Cooking the Books - Part Four

And finally we come to MISS MOLLY ROBBINS DESIGNS A SEDUCTION, the fourth and final book in the Sydney Dovedale series. For this, my sister chose Creamy Au Gratin Potatoes, a dish that makes something rich and extra-special out of the humble potato. I think Molly Robbins, plain country girl turned successful Modiste, could certainly appreciate this dish!

Creamy Au Gratin Potatoes

1 garlic clove
1.2 kg potatoes - peeled
250 ml (1 cup) thickened cream
3 cups shredded Swiss cheese
Salt and pepper
2 tbs chopped parsley

Preheat oven to 160 degrees c. Lightly grease an 8-cup baking dish. Thinly slice potatoes.

Arrange potato slices in base of dish, slightly overlapping. Drizzle cream over the layer and sprinkle with some of the cheese. Season with salt and pepper and garlic. Make three more layers the same way, finishing with cheese.

Bake for 1 - 11/4 hours, or until potatoes are tender and top is golden brown. Set aside for ten minutes to stand. Sprinkle with parsley.

Excerpt from MISS MOLLY ROBBINS DESIGNS A SEDUCTION (release date  - this Tuesday, February 4th, 2014)

“Thank you for the flowers,” she blurted before he could even speak. It had been burning there on her tongue, her heart wracked with guilt for not acknowledging the unexpected thoughtfulness of his gift.

He seemed to be studying the charcoal she held in her fingers. Slowly his dark gaze lifted to her face. “Do you have my handkerchief? The one I lent you when I stole cake for you, madam?”

“No,” she answered so swiftly it took her breath away. “I lost it.” He wasn’t getting it back she decided in the blink of an eye. Besides, he had many handkerchiefs. Why would he need one back? It was all she had of him.

“I see. How careless of you.”

“If I find it, I’ll return it, your lordship.” Oh, such a filthy liar she had become.

He half turned away and then back again. “By the by, you made a mistake on that contract, Mouse.”

She squinted. “I don’t think I—”

“Tomfoolery. You should have checked the spelling.”

“Oh?”

Towering over her in the doorway, he had to bend his head or else hit his brow on the crooked lintel. “Since it is spelled incorrectly, that makes the clause null and void.”

“I’m quite certain a word misspelled is not enough to—”

“You may confer with a man of the law, of course, if you don’t believe me.” He glared down at her, the challenge clear in his fierce expression. “Ask Hobbs.”

Naturally. Ask his faithful minion to confirm. Why not? “You came back just to tell me this?”

“I did.”

“It seems a dreadful waste of your time, when you must have more important matters to tend.” Her heart was overexcited, racing too fast.

“How I waste my time is up to me, Miss Robbins.”

“I suppose so. You must be very good at it by now.”

His eyes widened. “And there was nothing more pressing at this moment than correcting you.” A warm, teasing light simmered in his lightened gaze. “And your addlepated contract.”

“An addlepated contract you signed.”

“Under duress.”

Slightly breathless, she laughed. “Duress?”

“It was early. I was unprepared.” He propped his shoulder against her doorframe. “As you knew I would be.”

She felt easy in his presence suddenly. It should have been odd and uncomfortable to have him there, leaning in her doorway, but she was no longer his servant, was she? She was Miss Margaret Robbins, her own woman. Lady Anne, who had never known the old Molly, called her “bold.” She had her own life now and could do as she pleased. So she pondered the hard set of his jaw and said, “You didn’t shave today. Your lordship.”

“Well observed, Mouse.”

“Lady Mercy would be appalled.”

“Lady Mercy is not here.”

Alas. None of this would be happening if she was. Molly would not be commenting on the state of his chin scruff, and Carver would not be visiting her lodgings in the dark of night if his sister was present to prevent it.

“Well, I just wanted to point out your spelling error, Mouse. While it was in the forefront of my mind.”

“Sakes, yes. We know how briefly thoughts remain there.”

He scratched his cheek, and she knew the little hairs must be itching. She’d bet five pounds it was all shaved smooth again by morning. He made no move to leave.

