But at the same time, when Antoinette had been alive the couple had behaved like polite strangers to each other. She had never seen either of them show even the slightest sign of affection towards one another. Even when she was dying, Pierre had come no closer to his wife than the bedroom doorway, retching at the dreadful smell emanating from the dying woman and terrified of contracting the disease himself.
She couldn’t help but think that some of his apparent misery was in fact feigned, part of a façade that he felt he must present to his neighbours along with the stiflingly hot mourning clothes. Really, it was ridiculous for people to follow the traditions of France to the letter in this climate! It was all well and good to wear woollen mourning clothes for six weeks in Paris, where the climate was more akin to that of England, but in a tropical climate like this it was sheer hell.
She tentatively suggested to Pierre that perhaps they could revert to silk mourning a little early, but his horrified reaction to the gross lack of respect it would show for his dead wife put an end to that. Instead she spent as much time as she could in her bedroom, where she would sit by the window in her shift staring out at the luxuriant countryside and the slaves labouring in the fields, planning for the day she would leave this beautiful, horrible island forever.
On the first day of the seventh week after Antoinette’s death, Beth threw off the woollen mourning with profound relief and, wearing black silk with the absolute minimum of undergarments ventured out into the garden, heading down to a part where some trees had recently been felled, leaving stumps a few feet high which would be ideal for her purposes. Now that she had at least half a plan for what she intended to do with her future, she knew that danger was likely to feature in it, and she might as well prepare for that as best she could now, whilst she had nothing else to occupy her time with.
She put down a bag full of old cracked pots that she’d got from the gardener, took out her knives, of which she now had four, and laid them on the ground. Then she went over to one of the stumps and placed a cracked clay pot on top of it before walking back to the knives. She picked one up, took careful aim and threw. It missed the pot by a couple of inches and disappeared into the undergrowth. Beth swore under her breath and went off to search for it.
There was no greater incentive to speedy improvement than spending twenty minutes hunting through dense foliage for a lost knife. Within a few throws she was hitting the pot every time. Within an hour she was aiming for, and hitting, particular flowers, vines, and within an inch of the same spot on the tree stump, and from an ever-increasing distance. Maybe she could ask Pierre for a target to be made. Then she would not spend half her time trying to locate her knife after it had sliced the vine she’d aimed for in two and sailed on into the undergrowth.
She was sweating freely now, but thoroughly enjoying both the challenge and the exercise. She decided to have one more round of throwing before heading back to the house. The knives would need sharpening, another thing she wanted to do herself. And she would need to start holding books at arm’s length again, as she had in the Tower of London; her arms were aching with the unaccustomed exertion.
She bent down, picked up a knife, aimed carefully, and threw. It pierced the tree and stuck there, quivering. Then she picked up the other three knives together and one after the other in quick succession threw them after their companion. She was about to walk over to the tree to see how accurately she’d thrown when applause came from behind her. She turned to see an elderly man with startlingly black hair watching her with open admiration. She remembered him; the last time she’d seen him had been the day before Antoinette had fallen ill, and he had flirted with her all evening.
“Bravo, madame!” he called. “You have an incredible skill! I have never seen the like before.”
She smiled and then walked over to the stump, pulling the knives out before joining her admirer.
“Monsieur Giroux, how lovely to see you!” Beth said. She was actually telling the truth. He could only be here at Pierre’s invitation, which was a good sign, as the grieving widower had seen no one since Antoinette’s funeral.
“Please, madame, you must call me André. I insist,” he said.
He offered her his arm and she put the knives in her pocket and took it. They walked back to the house together.
“Where did you learn such a skill, my dear?” he asked as they entered the salon. Raymond was despatched to inform Pierre that his visitor was here, and Beth and André sat down.
“My mother taught me when I was a child,” Beth replied. “She was a Highlander and thought it prudent to teach her daughter how to defend herself.”
“And have you needed to defend yourself?” André asked.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Beth replied.
Before he could ask her to elaborate on this, Pierre appeared.
The difference in him was so remarkable that Beth knew at once that whilst Pierre no doubt was saddened by the death of his wife, the majority of his decline had been for show. He came into the room smiling and greeted his friend very cordially. He wore black, as was correct, but like Beth he had abandoned the heavy woollen clothing, instead opting for a black silk outfit. Before long several other guests arrived, and they all repaired to the dining area for dinner.
Although there were no flowers on the table and there was neither music nor dancing afterwards as a sign of respect for the dead woman, the evening was very convivial, with André regaling the tale of how he had come upon Lady Peters skewering a tree, and renewing his flirtation with her.
This time she was not exhausted and irritable, so she accepted both the questions regarding her knife-throwing skills and André’s overblown compliments in good part. The evening ended with a game of cards and as she mounted the stairs for bed, Beth realised with surprise that she had actually enjoyed herself, for two reasons; firstly she had been starved of company for the last six weeks, apart from Rosalie, who had come on in leaps and bounds with her reading and writing due to the increased amount of time Beth now had to teach her; and secondly because now she knew that Pierre was not actually going to grieve to death, she could start to put her plan into action.
