Read The Confectioner's Tale Online
Authors: Laura Madeleine
The Confectioner's Tale
About the Book
‘Luxury. Glamour. Beauty. Sin. We must create all of these, today.’
At the famous Patisserie Clermont in Paris, 1909, a chance encounter with the owner’s daughter has given one young man a glimpse into a life he never knew existed: of sweet cream and melted chocolate, golden caramel and powdered sugar, of pastry light as air.
But it is not just the art of confectionery that holds him captive, and soon a forbidden love affair begins.
Almost eighty years later, an academic discovers a hidden photograph of her grandfather as a young man with two people she has never seen before. Scrawled on the back of the picture are two words: ‘
Forgive me
’.
Unable to resist the mystery behind it, she begins to unravel the story of two star-crossed lovers and one irrevocable betrayal …
Contents
Prologue
Paris, 1910
The boy ran up the stairs of the metro, emerging into the quiet evening. It was earliest April, and cold enough still for his breath to mist in the air before him. For a moment, he listened to the bells of a church somewhere, striking ten o’clock. He looked about, almost furtive, before movement caught his attention. He grinned and leaned down the stairs, holding out a hand.
Slim fingers encased in dark kid gloves took his, and a young woman hurried up the last few steps to stand beside him.
‘Les Halles?’ she asked breathlessly, pushing an elegant hat back into place. ‘What are we doing here? Everything will be closed at this hour.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ The boy rubbed his bare hands and held out an elbow. His jacket was thin and did nothing to keep him warm, but for once, he didn’t care. ‘I believe you will like this evening’s trip, Mademoiselle.’
Face bright, the girl took his arm.
A fine mist was hanging above the streets, softening the light from the gas lamps, as if they shone through cotton. Winter’s fingers held onto the night, but the cold was ebbing, and soon it would be spring.
They walked together as any respectable couple might, sneaking looks at each other until neither was able to supress a grin. Through the mist, a noise was growing, not one sound but many: a voice that was a hundred voices, a rattling, squelching, feathery, drumming din. The girl’s eyes were wide as they rounded a corner and were confronted by a building with high glass and riveted arches that embraced the chaos and bounced it back all at once.
‘You said you wanted to see the real Paris, Mademoiselle,’ the boy murmured in her ear. ‘Here it is.’
Despite the late hour, the market was seething with life, spilling onto the pavement in a riot of peelings, sawdust and straw. Horses and motorized carts stood alongside each other. Errand boys danced in their boots to stay warm. Braziers gave up the scent of charcoal and chestnuts.
‘Can we go in?’ Mademoiselle’s eyes were shining.
Beaming, the boy took her hand, and they stepped into the fray.
At first there were stares – the girl’s fine clothes were out of place among the threadbare linen and much-darned cotton – but as they pushed forward, and the more crowded the space became, no one saw their clothes, no one cared. Here, the only language was commerce. It was spoken in a constant bellow, a market patois of sous and weights that made no sense to outside ears.
The girl pulled on his arm and pointed towards a vegetable stall. Wooden crates of pale new potatoes sat in their dirt, old wrinkled winter onions and garlic woven into loose plaits above them. A man with frostbitten fingers was tying up bunches of sorrel. The girl laughed as a pair of vegetable women tossed spring cabbages from the back of a cart into a large wicker basket. They were making a game of it, seeing how fast they could throw them, egged on by the traders all around. Their pinned-up hair was untidy, their cheeks red with exertion and mirth.
A crowd had gathered around the next stall. Here, the shouting was particularly fierce. A man was filling paper bags, handing them out to the buyers as fast as he could take their money. Dropping the boy’s hand, the girl gave him a wild smile and pushed her way between the muscled shoulders. He tried to stop her, anxious about the jostling crowd, but a minute later she was back, her dress trampled at the hem. Triumphantly, she placed a small yellow globe into his hand.
‘What is it?’ he asked, as she began to take off her gloves.
‘What, something you don’t know, Monsieur Guide?’ she teased. ‘It is a blood orange, all the way from Italy.’
She showed him how to peel the fruit, and together they stood, near a brazier at the edge of the vast place, sucking at the ruby flesh and laughing at the juice that escaped. The girl’s eyes shone, and abruptly, the boy felt a wave of sorrow. In the morning, she would be in her world once again, elegant and poised, perhaps eating these same oranges for her breakfast with silver utensils, one thin slice at a time.
She must have sensed the change in him. ‘Please,’ she whispered, stepping close, her breath citrus sweet upon his cheek, ‘this time is for you and I, no one else. Tomorrow does not happen here.’