“Do not burden your mind further with the idea, your lordship. I’m sure you have many other thoughts waiting for their turn.”

“You infer I can have only one at a time?”

Molly fought hard to prevent her lips curving. “You are a man, your lordship.”

He shook his head. “I see your new success has gone to your head, Robbins. Pride comes before a fall.” Now he made a small movement that suggested he was ready to depart again.

“Speaking of falls, did Larkin get the grass stains out of your breeches?” she asked hurriedly.

Carver relaxed against the doorframe once more. “He did.”

“Good.”

“Your concern for my breeches is misplaced.” His eyes lightened even further, distinctly mischievous. “The knees beneath them were more severely wounded.”

She looked down at the items in question. “One should take greater care when one goes out riding, especially in advanced years.”

“And young maids,” he replied swiftly, “should take better care with their spelling.”

Pushing away from the doorframe, he took the charcoal from between her fingers, turned her hand over, and began to write on her palm.

“T…O…M…F…O…O…”

She couldn’t breathe suddenly. His gloved hand holding hers was firm, steady. She prayed to all the saints that he would not feel her tremble, but surely he must. The Earl of Everscham was holding her hand. Holding her hand. The charcoal tickled across her palm, the lines already smudged by unladylike perspiration.

“L…E…”

Molly knew she ought to pull her hand away and stop him at once, but if she didn’t let him keep her hand, where else might he write his letters? She feared to imagine.

“R…Y. There. Now you know how to spell it, Mouse.”

She glanced down at the word with which he’d marked her skin in giant letters. Unable to get them all on her small palm in one line, he’d made three-and-a-half lines, some of the letters riding up her wrist. With his free hand, he turned her chin up to face him.

“And now, just so we are clear about the definition too…”

It seemed to take forever for his lips to reach her. His height, of course, necessitated a low stoop. Molly had plenty of time to avoid his mouth, more than enough time to know his intention. But she tipped her head back, and her lips met his.

She closed her eyes. His fingertips stroked along her jaw and down the side of her neck, where he would feel her hectic pulse fluttering. His firm lips took that kiss from her ruthlessly, as if he expected a fight but meant to have what he wanted regardless. Stubble pricked her cheek, chafed slightly. His tongue delved into her mouth, tasting her slowly and yet not tentatively, just exploring at his own pace, relishing what he found. His hand around her fingers tightened until she almost yelped. Would have too, if his kiss had not taken complete possession of her capacities just then.

 

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Cooking the Books

Today's selection - Apple Tart with Chantilly Cream to match up with LADY MERCY DANFORTHE FLIRTS WITH SCANDAL. The rustic apple tart would suit our hero Rafe Hartley and, of course, that fancy Chantilly cream symbolizes Lady Mercy.

Ingredients

 For the tart

200g/7oz ready-made puff pastry

2 tbsp stewed apple, or sweet apple sauce

6 apples (Cox or Granny Smith), peeled, quartered and cored

2 tbsp caster sugar

40g/1½oz butter, cubed

1 free-range egg yolk, beaten

For the Chantilly cream

250ml/9fl oz double cream

1 tbsp icing sugar

1 vanilla pod, seeds scraped out

 

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 200C/400F/Gas 6.

2. Roll the puff pastry out on a clean work surface to a large sheet, 3mm thick.

Using a bowl or plate, cut a circle about 25cm/10in in diameter.

Crimp the edge before turning the whole sheet over and laying it directly onto a flat baking tray. Chill in the fridge for at least 10 minutes.

3. Remove the pastry from the fridge and spread the apple compôte all over the base of pastry, leaving a 1cm/½in border at the edge.

4. Slice the apples the thickness of a two-pound coin and place them onto the pastry sheet, fanning them out, starting from the outside and working in. The apples should overlap each other. Use the largest slices on the outside and place the smallest slices in the middle of the tart.

5. Once all the apples have been laid out, sprinkle over the caster sugar and dot with the cubed butter. Brush the border with the beaten egg and bake in the oven for about 30 minutes, or until golden-brown and risen around the edge.

