The Heart of love Read online

  ‘Why, it is a gramophone,’ whispered Verena, ‘we have one almost identical in the house in Hertford Street.’ The music stopped.

  Verena held her breath, what would the Marquis play next? It was so pleasant to hear music – there had been precious little around Rosslyn Hall the past few months and Verena loved it. After her mother had died, the house had been silent, but when, as her father returned to life once more, he had installed a new gramophone in Hertford Street and had bought a pile of shellac discs to play on it.

  She waited eagerly by the rail of the ship, hoping that the Marquis had another disc to play.

  Sure enough, the opening notes of a rather sombre tune wafted out of the Saloon. She recognised it immediately, each note resonating in her very soul.

  ‘Oh! It’s Mama’s favourite piece.’ The poignant strains of Beethoven’s ‘Pathetique’ carried her away on a wave of emotion mingled with nostalgia.

  She recalled sitting at her mother’s feet whilst she had played that very piece and the warmth of her against her cheek. The odour of the lavender bags that hung in the wardrobe along with her mother’s clothes had comforted her and now Verena could almost smell that scent as the music swelled majestically to a climax.

  Tears spilled from her eyes.

  There was not a day when she did not miss her mother, but now without a friend to call her own, she missed her even more.

  ‘I cannot stay on deck,’ she said to herself, choking on her tears. ‘I must go back to my cabin. If I stay here, I risk being discovered. And I cannot let anyone see me like this.’ Verena crept along the deck towards the stairs.

  *

  As the ship’s engines purred on into the night, she lay back on the hard bunk in utter misery.

  In the hour since she had returned below, she had sobbed her heart out whilst looking at the photograph of her mother.

  ‘I am so alone. So alone,’ she cried, the rough blanket scratching her face and hands. I do not know if I can last the journey, it is too hard – ’

  Eventually, there were no more tears left to cry. She lay back on the hard bunk and looked out of the small porthole. Through it, she could just about glimpse one or two stars shining dimly.

  She forced her thoughts elsewhere and was surprised that she returned to the events of the evening and her first meeting with the Marquis of Hilchester.

  Such a fine, handsome gentleman.

  Verena had met many gentlemen during her coming-out season. There had been lavish balls and much dancing. Most of her friends had filled their dance cards eagerly, flirting coquettishly with the young men, playing them off against each other.

  But Verena had no such feminine wiles. She was innocently bereft of the kind of womanly tricks that others employed to ensnare unsuspecting suitors.

  Her aunt, Lady Armstrong, had despaired over her lack of gentlemen callers.

  “I simply cannot fathom why you do not seem to have any admirers,” she had said, “you are beautiful and charming, you adore hunting and riding and you are the most perfect hostess.”

  “Perhaps it is because I do not seek to attract their advances,” Verena had replied, demurely. “I find the whole idea of love quite frivolous.”

  Yet here she was, on board a strange ship heading for Heaven only knew where with her heart filled with strange longings.

  Over and over she recalled the conversation she had had with the Marquis. She went over every detail of how he held his head and the tone of voice he had used.

  Unable to sleep, she rose from her bunk. Standing on top of it, she could just about see out of the porthole at the stars wheeling overhead.

  She was lost in a reverie dreaming of the Marquis.

  A sudden chill caught her heart as she remembered his words – the special visitor, who might it be?

  “It cannot be a sweetheart, surely?” she said out loud.

  A grim panic overcame her. She felt short of breath.

  ‘Why am I feeling like this? Why should it matter to me who the Marquis invites onboard? It is no business of mine.’ But her heart ached strangely nonetheless.

  ‘I will not give the matter another thought. I am being quite, quite foolish.’ She lay down once more on the bunk.

  But try as she might, she could not silence the beating of her heart or the strange quickening of her blood –

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day Verena was woken by a series of loud bells that marked the end of the last watch. She stretched her arms up to the ceiling and felt quite tired – the night had not afforded her much rest as her mind had been so occupied.