The firelight painted her pale skin, made the colour ebb from her blue eyes until he thought he might drown in them.
A burst of shouting made him jump back, and they flattened themselves to a wall as a screaming gaggle of chickens made their escape from a broken basket, dander and feathers flying. A woman was swearing, snatching at the fowl as they ran through her skirts.
They plunged deeper into the market, down a dark stairwell into the tunnels and underground passages below, lit by gas and fizzing electric bulbs. In a tiled hallway, the girl’s foot skidded. The boy caught her as she fell, barely managing to keep his own balance on the wet ground. Fleetingly, she was in his arms, half-laughing, half-stunned, her hat over her eye, and it took all of his restraint to not hold her closer.
They edged their way around the slippery puddle. It was dripping from a fishmonger’s barrow, laden with huge, silvery beasts, the stench of sea and river rising from the mess of guts on the floor.
‘Are you hungry?’ the boy asked, his eyes on a bucket where piles of rock creatures waited, sealed and silent.
‘Ravenous,’ the girl replied. ‘Are we to eat oysters?’
Digging in his pocket for the meagre change there, the boy handed over a couple of coins. The fishmonger pulled out six of the things, shucked them with a little knife, and wrapped them in newspaper.
Emerging into the cleaner air once more, they found a baker’s cart, stacked high with dark loaves of bread. They bought one, and wove their way towards a bar, where spindly tables and chairs were crammed between the cold night and the heady market.
Squeezed into a corner, elbow to elbow, they drank cheap red wine and feasted on bread and oysters, straight from the paper. The food was glorious; it was as if the essence of the world had been captured and infused into this one meal, for this one hour, in this one square of Paris. The boy wondered why it had never tasted this good before. Watching the girl drain her glass, he realized he already knew the answer.
Tomorrow does not happen here
, she had said. But he knew better. Tomorrow would come, and with it, the truth that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Outside, the pensive bells of Saint-Eustache began to toll eleven.
Damn tomorrow
, he thought, and reached for her hand.
Chapter One
Cambridge, March 1988
I burst through the gates of King’s College just as the chapel bells mark the hour. I’m late, and of all the appointments I could be late for, this is the worst.
A group of anorak-wearing tourists are blocking the road. I weave through them, checking my watch. I had hoped to arrive in plenty of time, to find an inconspicuous seat at the back of the room, not to barge through the doors sweaty and dishevelled.
I take the courtyard at a run and a set of damp stone stairs two at a time. My reflection flashes past in a window: rain-soaked, ratty blond fringe dripping into my eyes. I push it back and hurry towards a pair of huge oak doors.
15
th
March, 11.00 a.m.
, reads a piece of paper tacked to the noticeboard outside:
Unmasking a Legend: biographer Simon Hall on the late historian, author and critic J. G. Stevenson.
I quickly rearrange the scowl that has risen to my face into a grimace of apology at the woman minding the entrance. She sniffs disapprovingly but lets me pass. Bracing myself, I ease open the heavy door. The room is packed; students and academics alike are crammed into chairs, their breath fogging up the windows. Despite my efforts, the door creaks loudly on its hinges, and the man on the podium falters, looking my way. I keep my head lowered and edge along the back row to a spare seat.
‘As I was saying,’ the speaker continues, ‘we all know what happens when a well-known person dies: they get an obituary in
The Times
, a new commemorative volume of work and retrospectives in journals left, right and centre.’
Some of the younger members of the audience titter, eager to show their appreciation for the lecturer’s offhand manner.
I eye him carefully. Simon Hall, the current darling of the history scene. Whenever comment is needed, on the radio or in newspaper articles, there he is. He’s not as young as his pictures suggest, I decide. True, his curly hair and open face make him look youthful, but there are creases at the corners of his eyes and the hint of a paunch developing. I slump down a little further in my seat and try to pay attention.
‘There is nothing wrong with paying homage to a great,’ he says, ‘and no one can deny that J. G. Stevenson was a talented historian. But how much do we truly know about him? Who was the man behind the books?’
He pauses for effect, looks around the room.
‘As a biographer, it is my job to answer these questions, and that means delving into a person’s past, discovering the things they might have preferred to keep to themselves. And, ladies and gentlemen, what I have discovered is that J. G. Stevenson was no saint.’
He leans forward on the lectern, intent, inviting every person there into his confidence.
‘Recently, I was granted access to Stevenson’s private correspondence, and there, I found a letter. Written to him when he was a young man in Paris, it places him firmly at the centre of a scandal, one that he kept hidden even from his own family. I will discover the truth behind this mystery, and show you all the
real
J. G. Stevenson.’
