The Cook (16 page)

37

Conrad talked to the workmen who were responsible for the maintenance of the Prominence grounds and the upkeep of the castle itself, and told them he wanted everything in perfect order for the wedding. Mr. Hill accompanied him when he talked to the men, and then both Mr. and Mrs. Hill went with him when he visited the Prominence to decide in which room the wedding should be held.

It was the first time Conrad had approached the Prominence since that day when he had initially set eyes on it from the road and had sought out the narrow stairway that led up the cliff face to the plateau. Several workmen and two supervisors went along with them. One of the supervisors carried the key for the drawbridge mechanism.

Conrad spent about two hours going through all the rooms and halls of the great Gothic structure. However, he spent at least half of that time in the great kitchen . . .

As they descended the narrow stone staircase, Conrad, squeezing down sideways, smiled and said, “I think the Vales are a bit too plump to negotiate this passage.”

Mrs. Hill laughed and said she thought so too.

“We shall have to bring ladders for them,” suggested Mr. Hill very practically and seriously.

And though no one said it, it was obvious that Ester would also require a ladder.

Indeed, at the rate Conrad had been gaining . . .

Conrad’s correspondence with people in the City, always very heavy, had been increasing steadily over the recent weeks. And then suddenly it doubled, and then tripled, and practically every night, after giving Harold instructions for a dish to work on, Conrad would retire to his room to read the stack of letters which had arrived that afternoon, and to answer another stack which had come the day before. Often he was occupied with this work until three or four in the morning.

Mr. Hill, upon whom had been devolved the responsibility of bringing in the mail and putting out the letters which were to be picked up by the postman, knew of course of the sudden increase in Conrad’s correspondence. But he said nothing about it to Conrad. Indeed, he almost never initiated a conversation with Conrad; he waited till he was addressed. But he did tell Mrs. Hill, who casually mentioned to Conrad that she didn’t see where he found time to answer so many letters. For her part, she said, she was so tired at the end of the day—what with learning all the new table settings he was teaching her and then actually laying them, and serving the meals and then doing all the washing-up, with help from Mr. Hill and Eggy, naturally; plus all the work involved in getting ready for the wedding and the concomitant move to the Prominence—that when she left the kitchen at night and went to her room, she literally fell into her bed and slept a dreamless sleep till the next morning when it was time to get things ready for breakfast.

“If I had to answer letters, Conrad,” she concluded, “I’m afraid I’d lose all my correspondents. I’m simply too worn out at night . . . Although, I suppose, if the letters were really important . . .”

Her curiosity about the letters was patent. Conrad answered that they
were
important, otherwise he certainly wouldn’t be sacrificing his sleep for them. But he did not elaborate on this statement, and it was not until shortly before the wedding day that Mrs. Hill found out what all the correspondence had been about.

The family, including Ester, were gathered in the dining room—Conrad had told them he had something to impart.

He sat at the head of the table. In front of him were two stacks of letters, with their respective envelopes attached.

“In a few days,” he began, tapping the stack on his left, “we shall be moving to the Prominence. It is an enormous place, and even if we did not plan to entertain, it would take more than just the four of us, plus Eggy, to run it in the proper manner. But since we do plan to entertain”—and his eyes darted quickly to the other packet of letters—“of necessity we need an augmentation of the present staff; I gather that’s understood.”

Mrs. Hill furrowed her brow, and then her worry expressed itself: “You don’t mean you’re going to take Betsy back?”

Conrad shook his head impatiently. “Certainly not. There are no servants in Cobb I’d dream of taking into the Prominence, with the exception of two cooks: Charles and Paul are going to assist Harold in the great kitchen. The rest of the staff is coming from the City—that’s what these letters concern, Mrs. Hill.”

Mrs. Hill smiled with half-satisfied curiosity as Conrad untied the string, picked up the top letter and started reading the qualifications, experience, etc., of a Mr. Breen, who was to be Mr. Hill’s assistant. Nominally Mr. Hill would be in charge of all the staff. But Breen would be actually responsible, and it would be his duty to train Mr. Hill to take over in fact as well as in title. Breen would be given six months to accomplish this.

Conrad then read out the qualifications of a Mrs. Thorn, whose duty it would be to train Mrs. Hill. Mrs. Thorn, too, would be given about six months.

Conrad picked up the next letter . . .

When he had finished reading the stack of correspondence it was obvious he had assembled a most professional staff, and Mr. and Mrs. Hill were looking extremely pleased. They had listened very attentively, frequently nodding and smiling, but never once interrupting.

