline agreed.
‘How’s the class?’ Waltho whispered.
‘Perfect, we’re learning all about meringues.’
They listened to Daniel explain the versatility of meringues and how they could be used in many recipes. He told them that he would demonstrate a dacquoise using French meringue, and then Tomas would help everyone master the Swiss and Italian meringue process.
Ahmed held up his hand. ‘Is dacquoise a nut meringue?’ he asked.
‘Very good, yes, it is,’ Daniel replied, ‘and I shall be using almonds from the macaron shop in Montmorillon.’ He weighed out sugar and flour. ‘A dacquoise is a layered cake,’ Daniel told the class, ‘and it is very popular throughout France, originating in Aquitaine.’
‘Are you using fresh eggs?’ Ahmed asked.
‘Another good question,’ Daniel smiled. ‘Older eggs have thinner whites and are easier to whip, creating a fluffier meringue, but they are less stable. For a firm meringue, use fresh eggs at room temperature.’
Fran studied the concoction that was coming together under Daniel’s skilful hands.
As he piped three neat circles onto a tray, she remembered a domestic science class at school. The teacher, Miss Foulkes, had been formidable, and Fran, prone to misbehaviour, often spent the lesson sitting in a corner with her face to the wall,
‘Fran, are you listening?’ Daniel called out.
‘Er, yes, Chef, I’m on it,’ Fran snapped to attention.
‘Excellent, because you will make Italian meringues, and I expect an outstanding result.’
‘Rats,’ Fran sighed. ‘Chef knows they’re the hardest,’ she murmured to Sally, ‘you have to use a thermometer and get the temperature of melted sugar absolutely right.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll help,’ Sally encouraged.
Daniel placed his dacquoise in the oven and set a timer and, like a TV cookery show clip, Tomas produced one they’d made earlier. Taking a spatula, Daniel spun the meringues on a rotating stand. He skilfully sandwiched almond-flavoured Chantilly cream on the layers, which he stacked and covered with the same.
He finished the cake by sprinkling finely chopped almonds around the sides and piping a pretty pattern on the top with melted chocolate.
‘Voila!’ Daniel announced, pushing his creation forward for the class to admire.
Waltho stood and draining his coffee, licked cake crumbs from his lips. ‘Forgive me, Daniel,’ Waltho interrupted, ‘but before guests begin making their meringues, I want to ask if there is anything they would particularly like to do this afternoon?’
‘I’d like to relax,’ Bridgette said.
‘I’d like to stretch my legs.’ Ahmed joined in. ‘A walk would be agreeable,’
‘The weather is sunny, and it would be lovely to go out.’ Sally fiddled with her camera, checking the shots she’d taken that morning.
‘We enjoyed the picnic by the river,’ the twins said, ‘it was such a delightful afternoon.’
The expats agreed with the twins and thought a game of cards and a bottle of wine in a shady riverside spot sounded marvellous.
‘I could have a walk if we go to the river again.’ Ahmed nodded.
‘And I could snooze on a blanket.’ Bridgette smiled.
Waltho turned to Fran. ‘What would you like to do?’ he asked.
‘A picnic by the river sounds good,’ Fran agreed.
Turning to Caroline, Waltho raised his eyebrows.
‘Yes, that suits me,’ Caroline said.
‘Excellent,’ Waltho said. ‘Angelique, Tomas – can this be arranged?’
Assured that a picnic could be prepared while the guests finished the class, everyone agreed to meet later.
‘I think I’ll take my cozzie,’ Fran said to Sally as she separated eggs into bowls.
‘The river might be too high after all the rain.’ Sally measured sugar into a pan and searched for a thermometer.
‘If that’s the case, I’ll just have a paddle.’
But little did Fran know, as she whipped her egg whites into perfect peaks and Sally drizzled hot sugar syrup over them, that the river expedition would include more than a gentle paddle.