Valentine paused on the edge of the property. In the darkness of early evening, little could be seen of the scaffolding that climbed the south face of the great hall, where a columned frontispiece was being added. Soon the old north entrance would lead into the new kitchens and servants' quarters, which would open on the original courtyard. Sweet-scented herbs would be planted. In summer, the vegetables grown in the kitchen gardens beyond the courtyard walls would be harvested and flavored with rosemary and thyme; then, with wild game from the forests and a plentiful bounty from the sea, they would be served on silver plate in the great chamber. One day the great hall would be flanked by wings running east and west, boldly faced with tall, diamond-paned windows that would reflect the dazzling, shimmering light of the sea. A long gallery, reached by the stone staircase that rose in broad flights from the great hall below, would connect the two wings. Terraced gardens and lawns would surround the house, and . . .
Valentine Whitelaw sighed as he stared at the gray stone house in the distance; still modest in comparison to his visions of the future. The Madrigal would have to return from many a profitable voyage before work could even begin on the first part of his dream for Ravindzara.
Then he smiled, for it was enough that Ravindzara was his. He had a roof over his head, and his sister and aunt had a home to call their own.
Valentine ignored the medieval bronze door knocker centered in the great arched door and entered Ravindzara unannounced. The traceried windows, deeply recessed in the stone walls of the hall drew the eye to the richly carved oak beams of the timbered roof that climbed high above his head. A roaring fire was burning brightly in the wide, hooded hearth, spreading a welcoming warmth across the stone flooring. Several footmen had lowered the heavy chain that anchored one of the circular, bronze chandeliers to the center brace in the ceiling. They were lighting the thick candles spaced round the circle before they raised it back into position.
Valentine watched in wry amusement as a couple of maids set the long banqueting table with silver plate. At least that part of his vision for the future was true, and as he noticed the table being set for more than two places, his smile widened, for it would seem as if his aunt and sister had been prepared for his arrival at any time.
"Who left the door unlatched?" the footman nearest the entrance complained as he felt the cold draft swirling around his legs.
" 'Tis the master!" a sharp-sighted maid exclaimed, brushing down her apron with nervous hands as she watched him with a bold eye as he strode across the hall.
"Tom, Willie, Zeke," Valentine greeted the footmen, then smiled at the maids who curtsied as he passed. "Are my aunt and sister in the parlor?"
"Aye, sir, that they are," Zeke, the oldest of the trio, answered importantly.
"Told ye he'd remember," Tom whispered. "Never forgets. A real gentleman, he be."
"Well o' course he be a gentleman. Wouldn't be master o' this hall if he wasn't," Willie declared, impressed that the master had remembered his name.
"What I wants t'know is what be that fella's name?" Zeke said with a wink as he elbowed his friends, drawing their attention to the Turk, who was following Valentine Whitelaw up the broad flight of steps like a swiftly moving shadow.
"What I wants t'know is who's goin' to be askin'?" Tom demanded.
"What I wants t'know is who wants t'know that bad?" Willie guffawed, side-stepping his friend's swinging foot as they scuffled.
"Enough o' that," Zeke said authoritatively, halting their rowdiness before things got out of hand. "We got another candleholder to light before the master comes back down to sup. Good thing ol' Ettie made extra pasties or ye might not be gettin' any, Willie," Zeke declared, hiding his grin as he moved off.
"Me?"
"Looks like they be havin' to set an extra place at the table," Tom speculated, wondering if he too would come up short on a pasty tonight.
Zeke glanced back at the table. "Maybe," was all he said.
With growing anticipation, Valentine sought his aunt and sister. "Aunt Quinta! Artemis!" Valentine called out as he entered the parlor.
But as he entered the low-ceilinged, oak-paneled chamber, his favorite in the old hall, he halted in surprise.
