The cook of castamar, p.18
The Cook of Castamar, page 18
Francisco chuckled.
‘Am I so predictable?’
‘I can read you like a book.’
His friend knew the kind of woman he fell for, all too well, for save on certain occasions when the temptation of the flesh overwhelmed him, Francisco generally preferred those who had married young to older husbands, those for whom the years had passed without them having enjoyed the art of love. This art required cunning and surprise, giving his lover everything she desired but could not ask for. He enjoyed taking such women to the heights of ecstasy, watching as all their education, poise and good manners vanished and transformed into violent spasms, uncontrollable panting and filthy language. As was to be expected, this habit had caused a few small scandals, resolved at dawn in swift duels against ageing, cuckolded husbands.
Pure, virginal girls, on the other hand, were rather tedious: they required uninterrupted devotion. Besides, his reputation as a seducer was common knowledge, and their parents had already warned them against him. ‘Steer clear of the Count of Armiño,’ they said. ‘Behind his fine manners there lies a lustful beast.’ And they were right.
‘You think I haven’t heard the rumours linking you to Doña Sol Montijos?’ said Alfredo, arching one eyebrow. ‘I know she’s been invited to the celebration, and I imagine the invite came from you.’
‘My dear Alfredo, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you do,’ Alfredo answered. ‘You must be careful with her; you could be biting off more than you can chew this time.’
Francisco laughed, unable to contain himself any longer. It was clear that rumours about his two previous encounters with Doña Sol had spread around the court. Both encounters had been too chaste for his liking, with her husband close by. He loved being involved in such skirmishes – intentions discussed via glances and whispers and in the coded flick of a fan. For him, the act of fornication was nothing other than the culmination of a play staged for a court audience but only performed in the intervals, behind the scenes, hidden by the curtain.
To this end, he underwent a thorough routine every day: first, his manservants would perfume him with lavender and rosemary, and soften his hands with essential oils of grapefruit and bergamot; then he was shaved by his barber, who would tidy his wig or gather his hair in a ponytail; finally, he was dressed in a different outfit each morning. The silk taffeta jacket and matching morning suit had to be immaculate, with gold and silver buttons over starched shirts, and great attention paid to the details: heels, white stockings, velvet gloves, a cane with a handle of gold, silver or mother of pearl, perfumed lace handkerchiefs.
He had had many victories and some defeats. He liked to approach slowly at first, be introduced as a respectable man, only then to begin the process of stolen caresses, pointed looks, precise gestures, all of it seemingly by accident. Women, for him, had a hidden allure, a mystery beyond the individual words and actions of any single one. It was an essence they all shared, making them the most delicious creatures. The best thing about it was, however much you delved into their breasts, swam in the ocean of their voluptuousness, you could only take it in for a few moments, like a vague idea that then escapes through your fingers like a sea breeze. Those who thought of them as celestial beings would never taste this elixir.
This meant that, whenever he heard of a man having carnal relationships and unnatural contact with another man, he would shudder, believing such wretches to be suffering from a perverse sickness. The unnatural predilections of some noblemen were well known. The only thing that could be said in their favour was that their existence meant less competition for female attention.
‘It is said she loves to seduce young men and then spurn them,’ Alfredo said, before draining his cup.
‘In that case I don’t see why she should interest me.’
He knew all too well that Doña Sol was exactly the kind of woman he would seek to woo. Just past forty and on her second marriage, age had bestowed upon her an enigmatic aura which only accentuated her beauty. He had only had to exchange a couple of glances with her during a morning walk in the grounds of Buen Retiro, veiled by the fan, for her to smile back at him from behind her fan as she walked arm in arm with her husband, the Marquess of Villamar.
‘Please tell me you don’t plan to seduce her at Castamar.’
‘Are we leaving now?’ Francisco answered, with a careless smile.
Alfredo stood up and nodded. Francisco knew that as soon as they’d finished saying goodbye to the others, Alfredo would want to know everything. Deep down, Alfredo followed Francisco’s amorous adventures as if he were observing a performance of The Trickster of Seville, which was why Francisco preferred not to tell him all the details in advance and instead allowed him to enjoy the show, which would be a veritable bonfire of the vanities.
