The Heart of love Read online

  “Wherever his Lordship fancies. It may be Africa, it may be India, who knows. This voyage is only three weeks – but we go wherever the whim takes him. He’s a proper gypsy is our Marquis.”

  Verena was quite horrified at the disrespectful way the man spoke. It made her wonder if her servants had passed such judgements on her in the past.

  “Now, I’ll leave you to prepare the meal. Mind you do it right, Jean. We will be stopping over at one of the Spanish ports and you don’t want to be set ashore in one of those stinkpots! Ha ha!”

  He left the galley chewing on the peach.

  Verena began to prepare the meal.

  She winced as she threw the live lobsters into a pot of boiling fish stock and white wine – their screams resounded around the galley, while Jack laughed callously. “Ah, that will teach ’em,” he chuckled.

  Poor Verena always hated this part of cooking, but her father’s cook had always told her that it was steam escaping from their shells, not the cries of the lobster that made such a sound.

  Once they had turned pink, she fished them out of the pot and left them to keep warm between two plates over the boiling liquid. The sauce was a most complicated one – it had to perfectly complement the subtle flavour of the lobsters.

  She pureed the tomatoes and added Italian hard cheese and some of the cream she had bought that very afternoon.

  She was aware of Jack scrutinising her every move. He watched her with the keen eyes of a hawk.

  *

  At eight o’clock, the Steward returned to take up the plates and the buffet trays.

  He had just picked up a pile of china from the stack, when there was a tremendous roaring noise from beneath their feet.

  “Alors! What is zat!” exclaimed Verena, only just remembering in time to use her French voice.

  “It’s the ship’s engines,” replied Arthur.

  “So we are on our way!”

  Verena was breathless with nerves, the meal was almost ready, but would it be good enough for the fastidious Marquis?

  As the ship pulled out of Poole Harbour she found herself beset by anxiety.

  Would she be able to attain the high standard demanded by the Marquis, or would she find herself stranded in some unfriendly Spanish port? She shuddered as she bustled around the galley – her fate in the lap of the Gods.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The tension in the galley was unbearable.

  As precious minutes ticked away bringing her deadline of half past eight ever nearer, Verena suddenly became clumsy.

  She dropped the soup ladle with a resounding crash on the floor and then spilt hot soup on her hand as she attempted to pour it into the bone china tureen.

  Jack the cook sat back and chuckled, sucking on a pencil.

  “Why, I ain’t making you nervous, young lad, am I?” he taunted.

  Verena forced a smile and pushed a lock of stray hair from her forehead. She picked up a dishcloth from the sink and began to wipe up the spilled soup.

  Jack pointed the pencil in the direction of Verena’s temple, where she had pushed away the lock of hair to reveal the red wound sustained in the accident with the carriage.

  “That’s quite some knock you’ve had to your head, boy. How did you get that?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I banged ze ’ead, zat’s all,” she mumbled.

  The rough cook chuckled to himself once more and shifted in his seat.

  “More like got into a fight over some bit of petticoat!”

  Verena was forced to hide her shock at the man’s coarse way of speaking.

  The door opened and Arthur appeared wearing a clean uniform. He had brilliantine on his hair and had washed his face and shaved. He entered buttoning up his white gloves as he pushed open the galley door.

  “Ready, Jean? Mustn’t keep his Lordship waiting.”

  Verena sprinkled the last few fragments of parsley over the top of the soup and handed the tureen to him.

  He loaded the tureen onto the dumb waiter near the door and caught up a sheaf of napkins.

  Verena heaved a sigh as she pulled on the ropes of the dumb waiter. The tureen slid out of sight –

  “Now for the homard,” she announced,

  She poured the Milanaise sauce into a bain marie of boiling water and waited for it to heat up. While it was coming to a simmer, she artistically arranged the lobsters on a large salver.

  By the time the sauce was nice and hot, Arthur was back in the galley, waiting for the next course.

  “Ready?”

  Verena nodded her head.

