Chapter 8
Léo reached for the discarded brownie and ate it thoughtfully as he watched Juliet march away across the lawn, that wildly incongruous pink shawl flapping around her otherwise impeccable silhouette. She was certainly beautiful, and chic, but he also felt drawn to her rage and sadness, emotions he realised she usually suppressed fiercely but which tonight had spilt over into what he suspected were rare tears. He had wanted to reach out to her, hold her, let her sob out all that pain and frustration, but she hadn’t wanted to be supported or even seen with her guard down. He let out a small ‘tsk’ as he finished off the brownie and picked up his glass to go back inside. He knew he was attracted to complicated women, but now that he was settled at Feywood, he didn’t want another drama and certainly not a second scandal that would see him have to leave this life behind him and move on again.
The next morning saw Léo in the kitchen early, pummelling bread and marinating hake in a delicious-smelling concoction of olive oil, lemon and four different fresh herbs, picked from the garden on his way in. He hadn’t spent much longer last night with the family; once he had reassured them that Juliet was all right and had returned to the stable block, he went up to his room. Gladly distracted by work, as ever, he had played around with some recipe ideas for a book he was considering and after a couple of hours felt more clear-headed. However attracted he felt to her, he would approach Juliet as a friend only, which would surely be most beneficial to them both.
He was just laying a tea towel over his dough and placing it in the sun on the windowsill when Sylvia came in.
‘Good morning, Léo, you’ve made an early start today.’
‘Bonjour, yes, I wanted to try this bread. I think my final tweaks might just set it apart. We’re nearly ready for the weekend.’
‘I know. I do hope they like it all. Is that the hake? It smells wonderful. I’m going to work on the finishing touches to the passionfruit mousse this morning. Shall we go over to breakfast first, or have you eaten?’
‘No, I haven’t had anything yet – let’s go. My dough should be ready by the time we return.’
They were just leaving when they heard a tread on the stairs, and Juliet appeared. She looks different, thought Léo, softer somehow. There’s power, perhaps, in crying in front of someone else, no matter how reluctantly…
Sylvia went to hug her.
‘Good morning, darling, how are you feeling today? I must say, you look very well rested. Are you coming over to breakfast?’
‘Yes, I will. I slept so well, Aunt Sylvia, it’s so quiet here. I’m sorry about the upset last night, I shouldn’t have walked out like that. I’ll sort it out with everyone this morning.’
If Sylvia was surprised at this apology, she didn’t show it, just patted her niece warmly on the arm. Juliet continued, ‘Morning, Léo. Thanks for looking out for me last night.’
He smiled broadly.
‘You are most welcome, Juliet. Come, let us go and see what your father has prepared for breakfast.’
It was a long-running routine at Feywood that Rousseau prepared breakfast most mornings for everyone staying or living at the house. Sylvia had only stepped in on the day of Juliet’s birthday because Rousseau had been so agitated about the family meeting. He was always up with the lark, no matter how late he had worked or caroused the night before, and enjoyed pottering around the large kitchen making steaming pots of coffee and tea and assembling treats that he thought people would like. And they did. Every day they came in to a sideboard heaving with food. The basics were always there – cereal, toast, fruit and yoghurt – but beyond that you never knew what you would find. Sometimes, Rousseau would be feeling continental and there would be croissants and pain au chocolat, sometimes it was pancakes, sometimes a savoury feast with eggs, tomatoes, golden hash browns and vegetarian sausages. Now and again, he would have been reading P.G. Wodehouse and you would be in for kedgeree, and on one memorable occasion, he came over all Japanese and produced a spread of hot, tightly packed triangles of sticky rice wrapped in seaweed, with octopus on the side. Today, as Juliet, Sylvia and Léo stepped in, they saw a vat of creamy porridge and a rainbow of pick-your-own toppings, ranging from dried fruit to granola to a tempting heap of tiny multicoloured chocolate sweets.
‘I do wish Rousseau would teach a session at the cookery school,’ sighed Léo as he filled a bowl with the porridge and added some of every topping. ‘He is so creative, an artist in everything he does. I’m sure he would inspire our students.’
‘Don’t forget he will continue providing breakfasts on the days our guests are here,’ said Sylvia, balancing a plate of toast on top of her bowl. ‘Just sharing in his wonderful breakfasts will give them ideas, and knowing Rousseau, he’ll pull out all the stops for them.’
