The Heart of love

by Barbara Cartland

  With solid blows, Barker drove the last bolt into place and then carefully tightened the nut. He wobbled the wheel to and fro to test the fixings, before pronouncing himself satisfied.

  “Aye, that will do. Let’s get Jessie tethered back up and be on our way. It’ll be getting light afore long.”

  Verena walked swiftly over to the grazing horse and grabbed hold of her bridle.

  “Come on, girl. Time for you to run like the wind!”

  The horse flicked its ears as if it could understand her every word.

  As Barker hitched her up once more to the carriage, Verena clambered on board. She rubbed at her aching temple.

  Barker cracked his whip once more over Jessie’s head and the carriage took off into the night. Verena turned round to watch the bridge vanish in the distance, still convinced that she would see a party of horsemen coming after them.

  But no such sight appeared.

  Mile after mile they ploughed on through the gloom.

  Neither Verena nor Barker spoke. It was the stuff of nightmares – the endless dark countryside speeding by – the odd snatch of moonlight poking through the clouds – strange shapes looming up in front of them out of the dark.

  “How much further?” she shouted to Barker, after they had been travelling for quite some time.

  “Only a few miles to go – look, you can see the sky is brighter ahead of us. It’s the harbour lights.”

  Sure enough, Verena could see a dim, hazy glow, like the warmth from a faraway fire. Behind her, the night sky was giving way to the lavender-coloured dawn.

  ‘We will not get there before dawn,’ she muttered to herself. ‘How will I go unrecognised? My father has so many friends in Poole and the Harbour Master has often dined at the Hall. What shall I say should I bump into him?’

  These and a thousand other thoughts chased through her mind. With every passing mile, she became more and more anxious.

  At last, they arrived in Poole.

  The carriage did not slow down, but sped on through the dark, narrow streets, Jessie’s hooves resounding sharply over the cobbles.

  Verena could now smell salt in the air and felt the sharp breeze.

  As the carriage swung into Poole harbour, she was amazed to see that it was a hive of activity.

  Porters ran past balancing baskets on their head, official-looking men in uniforms bustled around waving papers. Everywhere people were doing deals and going about their business and it could not have been any more than four thirty in the morning.

  “Aye, these ’arbour folk work while the rest of us are tucked up in bed,” exclaimed Barker, as if he had read her thoughts. “Now, if my memory serves me well, the ticket office is just around this bend to the right.”

  Barker brought the carriage to a halt outside a wooden building on the quayside.

  It was strangely quiet. It occurred to Barker that maybe her Ladyship was going to find difficulty in locating a ship to take her. She was, after all, travelling alone without a companion.

  ‘This is it,’ said Verena to herself. ‘I cannot go back now.’ She opened the carriage door and stepped out. Barker was already unloading her luggage.

  How insubstantial it now looked sitting on the quayside!

  “Barker, you must return to the Hall immediately,” suggested Verena firmly. “No one must discover that you and the carriage are missing.”

  “It may be too late for that, my Lady,” Barker gestured towards the lightening sky. “It will be breakfast time when I get back.”

  Verena fumbled inside her purse and brought out a few silver coins she had put there earlier, expressly for this purpose. She pressed them into Barker’s hand.

  “My Lady, I told you, there is no need –”

  “Barker, I insist. Take it. That is an order.”

  She pressed the coins into his calloused hand.

  The old man had tears in his eyes as they said their goodbyes.

  “Who knows if I will ever see you again, but thank you, thank you, Barker, from the bottom of my heart. Now go!”

  She watched as Barker climbed up onto the carriage and urged Jessie to walk on.

  “Good luck, my Lady!” he called, as the carriage edged away from the quayside. “God bless!”

  *

  For the first time ever, Verena was alone, utterly alone. She walked nervously towards the ticket office. She could see a bright light burning there, but as she entered, there were few people inside.