Ester evidently hadn’t listened at all; she just sat there, directly opposite Conrad, staring straight ahead, either at him or through him. If there was any expression on her face it was one of slight dissatisfaction.

Harold hadn’t listened either, not even when the letters concerned the additional cooks Conrad was bringing into the kitchen: spread out on the table in front of him were half a dozen cook books, and Harold was immersed in them to the total exclusion of everything else.

“Now,” Conrad said, “we have finished with these”—he retied the packet and pushed it to one side—“and we come to these . . .” And he drew the other stack toward him. “These you shall see in a moment—but first, let us contemplate the wedding day. Let us try to get it into perspective, and not just our own, because it presents two faces: one to us and the other to the people of Cobb—and very prominent guests from the City.” This was the first mention of any people coming from the City and Mrs. Hill opened her mouth to exclaim, but Conrad continued without pause: “We want both of these faces unexceptionable. For Cobb, the Hill-Vale wedding shall be the most important social event of the generation. It must live in their memory. We must put on a notable performance—a perfect performance.”

Mrs. Hill, who was still smiling at the pleasant surprise of City guests, nodded in agreement. Then almost at once her expression changed. “It’s a shame Daphne is in such delicate health. A proper wedding in the grand ballroom with hundreds in attendance . . .”

“Of course. Everyone likes a great wedding.”

“Oh, I know they do. And it’s been so long since there was one in these parts. So very long.—Well, we’ll just have to make it up to them with the reception. That’s all we can do.”

Conrad’s eyebrows arched disdainfully. “Ah, yes, the reception. Too bad even that can’t be perfect: a reception without a receiving line leaves something to be desired. And as for Harold standing there alone . . .” Conrad paused, and then when Mrs. Hill began slowly shaking her head, he continued, “The townspeople expect a receiving line—to pay their respects to the new mistress. They would cherish that experience. It would be something to tell their children . . .” He paused again, and Mrs. Hill watched him as he began tapping the table with the packet of letters.

“Oh, I know,” she said slowly, “that everyone will want to see her.”

“That’s part of the delight of the reception, to contemplate the bride . . .”

“I know . . . oh, Conrad, it’s such a shame. No receiving line. I feel as if we’re letting the people down—almost as if we’re taking something from them.”

“They’ll doubtless share that feeling. And that’s not all, Mrs. Hill: what about the other high point of a reception? What about that?”

Conrad paused, but Mrs. Hill just looked back at him without answering.

“What about the cake, Mrs. Hill? What about the ceremonial cutting of the wedding cake? Not to have even that . . .”

Mrs. Hill began to look very sad.

“I’m afraid,” Conrad said, “that it would look peculiar if Harold grasped the knife and cut it all by himself. Indeed, most peculiar. Even portentous, possibly—that is, to simple-minded countryfolk. Besides, Harold, are you looking forward to the reception? It will last all day, at least—Harold!” Conrad had to call Harold’s name several times before drawing the young man’s attention from the cook books. Conrad repeated his question.

“But you know I’m going to be in the kitchen,” Harold objected quietly. “I have things to cook. I can’t go milling about with the guests. It’s out of the question. In fact”—and Harold glanced anxiously at the clock—“I have something on the stove now—if you don’t mind . . .”

“Not at all, Harold, not at all . . .”

Harold quickly gathered up all the cook books and left the room.

“So you see,” Conrad shrugged; “from the point of view of the guests, the wedding day will be less than complete: no reception line, no cutting of the cake. Indeed: ‘Where are the luminaries?’ They won’t even see them! And then of course, Mrs. Hill, from our point of view we shall have failed: we shall have given less than we promised. And the Hill-Vale wedding day will not be something to remember joyfully. On the contrary, it might even be something to forget . . .”

Mrs. Hill was staring down at the table. Slowly, without looking up, she said, “What you say is true, Conrad. Only too true. I’ve tried not to think of these things. I have pushed them out of my mind. Somehow, I suppose, I thought they would all be taken care of. I know that was foolish, but . . . I just wanted to think that the wedding day would be perfect, and I couldn’t bear thinking that—”

Mrs. Hill broke off, as if too dispirited to continue, and even Mr. Hill, who usually masked his emotions perfectly, began looking a little dejected. Only Ester seemed unmoved by the conversation, continuing to stare straight ahead, and even when Conrad began looking directly at her, very intently, it was still not possible to tell where her gaze rested or whether she was aware of his observation.

