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 his glass towards mine. ‘To a successful operation. May you make so much money out of your canal that you choke on it!’
We clinked glasses. I didn’t spill anything of my costly drink.
‘A pleasing prospect, Mr Linton. However, quite unlikely. I have never had problems digesting monetary gain.’
I hid a smirk behind my champagne glass. ‘I can readily believe that, Sir.’
He watched me drinking, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. ‘Should you be drinking, Mr Linton? Remember what happened last time.’
My smirk widened into a grin.
‘Yes, that was fun.’
His eyes narrowed another fraction of an inch.
‘There was a gunfight. You were hallucinating. We nearly died.’
‘As I said, fun.’
‘I think we must agree to disagree on that, Mr Linton,’ he said coolly.
We lapsed into silence again. I wet my lips and opened my mouth - then closed it again. There was something I really wanted to ask. I didn’t, though. I was afraid of what the answer might be.
‘Messieurs! Voilà, your meal has arrived!’ The waiter swooped down on us like an eagle on a rabbit, only instead of grabbing us for his next meal, he brought us one. A steaming plate was set down in front of me, with a glistening, brown piece of something on it that looked incredibly soft and succulent. It also looked like nothing I had ever seen before, let alone eaten.
Bowing and smiling at me, the waiter departed. He completely ignored Mr Ambrose. I looked down at my plate, and tentatively picked up the thing on it with a fork. It wobbled.
‘You have no idea what foie gras is, do you?’ Mr Ambrose asked.
‘Of course I do!’ I sent him an indignant look. How dare he adopt this superior tone with me? I was a member of the gentry, after all. He was nothing but a paltry financier. Why should he just assume he knew more about French cuisine than I did? Granted, he might be right, but it was still a pretty darn cheeky supposition.
‘Indeed?’ The way he said that word alone made me want to stuff a fork down his throat. ‘Well, what is it, then?’
‘Um… it’s…’ I stared at the brown lump, trying to make deductions from the form and size. ‘Fish?’ I suggested, hopefully.
‘Not quite. Actually, it’s goose liver.’
‘Oh.’
Suddenly, I was acutely aware of how the ship pitched and rolled in the power of the waves, and I wasn’t quite so keen on tasting the French delicacy as a moment before. Raising my eyes, I saw Mr Ambrose watching me, his face perfectly expressionless, but his dark eyes slightly smug.
Ha! I’ll show him!
Quick as a flash I cut off a piece of the poor goose’s innards and stuffed it into my mouth before I could think better of it. Carefully, I bit down. It tasted surprisingly good. Not squishy at all, but soft and buttery.
‘Hmmm…’ Swallowing, I cut off another piece. ‘Quite nice. Yes, really quite nice.’ I tried the sauce that came with it, and the grin returned to my face. ‘Those Froggies really know what they’re doing in the kitchen.’
Cutting off another piece, I offered it to Mr Ambrose. ‘Do you want to try?’
Demonstratively, he took a piece of baguette from the bread basket and took a bite.
‘Oh well, suit yourself.’
We ate in silence for a while. I really enjoyed the meal. When you live off potatoes most of the time, tasting foie gras is something special simply for the scarcity value. Add to that the exquisite taste, and… well, it was just about heaven. I treasured every bite, knowing I wouldn’t taste something like this again for a long, long while. Even with my own wages, I would hardly be able to afford this on a regular basis. Especially if…
There it was again. That question. That question I didn’t want to ask.
I did it anyway.
‘Am I really that bad?’
My voice was quiet, hesitant. Mr Ambrose looked up from his plate, where he was cutting his baguette into geometrically similar pieces. ‘What?’
‘You intimated that after you had deducted money from my wages for all the things I had done wrong, there wouldn’t be anything left. Am I really that bad at my job, Sir?’
For once, there was no teasing, no scorn, no antagonism in my voice. That seemed to throw him off. He stared at me as if really seeing me for the first time. His dark eyes turned even darker.
‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘You are not. In fact…’ His jaw worked for a moment. ‘In fact, one might say your services have been moderately satisfactory, thus far.’
‘Satisfactory?’ Had I heard right? Had he just uttered praise? Praise, moreover, which in Mr Ambrose’s limited complimentary vocabulary equalled heavenly trumpets announcing a triumphal procession in honour of my utter perfection?
‘Relatively speaking, of course, Mr Linton. You are still no match for a real man, of course.’
For some reason, this didn’t make me want to bash his brains in. Instead, my lips twitched. ‘Of course.’
‘But for a member of the unmasculine persuasion, you showed considerable lack of fear, down in the mine.’
‘Courage, you mean, Sir?’ I inquired sweetly.