Anne Korkeakivi - An Unexpected Guest

She pressed the rapid-dial button for Barrow on the phone again. She was not going to think about Niall, especially not now. This time she told the main switchboard she would hold; while she waited, she fired off an e-mail to the fishmonger, as well as one to the butcher, ordering the extra portions. She was Clare Moorhouse, wife to the British minister in Paris, cool, collected, the picture of composure. Still on hold, she sent e-mails to the pantry at the ambassador’s residence, requesting the two additional place settings, and to the ambassador’s secretary asking whether either of the two new guests had any dietary requirements. She modified both her guest and her to-do lists.

The switchboard put her through. “Mrs. Moorhouse. Of course,” the headmaster’s secretary said. Clare thought she could hear her reach for the pearls she always wore around her neck and click them together. “Mr. Hennessey just stepped away. But he will call you and your husband back straightaway. As soon as he sorts out this other…business.”

“Mrs. Thomas, I have a busy day. I will be out most of the afternoon. And my husband will not be available at all. Perhaps, we could talk now?” Hearing the secretary’s hesitation, Clare continued, careful to be as definite and no-nonsense as possible. This was what worked best with Barrow. “I just spoke with James, and he’s very upset. He really has been trying to make an effort. He may make his mistakes here and there, but he means well.”

The headmaster’s secretary cleared her throat. Clack went the pearls; now Clare was sure she heard them. They must have thumped against the phone receiver. “Indeed,” Mrs. Thomas said.

“Mrs. Thomas, I can assure you we take both James and Barrow very seriously. I’m very worried.” She hesitated. “The minister is, too. I’ve spoken with him.”

The secretary was quiet for a moment. “It would be better if you talked directly with the headmaster. But I can tell you that Barrow does not intend to ask for James’s removal. Some type of punitive action has to be taken, a suspension, but there will not be a request for permanent withdrawal. But really, you need to speak with Mr. Hennessey.”

“Mrs. Thomas,” Clare began, buying time to think of the right way to phrase a question without sounding too blunt and, thus, American or ignorant, things that might prejudice them further against Jamie. She didn’t want Barrow to know she hadn’t got out of Jamie in detail what had happened, that Jamie wasn’t easy to handle in his home life either.

The sound of a crash echoed through the dining room into the study. Mathilde! Either the fishmonger or the butcher must have called back on the kitchen line to confirm Clare’s e-mails, and Mathilde was upset that Clare hadn’t gone in there right away to inform her about the additional guests. This could mean trouble for tonight’s dinner. If Mathilde felt really put out, she was liable to burn the fish, or the equivalent, in retaliation. Mathilde’s temper was as impressive as her cooking.

“Mrs. Thomas,” she said. She could hear the pad of footsteps. That would be Amélie fleeing the pantry. “Please tell Mr. Hennessey that James’s father and I will try him back this afternoon. He doesn’t need to try me.”

She hung up the phone and extracted her pad. Call the headmaster at Barrow again, she added to the bottom of her to-do list, right after Check on the single-malt whiskey and the British brandy. She wouldn’t try to get it out of the secretary. That wouldn’t help anyone.

That call about the science lab — she should have followed it up. Winter term, Jamie had been caught cheating on a science test and he’d been on academic probation ever since. Indeed, the only reason she’d agreed to let him write that e-mail in her name was that she hadn’t wanted in any way to discourage him. Jamie had had trouble with the science teacher, Mr. Roach, from the start. Already in the autumn he had given Jamie a week of detention for spilling some chemical material. “He’s dangerous,” Mr. Roach had said. “He doesn’t think through what he’s doing and could cause real damage.” He’d ragged on Jamie ever since — probably half the reason Jamie had cheated on that test. Jamie had never done anything like that when he was still at the International School. He knew Mr. Roach was looking for any excuse to fail him. And no one else at Barrow would be sticking up for him.

She sighed and stood up. At least he didn’t seem to have hurt himself. Not this time.

“What a busy morning!” she said to Amélie, passing her en route to the kitchen, preparing herself for what she would find in there. She’d have to set Jamie’s problems aside for the moment to sort out whatever had happened to upset Mathilde; the tiniest perceived slight could set Mathilde off, and her means of revenge were typically disproportionate. About two months after Clare had hired her, Mathilde had gone so far as to produce an authentic haggis in response to being asked to do lamb for a member of the Kuwaiti royal family. It turned out she hadn’t liked the way Clare had left a note for her instead of speaking personally to her about the menu.

“Well, you wrote ‘lamb,’ n’est-ce pas? ” Mathilde had said, thumping out the crust for a shepherd’s pie when Clare had gone to speak with her the following morning about having served their royal guests animal entrails mixed with oatmeal. Flour rose like an atomic cloud around her. “You wrote ‘traditional,’ nae? How am I to ken what you mean if you canna take the time to speak with me directly? And,” she added, “it’s no that simple either, producing a good ’aggis here in Paris.”

Now that’s a contradiction in terms, if ever there was one, Clare had thought, and for a brief moment, she had considered simply hiring a new chef. But Mathilde had already made them the envy of dinner hosts all over the city, and in Paris that was no mean accomplishment. Moreover, Edward liked Mathilde’s cooking. Maybe because of her curious heritage, Mathilde had an uncanny talent for creating rewarding culinary experiences out of the type of mild simple dish that best pleased Edward.

So Clare had made a study of how to work with Mathilde, learning to check in often but gently, without ever appearing to interfere. And, above all, never to underestimate Mathilde’s sense of self-importance. As for the other stuff — the fits of temper, grunts, and snorts — Clare ignored it. She needed Mathilde. Especially on a day like this.

“What a formidable diplomat your mother would make,” Edward had joked to the boys this past New Year’s Eve after she’d earned a spontaneous rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” from Mathilde over a cooling pot of cabbage, “If only she showed the slightest interest in politics. Really, it’s thrown away, spending her days translating museum catalogs.”

“I think it was the bottle of Madeira I brought in while she was cooking,” she’d said, but secretly she’d been pleased with her accomplishment.

“Oh, Mathilde,” she said now, entering the kitchen. The cook was standing by the back door, her apron flung across the kitchen table — a favorite symbolic gesture. Clare picked up the apron and smoothed it as though she were petting the head of a child. “I’ve just had to add two more guests! Thank heavens I can count on you to manage.”

“Two additional? Right good of you to let me know.”

Clare held the apron out. “I put in the extra orders right away. I know you have enough on your hands without having to start calling around to the fishmonger.” When Mathilde didn’t move, she added, “Oh, I know you’ll make me look a better hostess than I deserve. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”