6. For the Chantilly cream, whisk the cream, icing sugar and seeds from the vanilla pod in a bowl until very soft peaks form and set aside until ready to serve.

Excerpt from LADY MERCY DANFORTHE FLIRTS WITH SCANDAL:

            He paced in the churchyard, hat in his hands. When Molly was half an hour late, he’d thought she must be ill or some tragedy had happened to keep her from getting to the church. But as time wore on and he saw his stepmother’s face and then his aunt’s peering fearfully at him around the corner of the chapel tower, he knew this was not the case.

            Finally, here came Mercy Fancy-Breeches Danforthe, picking her way daintily over tussocks of grass. Trust this damned woman to be in the thick of it.

            It was some time now since he’d seen her this close, but there was no avoiding each other today. Rafe readied himself, gathering the memories of all those things she’d done to him, all the pain she’d caused. It was because of this woman that Molly went off to London and developed a fancy for finer things. Molly’s experience of life in Town had been very different from his, of course. The side of London she saw was clean and shiny as a newly minted penny.

            “Well, say what you’ve come to say,” he exclaimed as Mercy drew near. “Give it to me straight. I can take my punches.”

        She looked up. “So I hear, Mr. Hartley.” A flare of bright sun lit her wretchedly pretty face, and a sharp spur of anger burned in his gut. The opinionated wench was more beautiful today than he remembered. Stunning. The sight of her sent his mind into a furi­ously spinning vortex from which it could not rescue itself. His temper traveled rapidly likewise. He supposed she was satisfied now, having ruined his wedding day. Again. Ruined his life, for the second time.

        It was five years, five months, one week, and three days since The Danforthe Brat persuaded him, in a wild moment of stupidity, to run off with her to Gretna Green. It shocked Rafe that he knew the exact number of days, for until that moment he hadn’t realized he was counting. Her brother, the Earl of Everscham, would never tolerate the match, of course. Their marriage was declared void within hours, because they were both too young and neither had consent. Good thing too, Rafe could say now with hindsight.

        Slowly she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, lingering over her message.

        “What are you waiting for?” he grunted impatiently as he shifted from foot to foot.

        Mercy slid the bonnet from her hair, and when she tipped her head to one side, another brilliant glimmer of sun caught on her curls. She squinted. “I’m sorry—”

        “I’ll bet you are.”

            He saw her straighten her shoulders and wrap her bonnet ribbons tightly around her fingers. “I may as well tell you without preamble.”

            “I’d be grateful,” he snapped. “My lady.”

            She exhaled sharply. “Molly says she can’t marry you. Not today.”

            “Does she indeed?”

            “She’s confused. Afraid. It’s just nerves.”

            Rafe looked away for a moment, curbing the instinct to curse out loud. The temperance wouldn’t last long, he knew. Good manners were never his strong point.

            “I’m sure she’ll come to—”

            “Why can’t she tell me this herself?” he demanded.

            The woman stepped closer, taking shelter under the dappled shade of a yew tree as if that might protect her, not only from the sun’s rays but from his wrath too. “It seems there is much the two of you have not discussed.”

            “What business is it of yours?”

            Even in the shade of the tree she glowed. Her buttercup-yellow gown held on to the sunlight, as did her hair. “Molly is very upset. Distraught.”

            “What the bloody hell do you think I am?”

            She nodded, her full lips pressed tight.

            Rafe wiped his brow on his jacket sleeve. “Content now, woman?”

            Her eyes widened. They were a very light shade of green, inquisitive and watchful. Like cat’s eyes, Rafe thought. He never did like cats much. “Me?” she replied. “Why should I be content? I don’t like to see my friend in tears.”

            “She’s not your friend. She’s your servant, and you tell her what to do. You never wanted her to marry me.”

        “That’s not true.” She was too steady, too calm. The superior little witch stood before him as if butter wouldn’t melt in her pouty mouth.

        Humiliation soared within Rafe. That she, of all people, took it upon herself to play messenger. She probably could barely contain her amusement. In that moment he forgot all about his own doubts and fears regarding this marriage. All he knew was that he’d been made a fool before his family and the entire village. And before this woman who already looked down on him, just because she was the daughter of an earl. Just because one of her ancestors, back in the dark ages, probably murdered and cheated his way into land and a title. That made her imagine she was above him, that her existence was somehow more worthy of life’s breath than that of the men who worked her brother’s land, the women who dressed her every morning, or the man who shoed her horses. Or him.