That thought cheered her up immeasurably.
The following morning she slept late and when she woke up and tried to move, her arms were stiff and dreadfully sore from the previous day’s exertion. She was tentatively stretching her arms above her head trying to relieve the ache, when Rosalie appeared with a tray of breakfast for her.
Freshly squeezed orange juice, chocolate, almond pastries. And a slender glass vase, in which resided a single perfect cream flower. Beth stared at it. The petals were thick and waxy, and a faint pink blush tinted their underside. She didn’t bend to smell it, because she knew it had no scent. She also knew that it was called an orchid. She knew that because she had seen its twin, in Nice, four years ago almost to the day. Except at that time it had been Angus who had brought breakfast, not Rosalie.
It’s a sign, she thought, that I’m doing the right thing. A wave of longing to be sitting at breakfast with her husband and brother-in-law, watching them insult each other good-naturedly as only very close relations or friends could, washed over her, bringing tears to her eyes momentarily.
Beth looked up to see Rosalie eyeing her uncertainly.
“Is something wrong, madame?” she asked. “I thought to bring you your favourite breakfast, but if you want something else, then—”
“No, it’s perfect,” Beth said. “The orchid is very beautiful. I didn’t know that Monsieur Pierre grew them.”
“He doesn’t, madame. It is a gift from Monsieur Giroux. He said that it is flawless like yourself, and that if it pleases you he would very much like to show you his collection of orchids, if you would honour him with a visit one day.”
“He told you to tell me that?” Beth asked.
“Yes, madame. He made me repeat it so that I would make no mistake.”
So the flirtation was not all
harmless, after all. The sooner she left, the better. She picked up the orange juice.
“Monsieur Giroux has the most remarkable black hair. It cannot be natural.”
Rosalie grinned.
“No, madame. His body servant colours it for him. But I think he wouldn’t want anyone to know that.”
“I promise I won’t tell him. Do you know how to colour hair, Rosalie?”
“No, madame. But I’ll try to find out, if you wish.”
“Yes please.”
“May I ask, madame, if it is for you?”
“It is, although I would prefer it if you told nobody that. It should be a secret.”
“Of course.” Rosalie smiled, clearly liking the idea of being entrusted with a secret. It would be interesting to see whether she was able to find out the information without breaking the confidence.
“Really, my dear Beth, there is no need for you to leave. Why, I have come to think of you almost as family. Are you not happy here?” Pierre asked when Beth revealed her intention to leave Martinique. She could hardly tell him how miserable she was here; after all, it was not his fault.
“Of course I am happy,” she lied instead. “But I was engaged as a companion to Antoinette, and it wouldn’t be proper for me to stay for much longer now there are no other women in the house. People will start to talk, which will do neither of us any good.”
“Ah, of course you are right. I should have thought of that. I have been somewhat distracted of late. But it would not do for your honour to be compromised.”
“I’m so glad you understand,” Beth said.
“However there is a way that you could continue to stay here. You must know how very fond of you I have become in these last months. I would be deeply honoured if you would consent to become my wife,” he continued, moving forward and taking her hand in his.
Beth’s horror at the proposal must have shown on her face, because Pierre released her hand immediately.
“I understand that this has come as a shock to you, and if I have offended you I apologise,” he said. “In France, as I’m sure you know, it would be most unseemly for a man to propose to another lady whilst in mourning for his previous wife. But unfortunately, due to the particular conditions on the island and the precariousness of life, we do not have the luxury of being able to wait for months before continuing with our lives. Nobody would think it strange if we were to marry immediately.
“But I understand that you might need some time to become accustomed to the idea. Or if you would feel more comfortable waiting until the official mourning is over, I could arrange for you to stay with some married friends of mine, so as to avoid any rumours.”
Beth was stunned, not just by the proposal, but by the arrogance of the man. It was quite obvious, not only by his words but his manner, that he expected her to be honoured that he wished to marry her. The fact that she might find him repugnant did not even cross his mind. He really believed that her only possible objection could be one of social convention. Her first impulse was to tell him the truth; but she had not spent years under the tutelage of Sir Anthony Peters without learning how to dissemble. And if she was to get everything she wanted, she must not antagonise him.
“Pierre, I am truly flattered,” she replied. “If I appear somewhat shocked it is partly as you say, because I’m not accustomed to the speed of life on the island. But also you have forgotten, I think, that I am still married. Indeed, that is one of the reasons I must leave.”
“But did you not tell me that you believe Sir Anthony to be dead?” Pierre asked.
“I do believe it. But believing is not the same as knowing. I could not in all conscience marry you when my husband might still be alive. That would be a terrible sin, not just against you and the law, but against God.”
“But my dear, you may never find out! And it would be a great tragedy for such a beautiful young lady as yourself never to know happiness again because of such a forlorn hope.”
