‘I wanted to ask her uncle his consent first, so that what I will offer her will be free of obstacle. I mean, not that I mean you would be an obstacle, Sir . . .’
‘Indeed, I shall not,’ said Jacob. There was really no point beating about the bush, and the truth was, Jacob and Madame de Fontenay had already spoken about the eventuality. It would be a godsend.
‘But, Sir, I beg you,’ said the young man, his face flushed with a sense of injustice, ‘please hear me out before making a rash decision. I realise that you wish to rebuild your heritage in Europe, but . . . I love her . . .’
‘I am afraid you have misunderstood, Mr Darlington. I said I shall not. I shall not constitute a hindrance,’ said Jacob. A visible wave of joy spread over the young man’s face. Jacob continued, ‘If you both desire to create a life together, then you must. As long as she finds the comfort she deserves, and her grandmother is well looked after in her advancing years.’
‘Oh, she will, Sir,’ said the young man eagerly.
‘Good. And by the way, I was going to say I am not actually her uncle. At least, not by blood, although I have looked over her as if she were my own daughter.’
It could not have turned out better, and Jacob was delighted for the girl and relieved to have the responsibility removed. The young man was strong, his father was a pastor, he had resources—the cargo alone would make him a rich man—and to be frank, her breeding would certainly refine any coarseness Darlington had acquired owing to his birth and New World way of life. And with her strength of character, he trusted that she would make Darlington see the senseless savagery of slavery. Yes, it could not have turned out better. And now he would be able to concentrate on getting back to his own family.
The sun was near its highest point, and the heat was already stifling, so they decided to turn back westward towards the natural harbour. As he turned, Jacob caught sight of a distant ship. On seeing it too, Darlington was seized by a sense of urgency, and in a falsely calm voice, he said, ‘If she consents, I dearly hope you will give her away.’
‘Before you speak of marriage, should you not get to know each other better first?’
‘Of course, of course, I am jumping the gun. She must know where I live, meet my family. No doubt I have seen too many of my friends die too young. Life is not like in Europe, as you well know. Here you have to seize the opportunity before it passes you by.’
But fate would have it otherwise. Delpech would not give her away to Mr Darlington after all.
*
Earlier that morning, a little after eight o’clock, Marianne Duvivier emerged from the house, fuming.
She had hardly slept a wink all night, what with the heat and the mosquitoes buzzing around her ears, and then with silly, rambling thoughts of Mr Darlington. How dare he laugh at her efforts to speak English during dinner! His French was hardly the epitome of eloquence either. Although it did occur to her that she had a tendency to correct his grammar, often. But then why did he insist that his ship was feminine when the proper language dictated it to be le and not la navire? And yet he would not have it any other way.
And how dare Monsieur Delpech accept to take him on a jaunt without her, as if it were too dangerous. After all she had been through, honestly, she had faced more terrors than many a trooper! Did they really take her for a silly young girl? And Monsieur Delpech, of all people; she thought he at least was on her side. She might have all the inconveniences of her sex—her periodical discharge, the cumbersome layers of clothing that made a woman of quality ostensibly decent—but that did not make her inept. And to top it all, now squalls of wind kept upsetting her hair.
But she would not be compounded just because there was no man about. Besides, the days had become far too warm and sticky to stay indoors, even behind closed shutters. So after her coffee, she took up her sketching equipment and the little folding stool which Jacob had fitted with straps. And despite her grandmother’s remonstrance—none too insistent, as the old lady had not slept either—she headed off past the swamp area to the hillock on the south side of the little island.
Three quarters of an hour later, she was setting up on the clifftop to finish her sketch of the farmstead huts which spread along the low ground in the distance. She unfolded her stool close to the ledge, where the sea breeze kept the mosquitoes at bay, and sat with her knees supporting her drawing.