‘Like he doesn’t already,’ said Juliet, smiling slightly. ‘No wonder there’s no money for the roof; these breakfasts must cost a fortune. Not that I’m complaining,’ she added hastily. ‘I’m all for Smarties on porridge, although the octopus was going a bit far.’
Léo grinned to himself. Already she was showing a different side, more…mellow, and a sense of humour starting to show through. Intriguing. He pulled himself up quickly, remembering his resolution to be friendly, nothing more. As the three of them sat down, in came Martha and Frankie, who served themselves porridge and joined them at the table without more than a murmured ‘good morning’. A few moments passed, and then Juliet cleared her throat.
‘Look, I’m sorry about yesterday evening. I…I understand why you want to do a memorial for Mum.’
A voice came from behind her.
‘And will you contribute an artwork, my darling?’
Rousseau had come into the room and now moved to serve himself some breakfast. Léo could see how uncomfortable Juliet was and he longed to reach out to her in some way. He could see her wrestling with what to say in reply and guessed that she didn’t know whether to keep her head down and agree, as she had as a child and adolescent, or whether to speak her mind, as the adult she was now. She glanced over at him, and he smiled at her encouragingly, nodding.
‘No, Dad, I don’t think I will.’
Faces turned to Juliet in surprise, but she kept her gaze steadily on her father, who had paused, porridge spoon in hand. She continued, ‘Look, since Mum died, I have battled with how I feel about her and about me. I’m not going to go into it all now, and I don’t want to spoil the memorial for all of you. But I don’t want to promise something I’m not sure I can deliver. Mum didn’t appreciate what I do anyway, so it doesn’t feel right to create a cartoon for her. What I will promise is that I will think about it, see if I can come up with something else that I am comfortable with.’
There was a silence as Rousseau continued serving his porridge. Léo tried to catch Juliet’s eye to smile again. He felt proud of her for speaking so calmly and honestly, but she stared down miserably into her food and didn’t look at him. Rousseau sat down and poured some coffee.
‘Darling Juliet.’
Every eye at the table swivelled to look at him.
‘My darling girl, I understand.’
Juliet looked up sharply.
‘You do?’
‘Yes. You’ve spoken truthfully, and I see how you have grown since you left Feywood. I did so worry that coming back was not the right thing for you, even though it was essential. But now I see that the changes that have been made do not only hold true in London, away from us. Well done, my dear.’
Léo could see Juliet’s eyes brimming with tears and, remembering the distress that crying in front of him had brought her the previous evening, he knew that this was the moment to shift the attention away from her and give her a chance to compose herself.
‘I wonder,’ he said, addressing Rousseau, ‘if you might allow me to collate some of your marvellous breakfast ideas for a section in the new recipe book I am planning? In fact, anyone here who has a special recipe or idea could share it with me. This cookbook is going to be a love letter to Feywood and to you all, for the welcome you have shown me.’
Immediately there was a hubbub as Martha and Frankie started chattering about favourite childhood dishes that could be included, and Rousseau agreed willingly to having his breakfast ideas documented. Léo saw Juliet take a moment to dab her eyes and breathe deeply before she turned to him and smiled again, a more natural, relaxed smile this time.
‘Thank you, Léo. I think I might have a few ideas too.’
‘But your aunt said you couldn’t boil an egg?’ He grinned at her.
‘Oh no, she’s right, I can’t, but I can mix a wicked cocktail. Wouldn’t your recipe book benefit from a few of those?’
‘Now that really is a bon idée. Play to your strengths, I like it.’
Everybody laughed and the rest of breakfast was spent in relaxed chatter as they all made their suggestions for the book, received gratefully by Léo – but most of which, he thought privately, would never make it to the pages. Particularly Frankie’s revolting-sounding suggestion of cold baked beans mixed with Marmite and cheese. Hardly haute cuisine.
A short while after breakfast, Sylvia, Léo and Juliet assembled in the cookery school kitchen.
‘Juliet, darling, we do appreciate your offer to do the artwork for our website and other literature for free, but we really feel we should pay you.’ Sylvia looked uncomfortable, and once again Léo was so pleased that he had gone into business with someone who had such integrity.