  She got up, splashed her face with water and hurriedly put on the uniform that had been left for her. She welcomed the opportunity to leave behind the foul-smelling kit that she had bought in Poole.

  ‘I will find some Sunlight soap and give it a good scrub later,’ she thought, as she pulled on the clean navy serge trousers and enveloping white overall. A white cap was the finishing touch.

  She examined her face in the small mirror she had brought with her, wincing as she touched the now purple bruise on her temple.

  But there was no time for vanity. The Marquis would not wait for his breakfast.

  ‘And I want him to have the very best breakfast he has ever tasted.’ Yawning, she pushed open the heavy door, to find that Arthur was already inside in his shirtsleeves polishing the silver.

  “Good morning, Jean. Or should I say bon matin?”

  “It is bonjour,” corrected Verena, “now, I must find the rice. ’Ave you seen it?”

  Arthur pointed a soupspoon over Verena’s head at a high shelf.

  “All grains and dried legumes are up there, I think you’ll find.”

  “Merci, Ar-toor,” she replied, mispronouncing his name.

  “It’s Ar-thur,” he answered, gently teasing her.

  Verena smiled, she liked Arthur. Whilst there was no doubt that he could be over-officious and just a little starchy, it was good to have a friendly face around. Especially as Jack was a most unpleasant fellow.

  Verena stood on a stool and reached for the rice, but as she opened it, she noticed that the packet was full of weevils.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” she screamed, dropping the packet on the floor.

  “Creepy crawlies?” asked Arthur. “Don’t go upsetting yourself. I will fetch some more from the hold.”

  “But I must make his Lordship the kedgeree!” cried Verena, putting on what she hoped was a suitable tantrum. She had once seen a visiting chef to the Hall fly off into a rage simply because cook did not have the right flour for a sauce he was making.

  “Don’t lose your hat, I will return in a flash.” Arthur put down the knife he was polishing and left the galley.

  Verena was once more alone with her thoughts.

  She began to flake the smoked haddock and then set a pan on the stove.

  ‘Cream for the Marquis and butter, I think,’ she smiled to herself secretly as she stirred the mixture.

  ‘Ah, the Marquis. Why does he intrigue me so?’ wondered Verena. ‘He is just a man, yet he is so unlike the ones I have met before. He has such an air of mystery about him!’

  She was just popping four eggs into a pan of boiling water when Arthur reappeared carrying a stack of packets.

  “Rice, barley and macaroni and we will need to buy some more when we dock in Gibraltar. I’ll bet you there will be nothing but that unpleasant African stuff available that they all eat instead of rice. Tastes like bird seed.”

  Verena took the rice and added it to another pan of boiling water and although it was only half past seven in the morning, already it was feeling more than a trifle warm.

  Carefully she drained the eggs before pouring the hot creamy sauce over the haddock and the rice.

  “I shall look forward to filling my stomach with that,” declared Arthur, “I am rather partial to kedgeree, mind you make enough for us all now. The Captain likes it too.”

  “Bien sur,” replied Verena, hand
ing the steaming serving dish to him, “now, this must go straight upstairs.”

  Arthur placed the dish on the dumb waiter and pulled the ropes.

  “I will be returning after breakfast,” he said, “and the Marquis may well want to discuss his requirements for luncheon with you.”

  “You will ask him zis?” enquired Verena, eager to see the Marquis again.

  After Arthur had departed she sat and waited patiently to be summoned above deck. But breakfast came and went and the Marquis did not request her presence in the Saloon.

  She felt heavy of heart as she cleared away the breakfast dishes. The Steward and the Captain were in the crew room eagerly helping themselves to kedgeree and toast.

  Verena felt no hunger herself, so she took off her apron and, in spite of being warned to keep out of sight of the Marquis, climbed up on deck.

  ‘What harm can it do? I will stay as quiet as a mouse.’ The day was indeed a fine one, the sun shone brilliantly overhead and the breeze was warm and inviting.

  A group of crewmen were going about their duties nearby and she could see them with their heads together talking. She edged closer so that she might hear what they were saying.