"Valentine!" his aunt and his sister chorused when they saw him hesitating in the doorway. Quinta, a tall and thin, dark-haired women in her mid-fifties, rose quickly and hurried to his side to embrace him. Dressed in a flowing, brightly colored silk ropa lined and trimmed with sable, Quinta Whitelaw was an attractive, if somewhat eccentric, woman. The fashionable ropa had undergone a transformation under her nimble fingers; it was now an exotic caftan with full sleeves and braided fastenings. A jeweled cap stuck with an ostrich feather was set at a rakish angle on top of her head where her smoothly braided hair offered no concession to the tightly curled hairstyles of the fashionable ladies of London.
"Aunt Quinta," Valentine said, kissing her cheek. "Hello, Artemis."
He held out his hand to his sister as she limped slowly across the room. He enfolded her in his arms. "You are well?" he inquired, looking deeply into the blue eyes that were a shade paler than his own. Her hair was as black as his and fought to escape the braid she had coiled like a dark crown across the top of her head.
"How could I possibly feel anything other than well knowing that Basil is alive," she answered him, her eyes glowing with happiness. "Oh, Valentine. We have heard the miraculous news."
Until that moment the gentleman who had been enjoying the warmth of the fire had remained seated, but now he stood, nodding slightly to his host.
"Last week, when I arrived from London, I came to pay my respects to your aunt and sister. I am afraid that I assumed you had already returned to the Hall and told your family the news about Basil. I came to wish you well on your journey. When I discovered you had yet to arrive, well, I could hardly leave without sharing the heartening news with them," Sir Rodger Penmorley explained.
"Rodger," Valentine coolly greeted his neighbor, then noticing for the first time the lovely woman who had remained seated in the chair next to him, bowed slightly. "Honoria."
"Valentine," she said with a slightly haughty yet polite nod, her almond-shaped eyes barely meeting his gaze before she had turned her perfect profile away. Sitting demurely before the fire, her hands quiet in her lap. Rodger Penmorley's sister was all that a well-bred, virtuous young woman should be.
"We were quite shameless in our insistence that poor Rodger tell us all that he had heard concerning Basil," Artemis confided, her pale cheeks flushed rosily. "Except for my unhappiness that you will be sailing again to rescue Basil, I am so happy. I do not think I shall be able to eat or sleep until you and Basil have returned."
" 'Twould seem as if our prayers have been answered," Quinta said, her penetrating glance meeting her nephew's gaze for a moment before she turned back to her guests. "It is time we sat down to dine."
"We really must not intrude upon Valentine's first night here," Rodger protested, for although they met with an appearance of cordiality, there had been a longtime rivalry between the two families, and especially between the two youngest sons. The most recent of which had been for the hand of Cordelia Howard.
"I insist you stay and dine with us," Valentine said. "If you will forgive me, I will be but a few minutes in changing," he started to excuse himself. "I am splattered with mud."
"Certainly. I know how hard a ride it is from London," Sir Rodger allowed.
"Actually, I rode only from Plymouth. The Madrigal is anchored there. She is taking on supplies in preparation for our journey."
"I am surprised. I would have thought you would have preferred Falmouth. 'Tis closer to the Hall," Sir Rodger questioned, still referring to Ravindzara by its former name.
"I had business with several people in Plymouth," Valentine said rather noncommittally.
"Ah, yes. I believe Sir Humphrey Gilbert is a supporter of yours, is he not? Should you ever need—well . . . perhaps another time. I look forward t
o our conversation over dinner, for I am most interested in hearing about your voyage to rescue Basil," Sir Rodger said, and Valentine believed he spoke sincerely, for Basil and Sir Rodger had always gotten along quite well. They had been friends at court for a number of years. And although Rodger Penmorley had been slightly younger than Basil, their common background and preference for intellectual pursuits had drawn them together in conversation while other courtiers had danced around them.
"I will return shortly to escort my favorite ladies to the hall," Valentine said as he took his leave of them.
He hadn't gotten far along the corridor, just to the first row of windows when he heard quickly approaching steps from behind and turned to find his aunt hurrying to catch up to him.
"My dear, I do not wish to detain you, but I must know how Elspeth and Sir William fared when you broke the news to them. I did not wish to speak in front of Sir Rodger and Honoria. You did tell them, did you not?" Quinta asked.
