The Heart of love Read online

  ‘Alas, there is not enough fruit for me to make a salad or compote and I so wanted to present something different for breakfast this morning.’

  She closed the book of menus in despair. Nothing had inspired her.

  Just then, Pete walked in, yawning and tousle-haired, looking as if he had literally just fallen from his bunk.

  “Morning, Jean. Cor, I don’t ’alf ’ave a thumpin’ ’ead this morning!”

  His dancing black eyes were sunken into his face and as he came closer, Verena could smell the odour of stale ale and smoke upon him.

  “Pfft! Go away,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “you smell ’orrible!”

  “Now, now, take pity on a boy. I’m dying of thirst. Do you have any of that lemonade you made yesterday?”

  Verena opened up the store cupboard door and peered inside. On a shelf in the middle was a jug covered with muslin. Lemons floated sadly around inside.

  Pete took the jug and poured himself a large glass. In seconds, it had disappeared.

  “Do you know what I fancy now?” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “some of those fancy sweet rolls you get on the Continent.”

  “Why, of course!” exclaimed Verena, “merci Pete, merci beaucoup,” she ran over to the boy and hugged him.

  “Woah! Steady on,” Pete recoiled in horror.

  “I am sorry, I should explain,” she responded, as she began to take down flour and yeast from the shelf.

  “I did not know what to make for ’is Lordship’s breakfast and now, you ’ave given me an idea.”

  Pete smiled and left the galley, a baffled look on his face.

  ‘I have time enough before his Lordship rises,’ thought Verena, as she proved the dough in the warm stove. ‘He will be eating fresh croissants and brioches this morning. There are some preserves in the store cupboard and I can also serve some cheese and ham – parfait!’

  Soon the galley was filled with the inviting smell of baking.

  Arthur came in, his face the picture of ecstasy.

  “Mmm, now that smells like a breakfast worth waiting for,” he commented, sniffing the air greedily. “What are you baking, Jean?”

  “It is croissants and brioche, formidable, non?”

  “Whatever they are, they smell delicious.”

  Verena took the first tray of brioche out of the oven – they were golden brown and inviting.

  Suddenly feeling quite hungry, she could not resist the temptation and took one hot from its mould and popped it into her mouth.

  “Naughty, naughty!” cried Arthur, a mock disapproving look on his face. “I’ll tell his Lordship that you were sampling the goods before him.”

  Verena and Arthur burst into gales of hearty laughter, but the joyous mood was abruptly curtailed when the galley door suddenly flew open and there stood Lord Mountjoy.

  “Ah, so this is where you hide yourself!” he bawled, his beady eyes scouring the galley before sweeping over a terrified Verena. “Thought I’d just get my bearings and I couldn’t help but follow my nose.”

  He walked over to the tray of hot brioches and took one, cramming it into his red mouth greedily.

  Both Verena and Arthur were rooted to the spot. Of course, neither could make any comment on the man’s rude behaviour as he was their better.

  Verena felt sick, the brioche she had just eaten was fast curdling in her stomach.

  “Quite delicious,” pronounced Lord Mountjoy, his eyes never leaving Verena’s face. “Where was it again you said you trained?”

  “It – it was near Orly,” stammered Verena, terrified of his stare.

  There was a long silence as his eyes continued to bore into her.

  “Splendid,” he announced, brushing crumbs from his moustache before leaving the galley without uttering another word.

  “He seems a bit of a rum ’un,” remarked Arthur, wiping his brow, “and he doesn’t seem to like you very much, Jean. Have you two met before?”

  Verena hated to tell a lie, but she had to.

  “Non,” she replied, her head drooping. “I do not know zis man.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him,” he continued, “and he’s not such a gentleman as he seems.”

  “Why you say zis?”

  Arthur lowered his voice and moved closer to her with a conspiratorial air.

  “Much as I hate servant’s gossip,” he began, “but I have heard that Lord Mountjoy is a bit of a cad.”