        The flames of a hot, tinderbox temper consumed any last sensible thought he might have had, and all the resentment he held against folk of her class came quickly to the fore. She was the symbol of everything he despised.

            Why did she have to be there? Why did she have to come with the message?

* * * *

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Cooking the Books

For the second book in my Sydney Dovedale series, THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE, my sister chose the following recipe (for the Hartley jewels that Ellie is accused of stealing - as if she would!!):

Tomato Jewel Tartlets

Ingredients

4 ounces goat cheese, softened
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley
1 tablespoon chopped fresh chives
1 tablespoon grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 teaspoon cracked black pepper
1/2 teaspoon grated lemon zest
1/2 of a 17.3-ounce package Puff Pastry Sheets (1 sheet), thawed
24 cherry tomatoes

Method

Heat the oven to 400°F.  Stir the goat cheese, parsley, chives, Parmesan cheese, black pepper and lemon zest in a medium bowl. 

Unfold the pastry sheet on a lightly floured surface.  Roll the pastry sheet into a 10-inch square.  Cut into 4 (2 1/2-inch) strips.  Cut each strip into 6 (3x3x3-inch) triangles.  Discard any remaining pastry.  Press the pastry triangles into the bottoms and up the sides of 24 (1 1/2-inch) mini muffin-pan cups.

Bake for 7 minutes.

Cut slits in the tops of the tomatoes and scoop out the seeds.  Spoon about 1 1/2 teaspoons cheese mixture into each tomato.  Place the tomatoes in the centre of the warm pastries and press down lightly.

Bake for 5 minutes or until the pastries are golden brown

 

 

　

Excerpt from THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE:

Ellie Vyne never had much sympathy for men, until she temporarily became one. Disguised as the

"count de Bonneville," donning satin breeches and an old-fashioned powdered wig to gamble among Society’s decadent rich, she discovered a surprising fact. Contrary to previous conjecture, the male animal did not necessarily have all the fun. True, they could burp as they chose without reprimand, and sit with their legs in any pose comfortable. But they too had pitfalls to dodge, because the female sex could be just as single-minded in pursuit of sport and just as reticent to take no for an answer.

For instance, the "count" was lucky to get away with his true identity intact—likewise his trousers—since Lady Ophelia Southwold proved herself such an overeager strumpet that evening. While pressing a lavish diamond necklace into the count’s gloved hand in payment for her IOU, the lady also extended a startling offer, whispered so hotly in his ear that the
steam nearly wilted his wig. An offer he was obliged to refuse for reasons obvious only to himself.
It was fortunate Lady Southwold’s fingers never ventured any higher along the count’s breeches, or she would have shared his secret and suffered a nasty shock.
Followed by disappointment of severe magnitude.

Ellie could laugh over the incident now she had safely retreated to a rowdy inn on the outskirts of London. Kneeling on the bed, in the count’s lace-trimmed shirt, she counted out the guineas won after another night of fleecing unsuspecting aristocrats and rich young bucks about Town. She carefully lifted Lady Southwold’s necklace and studied the five enormous diamonds hanging on little clips. Ellie never wore much jewelry, other than the pearls left behind by her mother—and those were elegant and understated. But this necklace was nothing like that. She’d never seen diamonds so large. And heavy. They would surely drag a woman’s shoulders down by the end of an evening. It really was possible to have too much of a good thing.

While this had been a fruitful outing for the charming, elusive "count," when Ellie looked at those ugly diamonds, a shimmer of foreboding lapped at her senses. It ruffled her nerve endings like the tongue of a sly, cooling zephyr. Perhaps tonight had been too
fruitful. It could be time to hang up the count’s breeches before the ruse was discovered. Truthfully, she was surprised she got away with her masquerade as long as she did. It didn’t say much for her looks, Ellie mused, that she was so easily disguised as a man. Or
else it said little for the masculine appearance of today’s aristocratic gentlemen.

