The Immortal Bind

by Traci Harding

  ‘You are my brother’s daughter and thus my responsibility,’ he said. ‘My wife does not approve of me channelling my fortune into a risky public works project. If I send you to her, I fear she might misdirect her grievances with me at you . . . however unintentionally, you understand?’

  ‘I am more than delighted with the arrangement, uncle.’ Isabelle smiled, breathing deep the sweet country air, not wanting to pry any further into the baron’s estrangement from his wife.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure what the future holds,’ he admitted. ‘But I do know that now is not a good time to be of noble birth in France, especially in the capital. Hence, I felt it best to fetch you to safety.’

  ‘I greatly appreciate your forethought.’ She was so out of touch with the world, and clearly her uncle was more concerned than he was letting on. ‘But civil war? Has the situation really become so dire?’

  ‘There have already been many riotous acts committed in the name of revolution. Just days ago a crowd freed mutinous guards from the Left Bank prison. The king’s guard will surround the city before long, and then there will be no getting in or out.’

  ‘The nuns told us nothing of this.’ Isabelle was shocked to her core.

  ‘So now you understand our predicament.’

  Isabelle nodded, and her good mood fled for one more sombre.

  ‘What will happen if there is a rebellion?’

  He raised both brows, overwhelmed by the question. ‘I don’t think we have too much to fear at Pornic; I have garnered local support over the years due to my public works. But, should it come to the worst, and we are forced to join the growing number of émigrés . . . I govern a shipping port and shall have no difficulty securing us passage anywhere in the known world we wish to go. For the present, I have bequeathed you a good maid to attend you at Pornic. I trust she shall prove to your liking.’

  Her uncle seemed distinctly more whimsical as he gazed out the window and spoke of this woman.

  ‘She has already taken it upon herself to select you an updated wardrobe, which you can extend at your leisure, of course.’

  ‘How wonderful, Uncle.’ Isabelle was glad she would have some female company as she could hardly go climbing trees and swimming in the ocean at her age. But then, considering what she’d just been told, she suspected that her stay at Castle Bluebeard was not going to be the same fun, carefree experience this time around.

  * * *

  The Château de Pornic, constructed in medieval times as a defensive coastal fort, did appear the very picture of a pirate castle, with its varied towering turrets, constructed to gain vantage views of the coastal vistas and port below. The castle did not have the opulence of a modern French château, nor the manicured gardens. Forest spread over most of the headland grounds that abounded with a wild, natural beauty — frightfully unfashionable and chaotic — yet she couldn’t wait to retrace her steps through there. Her eyes wavered closed as she dwelt on that simple pleasure.

  Upon waking, Isabelle was relieved to find she had slept through the entire last leg of their journey that saw them arrive unannounced at their destination, bleary-eyed in the pre-dawn hours of the next morning.

  They were met at the door by Monsieur Bernard, House Steward at Pornic, who, due to the lack of notice, welcomed Isabelle and his lord home in his nightclothes. As the lord knew his own way to bed, the steward was instructed to show Isabelle to her quarters.

  With only the light of the steward’s lantern to follow, Isabelle’s excitement grew, for she would have known the way to her old room blindfolded.

  It was only once she stood within the chamber that she allowed herself to realise how much she’d missed waking up in this room, with its large canopied bed and windows looking out over the bay and into the gulf.

  ‘Shall I wake your maid, mademoiselle?’

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll stay awake long enough for her to reach me,’ Isabelle declined. She’d dressed herself at the convent, and was more than comfortable with preparing herself for bed.

  ‘As you wish.’ Bernard lit the candle in her bedchamber and bid her a good night.

  She longed to fling open the shutters on the windows to behold the view beyond, but as it was black as pitch outside, that desire would keep until morning. At present she felt so rattled from her travels that she yearned for the comfort of a soft, still bed. She expended the last of her energy stripping down to her shift, then she pushed the ornamental cushions aside and slipped between the covers, sitting up briefly to blow out her candle. The relief of being horizontal and perfectly still was euphoric as she sank deeper into a lilac-scented linen bliss.