  Arthur carefully placed the lobsters onto the shelf of the dumb waiter while Verena brought out the cold cuts and a dish of sautéed potatoes.

  “I’ll take these upstairs myself,” said Arthur, “and then I’ll send the remains of the first course back down the chute.”

  The remains! Verena was sick with anticipation.

  “I ’ope that there are none,” she said.

  There had been no word from the Marquis as to whether or not the soup had pleased him and if the dishes came back down full, she would know the awful truth.

  There was an agonising wait before there was a pull on the ropes of the dumb waiter and the tureen appeared. A soup plate was balanced alongside.

  Verena could scarcely bear to look as she pulled the tureen off the shelf first, followed by – an empty soup plate!

  “Don’t get too excited, his Lordship might have thrown it to the fishes,” cackled Jack.

  Verena glared at him but did not reply.

  ‘I fear I will have to ignore this dreadful man,’ she mused, ‘I must not let him undermine me. I am good cook. If he is so wonderful, why has he not been offered the position of chef?’

  Gingerly, she took the lid off the tureen. It was difficult to tell how much soup the Marquis had consumed. It looked to her as if it had been barely touched.

  ‘I will not let this disturb my concentration,’ she resolved, pushing the tureen to one side. ‘I will make the pudding one that the Marquis will never forget.’

  She had chosen an exquisite Venetian glass dish on which to present the peaches. She had found it tucked away in the pantry whilst looking for castor sugar.

  She piled up the fruit that had been carefully stuffed with almond paste and then glazed with sugar and maraschino cherries. As a finishing touch, she placed some sprigs of mint around the edge of the dish and added a light dusting of icing sugar.

  “Voila!” she exclaimed proudly.

  The Steward reappeared and took a step back as he caught sight of the elegant dish of peaches.

  “Well, now there’s a sight. A real bobby-dazzler! Let’s see what his Lordship makes of these.”

  He lifted the glass dish from the table and disappeared back upstairs.

  The grinding of the dumb waiter announced the return of the main course. Verena’s heart was beating hard as the crockery arrived.

  “But these are plates that have not been used,” she cried in dismay, unloading the untouched china.

  “Bad luck, my lad,” cackled Jack. “Better get ready to pack your things up.”

  Verena had to compose herself.

  ‘I will not cry,’ she told herself, ‘I must not. To do so would be to attract suspicion and unwanted attention. No man would shed tears over such a trifle.’

  The opening of the galley door announced the arrival of the Steward. He coughed and then beckoned to Verena.

  “What is it, monsieur?” she asked, nervously.

  “It’s his Lordship, he requests your presence upstairs in the Saloon.”

  “I’ll wager someone is getting off at Cadiz,” gloated Jack with glee, “such a short acquaintance!”

  Verena looked aghast at her flour-covered apron and pushed a damp lock of hair out of her eyes.

  “Impossible,” she declared, “I cannot see ’is Lordship like this.”

  She gestured to her apron and her face. Sweat was stinging her wound and her cap was once more ir
ritating her immensely.

  “His Lordship hasn’t asked you upstairs to inspect your uniform,” said Arthur, not taking no for an answer. “He isn’t used to being refused. Now, if you please, Jean, you will accompany me.”

  Both Verena and Arthur stood for some moments, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Verena relented.

  She took off the dirty apron and wiped her face on a towel. She checked that her hands were clean and then followed him out of the galley door.

  She could hear Jack laughing out loud behind her as she mounted the stairs to the main living quarters.

  “But the dinner, did ’is Lordship find it to ’is liking?”

  Verena tugged at Arthur’s sleeve but he simply shrugged.

  “I am sure you will find out presently,” was all he would say.

  The ship was gently swaying as they emerged up on deck. She grabbed the rail as the ship suddenly pitched to one side as Arthur laughed, “You’ll soon find your sea legs, young man!”

  Even though the sea was not that rough, the swell was sufficient to make the ship lurch every now and then as they hit a current.

  “It is always like this in the Channel,” he explained, “you’ll find we will be an even keel once we’ve hit the Bay of Biscay.”

