The Cook of Castamar, page 9
‘I would be grateful if you would limit yourself to informing the rest of the servants of the events and warning them to stay silent regarding the matter, Don Melquíades.’
He clenched his fists until his knuckles were white. Once again, he had to admit defeat, despite being a man and occupying a higher position in the household. He felt a burning urge to go to Don Diego and reveal his secret himself, though that would entail her definitive victory over him. The consequences of such an impulse would, undoubtedly, lead him to a life of wretched poverty – although he would return to his beloved Catalonia with his savings, he would do so with no clear profession, since no one would ever consider him for a similar post.
‘As you wish, Doña Ursula,’ he answered.
With a curt ‘thank you’ she exited the room, leaving him with the feeling that he was only half a man, a pusillanimous being. He collapsed onto the chair, his soul reeling from yet another defeat. He stroked his moustache again and walked to the door, putting on an air of dignity. He stopped for a few moments, gathered up the shattered pieces of his pride, and crossed the threshold with a rehearsed smile to walk among the serving staff again, like a king without a crown.
7
15 October 1720, midday
Diego observed Francisco. He was a picture of elegance as he sat there, one hand resting on the carved head of his stick, the other cradling a brandy glass. Then Diego glanced over at Alfredo, who was warming himself by the fireplace. They had both travelled from the capital without encountering anything more dramatic than a little mud along the way, and had arrived at Castamar shortly after noon, in time to have lunch with the duke and attend the celebrations the next day.
Alfredo Carrión, Baron of Aguasdulces, had always been a close friend, of both the family and Diego. He was nearly fifty, and this age difference meant he had been something of an elder brother to the duke. Their fathers had been friends since the time of the Habsburgs, and both men had been among the leading lights at court, despite their very different temperaments: Don Bernardo, Alfredo’s father, had had a propensity for drinking and was given to excessive punishment, so his son had often sought the protection of Diego’s father when he was young. Alfredo took after his mother, a gentle person who enjoyed conversation and sharing advice. He was passionately interested in politics, and just now he was criticizing Spain’s lack of initiative in Europe.
Francisco and Diego had been listening attentively but were starting to show signs of boredom. Alfredo, as always, was blissfully unaware.
‘Defeat by the European coalition is a clear sign of a shift in the balance of powers on the Continent and of Spanish weakness,’ he remarked. ‘One need only observe the disastrous Treaty of The Hague, which has granted all Europe licence to plunder the rights of King Felipe.’
Diego simply nodded.
‘My dear Alfredo, I don’t think that’s something we can resolve from Castamar,’ Francisco commented wryly. ‘Anyway, I’m hungry. Let’s eat.’ He put his arm around Diego’s shoulder and the three of them made their way to the dining room. ‘Won’t your mother and the Marquess of Soto be joining us?’
‘No. They have gone into town. There’s a performance at the Corrala del Príncipe at five. The Man Bewitched by Force by Antonio de Zamora,’ Diego replied.
‘And what is the marquess like?’ Alfredo suddenly asked.
Diego shrugged, and the three of them entered the dining room, over which presided a painting in blue and gold tones, a gift from King Felipe of which Alba had been so fond.
‘I’ve barely exchanged more than a few words with him, but he doesn’t seem to be the usual type who wants to worm his way into my confidence so he can ask me for favours,’ Diego answered. ‘He’s been a friend of my mother’s for two years, but this is the first time he has visited Castamar.’
They seated themselves around the table, which had already been laid with the cutlery that the duke himself had commissioned from Paul de Lamerie, goldsmith to King George I, on one of his rare visits to London. The pieces, set out in perfect order, complemented the Meissen porcelain, manufactured in Saxony and incorporating the crest of Castamar in its design. The butler, accompanied by the sommelier, Señor Moguer, and the footmen and assistants, awaited the duke’s signal to begin serving. Once the three men had settled, Diego picked up his napkin to indicate the soup could be served. Alfredo tucked his napkin into his collar to avoid splashing his shirt with the broth. Then, resuming his conversation about the marquess, he mentioned that he had heard at court that the marquess was close to the king’s eldest son, Luís.