  * * *

  A fresh, warm sea breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair, tickling her face until she stirred and brushed them aside.

  ‘Good morning, Lady Isabelle.’ A maid, rather older than herself, with stunning red hair and deep green eyes, curtsied before her. ‘I am Marianna Paquet—’

  ‘My new maid.’ It was easy to see why her uncle was a little diverted when he’d spoken of this maid yesterday. ‘Was it you who put lilac in these sheets?’

  For a moment Marianna clearly assumed the worst. ‘Yes, it was, Lady. I hope it was not displeasing?’

  ‘Not at all—’ Isabelle was drawn to the unshuttered windows to behold the waters of the gulf and bay, sparkling gloriously and teeming with maritime traffic beneath the morning sun, already high in the sky. ‘It was sheer heaven.’ As the warm breeze blew strong against her face, she closed her eyes to bask in the redolence of the pure, fresh ocean mingled with the toasting flora of the forest.

  ‘Then your bed shall be scented always.’ Marianna’s happy demeanour returned. ‘Your uncle invites you to join him for a late breakfast. I have laid out your clothes in your dressing room, if you would like to follow me.’

  When Isabelle beheld the ensemble that had been chosen for her — white China silk, painted with a polychrome plant motif, boned at the back, with a matching stomacher and a large hooped under-petticoat — her eyes watered at its unique beauty.

  ‘Is my lady pleased?’ Marianna queried hopefully.

  ‘Very pleased . . . your eye for fabric is just extraordinary!’

  The maid was clearly delighted that Isabelle thought so.

  ‘But unfortunately this beautiful ensemble is entirely unsuitable for what I have planned for this day. I need a more fashionable form of undress.’

  ‘Undress?’ Marianna was clearly disappointed by the request.

  ‘A riding habit perhaps?’

  ‘My lady is riding today?’

  ‘And riding boots, they shall prove better for exploring.’

  ‘Exploring, where?’

  ‘Just around the castle. The forest and so forth.’

  ‘Pardon, my lady, but I don’t know that your uncle would approve—’

  ‘Then we shan’t tell him,’ Isabelle suggested. Time to see if she could trust Marianna with her secrets as well as her linens.

  Marianna appeared quite put on the spot. ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘Just as I shan’t mention to my aunt how fond our baron is of you.’ Isabelle stared her in the eye, determined to get what she wanted. The poor woman appeared completely mortified by her bluff.

  ‘What shall we tell his lordship?’ Marianna resolved to cooperate.

  ‘We shall tell him that I am going to find myself a pleasant place to settle down and read for the day. Which is entirely the truth,’ Isabelle reasoned. ‘Thus I shall be requiring a small picnic lunch.’

  ‘I shall arrange it.’ Marianna forced a smile and returned to the wardrobe to find a dress more suitable.

  ‘Marianna?’ Isabelle didn’t wish to give her maid the wrong idea as she had obviously gone out of her way to make a good first impression. ‘I wish to thank you for preparing so well for my return here. The truth is, I have never even met my aunt, and I would never betray my uncle’s kindness in such a fashion. But I know these woods well and I assure you no harm shal
l befall me if I relive a few fond memories. Trust me.’

  Marianna’s smile was now more sincere. ‘I do, my lady. Your secrets shall be safe with me.’

  * * *

  Isabelle’s plan to disappear and amuse herself for the day suited her uncle perfectly. At breakfast he informed her that her maid would be required to perform other duties about the household but would be free again to attend her this evening.

  ‘I fully expected as much,’ Isabelle assured him.

  The only delay to her quest was a visit to the castle’s turret library, which was every bit as expansive as she remembered. Long windows between the bookcases awarded stunning sea views, and the shelves in between spoilt her for choice of reading matter; the convent library had been limited in topics and devoid of fiction altogether. After some deliberation she decided upon a novel by Voltaire, as a little satire was just what she was in the mood for.