He really thought that she would find happiness with him, that a woman was incapable of being happy unless a man was telling her what to do! No, that was unfair to him. Society in general believed a woman’s only function in life was to make a man happy and bear his children. And he would be a good catch for some woman, wealthy as he was, kind, if a little distant, and not unattractive.
But not for her. Alex had spoilt her for any other man. She would never marry again, whether he was alive or not. Think! She told herself fiercely. Keep focussed on what you need to achieve here!
“You are indeed correct, Pierre,” she responded. “And that is one of the reasons why I think I should go to France.”
“France?!” he cried. “You mean to leave Martinique altogether?”
“I think it is my only choice. If my husband is alive he will almost certainly have travelled to Paris, or possibly to Rome, where he will be safe. And I am sure that, if he is alive, someone in Paris will know of his whereabouts. If there is no news of him there, then I will be convinced that he must have perished.”
“But you do not need to actually travel all the way to France to ascertain that,” Pierre objected. “Surely we can make enquiries by letter? I know it will take longer, but I am willing to wait for you, and I can think of several married friends who would be only too happy for you to pay them an extended visit while we wait.”
“Oh, no! We could not do that! You know of course that Sir Anthony was one of the most successful spies King James had! I do not know what identity he is now living under, but a letter, if intercepted, could prove fatal to him. I will not take that risk, not for anything. If I discover that he is dead, then I will of course be free to marry again.”
She smiled at Pierre in a way that she hoped conveyed that if that were the case he would be her first choice of spouse. It seemed she was successful, because he beamed at her and taking her hand in his again, raised it to his lips.
“Then, my dearest Beth,” he said, “we must arrange passage for you as soon as possible, although I am not happy at the thought of you making such a long journey alone. I would love to accompany you, but alas, I cannot leave the plantation for such a long time.”
Thank God for that, she thought.
“That is one of the things I wished to discuss with you, Pierre,” she said, allowing him to retain her hand. “I had hoped you would permit me to purchase Rosalie, so that she could accompany me. And, for my added safety, I would of course like a man to accompany me as well, and to that end would be very grateful if you would allow Raymond to come too. I don’t know how much it would cost to buy them both, but I am happy to pay whatever you ask.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Raymond, who was standing in the corner of the room as usual, flinch and glance her way. She dared not give him any sign, because Pierre was staring at her in shock.
“Raymond?” he said. “Of course I would be happy to let you have Rosalie as a gift from me, to show my affection for you. You have trained her to your desires and I have no use for her, except as a field slave perhaps. But I could not possibly part with Raymond. If I were ever to sell him, he would fetch at least a hundred and fifty louis, probably more. He is young, healthy and a very experienced manservant.”
A hundred and fifty?! She could not afford that. Unless…
“Pierre, I would happily pay that to have someone I could trust implicitly accompany me on my voyage. As you know, I arrived here penniless and the only money I have is the generous allowance you’ve paid me. I will gladly give all of that back to you if you would allow me to buy him. Once I am in France, I am not without connections and will arrange for the remaining sum to be sent to you.”
Pierre smiled, and patted her hand.
“Now, I would not hear of you giving your allowance back to me – you will need that for your trip. I will of course pay for your passage. No, I insist,” he said, when she opened her mouth to object. “I will seek for someone else to accompany you.”
Damn. She couldn’t labour
the point right now. She must be content with Rosalie for the moment. But she had no intention of separating father and daughter. A hundred and fifty louis. Where could she get that much money? She had to think of a way. But not now.
“It will be so exciting to have a slave of my own!” she said instead. “How soon can we transfer her to me?”
“I will send for my lawyer tomorrow and we can have the papers drawn up. You will need them in case anyone questions you or accuses her of being a runaway.”
“You are very kind, Pierre! Thank you!” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
She went back to her room feeling like a prostitute. Which was ridiculous, because she had only kissed him and allowed him to briefly embrace her. It was nothing compared to what women did every day of the week to get their way.
But it was not what she did. She had absolutely no intention of marrying Pierre, no intention of ever coming back to Martinique, regardless of what she discovered when she got home. And she had every intention of taking Raymond away from here too. There had to be a way to get the money. She could and would repay it when she got back to England. There was a chest of gold buried in a field that could buy an army of Raymonds.
She was so preoccupied with her thoughts and plans that it didn’t occur to her to question where Rosalie was until there came a loud banging on the door. Before Beth could respond, Eulalie threw the door open and ran into the room.
“Oh, Madame Beth!” she cried, gripping Beth’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “You must come at once!”
Manhandling a white person and making a demand of them was such a huge breach of slave conduct that Beth immediately knew something must be terribly wrong.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Monsieur Armstrong, he is whipping Rosalie! You must stop him!”
Eulalie had hardly finished speaking before Beth was down the stairs, across the porch and running across the fields in the direction of the whipping-post. Eulalie picked up her skirts and followed behind.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 28