Page 29 of A Winter By the Sea
“Yet now and then I hear a faint accent. And you speak French from time to time. Why?”
He nodded as he worked. “Perhaps because my parents did not grow up here. Or because I was educated in France at a renowned cookery school. I studied with the master, Antonin Carême. You have heard of him, yes? Chef to the Prince Regent, Russian tsars, and many others.”
“That explains it. Is that your ambition as well? To cook for kings and tsars?”
He lifted one shoulder, not missing a stroke with the knife. “Perhaps. Though I have other ambitions as well.”
She tilted her head in question, but he did not explain.
Sarah asked, “How long have you been with Their Royal Highnesses?”
“A few years.”
“How did you gain such an appointment in the first place?”
Finished with his rapid-fire slicing, he moved on to the bread and butter. “I was engaged to cook for a gentlemen’s club,where I made the acquaintance of many noblemen. Through those connections, I have since been chef de cuisine to several of the nobility. Finally, I was offered this, my first situation in a royal household.”
Another long-suffering sigh. “Sadly, so far I am only assistant cook and pastry chef. Mr. Leigleitner is the head cook. Old and set in his ways he may be, but the duke and duchess do not possess refined palates like the Prince Regent’s. They are satisfied with simple fare. And the duchess is partial to the food of her homeland. Pork roast and dumplings drowned in thick gravy.” He shuddered, then lifted his knife straight up for emphasis. “Thankfully the duke plans to entertain while we are here. And then the dishes will need to be finer, so I must be ready.”
Sarah just hoped their kitchen and food stores would survive the ordeal.
Emily looked at the calendar in her miniature almanac. Seeing it was nearly the end of December, a dampening flood of disappointment washed over her. Another year had all but passed, and she had not yet accomplished anything. They had been living in Sidmouth for fourteen months now. She had so hoped her life here, so far from Finderlay, from May Hill, from Charles, would be only temporary. Yet here she was.
Nor had she yet completed a single book. And what she had written still seemed to her a jumble of disjointed scenes. She groaned. Writing a novel was more difficult than she’d ever expected.
Determined to redeem the last days of 1819, Emily sharpened a quill, turned to a fresh page in her notebook, and began to write.
At the end of two hours, she had a sore wrist and a few promising scenes.
Not knowing what should happen next in the novel, she set it aside and instead turned her attention to Mr. Gwilt’s parrot adventures, which she had been helping him compose.
She wrote a clean copy of the latest page of his story, correcting spelling and grammatical errors as she went.
At first Parry liked shipboard life, the wind in his feathers, the thrill of flying over the waves. Then he realized he was not the only feathered creature on board. Strange white birds were kept in a large cage on deck. Horror of horrors, day by day, a few more were carried off and into the pot they went.
Parry began to fear he would be next. His life would be over. He would soon disappear, and the world would remember him no more!
The ship’s captain, who had captured him, talked to him every day. Parry noticed he did not talk to the other birds. This gave him a small amount of hope for the future. The captain repeated childish words to him over and over, as though he were an imbecile. “Parrot want mango?”
Finally one day, out of sheer frustration, Parry repeated back, “Want mango?” Thinking,Of course Ido, you simpleton. Why do you keep asking me?
The man clapped his hands and shouted, “He talks! He talks!” and fed Parry a whole mango. The more words Parry mimicked, the more mango he received. He was soon a very plump parrot.
Parry also learned many other words while aboard that ship of sailors, but most are unfit for young ears and better omitted.
Emily grinned as she reread and revised Mr. Gwilt’s humorous yet touching tale. Reaching the end of a page, she began to wonder if Mr. Wallis might be interested in publishing it as a children’s book.
Before she dared ask him, she decided she ought to see how the story as written would be received by its intended audience. She had met the master of the local parochial school at church. He would probably allow her to read it to his pupils. A positive report could help to sway Mr. Wallis.
She went looking for Mr. Gwilt and found him polishing silver. She asked, “Would it be all right if I read Parry’s story to some school children? I am certain they shall love it as much as I do, and then we can tell Mr. Wallis that when we show him the manuscript.”
He looked up, startled. “We? Oh no, not I. I wouldn’t know what to say to a man like that.”
“Do you have any objection to me showing it to him and asking if he might want to publish it?”
“Publish it...” The small man shook his head in wonder, trying and failing to restrain a grin. “Thought makes me a bet giddy, I own. Go on, then, if you really think he might like our wee tale.”
“I do.”