  A young man, not much older than she, sat behind the glass at the counter. He wore his hair slicked back with a thin moustache in the London fashion.

  She approached the booth and waited for him to notice her presence.

  “Can I help you, madam?” he enquired.

  “I wish to sail to France,” began Verena, her voice quivering. “When is the next sailing?”

  The man clicked his tongue.

  “Sorry, madam, but you’ve just missed the last one for a while. It’s the tide you see, it’s going out.”

  The words hit Verena like whip blows.

  No more ships. This could not be true!

  “When is the next one? Surely there must be another later on today?”

  “Not until six o’clock this evening. Sorry, miss.”

  Verena walked away from the counter, thoroughly dejected. To think she had come this far to be thwarted.

  Weeping silently, she sat down on a hard wooden bench in the corner.

  ‘If I wait until the next sailing, I will surely be discovered. Oh, what can I do?’ She looked around the ticket office, taking in every last detail – the polished wooden floor, the wainscoting on the walls and the cream paint. There was a notice board with sailing times and an advertisement for a yacht for sale.

  She had heard her father commenting on how the new steam ships had now become so fashionable and a few of his friends were selling their old brigs with sails for one of the new-fangled craft.

  Verena rose and wandered over to the notice board. Sure enough, as she ran her finger along the timetable, there was a sailing to Cherbourg at six o’clock – over twelve hours hence.

  ‘I simply cannot wait that long. I am sure to be discovered if I have not left here soon.’ It was then that her eyes alighted upon a neat, handwritten notice on creamy vellum. Her heart beat faster as she read the words, CHEF REQUIRED URGENTLY Top-class French chef for a three month period. Must be able to create authentic haute cuisine dishes, Apply The Seahorse, Poole Harbour.

  Verena’s mind whirled.

  At her finishing school in Paris she had always come out with top marks in the haute cuisine class. Mademoiselle Dupont had often gone into ecstasy over her supreme de volaille and had declared her madelines almost as good as those found in the local patisseries.

  She had spent many a happy hour at Rosslyn Hall in the kitchen, cooking tempting morsels for her father when he experienced dark days and had refused to eat.

  Verena tore the notice off the board and strode up to the counter, full of confidence. The young man fingered his moustache and looked querulously at her.

  “Can I help you?”

  “This advertisement, can you tell me where I can find the Seahorse?”

  The young man studied the leaflet she held out to him and gave a dismissive sigh.

  “This here gentleman won’t have women on board,” he said, going back to his work.

  “But I do not understand – ” began Verena. “What do you mean?”

  “Like I said, miss. The gentleman what owns the Seahorse refuses to have women on board – chef or no chef. It’s men only on board that ship. He’s most particular.”

  Verena felt utterly deflated.

  ‘No, I cannot be defeated now I am so close. I must think, I must think.’ Slowly a plan formed in her mind. It was daring, it was shocking, but she was desperate.

  ‘If Joan of Arc can join the French army, then surely I can become a French chef,’ she declared to herself, marching out of the ticket offic
e. ‘Now all I need is a willing accomplice to help me on my way – ’

  *

  Poole Harbour was once one of the richest ports in the South-West of England, but in these dying years of the century, it found itself to be a poor shadow of its former self. The fishing fleet was much depleted and it was mainly commercial and passenger craft that found haven in the harbour.

  The sun was up and shining brightly down on Verena as she began to walk the streets around the harbour. There were many taverns, surprisingly full and she passed them quickly, scared of the comments of the rough-looking sailors who hung around the doorways.

  ‘I must find some suitable attire,’ she muttered to herself, as she steeled her nerves. ‘But where can I find someone to help me?’

  She now found herself in a narrow sleepy street. She was tired and hungry. She had eaten very little the previous evening and she was feeling quite faint.

  Nearby a little baker’s shop was open with the delicious smell of newly baked bread wafting out of the door.

  Verena entered the shop and was pleased to see a few tables and chairs set out.

