Dying For a Cruise

by Joyce Cato

  And for different reasons entirely, he was beginning to become very unpopular with his cook as well. Any implied slur on her cooking was guaranteed to get her gander up.

  ‘So it’s just the four guests?’ she clarified. She’d have to keep Dorothy Leigh’s delicate condition in mind, of course. Plenty of vegetables and rice dishes for her.

  ‘Right. Oh and myself, and yourself, of course, and Captain Lester and the engineer. Oh, and Francis. My manservant,’ he added. He said the final words very much like a magician might say ‘abracadabra’ before producing a rabbit from a hat.

  Jenny found it, much to her chagrin, rather touching.

  That Lucas Finch must indeed have had a poverty-stricken upbringing, she didn’t doubt. The way he liked to throw his money about when entertaining was a sure sign. And now, the very reverence with which he referred to Francis by the ultra old-fashioned title of manservant made her heart contract in compassion. No doubt to the young Lucas Finch, growing up in London’s grime, the thought of him ever having a servant must have been as fantastic a dream as owning a goldmine.

  Of course, what the absent Francis felt about being described as a manservant to Lucas probably didn’t bear thinking about. Jenny shrugged the thought aside. She was allowing her mind to wander off the point.

  ‘So you have—’ she made a quick mental count ‘—five guests, and … er … the engineer? And Francis and myself.’

  Lucas frowned, looking puzzled.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s just the Olneys and the Leighs.’

  ‘And the captain?’ Jenny prompted. He counted as a guest, surely?

  Lucas looked at her as if she was mad. ‘The captain steers the boat, love,’ he explained with a gentle patience that would have been kind, if it hadn’t been so patronizing.

  Jenny fixed him with an eye that was beadier than the eye the parrot was giving her. ‘Boat?’ she echoed sharply.

  ‘Course,’ Lucas said, looking surprised now. ‘The Stillwater Swan.’ He said the name as lovingly as Romeo would have addressed Juliet.

  ‘The Stillwater Swan.’ Jenny repeated his words flatly and felt herself flush. She was beginning to feel as if she and the parrot might have a lot in common, after all. ‘I don’t recall the mention of any boat in our correspondence, Mr Finch,’ she said, her voice like steel.

  The fact was, Jenny was not so sure that she liked the sound of the word ‘boat’.

  Her father, who’d been a top chef in both London and then Paris for most of his career, had told her once about working on the Queen Elizabeth II. And all about some of his more harrowing experiences during a typhoon just off Bora-Bora. She still, to this day, had nightmares about trying to cook a seven-course dinner in a kitchen that wouldn’t keep still.

  Lucas Finch suddenly slapped his forehead in a well-blow-me-down gesture, making the parrot on his shoulder jump nervously.

  ‘You silly sod,’ the parrot said, quite clearly.

  Jenny glanced at the bird in some surprise, then shrugged. No doubt the bird had picked up quite a few less than salubrious phrases from its master over the years. It was just a sheer coincidence that it had chosen to utter the comment at such an appropriate moment.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t say, did I?’ Lucas grinned at his own neglect. ‘Come on, er … Miss … er….’

  ‘Starling.’

  ‘Starling. I’ll show you my pride and joy.’

  Jenny wasn’t any too sure that she wanted to be shown Lucas Finch’s pride and joy. Nevertheless, she got rather reluctantly to her feet, and followed his tall, white-haired figure through the house and out into the vast back garden where, at the bottom, the River Thames meandered by, like some stately relative just calling in for a visit. And there, moored to a large wooden landing, was the most beautiful sight Jenny had ever seen.

  The ‘boat’ was a large, flat-bottomed, two-storeyed paddle steamer – obviously purpose-built and to spec, in order to traverse England’s biggest river. Not exactly a Mississippi riverboat special, it was certainly unusual and undeniably elegant. It had, in fact, class written all over it.

  It was also, as its name suggested, painted a bright, almost blinding white, with black and orange trim. As they approached it, the cook noticed how the steam whistle that rose above the structure was carved like the neck and head of a swan, with its orange-painted beak wide open, to allow the steam through.