As soon as they had left the Retiro and begun making their way along the Carrera de San Jerónimo, Alfredo put his hand on Francisco’s shoulder to slow him down.
‘You’re a libertine.’
‘And you’ve become a prying old hen.’
‘Tell me something, at least.’ Alfredo smiled. ‘I’m older than you and could offer some advice.’
‘Ha!’
Francisco gave nothing away. They rode in silence until they crossed the Puente de Segovia, in the direction of Castamar. He didn’t want Alfredo to coax any part of his plans for that night out of him. Still, he felt the voice of lust bubbling away inside him. It was a whisper he knew very well, which impelled him again and again to recall Doña Sol’s breasts heaving away inside her corset, her slender, elegant ankles beneath her underskirt and that defiant expression on her lips.
16 October 1720, afternoon
Clara rapped on the door with her knuckles, waiting for the head butler to call her in. She guessed that he had called for her that morning, just before lunch, with the intention of getting to know her in person. The butler’s gruff voice called out from the other side of his office door. Don Melquíades, with his neat moustache and his immaculate livery, rose the moment she entered. She greeted him and he, unable to disguise a smile, welcomed her in as if she were a relative he had not seen for a long time. He placed a numbered notebook on the shelf and turned towards her.
‘I called for you because you’ve been in the house for several days and we haven’t had a chance to talk yet.’
‘Thank you, Señor Elquiza,’ Clara replied. ‘I’m very happy here, adapting to the change in circumstances.’ She still had to remind herself that she was now the head cook. Yet, despite Doña Ursula’s constant vigilance, she was beginning to feel that Castamar was the place she’d been waiting for since her mother had left and her sister had migrated to Habsburg territory. ‘I hope to live up to the trust you have placed in me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Señorita Belmonte. You earn your right to be here with every meal you cook. Even his lordship has mentioned your wonderful talent,’ he said, beaming at her.
‘I appreciate your kind words,’ Clara replied, wondering if there was a hidden motive behind this extraordinary show of friendliness.
However, the head butler’s bright, gleaming eyes soon convinced her that Don Melquíades had no hidden intentions – rather, this was a spontaneous, heartfelt act. For some reason her promotion gave him cause to rejoice.
‘Personally, I haven’t been as happy at mealtimes since my mother was cooking them, God rest her soul. In fact, after yesterday, everyone is wondering what you will surprise us with today.’
‘Well, today there will be game stew for the celebration. I hope it will meet such lofty expectations, Señor Elquiza,’ Clara said, slightly overwhelmed. ‘I fear tonight’s dinner has consumed all my efforts.’
‘Don’t be so modest. I smelled it as I walked by and the aroma made me wish I was sitting at the table right now,’ he answered.
She smiled, trying not to blush. She was moved by Don Melquíades’s show of respect and warmth towards her.
‘The best way of discovering if the stew’s aroma matches its taste is to try it,’ she suggested, attempting to replicate his friendliness.
He nodded and, smiling beneath his moustache, raised his hand to point the way, though before leaving, he took her arm and stopped her for a moment, somewhat solemnly.
‘Señorita Belmonte, may I tell you something?’
‘Of course, Señor Elquiza,’ said Clara.
‘We are all delighted to have you with us, and those who aren’t… will just have to put up with you.’
Clara’s eyes opened wide as she heard this, and she felt comforted by his words. After thanking him, they left the office together, walking towards one of the servant dining rooms on the ground floor. She assumed that Don Melquíades had been alluding to Doña Ursula, since she did not know of anyone else who might be uncomfortable with her presence. His statement highlighted not only the fact that the housekeeper was unhappy with her promotion, but also that Don Melquíades and the housekeeper did not share the same view regarding her presence at Castamar. She had always assumed that the butler had no particular opinion and she had taken it for granted that he was only concerned with her good credentials and the excellent references given by his friend, the esteemed Señora Moncada. Generally, a head butler, especially in a great house such as this one, did not give too much importance to the hiring of a kitchen assistant. But if the duke and he were so happy with her work, then Doña Ursula’s opinion and her constant vigilance were of little significance. Even so, a little voice inside was saying that it was not good to be caught in the middle of someone else’s battlefield, if indeed such a thing really was going on among the senior staff at Castamar.