  Sinking gratefully down, she ordered tea and bread, butter and jam. The young waitress who served her gave her a strange look, but she ignored her and ate the thick slices with relish.

  At that moment a young sailor boy came in. By this time, the shop had become quite full and the only available seat was opposite Verena. He spied it and came over.

  “Scuse me, miss, is this seat taken?”

  An idea was forming in Verena’s mind as she shook her head and gestured for the boy to sit down.

  He was no more than fifteen, slender and about her height. He wore a loose navy serge jacket and three quarter length trousers. A jaunty cap sat atop his blond curls and his eyes were as blue as the sea.

  “Don’t mind if I join you?” he grinned.

  Verena smiled graciously. She had to be charming.

  The waitress brought the boy eggs and bread.

  ‘I must seize this opportunity,’ thought Verena.

  “Tell me,” she said to the boy, “where is your ship and when do you sail?”

  “Oh, I’ve just come off a long voyage,” the boy replied, “been to New Zealand. They’ve natives there with faces painted so you’d swear they’d stepped straight out of a nightmare. They waggle their tongues at you like this –”

  He stuck out his pink tongue and waggled it in Verena’s direction. She pulled back in horror. The boy, seeing her discomfort, doffed his cap.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, miss.”

  Verena took a deep breath – she could delay no longer.

  “You must allow me to buy you your breakfast and in return I would ask a favour of you –”

  The boy gave her a strange look. He had been around the globe and had encountered many kinds of women, but this young and very beautiful lady was a turn if ever he had seen one.

  “Go on.”

  “Your clothes, I need them.”

  He clasped his cap in mock horror to his breast. Verena realised that she had not expressed herself clearly. Blushing deeply, she corrected herself, “No, not the ones you have on. Do you have another set I could buy off you?”

  At the mention of money, the sailor boy’s eyes lit up.

  “How much is it worth to you?”

  Verena dived into her bag and proffered a handful of silver.

  The boy’s eyebrows shot up into his curls.

  “Blimey, miss. That will do! Now, you stay here. Pay for breakfast and I’ll meet you outside in fifteen minutes. A shilling deposit, that’s all I ask.”

  Verena handed over the shilling, praying that the boy was honest. She judged however that he had an open face.

  Verena hastily paid for both hers and the boy’s food and then leaving a tuppenny tip for the waitress, left the shop and waited outside.

  As long minutes ticked by, it seemed as if Verena had been standing there for half an hour at least.

  She was just about to give up and walk away, feeling most cheated, when she saw the boy running towards her with a bag.

  “Here,” he puffed, as he approached her. “They ain’t been washed and they’re a bit messy.”

  “Never mind, they’ll do,” replied Verena, handing over fifteen shillings.

  “Well, bye, miss,” said the boy, touching his cap. “Ta for breakfast.”

  “No, it is you who I must thank.”

  She waved at the boy’s departing figure as he disappeared into the maze of streets. Verena peered inside the bag and was temporarily overwhelmed by their musty odour.

  Making her way back to the ticket office, she crept into the building and headed for the ladies cloakroom. The young man with the moustache was no longer sitting at the counter. In his place was an older man with neat ginger sideburns and a shiny face. He was adding up a column of figures and scarcely paid her any attention.

  Verena squeezed herself and her luggage into one of the cubicles. As quick as she could, she pulled on the foul-smelling uniform of a shirt, jacket, trousers and cap.

  ‘Now for the final touch!’ she cried, leaving the cubicle and placing her vanity case on the sink stand.

  She snapped open the latch and rummaged inside.

  ‘Ah, there they are.’ Fishing out a pair of dressmaking scissors, Verena pulled off the cap and took a deep breath.

  With one swift movement, she cut a large hank of hair from the front, then another from the side, until at last, a huge pile of gleaming black hair sat in the sink.

  She regarded her reflection in the dirty mirror over the sink stand. She could barely recognise the face that stared back at her. With her hair barely covering her ears, her small features stood out – as did the livid red mark where she had hurt herself earlier.

