willing to show you the way, instead of evil people willing to show you the way to your grave. One old lady, Lady Timberlake, even entangled me in a conversation about how small and underfed the young men in military service, like my good self, looked nowadays, when I asked her for the way. She discovered I had the cabin right next to hers, and it took me some time to pry myself away from her. She was sorry to see the young soldier (i.e. me) go; he reminded her so much of her grandson, the brave darling…
I hoped fervently this was due to the excellence of my disguise and not to the freakish anatomy of her grandson.
When I finally entered the dining hall, a grand room with plush leather chairs arranged around small, intricately carved tables, and crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the first thing I saw was Mr Ambrose, sitting at one of the tables and arguing with one of the waiters over the price of a glass of water.
‘…two shillings for one glass?’ Mr Ambrose was saying, trying to nail the poor waiter to the wall with his cold glare. The other guests were watching him with apprehensive looks on their faces. ‘What do you put in that water, man? Gold dust? This is not acceptable!’
‘But Monsieur,’ the waiter protested. ‘This is special mineral water with many beneficial properties for your health, directly from the wells at…’
‘Well, as it happens, I do not feel sick in the slightest. Is it within your ability to procure some non-healing, but reasonably priced water?’
‘Monsieur! This is a vessel of the very first class. We pride ourselves on the excellence of everything we serve, and it would be a disgrace if we-’
‘Can you or can’t you?’
A pained expression crossed the waiter’s face.
‘I might be able to, um… obtain some low-quality fluid out of the provisions for the ship’s personnel, if Monsieur wishes it.’
‘Yes, Monsieur wishes it.’
‘Alors, I shall do my best. Before I leave, what does Monsieur wish to eat?’
Mister Ambrose eyed the bread basket placed in the middle of the table.
‘Does this cost anything?’
‘The bread basket? No, of course not, Monsieur! That is just an appetizer. Which of our delicacies does Monsieur wish to taste?’
‘The one that doesn't cost anything.’ With one hand, Mister Ambrose pulled the bread basket towards him, with the other, he waved the waiter away. ‘This will be quite sufficient. That will be all.’
The waiter was near tears.
‘Monsieur cannot be serious! Water and bread? Water and bread? This is a first-class vessel, not a prison bark!’
‘More’s the pity. On a prison bark, I wouldn’t have had to pay for the voyage.’
‘Monsieur! I beg you to reconsider. Please, here, I have a menu, will you not look and see if there is something that will please your palate? We have the best-’
He was interrupted by a hand snatching the menu from his grasp. My hand.
Casually, I flicked through the pages with golden corners and embossed, italic writing. Something caught my eye.
‘I would like… Foie Gras avec Sauce Espagnole, then a glass of Champagne…’
‘The sparkling variety or pale red?’
‘Sparkling, definitely sparkling. And as for dessert… well, we shall see. I look forward to tasting your delicacies.’
The waiter bowed so deeply that his head almost smashed into the table.
‘Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you so much!’
Shooting a last, lofty glance at Mr Ambrose, he glided away. I, meanwhile, sank down into the chair opposite my employer and gave him a bright smile.
He did not return it.
‘The price for that extravagant meal shall be deducted from your wages,’ he warned.
‘If you keep this up, Sir, there won’t be anything left of my wages when you’ve deducted all you wish.’
‘That would be very convenient indeed, Mr Linton.’
‘Oh, don't be so grumpy,’ I admonished. ‘You got what you wanted, didn’t you? We have the file back. We should celebrate!’
‘I am celebrating. I ordered a glass of water, didn’t I?’
‘Dear me, you’re right. Your extravagant exuberance is overwhelming, Sir.’
He, oh great surprise, didn’t reply. The waiter arrived with our drinks, and I raised my glass of champagne towards Mr Ambrose.
‘A toast,’ I declared.
He regarded me with those cool, dark eyes of his.
‘Similar to jokes, Mr Linton, toasts are a waste of time and breath. They also present the added hazard of spilling a drink one has paid for.’
‘Well, I like to waste a little breath and time now and again!’
‘I noticed.’
‘A toast,’ I repeated, and to my utter astonishment, Mr Ambrose hesitantly raised