They reached the dining room, where the servants were already waiting for Don Melquíades. They all rose when they saw him, until he casually gestured at them to sit back down. The elongated room, its whitewashed walls clad to waist-height with varnished pine, made a deep impression on her. She felt like she was entering foreign territory, governed by the iron hand of Doña Ursula, who was sitting to the right of the head of the table. The housekeeper watched her the whole time with an icy gaze. From the inscrutable look on the housekeeper’s face, Clara could tell it had not escaped the housekeeper’s attention that Clara and Don Melquíades had arrived together.
Don Melquíades sat down and ordered the stew to be served. As on the previous day, all the diners fell silent, enchanted by the aromas which rose from their plates. The silence delighted Clara. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the sound of the stew being sipped.
‘To be frank, Señorita Belmonte, the servants at Castamar have never eaten so splendidly,’ Don Melquíades pronounced.
In a flash, the sommelier, Señor Moguer, and Señor Ibáñez, his lordship’s manservant, added their congratulations. Others nodded as they wolfed down the stew. She thanked them.
‘Credit is also due to the rest of the kitchen staff,’ she added, glancing sideways at Doña Ursula to gauge her reaction.
The housekeeper’s face – her cheeks lit up by the flavours and her eyes gleaming with the vapours – gave her away. Despite this, her pride stopped her from expressing her feelings. Clara felt her to be an insufferable woman, since all Clara had done was try to gain her respect and make her understand that she posed no threat at Castamar, quite the opposite in fact. All she wanted was for Doña Ursula to be pleased with her work and for their relationship to be placed on a firm footing after the change wrought by Clara’s promotion. However, Doña Ursula’s silence demonstrated that admitting how the stew delighted both the servants’ and her own palate would mean watching her power wane. For the housekeeper, uttering such words would not simply be a matter of giving sincere praise but would be an admission of defeat, accepting that Clara’s culinary know-how had defeated her authority. I really don’t know what to do with this woman, Clara thought.
‘You are an extraordinary cook,’ Simón Casona intervened from the other end of the table, interrupting her thoughts.
‘You haven’t tried the warm buns made with honey and butter that she makes for his lordship,’ Elisa said. ‘The other morning she let me try one that was left over, and I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.’
Smiling with exhilaration, the sommelier, the coachmen, the manservants and the footmen all exchanged opinions about the wonderful flavours of her cooking. When she had finished her stew, Clara dabbed her lips and smiled timidly.
‘You’re making me blush,’ she told them.
‘Your skill in the kitchen is undeniable, so you might as well just accept it,’ Don Melquíades said, making the other servants laugh.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doña Ursula, her lips pursed, gripping the spoon between her fingers and finishing off her stew in silence. Her silence was so pronounced that it spoke volumes, but after the housekeeper’s comments about Clara’s dear mother in the gallery, insinuating that she only spent time in kitchens to entertain herself, this bath of humility was just what was deserved. Clara saw Don Melquíades, covering his mouth as he laughed, shoot an inquisitive look at Doña Ursula. That vindictive glint revealed to Clara that there was something far deeper than a simple disagreement between these two.
‘What do you think, Doña Ursula? Isn’t it just delicious?’ the butler asked. ‘You haven’t said a word.’
The laughter stopped almost at once, and everyone looked over at the housekeeper, who was now glaring at Don Melquíades. Clara guessed that she was plotting a devastating revenge for such impertinence. The entire room waited, while Clara wondered how Doña Ursula could allow such an act of defiance from the head butler at Castamar, who, with his smile camouflaged by his moustache, arched his eyebrows slightly as he waited for an answer. The housekeeper scanned all the diners, who automatically lowered their heads. Then she gave Clara another glacial stare. Holding her head high, the cook glimpsed something in that stare that made her shudder.