  With picnic basket and book in hand, Isabelle passed through the iron gate of the gatehouse and into the outer grounds of the estate. Entirely enclosed on the peninsula by a large stone wall that extended into the sea at both ends, the Pornic estate had several private beaches and little bays. Apart from the main gates, where a second gatehouse was located, over the water was the only way into the estate, but the shallow waters of the gulf made this impossible for larger boats. Isabelle veered left, where a track led past the castle and into the forest, towards the point of the peninsula where the bay and gulf met. The passage was just as she remembered, filled with memories that made her face ache with smiling. At the end of the track the trees gave way to a grassy clearing, a cliff face and the most magnificent view of the gulf ocean. As a child she had watched for pirate ships and other seafaring curiosities from here, and she had brought a telescope today for that purpose. She had fancied that she might find Jacques here, staring out to sea; that was how she remembered him.

  ‘Lady Isabelle?’

  She turned about to spy a young man, and in him discerned the lad with whom she had once roamed these parts so freely. He was seated against the base of one of the trees that bordered the clearing at the foreshore. ‘Monsieur Delafonse?’

  As he rose to standing, he towered over her, and she could hardly believe the transformation. He still wore his dark hair long and his ebony eyes were as soulful as memory had always served to remind her. Jacques had grown into a very handsome man indeed — dangerously so, for her heart was set fluttering in her chest.

  It was fortunate that he was equally stunned by the sight of her, as the long awkward silence passed unnoticed.

  ‘What are you doing out here by yourself?’ He presented as solicitous for her welfare, but clearly he was pleased to see her.

  ‘Well, I am a big girl now and do not require an escort.’ She set her basket down and her book on top. ‘And I’ve been longing to return here ever since I left.’ She could not suppress her cheeky grin.

  His delighted surprise faded, and he took a step back. ‘About the last time we were here,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I want to apologise for my impertinence—’

  Isabelle laughed off his concern. ‘Please don’t apologise . . . you reduce a fond memory to a mistake by doing so.’ She probably shouldn’t have confessed that — one minute in his company and she was flirting and baring her soul to him — nothing had really changed.

  ‘A fond memory?’ He was flattered and seemed uplifted to note.

  ‘We were just children.’ Isabelle downplayed the significance of the event that still made her smile to this day. ‘I know you would never take advantage in such a fashion now.’ To her inner amusement he appeared a little bothered by that assumption.

  ‘I am grateful for your discretion.’

  ‘Who would I tell? The nuns? They would have beaten me.’ Her exaggeration amused him. ‘And if I had told my uncle I would have lost all contact with a very dear friend,’ she concluded.

  ‘Well technically you did lose all contact,’ he pointed out.

  ‘But I didn’t get you flogged or dismissed,’ she countered. ‘And here we are.’

  ‘I am most grateful, and honoured—’

  ‘No, the honour is mine.’ After all these years there was something that really needed to be said. ‘In the wake of my father’s death, it was you who prevented me falling into a deep pit of despair, Monsieur Delafonse, and I shall never forget that. So, if you really want to know why I am here, I came looking for an old friend, in the hope he might have some adventure afoot. Why are you here?’ She eyed the telescope he had in his possession.

  ‘I was curious about one of the ships out there.’ He pointed to the horizon where several ships were anchored. He opened his telescope and held it up to one eye. ‘But I just can’t quite make out the name or the colours.’

  From her pocket Isabelle pulled a much smaller and more modern telescope, and took a look for herself. ‘It is the . . . Navigateur.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jacques looked aside to observe her compact instrument. ‘May I?’

  Isabelle wanted to roll her eyes that he couldn’t just take her word for it, but she passed over her telescope for the sake of vindication.

  ‘You’re right. It’s the Navigateur, all right, Courrier d’Afrique.’ He lowered the looking glass. ‘Pirates.’

  Isabelle smiled, thinking he was indulging her whim for an adventure. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ he suppressed his amusement, clearly appreciating why she might doubt his word. ‘I don’t mean to cause alarm, but that’s a slave ship.’

  Isabelle’s scepticism was swallowed by her disgust. She retrieved her telescope to take another look. ‘Slaves, are you certain?’