‘All I know,’ said Francisco, spreading his napkin on his lap, ‘is that he doesn’t have many lovers and…’
He was silenced by the deliciously fragrant aroma rising from the tureen. He inhaled and identified a whole multitude of smells which came together to form a harmonious, perfectly blended whole. He discerned cloves and fresh parsley adorning small portions of freshly baked bread, cut into delicate strips and toasted in lard. He leaned over his bowl and observed that his two friends were doing likewise, relishing the vapour rising from the consommé. Even the butler, the sommelier and the footmen seemed to be making an effort to restrain themselves from falling ravenously upon the food.
In silence, Diego dipped his spoon in his bowl, blew on it a couple of times, and tasted the soup without waiting for Alfredo to bless the table, as was his custom. The elixir released one delicious flavour after another: cinnamon and hard-boiled egg, farmyard chicken, the perfect quantity of salt, and almond sauce. He even detected a faint hint of mature sheep’s cheese. None of the diners uttered a word. Instead, they savoured the chicken soup, spoonful by spoonful, as if it were a secret essence that had been stolen from the gods of Olympus. When they had finished, Alfredo dedicated a few words to the Almighty, thanking him for the exquisite food. As had been his custom since Alba’s death, Diego did not share this moment with the Lord, although his stomach was grateful for the best consommé he had ever eaten.
The soup was followed by spit-roast pigeons, cooked to perfection and encased in a golden crust of breadcrumbs, paprika and egg yolk. The meat was as soft as warm butter, with a sumptuous, delicate flavour. As he bit into another piece of pigeon, he saw that his friends were sighing with pleasure, a mixture of satisfaction and surprise on their faces. Although he did not have a particularly discerning palate, he was amazed by the flavours his cook had conjured up. The next course was roast duck, drizzled with quince sauce. He waited expectantly, thinking to himself that it would be difficult to improve on what had gone before. But he experienced such intense pleasure that he let out a small sigh. How could anything taste so delicious? He tried to define it, and the word that came to him was aristocratic. The succulent duck meat was flavoured with spices, sugar, vinegar, wine, cinnamon… and those quinces – how they elevated the sauce to celestial heights. He inhaled the sweet aroma as he observed his companions, who had abandoned all pretence of conversation and were dedicating all their senses to the food before them.
Diego watched in amusement as Don Melquíades, standing at the far end of the room, surreptitiously inhaled the aromas, imagining for himself the taste of the meat that was giving off such a delicious smell. Next to him, Señor Moguer flared his nostrils as he, too, sought to partake of the olfactory delights.
The footmen glanced sideways at each other, their cheeks tense and their appetites suddenly aroused. There was no conversation, just small, happy sighs as the diners tasted the duck, and quiet gasps of admiration at the quince sauce.
When the main course was finished, the sommelier and the rest of the servants replaced the Meissen porcelain with some fine Milanese tableware and a clean set of linen napkins. They presented bowls of creamy custard, accompanied by wafers and freshly baked cinnamon tarts. Diego observed his two friends, each of whom was licking his lips as they wordlessly awaited the latest delicacy. Before serving the desserts, the head butler explained that the cook had prepared two versions of the dish, one with goat’s milk, the other with almonds. When Diego tried them, he had to confess that he had never tasted such custard before, so light, so smooth, flavoured with fresh egg yolk, neither too thick nor too sweet, just simple perfection, like every other element of the meal. Unable to contain his curiosity, he beckoned the butler over.
‘Señor Elquiza,’ he whispered in the butler’s ear, ‘did Señora Escrivá prepare this meal?’
Don Melquíades raised an eyebrow while he searched for an answer.
‘If you’ll forgive me, I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Doña Ursula. She was quite insistent on that point,’ he eventually replied, ‘and… out of courtesy, I agreed to her request.’
Diego nodded, not quite understanding why his butler preferred the housekeeper to explain matters rather than doing so himself, although if that was what they had agreed, then who was he to argue?