"Yes. I would have faced a thousand cannon rather than have to tell them what I did," Valentine admitted.
"A difficult situation, my dear. Simon?"
"He does not know."
"No?"
"What if--" But Valentine could not continue with the thought.
"What if Basil did not survive? It would not be fair to the boy to get his hopes up if it all comes to naught," Quinta spoke aloud Valentine's worst fears. "I only wish Artemis could have been spared. She adored Basil. He was like a father to her. It will destroy her if--no! I will not even think that. Basil must be alive. He must, Valentine," Quinta declared. "To have this hope given to us after so many years. It would be too cruel otherwise. Now, I have detained you long enough. Your guests will be starved, and you must be. We will await you in the parlor. My dear, I know you will leave us very soon. Please remember, for your own sake, that whatever you find on that island was destined. Remember that, please," she warned, afraid that he might not accept the truth that he would discover there.
Valentine stood for a moment longer by the windows as he watched his aunt walk away. He stared out into the darkness, hearing the restless sound of the sea in the distance. Never before had it sounded so mournful to him.
Full fathom five they father lies'
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Nine
EASTWARD, as far as the eye could see, there was shimmering, turquoise water. Closer to shore, the colors changed in hue, from palest green in the shallows, to indigo where the deep-water channel cut through the purple and rust of the sunken coral reefs ringing the island. Bright splashes of sea foam curled around the rocky headlands where tall pines bent to the winds. But it was now a gentle breeze that whispered through the palms fringing the sun-warmed, white sands of the beach.
A wandering trail of footsteps patterned the smooth surface of the sands until the tide swept high, washing away any trace of human trespass.
"He's been here, Lily! Look! Here are his tracks!" Tristram cried out as he raced ahead, his thin brown legs sending the sand flying out behind his bare heels.
Dulcie, who had been hunting for shells, squealed with fear. Her shrill cry startled the woolly monkey that had been contentedly grooming himself on the edge of the tidal pool. His frightened squeal echoing Dulcie's, Capabells scampered along the sand and reached Lily's side before the little girl. Clinging to Lily's shoulder, his long tail wrapped around her neck and one of his small black hands entwined in the thick braid hanging down her back, he scolded Dulcie as she grasped Lily's hand and pressed close.
"Choco won't hurt you," Lily said reassuringly, but her gaze searched the densely wooded inland areas. Her eyes, the same shade as the shallows, were narrowed against the glare off the water as she sought a swiftly moving shadow, one that was far darker than those cast by the trees or the thick undergrowth.
"He'll eat us alive! I don't like him, Lily. Why can't he stay away?" Dulcie cried, tears threatening as she pressed closer to her sister.
"Sshhh, 'tis all right. I won't let him hurt you. He likes you."
"He only likes you, Lily. He woke me up last night. He was right outside the window, and he sounded mad. He was screaming for a long time. I thought he was going to come inside and get me. Did you hear Cappie? He was chattering and running around the room. He knocked over the dishes, then he hid under my blanket," Dulcie said, shivering despite the warmth on her shoulders from the noonday sun.
Lily smiled slightly. She had heard Choco prowling close last night too. The bloodcurdling cries had sent a shiver down her spine, but she hadn't been frightened like Dulcie. She liked to hear the wild sound of the jaguar's cry in the night.
Black as the night he roamed freely, his eyes glowing like topazes; Choco was seldom seen or heard during the day. It had been different when the jaguar had been a half-drowned cub rescued from the surf a couple of years ago. She had held him in her lap then, snuggling him close while hand-feeding him bits of fish and crab. He had mewed and purred like a kitten, but her mother had warned her that Choco was a wild cat, a tigre enojado, captured from the jungles of the mainland. Basil had said the cub was a rare jaguar. Most were spotted, but Choco had soft dark fur with black rosettes that showed just faintly. For months Choco had followed her around like a puppy, jumping playfully at her feet, tripping over his own clumsy paws as he'd raced along the sands.
