The Confectioner's Tale (12 page)

Eyes were turned upon him again.

‘This will ensure your permanent discretion?’ Clermont asked seriously.

‘Yes,’ Gui swore. ‘I promise.’

‘Very well, du Frère. I cannot guarantee that you will succeed in my kitchen, but you shall have your chance.’

He rose gracefully, shook Gui’s hand once, firmly, before returning to his seat.

‘Monsieur Burnett shall be in touch.’

He knew a dismissal when he heard it. The next thing he knew he was standing alone, outside of the dark doors, in a daze.

‘A chance,’ he whispered, too shaken up for joy. ‘I have a chance …’

‘Indeed you do.’ Patrice had appeared from nowhere to take his elbow. ‘And now, young du Frère, I’m afraid it is time for you to leave.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Gui asked, as he was ushered back to the kitchen, in order to change into his own clothes. They had been laundered, but in comparison to the borrowed suit of Patrice’s, they looked like rags. He was too elated to care. ‘I’m to be a chef.’

‘An
apprentice
chef,’ Patrice corrected, folding the garments that Gui had shed, ‘and of course I heard. It is my job to hear.’

At the front door, the valet pressed a package into his arms. It contained the suit that he had loaned to Gui, neatly wrapped in brown paper. ‘I will not miss it,’ he said firmly over Gui’s attempts at thanks, ‘and I believe you shall need it.’

He caught Gui’s shoulder as he left, his face strangely serious.

‘Du Frère,’ he murmured, ‘be careful.’

Outside the floodwaters had begun to subside. It was deep enough still for a small boat, like the one that rocked gently near the doors to the apartments above the pâtisserie, a chauffeur squatting in the prow. It no doubt belonged to Monsieur Burnett. Holding the packet of borrowed clothes carefully under his arm, Gui stepped into the water. His entire skin shuddered as the world of hot baths and good food and fine coffee drained away into the cold.

He heard voices from the front of the building.

‘… your actions would not be my own,’ Burnett was saying.

‘My actions are frequently unlike those of other men,’ answered Clermont.

‘As you like, it is your decision.’

‘I am obliged, Edouard. What were your impressions?’

‘Of the boy? I would not tolerate him in my business, but I suppose he seems honest enough. Although you should be wary; his kind can be cunning, if not intelligent.’

Gui inched forward.
Eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves
, his grandfather had always said.

‘If taking him on will ensure that there is no gossip about Jeanne, then I shall keep to my side of the bargain.’

Jeanne
, Gui felt an odd surge of happiness at the discovery.
Her name is Jeanne.

‘Let us hope that is the case.’ Wood creaked as Burnett climbed into his boat. ‘Even so, you should take steps to correct your daughter’s waywardness,’ he told Clermont, ‘before it is too late.’

Gui listened to the boat as it wallowed down the street, aware that on the other side of the wall, Monsieur Clermont was doing the same.

Chapter Seventeen

April 1988

By the time I run into the entrance hall, it is empty. At the front desk, the librarian eyes me sternly. A concerned gentleman handed my bag in a few minutes ago, she says, after finding it unattended. She chides me for being careless, and tells me how lucky I am that my money has not been stolen.

I fight back tears of frustration. I don’t need to look to know what has been taken, but I do anyway. The folder with all of my evidence is gone: the letter, the photograph, my notes. The library book is still there, but that gives little comfort.

Cass finds me not long afterwards, sitting outside on the steps. She realizes that something is wrong the second she sees my face.

‘It was Hall,’ I tell her, still trembling with rage.

‘What? What happened?’

‘Hall, the biographer, he was here.’ I stare hopelessly into the bag. ‘We talked for a while – I thought we’d sorted things out – but then I turned around for a minute, and he took it, the letter, the photograph, everything.’

‘He can’t do that,’ she says incredulously. ‘They’re yours, it’s stealing—’

‘It’s all part of Grandpa Jim’s estate.’ The words are bitter in my mouth. ‘None of it’s mine.’

‘Even so, can’t you call him out? Insist that he gives back the papers? They’re still your family’s property.’

I shake my head. ‘Either of my parents could contradict me, Dad especially. He’ll just tell Hall to keep whatever he wants for as long as he wants.’

Cass sighs in understanding. We sit in silence for a while.

