However, my work in progress, actually only just started, is going to be about Queen Victoria and the time she spent in Nice. When I was staying in Nice a few years ago, actually writing Naughty in Nice, I was surprised to learn that Queen Victoria spent the winter there, during her latter years. I hadn't known this. An enormous hotel had been built for her--the Hotel Regina Excelsior. It stands on a hillside above the city with fabulous views. She took over a whole wing with a retinue of 100. She brought her own bedroom furniture and chefs on a private train from England.... however, she didn't want anyone to know she was the queen. (I think they might have guessed with a regiment of Highland pipers accompanying her). She told everyone to call her Lady Balmoral.
So the working title of my book is LADY BALMORAL'S CHEF. And it's about a young woman who cooks for the queen and there's a murder and a lot of intrigue.
This is how it begins:
Lady Balmoral’s Chef
Chapter 1
London, September 1897
If Helen Barton hadn’t
stepped under an omnibus, I might well still be sweeping floors and lighting
fires in that dreadful house in St. John’s Wood. But for once I had followed my
father’s advice.
“Carpe diem,” was one
of my father’s favorite sayings. Seize the day. Take your chances. He usually
added ‘because that might be the only chance you get.”
He spoke from
experience. He was an educated man, came from a good family, and had known
better times. As a second son of the junior branch he could expect no title or
property that went with it, and was sent out to India to make something of
himself. He had married my mother, a
sweet and delicate creature he met on one of his visits home. It was soon clear
that she couldn’t endure the harsh conditions of Bengal, so Daddy had been
forced to bring her home to England.
Daddy
had received no help from the family but at last had fallen on his feet in a
way and had held what was considered a prestigious position: he was a receptionist
and greeter at the Savoy, London’s new luxury hotel. His ability to speak good French and know how
to mingle with crowned heads had made him popular at the hotel. He had patted
the hands of elderly Russian countesses and arranged roulette parties for
dashing European princes, for which he received generous tips. We had lived
quite happily in the small town of Hampstead, on the northern fringes of
London. My sister and I attended a private school. We had a woman who came to
clean and cook for us. It was not an extravagant life, but a pleasant one.
Until it all came crashing down when the demon drink
overcame my father. He worked at an establishment where the alcohol flowed
freely among the guests. He was invited to take a glass and it would be rude to
refuse. So who would notice if he finished off a bottle? His visits to the public house became more
frequent. And one day he was found drunk on the job. That meant instant
dismissal. He tried in vain to find another position but with no reference no
respectable establishment would want him. We watched him sink lower and lower
into depression and drunkenness. My mother died around that time. She was a
genteel and sweet person who adored my father. They said she died of pneumonia
but I think it was of a broken heart.
We moved to a squalid two room flat above a butcher’s
shop, with only cold water and an outside lavatory. Father occasionally picked
up work writing letters for the illiterate, tutoring in French, but nothing
that kept the wolf far from the door. And so it was, just before my fifteenth
birthday, that he announced he had found a position for me. I was to leave the
school that I adored and to become a servant, so that I’d earn money to feed
father and Louisa and someone else would have to feed and clothe me. I was more
than shocked. I was mortified. We might not be rich but I was from a good
family. And the house to which I was sent was that of a nouveau-riche man who
had made money in the garment business. His factories turned out cheap blouses
for working girls. He and his wife were loud-mouthed and common.
I pleaded with my father not to do this.
“It’s only for a short while, Bella,” he said, patting my
hand. “I promise you as soon as I’m on my feet again I’ll bring you home. Until
then you are helping to make sure that your little sister does not starve.”
What could I say to that? He always
was a great manipulator.
I'm dying to get on with it, but holiday shopping, decorating and parties keep intervening. However I shall enjoy spending time with Bella Waverly, Queen Victoria and a cast of naughty and nice characters.