Her winnings packed safely away, she peeled the itching theatrical eyebrows carefully off her face, finished a glass of brandy, blew out her candle, and tumbled back across the bed. Sprawled in the moonlight, she yawned heavily, listened to the general ruckus from below, and pondered the strange direction her life had strayed. As the main caretaker of her family since the age of eight, she’d always known something different waited in her future, but she never imagined the road she traveled would be quite like this. * * * *
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COOKING THE BOOKS

Well, it is a cold, cold day here but at least I don't have ice on the inside of my windows this morning, so it must be warming up. Slightly!

I have something today that will heat you up, I hope.

Welcome to my new feature - Cooking the Books - in which I'll be spotlighting one of my books each day with a recipe that matches the theme of the story. My very clever, amusing and vastly talented sister, Lynne Gilkes (yes, that is how she prefers that I introduce her) has provided the recipes, because I can't cook much beyond Yorkshire pudding and jam sandwiches.

Today's offering is the first book in my Sydney Dovedale series, THE MOST IMPROPER MISS SOPHIE VALENTINE. Since Sophie is a lady who keeps her spicy true-self well hidden under a demure, sweet exterior, the recipe my sister chose is Chilli Chocolate Ice Cream.

Enjoy!

Chilli Chocolate Ice Cream

Ingredients

Ice cream

3 red chillies, sliced

600ml double cream

¼ tsp chilli powder

4 large egg yolks

100g caster sugar

150g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces

50g dark chocolate, chopped

Candied chillies, optional

2 fresh red chillies, deseeded and finely chopped

100g sugar

100ml water

 Method

 To make the ice cream, place the chillies and cream into a saucepan. Warm until just below boiling and then remove from the heat and leave to infuse for 30 minutes. Strain the cream and discard the chillies and seeds. Add the chilli powder and reheat the cream until just below boiling, stirring continuously.

Place the egg yolks and sugar into a bowl, mix together then slowly pour the cream over the egg mixture, stirring continuously. Return the egg mixture to the saucepan, add the 150g broken chocolate and heat gently, stirring, until the mixture thickens slightly. Remove from the heat, leave to cool a little and then put in the fridge to chill.

Once cool, stir in the 50g chopped chocolate. Set the timer on your ice cream maker for 25 minutes. Pour the mixture into the bowl with the paddle running and leave to freeze churn. If you prefer a firmer consistency, place the ice cream in your freezer for 20-30 minutes.

To make the candied chillies, place the ingredients into a pan, bring to the boil and simmer gently for 10 minutes. Remove from the heat and strain through a sieve. Reserve 1 tbsp of the liquid and discard the rest. Stir the reserved liquid into the chillies, leave to cool then sprinkle over the ice cream to serve.

Tip: Home-made ice cream is best taken out of the freezer 20-30 minutes before serving.

* * * *

Excerpt from THE MOST IMPROPER MISS SOPHIE VALENTINE.

 

Sophie continued her sewing. She should have known better than to raise the subject of economy, for any advice she tried to give Lavinia dropped into small, ineffectual ears muffled by ringlets and attached to a very small brain incapable of understanding any will but its own.

"To be thus attacked and criticized in my own home. Me, a married woman of consequence and property, from good family and well brought up! To be lectured daily by a tight-lipped spinster who’s here only on my husband’s charity. I’ve never heard of such a thing. I am outraged that you think to tell me how to behave!"

 The wisest course of action would be to ignore her. After all, Sophie should be accustomed to it by now. It was apparently her lot in life to always be in the way, unequal to anything and unwelcome to everybody. But even as her conscience politely reminded her she was almost thirty and ought to be darning stockings by the fire with her aunt, only occasionally discussing the ins and outs of her health with no one who cared, she simply must relieve her anger somehow.

She was supposed to be a reformed character these days. Alas, the same naughty, rebellious imp that once urged her to leap from a balcony, not knowing how far she had to fall or what lay directly below, thrived inside her still. It would not sit in a corner and be quiet.