‘At least you know some of the facts now?’ Cass tries.

‘It’s not enough,’ I tell her flatly. ‘Now I can’t challenge Hall, even if I wanted to. I have no proof.’

Cass looks over at me searchingly. She’s a good friend, and doesn’t say anything, but I can see the question that is running through her mind, the same one that Alex asked:
Is this really about Hall?

For a long time we sit on the stone steps, warmed by the sun. Finally, I summon up the courage to voice a thought that has been plaguing me for weeks now.

‘I don’t think that photograph was forgotten.’

In the wake of the words I watch the traffic, the pigeons crowding along the grey pavement.

‘It was hidden, not lost. The edges were all worn. I think he must have looked at it again and again over the years.’

Cass considers my words.

‘Perhaps it reminded him of better times?’

‘No.’ I screw my eyes closed. ‘I’ve been such an idiot. I didn’t want to know, but it all makes sense.’

I look across at her, swallowing hard.

‘Cass, I think Hall’s right. I think my grandpa did something wrong when he was young, something awful, and he regretted it for the rest of his life.’

Chapter Eighteen

February 1910

Two days later the envelope arrived, bearing his name in fine, curled writing. He weighed the letter in his hand, relishing the feeling. He rarely received correspondence, and never as fine as this.

His fingers left dirty smudges on the thick paper, though he tried his best to wipe them. Only after examining every detail of the front did he turn it over. A foil seal, embossed with ‘Burnett & Sons’ protected the contents. He broke it and pulled out the page. It was a typewritten letter of employment; his name leaped out at him here and there, amongst the official-looking words.

Gui winced when the foreman threw down the letter after half a glance. ‘You best be leaving then,’ the big man grunted, extracting a key from his pocket. ‘No sense making trouble among the others.’

He thumped a moneybox on top of the letter, adding rust stains to pristine lines of ink. ‘Pay to date,’ he said tersely, ‘no severance for breaking your contract.’

Gui tried to smile as he took the pay packet. The foreman did not.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, lad.’

In the dormitory, Gui changed into the suit borrowed from Patrice. Fortunately, it was lunchtime and the place was empty save for him and Nicolas, who stood smoking in the doorway.

‘Where are you going to sleep?’ his friend asked awkwardly.

‘I’m not sure,’ Gui said as he shoved his old clothes into the suitcase. ‘I hope they will have arranged something.’

‘They won’t.’

‘You don’t know that.’

Nicolas only looked down and flicked ash onto the floor.

Things had not been the same since the flood. The night Gui had spent in the Clermonts’ apartment had changed him. The work, the quarters, it all looked dirty and old to him now; like a memory already. The grime beneath his nails had begun to disgust him. He picked it away as best he could with a penknife.

It was too cold to wash, but he hunted about for a rag to wipe his neck, before any dirt stained the shirt collar. A flash of cloth near the roof caught his eye and he pulled at it. An object tumbled free. It was the book. Monsieur Carême had survived the weather, old and mildewed and dog-eared though he was. Nicolas watched as Gui smoothed the volume and stowed it reverently in his jacket pocket.

Before the threshold Gui stopped. His friend, his oldest friend, had finished the cigarette and stood, fingers twitching in a dance, squinting out into the grey noon light.

‘So long, Nicolas. Tell the others for me.’

‘They won’t understand.’ His friend sighed, and summoned a twist of a smile. Gui gripped his shoulder, pulled him into a tight hug. Nicolas returned it before stepping back, clearing his throat.

‘See you then, Gui.’

Gui’s eyes stung. He blinked them clear. ‘Luck, Nicolas.’

An omnibus was waiting in the Place d’Italie. Thinking of the pay in his pocket, Gui allowed himself the luxury of buying a ticket almost to the door of the pâtisserie.

‘Coming or going?’ the ticket inspector asked, nudging the suitcase at Gui’s feet.

‘Going. New job over the river.’

‘Best of luck with it, sir.’

It was a typical February day, cold and drear with a heavy sky. The floodwater had receded, leaving behind flotsam in the strangest of places, like the aftermath of a night of revelry.

The Boulevard des Italiens was busy, full of men and women bundled against the cold. Motor cars honked, weaving between horses that stood impassive in the gutters. A black and white dog rushed between hooves, barking at the trees where pigeons squatted, like old feathered fruit in the branches.