By the time she had finished her landscape piece, the big golden sun was blazing high in the sky. It was sweltering. She stood up, capped her eyes with her right hand, and looked eastward. There was still no sign of the amblers, not that she was expecting them, of course, but in the distance, she could see the outline of an approaching ship.
Then she moved her gear back forty yards to the shade of the trees on the edge of the wood.
*
Private Guillaume Girard was twenty-three. Until a few days ago, he had high hopes of declaring his flame—a flame that still raged inside despite the arrival of the Englishman. In fact, now it raged even more fiercely, for it was also fuelled by the feeling of injustice and the power of jealousy.
Girard knew he was better-looking than the merchant captain, and more practical too, and yet the Englishman walked in with a hull full of sugar, and she practically fell at his feet. Girard saw her turn on her charm like a soft glow in a warm night, as she had done with him: a smile that any man would die for, and the way she let her hand lightly touch his arm so he just melted into submission.
For five weeks, he had been shadowing her. Normal enough; he had been given the job of keeping an eye on the Huguenots. The old captain of the garrison—which consisted of just a handful of men—knew too well you had to keep reports up to date no matter what your commander said, because commanders could come and go as quickly as the turn of the tide. And that meant keeping your eye out in case questions were asked.
What the old captain did not foresee, though, was that Girard would get a twinkle in the eye for Miss Huguenot.
The soldier now often thought back at how he had cherished every one of her smiles at the beginning of their “relationship”. How she had encouraged their nascent camaraderie, asking him a multitude of favours, and each time he obliged unfailingly. Would you bring us some fresh water, Monsieur Girard? Could you fetch some wood for the stove, Monsieur Girard? Do you think you could possibly retrieve that coconut up there, Guillaume? What a bloody baboon he had been! What a lackey! And yet he had felt a real complicity grow between them. That is, until the old crow poked her beak in.
Nevertheless, he still had been able to observe her from the woods, from behind the rocks, and at night from the top of the slope that overlooked her room. He had learnt her every move. He had even seen her piss twice. Once in her room, and another time out in the field during a sketching session. It had taken all his willpower to keep himself from appearing in front of her. A whore once told him that women have an extra sense that tells them when a man is watching. And that they watched men even more than men watched them. It was obvious, of course, but it was nice to hear it confirmed by an expert on human nature.
Yes, Mademoiselle Duvivier knew what she was doing all along. Of course she was leading him on. It was time to see how far she would go now that he had her alone at last.
*
Girard had been crouching in the cover of the woods, doing his job, spying on her. He was now leaning behind a group of trees, and stood there in hiding, liberated and eroticised as she approached.
Two minutes later, she was unfolding her stool; then she sat back to take in the view of the sea and the faraway ship. She was in a lethargic, dreamy mood, and was roasting hot. She proceeded to untie her corset from the front, and then slipped her hand inside to open and close her blouse in order to let out hot puffs of air.
She let her thoughts run wild, as she often did at this time of day. Of course she was still a virgin. But she knew about lovemaking; she had seen a horse mount a nag when she was eleven. The image often played on her mind, an
d when she saw a man, she sometimes found herself wondering what he was like. Despite her prayers, this longing would never go away completely, so she had learnt to live with it, and let herself flirt with the idea in the privacy of her mind.
She now pictured the handsome Captain Darlington, his lips, his regular teeth, and his large hands. She felt like a woman in his eyes; he had known her no other way. Would he or wouldn’t he? she wondered. Then she imagined him nude and her head level with his chest, her hands exploring his body.
She tugged at the lace of her corset to loosen it further. Sitting astride the stool with her back arched, she softly squeezed her plump breast through the fabric of her blouse. She then looked left and right, and brought out both her breasts, one after the other, and felt the air on her intimate skin like a liberation.
He had seen her do this before. This time, he was closer than he had ever been; barely half a dozen yards separated them. But she had her back to him, and he could not feast his eyes on her breasts, which he knew were as plump as pigeons. He had to move a step closer.
A noise in the trees, a bird perhaps, made her start. She swiftly tucked her breasts back into her corset, then spun round to face the woods.
