My Fine Fellow: Chapter 16–Epilogue

That ungrateful wretch has been lying to us for months, and he had the unmitigated impudence to tell me—

“She was spreading rumors about your parents only yesterday. Saying your father kidnapped your mother from a savage island or some such rot. And I—I was the one who told her it was all lies, but who knows who else she’s told. And I fully intend to convey to Lady Rutland that Mabel and Dora Smith-Smythe have been circulating such falsehoods. I won’t have those horrid girls treating you like some kind of pariah—”

What you said about Elijah’s people was not only an egregious generalization, it was cruel.

Everything from tostadas to grilled fish, and a surprising preponderance of roasted goat variations, that Elijah’s uncle had collected from Mexico, Central America, and Brazil were there, all written out in Elijah’s hand.

Penelope had tried to teach him in other ways and supplement what she had plainly seen Helena couldn’t or wouldn’t provide him in the way of sympathy or understanding, but if this morning had taught Penelope anything, it was that by taking more of Elijah’s education on herself, she’d allowed Helena to believe her own methods were working—that she could continue to treat him like a recalcitrant child instead of a boy their own age who simply hadn’t been blessed with the same opportunities.

Mabel briefly closed her eyes as she nodded, as though she were divulging a great secret.

Though he mustn’t have gotten much sleep, he looked like the most dapper of gentlemen chefs.

He walked into the Great Hall without a hint of trepidation, standing straight as they’d taught him, his jawline parallel to the floor.

Her apprehension that Elijah would throw away everything she had gifted him had dragged her into the carriage and out of London to the exhibition.

“I say, this custard tart has cardamom. I quite like it, though,” Freddie said, putting the rest of it in his mouth. “What do you think, Miss Pickering?” he asked between bites.
“It's utterly decadent,” Penelope said, giving one of the gentlemen from the Portuguese delegation a smile.

Rising to society’s heights was never Elijah’s aim. All he wanted was a permanent stall at the market or a small shop—something modest that would allow him greater security.

You, however, wanted to make him into some sort of luminary gentleman chef whom all of society would flock to.

The exposed, dark beams were not so elegant as the plaster and ornate crown molding in his room at Number 9, Cavendish Square, nor as decrepit as the water-spotted ceiling of his uncle's dingy room on Old Fish Street, but they felt more real than anything had in quite a while.

It wouldn’t be particularly shrewd to antagonize the future queen of England.

This morning, Pierce had informed her that Penelope had decamped to a nearby hotel.

But I rather like this new pillar of strength you’ve adopted into your disposition.

The steward looked at him with narrowed eyes, no doubt wondering why he simply stood there squandering his hour.

The queen and Lady Rutland smiled at him benignly, but the princess and her father showed no outward emotions.

Today I’ve prepared roasted quail spiced with sumac, coriander, and chili, atop sweet corn cachapas, which, as you see, are griddle cakes made from corn.

Yet he was no longer that scared boy his uncle had taken in or that brash soul relying on his wits and the coin he made at the night market.

“I very much like the courgette sauce accompaniment,” the queen said. “Such a light texture with a delightful piquancy—perfect for summer.”

Now a stage stood at the opposite end of the hall, and ten dishes covered with silver cloches took pride of place on the table at the front of the dais.

Helena, meanwhile, would go on to graduate at the top of their class and begin her illustrious career.

I imagine you’ll garner great renown in the culinary world.

“You are a man of few words, I think, Mr. Little,” the princess remarked.
He looked down at her. “It’s one of many faults, I’m afraid,” he said, hoping he wasn’t being too obvious in his ambivalence to this possible betrothal.

Why else would he keep hiding who he was? What kind of simpleton disparaged himself to a pretty and powerful princess who held him in contention for her hand?

“Your food has been consistently strong in every round. I don’t wish to sound flippant about it, but you are in the top three for good reason, Mr. Little.”

“Well,” the princess said, “there’s no accounting for taste. Still, Mabel tells me Miss Pickering has always been amiable to her. Do you know her well?”

“She believes him to not actually be English at all! Of course, Mabel has always been one for gossip. She even intimated to me that your family had some sort of scandal in the past.”

Freddie had gone silent as he continued to lead her around the floor. She had some inkling of what he must be thinking, though.

Helena dropped into a low curtsy. “Your Highness.”
Penelope gaped at Helena’s newfound deference, just as her heart threatened to thrum out of control.

“One cannot choose a future crown prince and partner in life without possessing all the pertinent information.”

“Huzzah!” Helena called loudly. Penelope almost laughed at her breach of decorum.

“Though, at the time, I wondered if Miss Pilkington might have overstated the situation to my daughter, I now think her most astute.”

And at that hour, all alone in the kitchen, Helena felt more flummoxed than she rarely had before when presented with a challenge. So she did the one thing that always comforted her when circumstances had perplexed her in the past.

“Of course we do, you goose.”
At first, shock ran through Helena at the moniker, but then she started laughing.

In the end, Helena’s parents had relented and allowed their daughter to tour with the Pickerings, especially when Lady Rutland lent her opinion that a wider view of the world could only improve Helena’s disposition and culinary breadth.

As the marquess had always been of such an opinion himself, and had liberally applied such principles to his son and heir, the annoyance that Helena had only now come around to the idea of expanding her horizons abroad just as her family had returned to England soon waned, and Helena got her way—as she often did, it must be said.

That she’d been wrong about Penelope’s origin and had perpetuated an exaggerated rumor about her parents bothered her not one whit.

Yet he was well and truly a knight now; he’d kneeled with his right knee on the investiture stool before the queen, and she had dubbed him with a sword.