  Verena began to feel quite ill and she was not sure if it was the pitching of the ship or whether it was nerves. She had never been seasick before.

  The Saloon was to the rear of the bridge of the ship. Its etched glass windows sparkled with light from the candles within. Verena thought the effect most charming.

  Arthur walked up to a pair of ornate double doors, knocked and waited.

  “Enter,” came the deep velvety tones of the Marquis.

  ‘I shall know my fate soon enough,’ thought Verena, following the Steward into the Saloon. ‘Oh, I do hope he will be kind to me.’

  The Marquis of Hilchester was seated at the head of a small walnut table, his intent gaze focused on the glass of fine ruby port in front of him.

  Verena almost gasped aloud when she caught sight of him. Far from being the rather stately and aged gentleman of her imagination, the Marquis of Hilchester was a good-

  looking young man, no older than thirty-five.

  ‘So handsome,’ she sighed to herself, ‘and so young.’

  She noticed that his dark hair was thick and wavy and beneath strong brows were eyes of the most startling shade of liquid amber she had ever seen. She tried not to stare rudely so averted her gaze.

  The Saloon was full of rare and wonderful objects and the furnishings were of the highest quality. Verena knew immediately that money had been no object when furbishing this particular room – from the fine, mahogany panelling on the walls to the Waterford crystal decanter in front of the Marquis, everything was the best available and all in the most exquisite taste.

  “My Lord, this is Jean, the new chef.”

  Verena was captivated by her surroundings and could barely utter a word.

  She looked nervously around the room, marvelling all the while at the contents. She sensed that the Marquis’s eyes were upon her, taking in every detail.

  “Jean, may I compliment you on a most fine meal,” began the Marquis, averting his eyes as he spoke, “the peaches were especially delicious. I trust that I can expect tomorrow’s fare to be of an equally high standard?”

  He paused and looked at a point somewhere off into the distance.

  Verena, however, was too lost in the beauty of the room and did not see him look away. Her attention had been caught by a complete, gold-tooled, leather-bound set of “The Legends of Ancient Greece” upon a bookshelf, just to the right of the Marquis.

  “Jean, his Lordship is addressing you.”

  Arthur spoke brusquely and Verena immediately felt shy and unsure of herself.

  ‘I cannot meet the Marquis’s eyes,’ she said to herself, ‘I cannot.’ “Jean?” repeated Arthur, impatiently.

  “Ah, oui, thank you, my Lord. I can promise you zat.”

  With her heart hammering in her bosom, Verena looked up for the first time at the Marquis. To her surprise, she found that he would still not look her in the eye. Instead, he continued to stare into the distance, as if to search for some sign of land.

  Verena felt the blood rising in her cheeks, once again forgetting her lowly station.

  ‘How rude not to meet my gaze. Is he shy or is so full of arrogance that he deems a servant unworthy of his full attention?’

  The Marquis resumed speaking,

  “Your cuisine has a familiar flavour to it, the lightness of touch, the garnishes so particular – tell me, have I eaten your food before now? Maybe at the Duc du Chambercy’s chateau?”

  “No, my Lord. I do not know this Duc,” replied Verena blushing deeply.

  “Arthur tells me that you trained in Paris. Tell me, under whose tutelage did you study? I know many fine chefs in that city.”

  ‘But not Mademoiselle Dupont of the Lycee des Jeunes Filles, I’ll warrant,’ thought Verena.

  She was starting to feel quite uncomfortable. This Marquis knew too many people. Surely it was only a matter of time before he guessed that she was not whom she said she was and she would be thrown off the ship?

  “I studied with a retired chef in Orly,” Verena stammered, at last. He ’ad cooked for many fine gentlemen.”

  “Well, he is to be congratulated on mentoring such a fine pupil,” the Marquis commented. “And you were brought up in Paris, yourself?”

  Verena sensed a trap. Perhaps he was trying to trick her.

  ‘I must be careful how I answer,’ she thought.

  “I was born in the country, my Lord, but I went to Paris as a small child. My mother, she is from Marseilles.”