  ‘That vessel is quite notoriously captained by a pirate named Gaspard Lachance—’

  ‘The jewel of luck,’ she caught the meaning, ‘surely that’s not his real name?’

  ‘It is the one he goes by. His crew call him Blackheart,’ Jacques advised, ‘and there are many sordid horror stories about him.’

  Isabelle closed her telescope, unsure of whether to be frightened or delighted. She hadn’t completely dismissed the possibility that her old friend was playing her for sport, it most certainly would not have been the first time. ‘Such as?’ She sat herself down by her basket in the shade.

  ‘Well . . .’ Jacques sat down on the other side of the basket. ‘They say that he came from a family of ship owners, mostly privateers, but hoping for a more beneficial life for their son, he was sent to college to become a priest—’

  ‘A priest?’ Isabelle was intrigued already. ‘I gather the vocation did not enrapture him?’

  Jacques shook his head. ‘At thirteen, he escaped and enlisted on a merchant ship that shuffled between Saint-Malo and Cadiz. Soon, he found his way onto the bigger and more lucrative slave ships. By the time he was nineteen he was captain and privateer of his own vessel.’

  ‘That’s very young, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is exceptional,’ Jacques allowed. ‘But then they say he has the evil eye and can bend any living thing to his will.’

  ‘Not so terrible so far,’ Isabelle stated bravely.

  ‘His first ship, on one of its regular runs to the Horn of Africa, was wrecked on the Mozambique Channel, drowning four hundred black slaves chained in the orlop.’

  Isabelle’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach, as the horror of such an event washed over her; surely Jacques was not playing her for sport in this case. ‘That’s abominable!’

  ‘I dare not go into the reported treatment of the slaves he carries; suffice to say he regards them as cattle.’ Jacques appeared as repulsed by the fact as she felt. ‘The captain is rumoured to be indestructible . . . for all his adventures, he’s never been sick or injured — not even a scar! But then crews like to spin tales about their captains, how else are legends built?’

  ‘So why is he in Pornic?’

  ‘Probably shopping for wares to trade for slaves, which he will in turn sell off in the
colonies for a hefty profit, and then return to restock his trade goods.’

  ‘Does my uncle know about this?’ Isabelle felt sure he would not condone such low-life custom in his town.

  Jacques seemed a little surprised by the question. ‘Why do you think the baron is so passionate about his canal project? It will give the big ships a more direct trade route to Nantes.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Isabelle uttered, mortified. She glanced back to the ship in question and noted a smaller boat had been deployed and was heading towards the port. ‘Do you think they are going to see my uncle?’

  ‘More likely they will deal with his knight, the Chevalier de La Grandière; he handles business for our lord.’

  This gave Isabelle hope. ‘Then, there is a chance that my uncle knows nothing of this man and his dealings.’

  ‘I would never speak ill of my lord, but . . .’ Jacques clearly felt she was being a little naive. ‘There is not much that goes on in this port that your uncle does not get wind of. And, even in the very slim chance that you are correct, that does not stop him profiting from the pirates’ escapades.’

  ‘I should broach the subject with my uncle and see—’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ Jacques cautioned.

  Again Isabelle wondered if he was spinning a tale and wished to prevent being caught out. ‘Why not?’

  ‘The extensive trading done here is the reason our province still prospers despite the famine driving Paris to riot. Our ports are the only industries keeping this country functioning.’

  ‘Trade is a good thing, but enslaving another race for profit is surely an offence against God,’ Isabelle reasoned, and again Jacques shook his head.

  ‘Spoken like a true revolutionary, but the trade is fully sanctioned by the king. He went so far as to pass laws concerning the treatment of slaves but he has no means to enforce them. The Church has condemned the practice but the objection has been largely ignored.’

  ‘Has the world gone mad?’ Isabelle felt suddenly furious that the ideology she’d been raised on was utter hypocrisy.

  ‘Without slaves the most lucrative trade routes are obsolete. No slaves to sell, no money to spend in our ports to buy goods to trade for slaves.’ He shrugged. ‘But if those championing a republic get their way, slavery will be abolished.’