‘Call Señora Berenguer, I’d like to speak to her,’ he ordered, while his companions dabbed their lips with their napkins and declared themselves full to bursting. Don Melquíades made a face, as if struggling to work out what to say, and then leaned forward and said quietly, ‘I’m afraid Doña Ursula is not in the house at the moment. She has been out all day for reasons relating to this very issue.’
Diego instructed the butler to send Señora Berenguer to see him as soon as she returned. Then he smiled to himself with satisfaction as Francisco sang the cook’s praises. He invited his friends to repair to the library, to drink a glass of sherry and smoke some Havana tobacco. As they walked down the corridor, however, he couldn’t help wondering who from among his staff could have prepared such a celebration for the senses.
15 October 1720, late afternoon
Luck had finally smiled upon her, Amelia told herself, as she looked down from the ladies’ gallery in the Corrala del Príncipe, dressed in her finest clothes and with a spyglass pressed to her eye. Among the guests in the Duchess of Rioseco’s box, she had spotted Doña Mercedes. Sitting next to her was the Marquess of Soto and Campomedina, Don Enrique of Arcona, a very discreet gentleman to whom Amelia was immensely grateful. Without his assistance, her current aspirations would have been out of the question.
Amelia amused herself as she imagined what it would be like to seduce a man who was so intimately involved in the intrigues of the court, although the true focus of her interest lay not with him but with Don Diego of Castamar. Rumour had it that the duke had not forgotten his wife, even though more than nine years had passed since her death. I need a wealthy, powerful husband, she told herself, just as he needs a new spouse.
Many years earlier, her father and Doña Mercedes of Castamar, old acquaintances from court, had spoken of marriage. The duchess, desperate to find someone capable of making her son forget his grief, had looked among the daughters of the best families but all to no avail. At that point, some six years ago, Doña Mercedes had turned to her friendship with Amelia’s father and invited the daughter to spend the summer at Castamar. Amelia had struck up a good relationship with both mother and son, and although she had not managed to find her way to the duke’s heart, she believed she had at least made him forget his sorrows. For a few months, he had smiled from time to time.
‘I am sure, my dear, that were it not for the sorrow that afflicts his heart, he would have chosen you,’ Doña Mercedes had told her at the end of that summer. ‘I don’t know what more I can do. We will have to wait for a better opportunity.’
But that opportunity had not arisen, either for her or for Don Diego. Amelia’s life was no longer what it had once been. And in light of her difficult situation in Cadiz, her only remaining friend, Verónica Salazar, had reminded her of that brief foray in the past and of the opportunity it represented.
‘My good friend Don Enrique of Arcona tells me that the duke has appeared at several social occasions,’ her friend had informed her, ‘and he has assured me it is quite possible that Don Diego is ready to marry again. And he should know, because he is a close friend of Doña Mercedes, the duke’s mother.’
‘I would love to visit Castamar again,’ Amelia had replied, ‘but I can hardly show up without an invitation.’
‘If you wish, I can ask the marquess to help. Perhaps he could arrange a meeting in Madrid that would appear fortuitous, and then lead to your being invited to the annual festivities,’ Doña Salazar had suggested. ‘Your appearance could come at just the right time. After all, you were the only one who managed to thaw his heart even a little.’
Desperation makes the impossible seem possible, she had told herself, and she had begged her friend to speak to the marquess on her behalf, but without saying anything of her tribulations in Cadiz. Don Diego was her best and only hope. She knew perfectly well that, in the court of King Felipe, there was stiff competition for marriageable nobles, and too much political strategy was required for her to obtain a desirable husband in that arena, but the duke had ceased to be accessible to the ladies of Madrid. It was many years now since he had been among the influential members of the court, despite being one of the king’s favourites.
The marquess’s response had been swift. She was to meet Doña Mercedes at the evening performance at the Corrala del Príncipe on 15 October. The marquess had reserved and paid for a seat in her name. Not only was the marquess prepared to help her but he had also declared that, should he be unable to secure her invitation to Castamar, then both she and her mother would be welcome to stay at his estate for as long as they required. And so, she found herself sitting there, looking over at the box. Nervously, she glanced away and prayed that news of her misfortunes in Cadiz had not yet reached the capital, otherwise her future would be fatally compromised.