 She stood quickly, set aside her sewing, and walked out into the yard and round the corner. There she waited a moment, fists at her side, gaze darting back and forth.

"Put upon," she muttered. "Put upon?"

 She turned in a tight circle, bristling with anger.

Aha! There were two large sacks of chicken feathers and goose down against the wall, waiting for the pillowcases she and her aunt were sewing. Grabbing a stick from the woodpile, she ran up to the sacks and began beating them, imagining they were her sister-in-law.

"You should be put upon and often," she hissed. "And if your husband dislikes the duty, I’ll gladly do it!"

A cloud of feathers flew up as the first sack burst open, and she found the sensation so satisfying she turned her wrath on the second sack, until the air was full of feathers. She swung that stick so wildly she heard the stitches ripping at her shoulder, but it felt too good to stop. When she tossed the stick aside, she picked up the sack and emptied the last of the feathers, shaking it hard overhead. "One of these days," she gasped, "I’ll clap the side of your big head with the bacon kettle!" Dropping the sack to the ground, she stamped on it, grunting.

"I beg your pardon, madam, I tried the bell by the gatehouse, but there was no reply."

She spun around and found him right behind her, his hat under one arm, a pair of darkly curious eyes studying her in part bewilderment, part amusement.

Goose down drifted all around her, and her hairpins were falling loose, but she was frozen to the spot.

* * * *

 

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WIN, WIN, WIN!

Celebrating the new year, giving away the complete set of Sydney Dovedale books - signed by me. That includes THE MOST IMPROPER MISS SOPHIE VALENTINE, THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE, LADY MERCY DANFORTHE FLIRTS WITH SCANDAL and the new release MISS MOLLY ROBBINS DESIGNS A SEDUCTION.
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Taming the Tudor Male in Three Easy Lessons!

Hold onto your feathered caps, garters and trunk hose! My re-vamped, rejuvenated Tudor series (with a new publisher --TEP) is ready for release at last!

Coming tomorrow in book one - SEDUCING THE BEAST - Maddy Carver, a spirited young lady with a great deal of determination and a passion for Good Deeds, will meet her match in the shape of the darkly mysterious "Beast", otherwise known as The Earl of Swafford.

 

 

Coming in book two (January 10)- ONCE A ROGUE - Maddy's younger brother John, will encounter the icy-tempered Lucasta Collyer, who has the gall to think she can get away with only one night of anonymous passion with a stranger.

 

 

 

and finally book three - the one you've been waiting for. THE SAVAGE AND THE STIFF UPPER LIP will be released on January 24th.



 

Lancelot Upstanding Collyer has been the Earl of Swafford's bodyguard for ten years. He's loyal, ruthless and devoted to his post. He's never failed a single mission in his career, and never been distracted by a woman. But he's about to be tested beyond even his stalwart endurance.
Lady Catherine Mallory, the Earl's eldest daughter has been trouble all her life and nobody's more aware of this than Lancelot - the man often charged with getting her out of scrapes, while she refers to him scornfully as Master Stiff Upper Lip. Now she's all grown up and her father wants her married, but by maintaining her reputation as a 'Shrew,' this wayward lady keeps suitors at bay.
When the bodyguard and the Earl's daughter are caught together in a scandalous midnight tryst, they might claim it was a case of mistaken identity, but the Earl sees a chance to finally tame his stubborn daughter. A marriage is arranged at once, but with certain... stipulations . Can Lance tame his Shrew and keep that perfect record of victory, as well as her maidenhead, intact? Or will Cate find a way to conquer his notorious stiff upper lip and seduce her husband?

 

 

I'm excited! Hope you are too!



The Gentleman's Gentleman

In my book, THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE one of my favorite characters was born in the shape of Grieves, James Hartley's indomitable valet.

Grieves is the quintessential "Gentleman's Gentleman" - he is there not only to take care of his master's clothes, but to pick up the pieces and gently steer James on the right path, as often as possible, in his own quiet, unobtrusive way. He is a long-suffering confidant and patient advisor who has been with James for five years which, as he wearily observes, "doesn't feel a day over ten."