  Such was the transformation that she could not suppress a gasp.

  ‘I look like a boy!’

  Placing the cap on top of her cropped head, she took one last look at herself before leaving the cloakroom.

  Striding boldly up to the counter, she waited for the man’s attention.

  “Yes, young man?”

  Verena was silently thrilled. She knew what she must now do. In a heavily French-accented voice, she spoke gruffly lowering her voice so as to appear as authentic as possible.

  “Pardon, monsieur, the Monsieur who is wanting a chef?”

  Verena raised her voice at the end of the sentence as she had heard the mademoiselles at finishing school do when they were attempting to speak English.

  The man behind the counter appeared slightly flustered. He raised his voice and began pointing.

  “You want the Seahorse!” he bellowed, “ask for Captain James Macdonald.”

  Verena could barely contain a smile. She had seen this performance so often when she was in Paris with English tourists.

  “Merci, monsieur, er, where is the Seahorse?”

  She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word was difficult for her to pronounce.

  The ginger-haired man gesticulated wildly.

  “Turn left, left at the pier and it is on the right. Bon, eh?”

  Verena smiled again,

  “Oui, oui, bon. It is good, no? Thank you.”

  She left the ticket office still smirking at the man’s feeble attempt at French.

  Her heart began to beat wildly as she came to the docks where many fine vessels were moored. She wondered what kind of ship the Seahorse might be – she walked past a mixture of brigs and small boats and then finally, she caught sight of a magnificent steamship sitting at the end of the line.

  ‘This must be it, I feel it in my bones.’ And sure enough, on its bow were the words, THE SEAHORSE.

  ‘What a curious name for such a modern vessel,’ she wondered, her heart hammering again as she walked up the gangway. ‘I must say, I had not expected anything so new. I imagined something with sails.’

  Up on deck, Verena could see that preparations were being made to leave. The crew were busy
loading barrels and casks and she noticed a crate of mackerel, probably caught that very morning, their scales glinting in the sun. There were sacks of grain and she was surprised to see a hank of nutmegs sitting on top of several bunches of onions and strings of garlic.

  ‘Most unusual for an English gentleman,’ she mused. ‘This man boasts a rare palate.’

  It was then that she noticed a tall, grey-haired gentleman standing by the bridge. By his uniform she guessed that this must be the Captain. He was wearing a peaked cap, trimmed with white braid and he held a pocket watch in his hand.

  “Get moving, men,” he shouted to the bustling crew, “we set sail with the evening tide and we have all his Lordship’s baggage to load on yet awhile.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” came the chorused response.

  Barely able to breathe with nerves, Verena approached the tall man.

  “Capitaine James MacDonald?” she enquired, in her new rough, French-sounding voice.

  The Captain spun round and regarded her closely before answering.

  “Yes.”

  “I ’ave come about the position of chef to Monsieur?”

  Once more, the Captain stared at Verena. For one awful moment, she feared that she was about to be unmasked.

  “Je suis, Jean Armand,” continued Verena, feeling distinctly uneasy at the man’s taciturn behaviour. “I ’ave cooked the cuisine in many fine ’ouses. I learn in Paris and now, I wish to travel some more before I return.”

  Still silent, the Captain remained unmoved.

  ‘What ails this man?’ she thought, ‘why does he not answer me?’ Eventually, the Captain made a gesture for her to follow him

  .

  ‘I wonder where he is taking me. Oh, Heavens, I do hope that he is not taking me straight to his superior and they are about to clap me in jail and give me up to the police.’

  Gradually, they descended the narrow stairs below decks. The walls and floors were all bolted steel, and their footsteps clanged as they made their way downward.

  Finally, the Captain arrived at a partially glazed door that bore a sign reading ‘Galley.’

  He pushed open the door and walked straight in, leaving Verena trailing in his wake.