  ‘I must find out where we are bound, I’ll wager that the Captain and crew have been instructed of our movements, it is just us servants who are not privileged with that information.’

  She crouched down beside a lifeboat and strained her ears. She could just about make out the thread of conversation above the screech of seagulls.

  “Ar, it’s Gibraltar we be docking in first, then on to Alicante,’ said one.

  “You don’t know for certain that we’ll be stopping at Alicante, I heard that it was Tangier.” replied another.

  “You are both wrong, it’s Africa we are bound for!”

  A good-natured quarrel broke out amongst the three men, amidst much jocular laughter and ribbing.

  ‘Africa,’ whispered Verena, ‘I am not sure I want to visit the Dark Continent! I have heard that it is a rough and dangerous place – ’

  Filled with fear, she crept back along the deck only to walk straight into the Captain.

  “Jean.”

  “Oui, Capitaine?” answered Verena, terrified that the surly man was about to give her a dressing down for being above decks.

  “A most agreeable breakfast, my lad. Now, if you will come with me, I have someone I wish you to meet. He is our new cabin boy and I hear he spent the past few days rolling around below deck being ill. No stomach, these young ’uns.”

  Verena concealed a smile with her hand. She thanked the Heavens that she had been blessed with a strong constitution.

  She followed him to the bridge and there, in the corner, curled up in a ball on the floor was a boy of no more than fifteen. He was fast asleep, his mouth open and his dark hair all awry.

  “Wake up, you good-for-nothing,” yelled the Captain, Verena started, as did the boy. He yawned and stretched, then climbed slowly to his feet.

  “Now, this here layabout is Pete. He’s the cabin boy and by rights, he should be working with the Steward. Pete will come with you when we reach Gibraltar to help with carrying supplies. He’s a small lad, I know, but strong. Pete, this here is the new chef, Jean. He’s French, so mind he doesn’t lose his temper with you.”

  Pete grinned and winked at Verena, who in turn, smiled back. She liked the look of this cheeky rascal, noticing that his cap was not straight and that he had a big white mark on the knee of his trousers.

  “Pete will fetch anything you need from the hold and will carry any heavy objects,” continued the Captain. “Any trouble, you come and tell me.”

  The Captain pushed Pete towards the door in an act of dismissal, so Verena followed.

  “What do you want me to do first, then?” asked Pete cheekily, Verena thought long and hard.

  “Take me to the hold,” she decided at last. “I want to see what zere is on board.”

  “My pleasure. Follow me and mind your ’ead.”

  Verena was not sure if the boy was making fun of her, but as they descended into the bowels of the ship, she made up her mind to pay no heed to his jokes.

  “Here we are,” Pete announced finally.

  Verena found herself standing in a dark and cold store room. Sacks were piled up next to boxes of tinned goods.

  Her eyes gradually became adjusted to the dim light. Pete lit a candle and it threw strange shapes against the walls – the whole effect was rather eerie.

  “I would like a sack of flour,” said Verena after scanning the goods stacked up nearby.

  “Is this your first voyage?” asked Pete, as he heaved the sack onto his back.

  “No,” replied Verena, forgetting her new persona. She hastily corrected herself. Zat is to say, I ’ave been on a boat across La Manche.”

  “Yer what?” asked Pete, his face a blank.

  “Sorry, what is ze English word for it? The sea between England and France?”

  “Oh, you mean the Channel,” Pete informed her with a satisfied look on his face. “Pah, that don’t count! Now me, I’ve been all over – France, Spain, the Americas.”

  “And still you have le mal de mer? Ze sea sickness?”

  Verena gently teased.

  Pete blushed to the roots of his hair.

  “Well, it’s these new steamships. I ain’t used to them.

  Me, I love real ships, ones with sails. Real beauties.”

  Verena smiled to herself as they made their way back to the galley.

  Pete was whistling to himself as they walked, a rather jaunty tune – it sounded like something that one might hear at a Music Hall, although Verena had never set foot in such a place.