Opposite was Pâtisserie Clermont. Gui stared, for he had never seen it by day. Great arched windows let out a golden light, sparkling upon the glass and beckoning him closer. Beyond, he caught glimpses of gilt and marble, of a grand counter that hugged the edge of the room, the produce of the miraculous kitchen displayed within, like jewellery. Hefting his suitcase a little higher, Gui pushed open the front door.

Warmth swirled around him; engulfing him in the smell of fresh baking, chocolate and coffee. Tall, fronded plants arched gracefully, straight from a tropical garden. Chatter, clinking and laughter filled the room. Women sat straight-backed in their chairs, men – all starch and shine – smoked lazily.

‘Can I help you?’

One of the waiters was eyeing him with disdain. In the dormitory, Patrice’s old suit had made him feel like a gentleman, but here his cracked boots and peeling suitcase gave him away.

‘I’m here to see Monsieur Clermont,’ he said clearly.

‘Do you have an appointment with him?’ the waiter asked.

‘No, he has offered me a job—’

‘Monsieur Clermont is busy. You will have to return another day.’

He was being ushered towards the door. Another waiter watched them steadily whilst pouring coffee.

‘You don’t understand,’ Gui tried again. ‘He is expecting me.’

‘I don’t think so.’

The waiter forced him forward. They were almost at the door when he saw her.

‘Mademoiselle!’ he cried.

She was sitting several tables away, in the company of another women and a man. At his shout they stared, began to whisper to each other. The waiter increased his efforts to thrust Gui onto the street. He grabbed the doorframe.

‘Mademoiselle!’

‘It is all right, Ricard,’ she called, rising hurriedly to her feet. ‘I know him.’

She apologized to her friend and to the man, who looked up from a sketchpad curiously. Several other tables had also turned to look. Mademoiselle Clermont crossed the few feet between them, limping slightly. Instinctively, Gui held out a hand to steady her, but the waiter batted him away.

‘Monsieur du Frère, good afternoon,’ she began coolly. ‘Ricard, you may leave us now.’

Another table signalled for attention. The waiter looked torn. He threw Gui a filthy look, but finally bustled away. Mademoiselle Clermont transferred her hand to his arm for support. A pale lace dress rose to the top of her throat. She wore cream satin gloves. As soon as the waiter was gone, she turned her face away from her friends, and gave him her rare smile.

‘Guillaume, what are you doing here?’ she whispered.

‘Your father offered me employment, last week,’ Gui told her. ‘I received a letter this morning, and am here to take up the position.’

Mademoiselle Clermont looked astonished.

‘I did not know,’ she said. ‘How …? But never mind. I am so glad you are here. I had not thought to see you again, and had no address to reach you by.’

‘What for?’ The thought of Mademoiselle Clermont writing to him was too much to comprehend.

‘To say thank you, of course! So I shall say it now: thank you, Monsieur du Frère. You have my gratitude.’

Gui made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Abruptly, he found it rather difficult to breathe.

‘It was nothing,’ he murmured.

She returned his gaze. Their silence lengthened for a beat too long, sending him scrabbling in his pocket.

‘Here, this is the letter I received this morning.’

She shook it open with her free hand. A frown wrinkled her forehead.

‘But this is from Monsieur Burnett …’

Mademoiselle Clermont’s friend called over discreetly, indicating the man with the sketchpad who had half-risen to his feet. She nodded at them.

‘Come with me,’ she told Gui. ‘I will take you to the office. Leave your case. Ricard will put it in the cloakroom.’

‘I can find it on my own,’ he protested, ‘you are busy, I don’t want to interrupt—’

Mademoiselle waved her hand dismissively.

‘Do not concern yourself. My friend Lili arranged for us to pose for a portrait by her friend Monsieur Ahlers. But he has spent more time eating than drawing, so far. They will not miss me for a few minutes.’

Obediently, Gui set down his case near a waiters’ station. He wondered briefly if he would ever see it again. Before they set off, he cast a look over at the artist Mademoiselle had referred to. He was brushing pastry crumbs from his board. A figure had been sketched on the white surface, only a few lines, but he could tell it was Mademoiselle Clermont.

Unexpectedly, Gui felt a surge of jealousy for the man who was able to sit respectably in Mademoiselle’s company, where he could not.