Clara realized Doña Ursula had remained silent during those eternal seconds, not only because of any private duel she might have with Don Melquíades, but because she somehow believed Clara had something to do with the affront. Suddenly, she imagined the picture the housekeeper had formed when Clara and Don Melquíades had entered the dining room together.
‘Yes, quite delicious. Congratulations, Señorita Belmonte,’ she said solemnly.
‘Thank you, Doña Ursula,’ Clara answered, only now lowering her head.
She took a breath and, as they served the rest of the food, told herself that the butler’s victory over Doña Ursula had been interpreted as a challenge to her authority made by Clara. If previously she had simply made the housekeeper feel uncomfortable, Clara had now become a direct adversary. Even so, with each spoonful, her will grew firmer, and she told herself that under no circumstances would she allow the housekeeper to unfairly expel her from the kitchen.
15
16 October 1720, after lunch
Enrique had no knowledge of the despair that was born of poverty, and no real concept of the devastation it caused in those poor souls into whom it sank its claws. However, he sensed that it was a kind of terror that suffused everything, a storm which forced its victims to trade their dignity for survival. And it was this insight that he exploited as a tool with which to achieve his objectives. It was said that hunger, misery and debt were the true agents of death, shortening people’s lives, stealing their best years, robbing them of joy. Few could withstand such an onslaught without either capitulating to adversity or losing their principles along the way – facts he used to his advantage, playing upon them as if they were instruments.
Poor Amelia Castro thought he hadn’t registered her fear, that she had succeeded in hiding her true desperation beneath her elegant manners. After listening to Don Diego recite Quevedo’s sonnets of past glories, she had cheerfully suggested they take turns to read other authors. Don Gabriel had surprised them by selecting a book and dedicating the reading to Don Enrique.
‘The Valiant Negro in Flanders,’ he had announced, ‘by Andrés de Claramonte.’
The text was about a freed slave who had risen to become a commander of the tercios. What nonsense! Enrique thought. Nobody in their right mind would allow a negro to command a tercio. He lay back without saying anything, although he smiled to keep up an appearance of civility. He knew that Don Gabriel was eager to demonstrate that he was as cultivated as any gentleman, that he was not some slave recently brought from Africa who could neither speak nor read Spanish.
Next, Señorita Castro entertained them with a seguidilla that she sang delightfully. Enchanted as he was, Enrique could not stop thinking about whether Hernaldo had obtained the skeleton key that would allow him to move freely around Castamar. He hoped to take delivery of the key when he went riding before supper – having it in his possession would make his task far simpler. He was just reminding himself of the need for patience when it began to rain. The party took cover beneath the parasols while the servants scrambled to tidy away the picnic.
‘I’m afraid the sunshades won’t keep us dry for long,’ he said grumpily.
Don Diego announced that they could take shelter in the farmhouse until the rain stopped, but one of the servants approached and informed them this would not be necessary.
‘I took the precaution of warning Señor Cebrián to bring the carriages, in the event of such a situation,’ he explained. ‘They are on the other side of the hill.’
‘Good thinking…’ Don Diego said, waiting for the servant to give his name.
‘Roberto Velázquez, your grace.’
‘Señor Elquiza’s nephew?’ Don Diego asked, in a friendly tone. The lad nodded, and Don Diego told him to bring the carriages round as quickly as possible. Enrique thought to himself that the setback could be an opportunity to find himself alone with Señorita Castro. He assumed that the duke and his brother would opt for the second carriage, to protect their mother from the rain. He would follow Señorita Castro, who, anxious to be safe from the downpour and perhaps from him, would no doubt hurry to the first carriage. And so, before the carriages arrived, he took up position next to Don Diego, well away from her so that she would not suspect his intentions and, in an attempt to strike up a casual conversation, commented to the duke that they had been unlucky with the weather. As soon as the carriages arrived, the duke said farewell and took his mother by the hand to assist her.