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, he continued, “It is rumoured that he, erhem, compromised a young lady in Bath. Her reputation was naturally ruined and she was forced to leave for Africa to become a missionary. Now, what do you think of that?”

  Verena was unsure how to reply. This after all was just mere servant’s hearsay, but equally she knew that there would be much more than a grain of truth in it.

  She shrugged her shoulders dismissively.

  “I do not know if zis is true, but that Lord Mountjoy, ’e makes me feel, how you say, not easy?”

  “You mean, ill at ease?” Arthur nodded sagely. “Yes, I agree, a most shifty fellow. Yet the Marquis is his friend and this is not the first time we have had the man on board and the last trip he caused no end of fuss. He pretends not to recognise me, but I know him. Oh, yes!”

  The rest of the morning passed without further incident. Not a crumb of breakfast was left and the Marquis called Verena to the saloon wishing to relay his compliments.

  Although Verena was thrilled to be summoned again, it was with fear in her heart that she entered the Saloon.

  As she gingerly knocked and waited for the Marquis’s warm voice to beckon her enter, she felt sick with anxiety.

  “Ah, Jean,” beamed the Marquis as she entered. “I enjoyed your surprise of serving us French pastries for breakfast. Most delightful and tasty. It provided a welcome change from your usual fare.”

  Verena was unable to reply. She simply nodded and averted her eyes.

  Once more, she was aware that Lord Mountjoy was staring at her hard. Without even looking up, she could tell he was feverishly racking his brain for some clue as to where he had seen this chef before.

  “May I go, my Lord?” she finally asked. “There is much to prepare for luncheon.”

  “Of course, make it a light one, Jean. I fear I will still be too full of pastries to eat much. Maybe a salad and some cold cuts?”

  “Tres bien, my Lord.”

  As Verena left the saloon, it was as if she had two hot knives probing her back.

  ‘I will stay below deck as much as I can,’ she resolved as she returned to the galley. ‘The more that man sees me, the better chance he has of remembering where he has seen my face before.’

  *

  The two days en route to Marseilles seemed to Verena to pass as slowly as would a week.

  She tried to keep below decks, but the heat of the galley occasionally became too much for her and she was forced to seek some fresh air.

  On the few occasions when she went up on deck, inevitably, Lord Mountjoy would appear, watching and scrutinising.

  Verena began to feel hunted. She ate even less than usual and carried on with her duties without taking any joy in them.

  “Is everything all right with you?” enquired Arthur on the morning that they were due to dock in Marseilles.

  “Why do you ask?” replied Verena, warily, as she stirred a pan of browning onions. She was making a French onion soup for luncheon.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you have not been yourself for these past few days.”

  Verena sighed and said nothing.

  “We dock in Marseilles this afternoon, perhaps being back in your homeland will cheer you up.”

  “Oui, oui,” replied Verena thinking, ‘if only he knew. France is not my homeland at all, but England. How far away it now seems. It is as if I lived there in another lifetime.’

  *

  Luncheon was uneventful. Thankfully the Marquis simply conveyed hi
s compliments via the Steward and did not request her presence upstairs. She contented herself with making a list of provisions that she and Pete would need to purchase for the long voyage ahead.

  Normally she would have looked forward to a sortie on shore, but she found herself filled with dread at the prospect, certain that Lord Mountjoy would find a way of dogging her every step.

  She was just finishing her list when Arthur appeared.

  “His Lordship and his guest will be disembarking at Marseilles and visiting the British Consulate,” he announced.

  “Both of them?”

  “Perhaps they both have business with the Consul, I don’t know.”

  Verena was once again gripped with the most awful cold fear. The British Consulate. That could mean only one thing. No doubt, Lord Mountjoy would inform them that she was aboard and would exhort them to get in contact with her father.

  It would be only a matter of time now before they came to find her and pack her off back home.

  ‘I cannot let this happen,’ she said to herself, ‘but all is not yet lost. I must think of a way out, should I be discovered.’

  It was nearly two o’clock and luncheon had long since finished when she heard the shouts of the crew overhead as they made ready to dock at Marseilles.