As soon as the performance was over, Amelia left the gallery with the intention of bumping into Doña Mercedes, as had been arranged. She awaited the right moment on the left-hand side of Calle del Príncipe, just as night was falling. She was on tiptoe, straining to pick them out among the crowd, when from behind she heard a man’s voice calling her name. She imagined it would be the marquess who, having known where she was seated, would already have identified her. As she turned around, the smile on her face transformed into a grimace of horror. Standing before her was one of her father’s acquaintances, Don Horacio del Valle, a spice merchant whose stomach was only matched in size by his self-regard.
‘What a delight to find you here,’ he said.
‘The pleasure is all mine, Don Horacio,’ she replied curtly, hoping against all hope that he was not aware of her misfortunes.
‘It’s a pity we’ve only met now, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’m about to leave for Cadiz.’
‘A pity indeed,’ she replied, smiling bravely, as she searched among the crowd for the marquess or Doña Mercedes, terrified they would appear at just this instant. ‘We could have spoken at leisure.’
‘We certainly could, my dear,’ he said, taking a step towards her, a lascivious smile hovering beneath his moustache. ‘I’m sure we would have had plenty to talk about.’
She was overcome by panic when the toadlike man placed his hand over hers. He knows, she told herself. I’m done for. Amelia instinctively retreated, unable to take her eyes off the glistening fleshy lips sitting in the middle of that hairy face. The contact revolted her, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but he prevented her. She was a prisoner, and she was just starting to struggle when a stick came down smartly on the toad’s forearm. Don Horacio took a step back, and a gentleman came forward and placed himself between Amelia and her assailant.
‘Can’t you tell when a lady has rejected your attentions, sir?’ he asked, with a chilling calm.
‘How dare you!’ Don Horacio blurted out, angrily. ‘May I know to whom I am speaking so that I may demand satisfaction?’
‘I am Don Enrique of Arcona, Marquess of Soto,’ the other man said, advancing until he was just a few inches away, ‘and this lady, whom you are importuning, is under my protection.’
Don Horacio’s expression suddenly changed, and the fury in his eyes turned to abject cowardice. ‘It seems… it seems… there has been a misunderstanding, sir.’
Don Enrique didn’t reply but simply stared implacably, and Don Horacio said a swift farewell before disappearing into the crowd. Doña Mercedes, who had been contemplating the scene surrounded by her entourage, hugged Amelia, complained about how difficult it was to find a decent gentleman nowadays, and asked after her health.
‘I’m very well,’ Amelia answered. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. And in such good company,’ she added, directing a glance of gratitude at the marquess.
‘My darling, you can’t imagine how much I have spoken of you, how I have missed your presence.’
The duchess introduced Don Enrique as one of the most delightful gentlemen in all Madrid, and Amelia allowed him to take her hand and place a delicate kiss upon her fingers.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, making a small curtsy and bowing her head, as she smiled seductively.
‘The pleasure is all mine.’
The duchess was delighted and, true to form, took no time at all in inviting Amelia to stay at Castamar for as long as she wished, at the very least until the annual festivities were over. As decorum required, Amelia refused, under the indulgent gaze of Enrique of Arcona.
‘I simply cannot permit you to stay at an inn,’ Doña Mercedes insisted. ‘And it is high time there were more ladies at my son’s gloomy mansion.’
The journey to Castamar passed quickly, primarily due to the presence of the marquess and his veiled glances. She responded only fleetingly, and with feigned modesty. Perhaps, if her original plan failed to bear fruit, the marquess would make a good alternative. However, this was not the moment, and so she tried to avoid his gaze for the rest of the trip. Instead, she struck up an agreeable conversation with Doña Mercedes about that evening’s performance. The duchess recommended Molière, in particular his play The Affected Young Ladies, and another more scandalous piece, Tartuffe, which had been banned in France.