  The riverboat had tiny balconies on the upper storeys, with hanging baskets affixed to the walls, frothing over with blue, red, green and yellow. Its brass fixtures gleamed like gold. Its planked decking was dry and clean, and a light gold in colour. The windows on both floors were wide and pristine, and glass sliding doors led out onto the lower deck. It was most definitely a rich man’s toy.

  ‘Isn’t she summat?’ Lucas Finch asked with masterly understatement and beaming pride, and Jenny nodded.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she agreed, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘She certainly is summat.’

  ‘Want the guided tour?’

  Jenny nodded. If she was to spend the weekend cooking on this lovely vessel, she most certainly did want the guided tour. Especially of the kitchen. Or, she supposed she should say, the galley.

  The Stillwater Swan didn’t so much as bob at her mooring as they stepped from the jetty, through the open boarding gate and onto its lower deck. Jenny went straight to the rear and looked at the large paddles below.

  Long, elegantly curved paddles rested in the still, clear water of the Thames. She could just imagine them turning, gently and smoothly pushing the boat along. What was it about paddle steamers, she mused meltingly, that so boggled the imagination? She felt like a giddy schoolgirl about to go to her first dance. She’d cooked in castles, in colleges, and indeed in some of the stateliest homes of England in her time. But this was something special. Perhaps it was the magic of steam, or simply the call and romance of a bygone era that made her heart flutter.

  ‘This here’s the engine room.’ Lucas briefly opened the door, giving her a glimpse of a large but modern boiler, and a row of technical-looking, state-of-the-art dials. ‘The coal and water are stored here.’ He nodded to the side, where a small door led off to the storerooms. ‘We also have another freshwater butt on the starboard side, in case of fires, or if the tanks run low.’

  Jenny nodded but in fact knew nothing about the mechanics of how such a boat must work. Nor was she particularly interested. Just so long as, when she turned on the taps in her kitchen – no, her galley – the water came on, then she was happy.

  ‘But the guests, of course, have nothing to do with the dirty, smelly end,’ Lucas laughed. ‘Up there—’ He nodded above, to the balconies on the second storey ‘—are three bedrooms and a bathroom. Double beds, mind. And thick carpets. And real antiques. When I had the Swan built, must be twenty years ago now, I had her fitted out with nothing but the best.’

  Jenny ignored the boasting, having got her measure of the man by now.

  She didn’t doubt that Lucas always had to have the best of everything, and for once she was not amused or touched by his extravagance. The Stillwater Swan, it was plain, simply deserved the best of everything.

  She followed him as he led her to the main salon, that also served, she saw at once, as the dining room.

  In the centre of the room was a large, gleaming mahogany table that could easily have seated twenty. The cook could just imagine it set with a snowy white cloth (what other colour for the Stillwater Swan?) and awash with gleaming crystal, a towering candle-and-flower centrepiece, and silver cutlery set for a seven-course feast.

  She began to practically quiver in anticipation.

  Lucas Finch watched her reaction with a smile of satisfaction, and nodded. In that instant, he knew that this surprising cook would not let him down. His guests would be treated to nothing but the best. ‘I’ve got flowers arriving later on tonight, plus the delivery of food.’

  At the magical word ‘food’, Jenny turned to him, her blue eyes
sparkling. ‘Yes?’

  Lucas smiled. ‘Don’t worry, love, you can check it all out for yourself, and if I’ve forgotten anything, then tell me. I have an arrangement with the butchers and greengrocers around here. What I want, I get.’ And his eyes glinted, just for a moment losing their jovial, laid-back twinkle.

  Jenny made a mental note to watch out for that particular gleam. Only truly ruthless men could get quite that expression in their eye. She followed with a rather wry smile as he led her to the galley, which was nowhere near as poky as she had feared and imagined.

  A large gas cooker stood in one corner, surrounded by adequate top-space. Cupboards were arranged in that very neat way that was peculiar to boats, taking up the minimum amount of space, whilst at the same time making the most of every square inch. A large sink and a small table completed the ensemble. All in all, not too shabby.

  She made a quick inspection of the utensils – plenty of pots, pans, and cutlery. She had with her, of course, and packed securely in the van, her own portable set of knives, spoons, spatulas etc. No cook worth her salt travelled without them.