  Pete had joined her in the galley, hoping to duck out of the more strenuous duties involved in steering a steamship across the bay to drop anchor.

  “Show me your list then,” he teased, trying to peer over her shoulder. “What marvellous items have I to hike back to the ship this time? Half a walrus, maybe? A ton of dried elephant’s tongue?”

  His jocular air soothed Verena and made her smile for the first time in some days.

  “Mais oui, Pete, and I will make you taste it all before I buy!”

  They both laughed as the boy pulled a horrified face.

  Overhead they could hear the running of feet and the shouts of the men.

  “We must have docked,” said Pete, “come on, Jean, let’s go and find the cart and be on our way.”

  Verena could not help looking over her shoulder as they rolled it down the gangway. Although the day was hot and fine, there was quite a breeze and the flimsy gangway rocked from side to side making it difficult to handle the cart.

  Halfway down, Pete nearly lost his footing.

  “Phew! Thought I was about to go into the drink,” he groaned as they pulled the cart off the gangway.

  As they visited shop after shop, she could not shake off the feeling that she was being followed.

  ‘I am being most foolish,’ she told herself, as they made their way through the winding streets of Marseilles, ‘Lord Mountjoy has gone to the Consulate with the Marquis. He will not have taken the trouble to follow me. Besides, I have Pete with me and he would not dare to make a move whilst he is by my side.’

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Pete, shouting at her from the other side of the street, “Here, Jean. Look at these.”

  Pete was standing outside a boulangerie that was piled high with loaves of every shape and description. He was pointing to a tray of pastries that were baked in the shape of small boats.

  “They are called navettes,” she explained, “which means little boats.”

  “Can you go inside and buy a couple for me?” asked Pete, diving into his pocket for some coins. “I think I have a franc or two from my last visit, I must show them to the lads on board.”

  Verena took the money and went inside. She asked the woman behind the counter about the strangely shaped pastries and she immediately launched into a long explanation.

  After more than ten minutes of listening patiently while the woman chattered on interminably about Lazarus and little boats, Verena managed to pay for the pastries and politely take her leave.

  But once outside the shop, there was no sign of Pete or the handcart full of her shopping.

  She stood in the street unable to find her bearings. They had wandered all over this part of Marseilles for quite some time and she had long since lost any sense of where the docks might be situated.

  ‘I shall wait here for a while,’ she decided, ‘Pete will surely be back presently.’

  But she waited for a good fifteen minutes to no avail. Sighing, she picked up her basket and began to walk.

  The sun was sinking slowly but burned no less fierce. She judged it to be around four o’clock and many shops were showing signs of closing for the day.

  She walked and walked but could not find Pete.

  ‘I will have to return to the ship,’ Verena resolved.

  But that was easier said than done as she soon discovered. All the streets looked the same after a while – the same overhanging buildings with the same shutters – and she found herself back where she had started some ten minutes previously.

  Sighing with impatience, she suddenly had the feeling that there was someone behind her. She could hear no footfalls – rather it was just a sense of being followed.

  She quickened her pace and changed her direction. But still she felt pursued.

  Time and time again, she glanced over her shoulder. Just once, she swore she saw a figure ducking into a doorway with a large porch.

  She waited. Every last hair on her head standing on end. Her body tense and ready to flee – but no one appeared to be anywhere in the street.

  Just then, a cat crossed the road and Verena heaved a sigh of relief. It must have been the animal that she had sensed in pursuit.

  ‘That will be it! I have fish in my basket and it has a strong enough smell to have half of the cats of Marseilles after me.’ On she trudged, making very little progress.

  Turning a corner, she spied an ironmonger’s shop that had yet to close for the day. She crept inside and asked the proprietor for directions to the port.

  In a strong Marseilles accent, he told her that she was not far – then drew her a map on a brown paper bag.

  “Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” Verena thanked him, clutching her makeshift map to her breast. “Merci, mille fois.”