“Yes, indeed,” Conrad said at last, picking up the packet of letters again and beginning to tap the table with it. “Yes, indeed, some wedding day. Don’t you think, Ester? Won’t it be great? Aren’t you looking forward to it with eager expectation? You must be. It will be a great day in your young life, moving into the Prominence . . .”

“And the guests from the City,” Mrs. Hill said sadly. She was staring at the packet of letters in Conrad’s hands. “What will they make of this? No bride or groom—coming all the way from the City and not even seeing . . .”

“They could drop in at the sick chamber or the kitchen,” Conrad suggested.

“. . . they won’t even be at the reception. And a reception without a receiving line—and without a wedding-cake ceremony. What will those people think of us?”

Conrad smiled coldly. “What indeed, Mrs. Hill? Because you are correct: these letters are acceptances of invitations from people in the City. From the best people in the City—the very best—and we cannot let them down. Or perhaps I should say”—Conrad’s gaze rested for a moment on each of the Hills—“we
will
not let them down. We will
not
: they shall have their luminaries. They shall have their bride and bridegroom.”

Conrad rose to his feet and pushed his chair to the table. Then he stood behind it, hands resting on its back. “There shall be a magnificent wedding . . .”

Slowly, intently, Conrad scanned the Hills. Mr. and Mrs. Hill were looking at him fixedly, the latter frowning slightly. Even Ester seemed to be looking at him.

Conrad spoke again: “. . . followed by a great reception. There will be a receiving line. There will be a fine wedding cake. It will be cut by the bride and bridegroom.”

He paused for a moment, and then concluded:

“The wedding day shall be perfect.”

The three Hills continued to stare at him silently. In appearance, Conrad was not quite the same as when he had arrived in Cobb. Most striking, he was no longer gaunt and starved-looking. Not that he was fat, but it was his size that would catch the eye rather than any want of proportion: before, he had only seemed very tall and thin; now he looked huge, which made his presence more powerfully felt. His face, too, was fuller and, consequently, less eagle-like in aspect. Yet, this impression remained quite evident: his nose, which really gave his face its cast, was still sharp and hooked, even though it was broader and not so pointed. Still, it was unmistakably a beak. Indeed, if anything, it was a slightly larger and more forceful beak, as befitted the greater bulk of his figure. His eyes, of course, were as black as ever. That some of the lines around the corners had been smoothed didn’t seem to change their expression: they were still disconcertingly piercing.

As for Conrad’s attire—he still wore black clothes. Only, now these were of excellent fabric and set off by a dazzling white expanse of shirt front, which, as much as the weight he had gained, proclaimed the favorable change in his estate.

It was on this white patch that Ester had had her eyes leveled the entire time Conrad was seated. And when he had stood up, it had drawn her gaze up with it. Only a moment later her eyes had moved to Conrad’s face . . .

For several seconds Conrad just stood there, leaning slightly on the back of the chair, looking at each of the Hills in turn. Then his eyes came to rest on Mrs. Hill.

Slowly then, ever so slowly, a smile commenced lighting up his dark countenance . . .

Conrad picked up the packet of letters and tossed them over to Mrs. Hill. Then he walked around the table and stood beside Ester.

“Read the first letter, Mrs. Hill,” Conrad said. “Read it out loud.”

But Mrs. Hill just stared at the packet of letters, afraid to discover the contents.

“Mrs. Hill—we are waiting.”

Gingerly, then—indeed, Mrs. Hill was shaking a little—she picked up the letters. They were tied together by a thin red ribbon, and as she tried to undo it all her fingers became thumbs.

“It’s only a bow, Mrs. Hill; I tied it myself. Just pull one of the loose ends. That’s right—”

Mrs. Hill removed the ribbon. Shaking still more, she unfolded the first letter. But when she tried to read it she couldn’t make her eyes focus.

“Read it, Mrs. Hill. Read it so we can all hear.”

Mrs. Hill blinked her eyes several times. Then she held the letter out before her and started to read in a nervous and unsure voice:

“. . . pleased to attend the wedding of Miss Ester Hill to Mr. Conrad Venn.

“. . . will attend the reception.

“. . . accept offer of accommodation at the Prominence.”

For a moment Mrs. Hill didn’t seem to realize what she had read. Then her breath came in a sudden gasp and the letter fluttered from her fingers to the table.

“The other letters are of the same purport,” Conrad said. “There are several more packets upstairs—these are only from the most prominent people. You’ll notice the date, Mrs. Hill—it’s the same as for Harold and Daphne.”