Above all, he is a friend to James.

Although on the surface their relationship appears to be one merely of master and servant, it is a bond much stronger than that and more complex. They share a sense of mutual respect and understanding. They need each other and -- much to their surprise -- they like each other.

James and Grieves share a dry sense of humor which has evidently brought them closer. Not to mention a sly enjoyment of the occasional mischief -- an ability to "get away with it". By the time I was done writing their scenes, I couldn't imagine the two of them ever parting company and I'm sure Grieves remained with James to the end of their days.

One day I'd like to write a little romance for Mr. Grieves. I'm sure he'd object with all the proper exclamations, because what would James Hartley do without him?!

I had a few inspirations for Grieves. One was the solemn, thoughtful, introverted "Stephens" played so movingly by Anthony Hopkins in the film "Remains of the Day". For the more playful side, I turned to inspiration from the "Jeeves and Wooster" stories by P.G. Wodehouse, particularly Stephen Fry's hilarious portrayal of the capable, ever-composed butler in the TV adaption of those books

History of the Valet

 In the middle ages a valet would have been the son of a knight or nobleman, employed as much for his own education in a grand household as to serve a master. A valet, subsequently, was an important member of staff and even in the early nineteenth century he ranked above butler. The valet often got to travel with his master, so he enjoyed a wider experience of Society and the world in general than was available to most other servants. This, I'm sure, gave him something of an aura of mystery!

 

A valet tended to the care of his master's garments, rose early to ensure boots and shoes were cleaned, would prepare the washing-stand in the dressing room and sometimes he would shave his master too, once the lazy gentleman was up and out of bed. The valet also handled secretarial duties for his master, made travel arrangements, kept accounts of visitors and tried to make sure the calls were returned. He accompanied his master abroad, where it was apparently important that he have not only a "smattering" of languages, but the ability to detect bed bugs, and some knowledge of medicine -- for those pesky foreign doctors were considered even less trustworthy than their English counterparts!!

 

Loyalty, honesty and devotion were the cornerstones of a valet's position. In 1892, Lady Violet Greville noted of valets that, "If he smokes your cigars, your loose cash may lie about freely; he will not touch it. You who are so careless with your studs and sleeve-links possess an attendant who counts and looks after them. If he occasionally helps himself to a glass or two of wine, he pays your bills punctually."

 

Below is a short explanation of the valet's duties, taken from The Complete Servant by Samuel and Sarah Adams, 1825.

 

"As the valet is much about his master's person, and has the opportunity of hearing his off-at-hand opinions on many subjects, he should endeavor to have as short a memory as possible, and above all keep his master's council; and he should be cautious of mischief-making or tale-bearing to the prejudice of other persons, as calculated to involve his master in disputes, and ruin himself if by chance he is incorrect."

 

I think Grieves would agree with all that, apart from the mischief-making!

 

 

Here is a little excerpt from THE WICKED WEDDING OF MISS ELLIE VYNE, in which Grieves attempts to keep his distracted master (James Hartley) on track for the day's schedule.

*****

         James critically perused his reflection in the long mirror. "That damned tailor will have to go. Look at this!" He raised his arms straight out in front, showing how the shirt pulled, stretching the stitches at his shoulders.

            "I am sorry, sir." The valet cast a timid eye over his master’s breeches, which were also snug.

            Seeing his expression, James exclaimed, "Quite, Grieves. I should like to be left with a little dignity at the end of the day." He took the new coat from the valet’s arms and tried to shrug his way into it, pausing as he felt the warning tightness and heard stitches break. He turned, still hunched, arms curved.

            Grieves hastened to his aid. "Let me help you out, sir."

            "Bring me my gun, Grieves, and I’ll shoot the fellow."

            "It just requires a few adjustments, to be sure."

            "My gun, Grieves!"

            With an almighty heave, James extracted his wide shoulders from the coat, and Grieves reached up to smooth down his shirtsleeves. "I shall speak to the tailor, sir."

            "Quicker to shoot him."

            "Yet not quite so practical. He is, after all, the very best tailor in London, so they say."