  After a long, thorough inspection, she nodded, turned to look at him, and smiled. ‘This will do nicely,’ she said judiciously.

  Lucas Finch grinned.

  The parrot on his shoulder coughed.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to kip in the adjoining cook’s bunkhouse,’ he said, and went to a small door set in one bulkhead. It opened into a tiny bedroom, that contained one single bed, and a narrow wardrobe with one drawer at the bottom. There wasn’t so much as a porthole, and Lucas pulled on a cord that turned on a rather weak light. Jenny eyed the bed with a jaundiced eye, and then shrugged her massive shoulders. It was only for one night, after all.

  ‘It’ll do,’ she said shortly, and turned back to her galley. ‘So you’ll be wanting a full English breakfast for Saturday and Sunday mornings?’

  ‘Right. Might as well start the cruise off on a good nosh-up,’ he said cheerfully, and Jenny positively beamed at him.

  He was a man after her own heart, despite the rather rough edges.

  ‘Then, something light for lunch – salad, paté, something like that,’ he agreed enthusiastically, ‘then as lavish a meal as you can manage, say, round about eightish at night?’

  Jenny gave him a long, considering look. ‘I can manage a very lavish meal, given the right ingredients,’ she warned him. It was her dream to be let loose on a no-holds-barred feast. She tended, she knew, to go rather over the top though.

  Lucas laughed. ‘I bet you can.’

  Jenny looked at him archly. ‘How many courses had you in mind, Mr Finch?’

  Lucas leered at her. ‘Surprise me, darlin’.’

  ‘Give us a kiss,’ the parrot interpreted helpfully.

  Jenny looked at the bird thoughtfully, then glanced at its laughing-eyed owner.

  ‘I might just do that,’ she murmured.

  And then smiled. Well, he’d asked for it!

  TWO

  JENNY HAD NO intention of sleeping in the narrow and cramped room on the Stillwater Swan that night if she could possibly help it. And certainly not when Wainscott House itself was standing nearby practically empty and presumably just full of comfortable bedrooms with nice big beds! She’d arrived on a Friday afternoon strictly for Mr Lucas Finch’s convenience, and she intended to sleep in one of the spare rooms at his country residence that same Friday night for her own.

  A labourer was still worthy of her hire, after all. And so she set about securing these sleeping arrangements with all her usual tact and diplomacy – not to mention downright sneakiness. As with most things, timing was all.

  Just before the deliveries of food were due to arrive, Jenny was sitting on a garden chair under a large plum tree, with her small case by her feet. She had deliberately kept it by her side, and now she gave it a thoughtful glance. She was waiting, very patiently, for the opportunity to deposit it where she wanted it and, inevitably, her patience was eventually rewarded.

  Catching sight of a grey-haired figure at the kitchen sink, she promptly rose to her feet, grabbed her case and made her way to the kitchen through the well-tended vegetable garden. The housekeeper, busy filling a glass vase with water ready for a spray of gladioli, jumped a little as a large shadow fell over her, then turned sharply, her rather frosty face thawing a little at the sight of the cook. She obviously had no objection to her employer asking an outside agency to cook for his weekend guests, and Jenny guessed that the woman was glad to have a weekend off. So much the better – in her subconscious at least, she probably already felt as if she owed the new arrival a favour.

  Jenny smiled at her pleasantly. ‘Hello. You must be Mr Finch’s housekeeper?’ She held out her hand, forcing the woman to put down the vase. ‘I’m Miss Starling – please, call me Jenny.’

  The older woman shook her hand, looking a little flustered now.

  ‘I was hoping you could show me to my room?’ Jenny said, and looked at her case helplessly. ‘I’m expecting the food to be delivered soon and I must go over it all. I wouldn’t put it past the greengrocer to try and palm me off with bruised peaches or marked plums.’

  The housekeeper, who introduced herself as Beatrice Jessop, tut-tutted and agreed that nowadays shopkeepers would indeed take the most atrocious liberties, should you let them.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jenny agreed, as if she’d been listening to the Wisdom of Solomon. ‘So I’d really like to just unpack my night things and stow away my case before rolling up my sleeves, so to speak, to do battle. I imagine I’m to be put up in the room next to yours? We are the only two ladies in the house, I presume? Or does Mr Finch have a partner?’