Behind the screen of vegetation, he held his breath.
‘Who’s there?’ she said in a steady voice, for the sake of her own conscience. But then she really did sense someone was spying on her. She had experienced the sensation before.
‘Who’s there?’ she repeated with her hand on her collarbone, her blouse still undone.
‘You know who’s here, Miss Marianne,’ said a man’s voice. The girl gasped. Private Girard continued, ‘We’re drawn together, you and me. And you need me as much as I need you.’
He knew when a girl was ripe to shed her virginity, and he stepped slowly forward till he appeared just a few yards in front of her.
‘Stand back, Guillaume!’ she ordered, fighting off panic.
With confidence and feeling, he said, ‘We just need to hold each other.’ He took another step forward and held out his hand. ‘Just once.’
‘Get back or I shall scream!’ she said, pushing back the stool, and she began to draw back slowly.
‘No one will know of our little rendezvous.’
‘You are drunk, Guillaume! I shall report you to your commander.’
‘And I’ll tell everyone what you get up to when you’re on your own. Admit it, Marianne, you need it the same as I do.’
‘Get away from me!’ she said, scowling at him defiantly. He lunged for her. She turned to run. But in her panic, she tripped over the stool.
He was soon on top of her, smothering her in the smell of male sweat and rum, holding her in his arms despite her battling to get free.
He flipped her over, sat astride her, and slapped her full on the side of the face to calm her down. It shocked her, numbed her for a moment.
Then she felt his hands fall on her breasts, bunch them up, and squeeze them till they hurt.
‘Get off!’ she shrieked desperately, struggling to break free.
Having given full vent to her voice, she screamed out again, and again. ‘Help! Help! Someone! Jacob! Help!’
But Girard was determined now. Even if it meant throwing her off the cliff once he was done with her. The rocks would break her bones, and the sea would carry her body away. It would be an accident. He would arrange her equipment near the clifftop. The squalls could be strong and treacherous on that south-facing ledge.
She continued to battle and scream, so this time, he punched her hard. He clamped her neck with one hand as a warning. Then he pinned down her shoulders.
She lay still, her head seething. She did not want to be hit again. Neither did she want to pass out.
He then removed his right hand from her left shoulder to feel for the top of his breeches, and to lift up her dress. Clamping her down with his left forearm, with his right hand he cupped her crotch, in the firm belief that she was bound to succumb in the end, just like the other virgins that had gone before her.
Her fingers reached out and touched a hard, cold object the size of a fist. She took it in her hand, but hesitated.
If she hit him, he would be sure to throttle her. He was capable of it. His hands were immeasurably strong. But then she remembered the promise she had made to herself and to Jacob on board the ship from France. She had promised never to succumb to the sovereign force of the male predator. So she clenched the rock tightly and struck Girard’s ear as hard as she could.
The blow knocked him off her. She shot up and bolted, screaming for help, up a natural embankment so she might be seen. Despite his bloody ear, he was up after her, as swift as a falcon, and pounced on her shoulders with all his weight.
In the commotion of the ensuing struggle, there came a loud shot. It made both victim and predator freeze for an instant. Private Girard then instinctively wrapped his arms around his prey, rolling her over.
‘Move and I kill you,’ shouted the voice of Daniel Darlington, from a distance of twenty-five yards. Girard got to his feet, lifting her with him so that she formed a human shield.
‘She’s a witch, Sir,’ he shouted to Darlington. ‘She has bewitched me like she has bewitched you!’
He whipped out his knife from its sheath.
‘Do you know what she does when she’s alone?’
Marianne felt his powerful forearm on her neck, so tight that it blocked her windpipe. But suddenly the pressure was released, and she sank to her knees, gasping for air. She hung her head while recovering her breath as Darlington ran up to her. The side of her face was heavily bruised, but she told him she was all right. She motioned for him to help Jacob, who was at present wrestling with the soldier twenty years his junior.