  She left the shop feeling light of heart. So light, in fact, that she failed to notice the shadowy figure creeping around the corner of a nearby alleyway –

  Verena looked at her map one more time and sighed,

  ‘Now, if I can find the monument, then the docks should be not far away.’

  She did not know what it was that made her quicken her pace – perhaps it was some sixth sense – but she suddenly had the distinct feeling once more of being followed.

  Her heart beat faster as she ran through the streets, trying to shake off her pursuer.

  A thousand thoughts were streaming through her mind. Was it a criminal who followed her? A madman with a knife?

  Suddenly, a man grabbed her from behind, his hand clamped fast over her mouth as he dragged her into a dark alley. As he pulled her backwards, Verena could see that the road ahead opened out into the docks.

  “Very clever, young lady. Very clever indeed,” came a hissing voice.

  Verena tried to struggle, but the man held her tight in his grip.

  “It has finally come to me who you are and I know a certain Countess of my acquaintance from Hampshire, who will reward me handsomely for the return of her runaway stepdaughter!”

  “Lord Mountjoy!” she cried, “I beg of you, let me go.”

  Lord Mountjoy laughed. With one swift movement, he let go and then tied up her wrists behind her back.

  Verena was almost swooning from fear.

  “Now, tell me. What is there to stop me from putting you on the boat back to England?” he snarled.

  “I beg you, please, let me go,” repeated Verena, tears falling from her eyes. Her basket lay in the gutter, its contents scattered. The navettes she had bought Pete were crushed to crumbs under Lord Mountjoy’s feet.

  His eyes glittered with a reptilian air as he watched her on her knees and crying. No sign of mercy was to be found in their cold depths.

  “I will do anything, but I can
not go back to England.”

  “Yes, and I know precisely why. Your father was furious when he discovered that you had run away. Couldn’t find a thing out from anyone – the servants closed ranks and refused to talk. He has dismissed your maid, you know.”

  Verena was desperate to find out if he had done the same with Barker, but she knew she could not ask.

  Lord Mountjoy regarded her for a long moment. He licked his lips before saying,

  “Of course, there is one way I could be persuaded to forget I know that you are none other than Lady Verena Rosslyn, and not some poor chef from Orly –”

  Verena looked up at him, hoping to find some sign of mercy in those cold, cold eyes.

  “And that is come away with me! I had not necessarily intended to sail on the Seahorse to its next destination and it would be easy for both of us to disappear here. I could tell the Marquis that his precious chef has been thrown into jail. After all, we are in France and chefs are ten a penny here.”

  “I am sorry, I do not understand what you mean,” Verena replied, still on her knees. “Come away with you?

  For what purpose?”

  Lord Mountjoy let out a long cruel laugh.

  “Why, quite the innocent aren’t we?” he chuckled, “my dear, I am hardly inviting you to tea at Fortnum and Mason’s. I am suggesting that if you were to become my mistress, then I would be inclined to help you, rather than be the cause of your undoing.”

  Verena stared at him in utter horror.

  “Your mistress! Never, never, never! I would rather die!”

  Lord Mountjoy smiled again,

  “With the fate that awaits you in the arms of the Duke of Dalkenneth, I would wager that death would be the more pleasant option,” he sneered. “You should consider most carefully my gracious offer. A house in London, all the gowns and jewels you would wish for, holidays in Monte Carlo and Florence and no one need know of your current plight.”

  ‘I am trapped,’ thought Verena to herself, ‘if I do not agree, this man will unmask me to the Marquis and he will surely have me arrested for deception. The very best I can hope for is that he puts me off the ship here in Marseilles – I simply cannot agree to be Lord Mountjoy’s mistress! I cannot, oh, I cannot!’

  “I see you are having some trouble making your mind up, Lady Verena,” Lord Mountjoy taunted her. “Well consider this. A Marseilles jail is no place for a lady – especially for one who is posing as a boy. Make the wrong decision now and his Lordship will surely have you thrown into one immediately. He cannot bear to be deceived –”