  The housekeeper, who’d obviously had no such orders from her employer to prepare a room for the cook, very quickly agreed that, obviously, Jenny was to have a room next to hers. Where else? Professional women should stick together after all. And no, her employer was so far very much a bachelor.

  Soon Jenny was helping the by now thoroughly thawed housekeeper to make up a fresh bed in a pleasant and large room at the rear of the house. It had a charming view overlooking the village, with its old church, well-maintained village green and picturesque cottages.

  Mrs Jessop then very tactfully withdrew, and Jenny slipped a voluminous – but quite sexily diaphanous – white nightdress under her pillow and straightened up again. She gave the sturdy double bed a satisfied smile, nodded once in satisfaction, and left the room. On the landing she couldn’t resist stopping at the window to look down at the winding, wide river, and the Stillwater Swan at her mooring. From the second floor, the boat looked even more impressive. Having an overall, prow-to-stern look at it, she saw at once that it was surprisingly large. It was a good thing, she mused, that the river had been recently dredged and enlarged or she’d doubt the Swan would be able to clear it. Although she supposed that good old Father Thames had seen – and accommodated – much more prestigious boats in his time.

  She’d spent the afternoon minutely exploring every inch of the beautiful paddle steamer, being unable to resist it. It had, she knew, three large bedrooms on the top floor, including the master suite, which faced the front. A spacious bathroom had every modern convenience, including flushing toilet, shower and full bath. Down below, as well as the main salon/dining room and galley, it had a games room, and another toilet. At the rear was a large expanse of open decking, on which to play quoits or even, if you didn’t mind being just a touch cramped, a game of tennis.

  Jenny looked at the gleaming white vessel and felt herself smile. She couldn’t have stopped herself from falling in love with the craft even if she’d tried to. It so effortlessly brought back memories of the elegance and elan of days long since perished. She could just imagine Greta Garbo lounging on one of the main salon’s white leather couches with a gold cigarette holder about a foot long in one hand, and swirling a fluted glass of champagne in another. Clark Gable wouldn’t have given a damn whilst playing poker in th
e games room, and Noel Coward wouldn’t have looked a whit out of place holding court by the mock fireplace in the salon. It wasn’t very often she got an assignment as glamorous and as different as this one.

  She took a long deep breath of pleased anticipation. She could hardly wait for the morning to come. The lure of a short river cruise was beginning to make her feel as excited as a little girl on Christmas Eve.

  With her bed-finding mission now satisfactorily accomplished, Jenny made her way tranquilly back to the garden.

  Wainscott House, she saw at once, had been built around a large quad. In the middle of the quad there had been placed a large square lawn, with a sundial in the exact centre, which looked both old and original, and she wondered if it had truly come with the house. This lawn was in turn surrounded by colourful and tightly packed herbaceous borders. The house occupied two sides of the square, and on the opposite sides were two small converted cottages, that had once been stables, and a variety of outbuildings.

  From one of the large cottage doors, wide enough to have admitted the horses that had once lodged there, a man stepped out and into the sunshine. He wasn’t a tall man, and he wasn’t a young man, and from the way he moved down the path in a curiously circular, rolling gait, Jenny had no difficulty at all in labelling him as an old sea-dog. Only sailors walked like that in her experience. Which was considerable. Either that or he was someone who had had way too much grog. This, then, she surmised, could only be the captain.

  Jenny left her seat in the shade in order to waylay him. ‘Hello. You must be Captain Lester?’ she asked pleasantly.

  The man jerked to a halt, obviously taken aback by the sound of a woman’s voice. Jenny wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t thought that the housekeeper, Mrs Jessop, was the kind of woman to take to crusty old sea-salts, and from what she knew (or rather, guessed) of a sailor’s lonely life, they probably preferred to keep themselves to themselves. Not that she supposed that piloting a riverboat was the same thing as taking to the oceans. Still, one sailor, or so she’d discovered in her early twenties, was very much like another.