  Entering the galley, Pete threw the sack onto the floor.

  “Right, I’ll be off then, the Captain will want me to run errands for him.”

  Verena looked at the clock on the wall. There were still many long hours till luncheon. As there had been no word from the Marquis, she had decided upon a simple dish of grilled mackerel with mustard sauce served with cold potatoes and a small salad.

  She stared at the wilting lettuce in the store cupboard. The day was another warm one.

  ‘I must have some air,’ she groaned.

  Slipping out of the galley she made her way up to the deck.

  ‘It will take me no time to make luncheon, I will not be missed for half-an-hour.’

  Verena denied to herself the real reason for her sortie – deep inside she felt an overwhelming longing to steal a glimpse of the Marquis.

  She walked quickly along the deck towards the Saloon. As she approached, she could see the door was open. Peeping inside, it was empty, save for Arthur who was busy laying the table for luncheon.

  There was no sign of the Marquis.

  Feeling disappointed, she proceeded along the deck towards the stern. Watching the water rushing behind them thrilled her.

  Lost in thought, she was suddenly aware of a most peculiar sensation. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up – she could feel that someone was watching her!

  She turned in time to see the Marquis heading off towards the bridge, his broad shoulders filling out a well-cut black jacket, his black hair ruffling in the wind.

  Verena was filled with a sense of disappointment. She crept along the deck, hoping for another glimpse of him. As she passed the Saloon, she caught sight of someone inside.

  ‘It is the Marquis,’ she said to herself excitedly. ‘If I stand here, I can watch him through the open door.’

  The Marquis was standing at one of the many bookshelves where he selected a large volume bound in green leather and took it over to an easy chair.

  Verena watched as he sank into the chair with a sigh and began to turn the creamy pages. He seemed engrossed as he continued to read.

  She felt spellbound. Unsure of what it was that made her linger and stare.

  ‘The mackerel can wait, just one minute more.’ Just then, a piercing voice came from behind
her and made her jump into the air.

  “What-ho, there! Jean. I’ve got a sack of potatoes for you that I’ve just found in the hold. Shall I put them in the store cupboard?”

  It was Pete, the cabin boy.

  The Marquis heard the boy’s voice and looked up in surprise to see his chef loitering around the Saloon door.

  Verena blushed deeply as his eyes locked hers for the first time. It gave her such a strange sensation – her stomach wheeled and she felt quite light-headed.

  “Why, Jean, I did not see you – have you been standing there for long?”

  The Marquis shut his book, leaned forward and beckoned towards her.

  “Do not be shy, come in. Was there something you wished to ask me? Perhaps you have a question about tonight’s menu?”

  “No – my Lord,” stammered Verena, utterly embarrassed. “I was passing – and I saw ze door was open. I thought maybe – Monsieur Arthur was in here.”

  There was an agonising silence.

  ‘What is wrong with me? Why can I not speak to this man?’ she wondered, as the long seconds ticked by.

  Pete the cabin boy was still at her elbow, holding the large sack of potatoes that smelt musty.

  “Excuse me, my Lord,” stammered Verena, before exiting swiftly with Pete running after her dragging the potatoes.

  “Oi, wait for me!”

  ‘What a curious fellow,’ muttered the Marquis, as he resumed reading his book. ‘I think he may be overawed by his new surroundings. Maybe he has not travelled by sea before.’

  Below deck, Verena noisily banged her pots and pans furious at herself.

  “I am an imbecile. A half-wit. Why could I just not talk to the man? What ails me?”

  She shouted in French so that Pete could not understand her.

  He stood in the corner, chuckling merrily at what he perceived was the chef having a tantrum.

  “Well, I can’t understand a word you’re saying, but my, you sound very cross with someone. I hope it’s not me,” taunted Pete.

  “Tais-toi!” screamed Verena, wishing she was not such a lady and could give in to her urge to throw something.

  “Whoops! Better make myself scarce before that crate of mackerel lands on my head! I’ll be with the Steward, if you need me.”