  “Aha,” nodded the Marquis looking steadfastly into his port with the air of a man who had suddenly made a discovery. “That would explain your accent. Do you know, I could not place it until you mentioned that your mother was from Marseilles. It all makes sense now –”

  Verena was almost swooning. She had managed to keep her wits about her and had overcome the first hurdle.

  She waited expectantly for the Marquis to dismiss her, but he sat there stiffly, regarding the empty plate in front of him.

  She glanced across at Arthur, who signalled with a slight incline of his head for her to remain where she was.

  “Now, Jean, I am rather partial to seafood and as we are bound for the Mediterranean, I shall expect many new delicacies brought to my table to delight my palate,” pronounced the Marquis. “I have a fancy for some octopus. You do know how to prepare and cook octopus, I assume?”

  Verena stared at him in mute horror. Octopus! She had not even realised that one could eat it.

  “Ah, I see you do not understand the English word? Let me see – in French it is le poulpe. Alors, vous comprenez?”

  The Marquis spoke with hardly a trace of an English accent as he continued in French for some minutes.

  ‘Thank Heavens I am fluent,’ thought Verena, as she replied to the Marquis’s excellent French. ‘My year at finishing school was not a waste of time at all. Quite the opposite. Without the knowledge I gathered there, I would surely have come adrift. I’d like to kiss Mademoiselle Dupont, God bless her!’

  The Marquis arose and the Steward swiftly moved to his aid, pulling back the elegant, balloon-back chair with its rich velvet seat.

  Turning away from Verena, he strode over to a compact humidor and unlocked it. Inside were a dozen or so thick Havana cigars. Verena recognised the make – her father had preferred to smoke the very same ones. It made her feel so homesick to see their red and gold seals.

  The Marquis weighed a specimen between his fingers and then sniffed it. With one swift movement, he clipped the end off and waited expectantly.

  Without hesitation the Steward appeared with a lighted match.

  ‘How elegantly he smokes,’ admired Verena, her heart pounding strangely. ‘He has such a noble bea
ring, such breeding.’ The Marquis continued to peer through the windows, even though it was quite dark outside and the only signs of life were the lanterns on deck.

  “I should tell you that we are on our way to Gibraltar – that will be our first stop,” he informed her. “You will be at liberty to go ashore and buy whatever provisions you deem necessary. Furthermore, I will expect you to purchase and prepare some of the local delicacies.”

  “Le poulpe?” asked Verena nervously. She was still wondering what on earth she would do with it should she locate some.

  “Yes, and more besides, I become bored so easily,” added the Marquis, still looking out to sea. He then reverted back to speaking in English.

  “We will be picking up a rather special friend of mine in Gibraltar, so you should be aware that there will be one more for luncheon and dinner every evening. Now, that will be all. Thank you, Jean and thank you, Arthur. I will not be requiring coffee this evening, so you may go.”

  Verena felt as if her feet had taken root. She did not want to leave the fine Saloon. She was agog at seeing the books and the hangings, the ancient artefacts and the highly polished furniture.

  Arthur coughed meaningfully and Verena bowed.

  “Merci, my Lord,” she whispered.

  Leaving the Saloon, she was overwhelmed with the most curious emotion.

  ‘I feel as if I have left a part of me in that room. How can that be? What does this all mean?’

  She had a strange yearning in her heart and for some reason, she felt slightly alarmed at the prospect of there being a new guest onboard in the coming days.

  Verena did not go straight down below with Arthur. Instead, she paced the deck looking up at the stars.

  As she stood musing, her thoughts were interrupted by the strains of a Chopin piano etude, the notes wafting on the night air.

  ‘How curious, I do not recall seeing a piano in the Saloon. I must go and investigate.’ Softly, she tiptoed along the deck until she arrived at one of the Saloon windows. She peeked in between the etching on the glass into the interior.

  It was half-dark inside with only a few candles burning. The Marquis was standing over a piece of furniture that was topped with a large brass horn. She could see that he was lost in the music as he swayed gently from side to side.