            "Humph." Turning this way and that, James examined his reflection. "I’ve never seen such shoddy workmanship. The fellow’s eyesight must be fading if he cannot get a simple measurement correct."

            Grieves politely suggested his master might have gained an inch or two about the waist and chest since his measurements were last taken.

            James pulled the new shirt off and flung a scowl over his shoulder. "It is evident, Grieves, that you are in league with this new tailor. I daresay he slipped you a few coins to recommend his services to me. You always were a conniving fellow."

            "Indeed not, sir!"

            "In any case, it’s all muscle," James added, one hand laid to his stomach, fingers splayed to feel the ridges and reassure himself. "Thanks to the boxing club. Solid as a rock."

            "A mountain of manliness, if I might be so bold, sir."

            "If bold also means facetious, no you may not." Glancing down at his tight breeches again, he exclaimed, "What happened to the previous tailor? He managed to make my clothes fit for the last twenty years at least."

            "Mr. Chadworth has left us, sir," Grieves declared sorrowfully. "I did apprise you of it when it happened."

            "Left us? How can this be permitted?"

            "I doubt it was intentional, sir. The gentleman is dead."

            "Dead? How damned thoughtless of the fellow."

            "An attack of the heart, I believe. He was very elderly."

            James stormed about the room, shaking his head at the sheer inconvenience. "Now that I think of it, he was a dreadful fellow, with breath that could strip fur from a badger. I daresay we’re better off without him. But this new tailor? Are you certain he can fill Chadworth’s shoes?"

            "I am assured he is the very best. He is newly arrived from France, and he—" Grieves clammed up, grabbed a waistcoat from the edge of the bed, and slid it over his master’s arms.

            The slip, however, had not gone unnoticed. James exploded, "A Frenchman, of all things!"

            "I am sorry, sir, but he—"

            "Grieves, have you forgotten that scoundrel Napoleon?"

            "But Napoleon is dead, sir."

            "Just because the man is dead, Grieves, doesn’t mean he’s changed for the better. And he was French."

            Nothing further to be said on the matter of the French, the valet took out a small brush and worked it briskly over the back and shoulders of his master’s waistcoat. "Are you going out this morning, sir? So early?"

            "Hmmm."

            The events of the previous evening waltzed through his mind again. A pair of stunning violet eyes, a warm hand slipping out of his grip, lips trying not to laugh at him. Extraordinary lips he silenced with a kiss. Ellie Vyne hadn’t let him sleep a wink last night, and he swore that tonight he would repay the favor.

            "What time is it, Grieves?"

            "It is half past eleven, sir."

            "Good. Order the carriage brought around, will you?" He whistled a light tune as he shrugged his shoulders into his coat.

            "Is everything all right, sir?"

            Grabbing the elderly valet by his ears, James planted a kiss on his furrowed brow. "Grieves, if I thought you wouldn’t fritter it away, I’d give you an increase in pay at once."

            "Good heavens, sir…that would have been very nice."

            "I’m in an excellent mood today and shortly to regain the treasure stolen from me by that Frenchman."

            "What a relief, sir." Clutching the little brush in both hands, Grieves edged cautiously around his master. "The treasure in question is the Hartley Diamonds, sir?"

            "No, no! The Vyne woman. Do follow along, Grieves."

            The valet swayed backward on his heels. "Miss Vyne, sir? The one you do not wish on your worst enemy?"

            "The very same."

            "Miss Vyne of the stubborn demeanor and quarrelsome streak? Little Miss Vyne of the ink moustache?"

            "Not so little anymore." His gaze went foggy as he thought again of her long legs and the rosebuds framing her bosom. "But quite grown-up."

            "I never met the infamous lady, sir."

            "Think yourself lucky. She’s naught but trouble, and I can’t imagine what has possessed me. But there it is. Someone should take her in hand. It may as well be me, since I’m a reformed man, shouldering the responsibilities no one else wants."

            "Hartleys are speaking to Vynes this year then, sir?"

            "Indeed we are, Grieves." James swept out of the room and down the stairs, completely forgetting his boots, obliging Grieves to run after and stop him before he could walk out into the street barefoot.