As he had grown, his muscles had thickened and rippled beneath his sleek coat. Soon he had been leaping into the surf and jumping into the tidal pools to catch his own dinner. Seldom did Choco come away without a struggling fish hooked on a curving claw before his jaws clamped down on the tasty morsel, which he guarded with an outstretched paw and warning growl should anyone have strayed too close.
With the passing of the years, the jaguar had sought less and less the company of the human castaways on the island. Every so often Lily caught the flash of something black in the tangle of lush undergrowth, but just as quickly it had vanished. Once, when she had been exploring deeper into the pine forest on the far side of the island, she had been startled to find Choco crouched menacingly above her on an overhanging bough. His golden eyes had been little more than glowing slits, and never before had she realized how long and curved his fangs were. For an instant she had thought he was going to leap down on her. Then he had caught her familiar scent, and making that strange, hoarse cry, his long tail twitching as if irritated at having been cheated out of his prey, he had disappeared.
"Looks like he caught himself a turtle," Tristram said as he examined an area farther up the beach and out of the tide's reach.
"We're next! We're next! Prraaaa! Prraaaa! Praack! He's goin' to eat us alive!"
"Keep quiet, Cisco!" Lily said as the bright green parrot perched on her shoulder squawked in imitation of Dulcie.
"Prraaack! Keep quiet, Cisco! Lift a leg, Tristram!"
Tristram pushed out of his eyes the thick lock of dark red hair that had fallen across his forehead and glared at the parrot. "What are we having for supper tonight?" he demanded with a warning glint in his brown eyes.
"Prraaack!" Cisco cried before beginning to preen his feathers.
"If you don't help me catch something, then we won't be having any dinner tonight," Lily reminded her young brother.
Tristram Francisco Christian, almost seven years old, stood up proudly. "Have I ever not done my duty?" he demanded, his bronze eyes flashing with indignation.
Just turned fourteen, Lily stood a head taller than her hot-blooded young brother. "How is it, then, that I found you snoring away the hours yesterday when you should have been watching for any sails on the horizon?" Lily retorted, her cheeks flushing with anger, for Lily and Tristram had not only inherited their Spanish mother's dark red hair but her quick temper as well.
"I
didn't fall asleep," Tristram denied, but not quite as stoutly as before. "I was shielding my eyes."
"I am just thankful that you did not open them to find a French corsair's sword at your throat or a galleon flying the royal arms of Spain. Basil always said 'twould be far worse to be rescued by an enemy than not rescued at all. What if he hadn't been vigilant the day those French pirates came ashore. They murdered their own captain. A mutiny, Tristram! Father always said mutineers were worse than having the plague aboard. If Basil hadn't seen them before they saw us, well . . ." Lily left unspoken the rest of her speculations as she glanced down and met Dulcie's wide dark eyes staring up at her. "As captain of this isle, I may have to take severe measures to guard against such behavior happening again."
Tristram stared at his sister in growing dismay. "What do you mean? I am still first mate!" he squeaked. "I am, aren't I?"
"I may have to return you to the duties of a lowly swabber," Lily answered, apparently unforgiving. "Father wouldn't have had you aboard longer than it would have taken to toss you overboard. He'd the best crew that sailed the seas. He would have been very disappointed in his only son."
"Lily!" Tristram cried, crestfallen. "He would have been proud of me. He would've! He would've! 'Tis the only time I've ever fallen asleep while on duty. I won't do it again. I promise! I want to be first mate, Lily."
"I'm the bos'n's mate," Dulcie chimed in importantly.
"Well, I suppose you can still be my first mate. But I'd better not ever catch you not pulling your weight again," she warned, trying to keep her voice stern.
Tristram stared down at his bare feet and said sulkily beneath his breath, "I don't know who made you captain anyway. You're a girl. Captains are supposed to be men with beards."
"I hardly think you would make a very good captain, since I am the only one who has ever sailed the seas with Father," Lily reminded him. "Besides, you don't have a beard either."
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 15