‘I knew you’d say that,’ said Juliet, with something of her previous sternness, which was already melting away, returning. ‘I am perfectly happy to do it for free, but I understand that you find that hard to accept, so I would like to offer you a deal.’
Léo wondered if the softer-seeming Juliet had been nothing more than a fleeting image: maybe now they would see the tough city girl reappear. A ‘deal’ sounded ominous, and expensive. Juliet continued.
‘I am exploring photography with various subjects, but one thing I have been short of is people. In return for my drawings, may I have access to you both preparing and cooking the food, and even to the food itself? I don’t know how good my pictures will be, I think I have a lot to learn, but you would be welcome to use them if you wanted to. It’s the experience I need, it would be invaluable to me.’
So, not a monetary request, but a generous offer, tied up in terms that he and Sylvia could happily accept. Léo reminded himself for at least the third time that morning that he was not going to let himself feel attracted to this beautiful, difficult, surprising girl, but mon dieu, she was making it hard for him. He shook himself and beamed at Sylvia, who was looking at him questioningly.
‘I think that sounds like a very good exchange, merci Juliet for your offer. Don’t you agree, Sylvia?’
‘You’re a clever girl, Juliet, thank you, we’d love to take you up on it.’
‘Good. Like I said, don’t expect Annie Leibovitz, but I might get good enough to make something of it, with practice.’
‘Are you thinking of moving away from the cartoons, then, and into photography? I must say, my darling, I think it would be an easier path. I know you’ve fought to get where you are, but don’t you want to, well…relax and enjoy life a bit?’
A look came across Juliet’s face that took Léo straight back to when he had first met her. Her lips tightened into a mutinous line and her brow creased like a cross child’s. He was annoyed to realise that, whereas previously he had found this expression off-putting, it was beginning to seem endearing. He wanted to poke or tickle her to snap her out of it, but that probably wouldn’t go down so well.
When she spoke, her voice was edgy, the warmth and humour of before dissipated.
‘I’m not making any decisions. I know you all think that my London life was some kind of bear pit, but I enjoyed it and I’m enjoying the success. It’s hard work, yes, particularly for a woman, but I can do it.’
‘Oh dear, I’m not suggesting for a moment that you can’t.’ Sylvia looked worried. ‘I’m really not trying to tell you what to do, darling, I just want the best for you.’
Juliet’s face relaxed a fraction.
‘I know, Aunt Sylvia, sorry. I just don’t want to be pigeonholed one way or another.’
Léo tactfully removed himself to the sink area and started making coffee, which he considered a good idea most of the time, even just before bed, but particularly when some busyness was needed. Since he had been living at Feywood, he had watched his English hosts go through the same routine with tea, over and over again, but he never found quite the same satisfaction in squishing a teabag against a mug as he did from brewing fresh, aromatic coffee. He had even tried making tea with loose leaves, in a pot, but found it more fiddly than the result warranted, and he didn’t like stray tealeaves in his teeth. As he ground and poured and swished, he kept a surreptitious eye on Juliet and her aunt. Juliet must have regretted her harsh tone of voice because after a few more exchanges, which Léo could not hear over the bean grinder, he saw her reach out to Sylvia and then melt into the older woman’s kind embrace. She looked so tense but yet so vulnerable; a complicated woman, he reflected again as he gave the pot a single stir, then pushed down the plunger.
‘Is that coffee nearly ready, Léo?’ asked Sylvia, giving him the cue he needed to turn around and join the women again. ‘It smells wonderful.’
‘Good! These are the beans I roasted myself – hopefully rather more rich and sweet than last time I tried.’
‘You roast your own coffee beans?’ asked Juliet. ‘How do you do that? I didn’t know you could do it yourself.’
‘Oh yes, it’s very easy. There are lots of ways to do it, but I just use the oven. It’s taken me a few tries, but I think this is a good batch. I’ll show you how to do it, if you like?’
There was a small silence. Juliet looked taken aback as if he had asked her out to dinner, not just offered to show her a simple kitchen procedure, but he reminded himself of how touchy – or maybe, he revised, a better word would be sensitive – Juliet could be.
‘Er, yes, all right, thank you. It would make an excellent subject for photography.’
‘Bon, then we shall include it in the schedule. Come, let’s all sit down and decide where to start.’