Delpech and Darlington had split up as they had come to the opposite side of the wood. They had taken different routes to increase the chances of one of them arriving in time to prevent whatever danger it was that had caused Marianne to scream. Darlington had come round the west flank first; then Jacob had appeared behind Girard, moments after the gunshot.
Girard and Delpech were now locked in a fierce embrace. Jacob had latched onto the soldier’s arm to stave off the knife from Marianne’s throat. Before Darlington could intervene, they both tripped on a rock that jutted through the turf, and they fell where the ground stepped down just a few feet.
Delpech rolled swiftly away from the soldier so that Darlington could pin the man down with his musket. But there was no need.
Private Girard got to his feet, holding his belly, his face suddenly sobered. He looked down at his hand which he had pulled away. It was covered in blood.
‘My God,’ said Jacob.
The soldier staggered a few steps before sinking to his knees.
‘I loved her,’ he said. Then he collapsed completely, face down on the patchy grass.
Jacob was quickly upon the young man, turned him over, felt his pulse. ‘My God, he’s dead,’ he said in horror.
Darlington picked up the bloody knife, glistening on the grass where it fell. He wiped the blade on Girard’s shirt and replaced it in the soldier’s sheath.
‘We must throw him over. He will be taken by the current,’ he said, latching onto the body by the ankles.
‘My God, man, you cannot . . .’
‘His captain will want to know who killed him.’
‘But he fell on his own blade, Sir. You bore witness.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Darlington, dragging the body towards the ledge of the cliff. ‘I am an English American. You are a Huguenot. You will be placed under arrest, and sent to Leogane to face trial. What chance do you think you will have?’
‘He is right, Jacob,’ said Marianne, visibly holding back her emotion. ‘I hate to say it, but he is right.’ She was still in shock, but was herself surprised to find her thoughts lucid and practical. ‘His death will condemn you. We cannot let that happen.’
‘The man had been drinking. His disappearance wil
l be put down to a tragic accident,’ said Darlington, brandishing the soldier’s rum flask. ‘We will leave this on the edge. We have no choice, Monsieur Delpech. He is dead, and thanks be to God, you and Mademoiselle Duvivier are alive!’
The man’s soul had left him, and it was true nothing would be gained by taking the body back; there was no family to mourn him here on the island. It would most likely be buried at sea anyway. So at length, after a short prayer, Jacob agreed to the Englishman’s course of action.
The two men solemnly took the body by its wrists and ankles, carried it the rest of the way to the cliff ledge, then swung it twice and let go.
All three of them looked over the edge to see that Girard’s body had landed in the shallows. However, instead of being swept out to sea, it soon became apparent that it was being washed to shore.
SEVENTEEN
It was an hour past noon when the Sally-Ann put into the natural harbour to refill with water, venison, and a barrel of fruit.
The two-masted sloop, armed with six guns, was on her way to Jamaica. She displaced 120 tons, was manned by fourteen crew members—composed of a mixed bag of nationalities, led by a French captain—and was carrying a delivery of French wine and fineries procured from merchants in Martinique. Jacob could do worse than to pay for his passage aboard.
Darlington’s ship would be flopped on its side for weeks to come, and Girard’s body, beached on the south shore, could be discovered at any moment. Once the soldier was reported missing, the garrison commander would put together a search party. So, Jacob concluded, it would be foolish not to take the providential ride to freedom.
He would not be entirely alone. Jacques Rouchon, who knew his way around a ship and could tie knots, had paid his passage by joining the crew. Delpech had told him he lacked the patience to wait another few weeks for Mr Darlington’s ship, laid up as it was, and that he must find a passage to Europe to reunite with his family.
Rouchon had put Jacob’s edginess down to the imminent departure when he said: ‘Aye, Monsieur Delpech, sure as day follows night, yer bound to find a passage across the Atlantic from Port Royal.’
Voyage of Malice Page 14