Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  “And where do they belong?” Madame Chirac continued, her tone icy.

  “In your bedroom, my lady. On your dressing table.” Paulette had seen the items there only that morning when she’d laid out her employer’s clothes for the day.

  “Quite correct. In that case, Vêrtine, perhaps you can enlighten me as to how they came to be secreted under your mattress.”

  Paulette bristled at the use of her surname, a sign of rank and disrespect which Madame Chirac did not usually resort to. In the next instant, the full import of her employer’s words hit her.

  “I…no! They cannot have been.”

  Madame Chirac raised one titian eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I am lying, girl?”

  Paulette shook her head in bewildered desperation. “Of course not. But it is impossible. They could not have been there.”

  “Nevertheless, that is where I discovered them myself, not more than an hour ago. I take it you have no satisfactory explanation to offer.”

  What satisfactory explanation was there? And where had this stern, implacable woman suddenly sprung from? Where was the sickly kitten? Paulette was at a loss.

  “My lady, I have no idea…”

  “Lies. You are a thief as well as a liar. I will not have you in my house.”

  “But—” Paulette might not relish her job overmuch, but honest work was hard to come by, and the mayor’s household had been her home for the last five years.

  “Enough. You will pack your belongings and be off these premises within the hour. Monsieur Levant, you will calculate any wages owed and see that she is paid. Now, get out of my sight, girl.” Madame Chirac settled herself upon the chaise longue and straightened her skirts, then glared at Paulette, her moss-coloured eyes narrowed. “Go on, slut, get out. I never wish to set eyes upon you again.”

  Stunned, Paulette backed from the drawing room and out into the hall.

  How has this happened? I am dismissed, branded a thief. No reference, no possibility whatsoever of finding other employment in any decent house…

  The awful reality of her situation wrapped itself around Paulette like a heavy, wet cloak, weighing her down, crushing her. Her legs threatened to give way and she was all but oblivious to the imperious tone of Monsieur Levant who had followed her from the room. He was droning on about wages, but Paulette did not listen. She lurched across the marble tiles in the direction of the main stairs, only to be pulled up sharp by Monsieur Levant’s hand grasping her arm.

  “Not that way, wench. You are not to be trusted in the main house. Take the back stairs.”

  Still dazed, Paulette obeyed. She clambered up the narrow wooden steps until she reached the attics, then she stumbled into the shared garret where she slept and her few possessions were kept. She staggered across the room and fell, sobbing onto her own narrow bunk.

  “Paulette, what has happened? Are you all right?”

  Marie Claire perched beside her, stroking her back as though to soothe away whatever had caused the hurt.

  “Tell me. Why do you weep so? Is it…is it Monsieur Chirac?

  In spite of her despair, Paulette allowed herself a wry, humourless chuckle. As though one pompous gentleman with a huge ego and excessively small dick was worth her tears. She shook her head.

  “What then? What has happened?”

  Paulette turned her head to regard her friend. “I am dismissed.”

  Marie Claire’s mouth formed a shocked ‘O’. She gaped, wide-eyed. “No! Surely not. How…? Why…?”

  “For stealing.”

  Now Marie Claire frowned. “I do not believe it. You would never—”

  “Madame Chirac says different. She has the evidence, items of hers she says were found in my possession. Under my mattress.”

  “What? In here?”

  Paulette nodded. Then she shoved herself up on one elbow to regard her friend more closely. “She says the items were discovered an hour ago.”

  Marie Claire shook her head. “That is impossible. I was here. No one has been in, not since you were here earlier.”

  “Are you sure? No one came and searched under my mattress?”

  “They did not.”

  “You could have been asleep…”

  “I have not slept since I spoke to you. No one has been here. Madame has been misinformed and…and I shall tell her so.”

  Paulette shook her head again, this time in grim resignation tinged with bitter resentment. “She was not misinformed. She told me she discovered the items herself. She lied.”

  “But why? Why would she do that?”

  “To be rid of me. She wants me gone, so she has fabricated this tale to give her reason to dismiss me.”

  “She knows about you and her husband. She must, that is the only explanation.”

  Paulette was minded to agree, though she could not start to fathom how her employer had learned of her husband’s wandering ways. And why hold Paulette to blame for Monsieur Chirac’s fickle nature? Did it not take two?

  She let out a snort of disgust. Giles Chirac was a gentleman, wealthy, powerful, the mayor of New Orleans. Of course, he would not be held accountable for an unfortunate and ill-judged tumble with a household servant. No, the blame would be heaped at her door, as Madame had already made abundantly clear. Paulette was to pay the price, however unfair. That was simply the way of it.

  She sighed and opened the lid on the small chest she shared with Marie Claire and one other servant. Paulette began to remove the meagre possessions which were hers and shoved them into a small satchel. She slung it over her shoulder, donned her one threadbare cloak, and hugged her friend.

  Marie Claire was weeping now. “I shall miss you.”

  “Me also.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I… I have friends. Family. I shall be all right.” The lies dripped so readily from her tongue. “Do not fret about me.”

  Paulette closed the attic door behind her and hurried back down the servants’ staircase. She did not seek out Monsieur Levant for her wages. Instead, she exited the rear door and hurried along the dirty alleyway which ran behind the mayoral mansion. Moments later, she emerged into the bustling main thoroughfare where she paused for a few moments.

  Which way to go?

  She turned to her left, hitched the satchel more securely over her shoulder, and set off at a brisk pace.

  It took Paulette perhaps half an hour to reach the docks area. It was a part of the city she was not familiar with, the haunt of rough sailors, thieves, and cutthroats, and most definitely not considered a proper place for a young lady to wander unaccompanied She hardened her resolve. Was she not a thief herself now, at least as far as those who mattered were concerned?

  As she had marched through the teeming city streets, she had formed her plan, such as it was. There was but one person she could turn to, and she was reasonably certain he was not to be found in New Orleans. Her half-brother, Will Falconer, captained a ship called the Falcon, a privateer whose home port was Santa Laura on the tiny island of Santa Natalia.

  Paulette had last seen Will some five years previously. At that time, he had found himself imprisoned in the cellars beneath the huge fortress which dominated the port of New Orleans, convicted of piracy and treason and condemned to be hanged. As his only blood relative, Paulette had been permitted to visit him in his final days. He had told her that the treason was a matter of opinion, but the piracy charge was fair enough. However, he had no desire to dangle from a noose for it and had bade her take a message to the Governor of Louisiana in Baton Rouge. André Hêrbert had been an associate of his father in the past, a lieutenant in the military who had done business with the elder Mr Falconer before his untimely death. The two men had been close friends before Monsieur Hêrbert had left the military and entered politics, to become governor of the state. Naturally, he would be in a position to influence matters.

  Paulette did as Will asked, and Governor Hêrbert flexed his not inconsiderable clout. It worked.
Will’s sentence was reduced to imprisonment with hard labour, a fate endured for perhaps six months by her brother before he and several other prisoners contrived to overpower their guards and escape. Will had not returned to New Orleans since.

  Although twelve years her senior, Will had always been kind enough to the illegitimate little sister who had grown up in his home. Paulette’s mother, Yvette Vêrtine, had been cook and housekeeper to the widowed Edwin Falconer, and had shared his bed most nights. The arrangement suited both, and when Paulette had made her appearance after a couple of years or so, Mr Falconer accepted her as his own and permitted her a place within his unconventional bachelor household. Although he largely ignored his daughter, he was generous enough, and Paulette’s was a happy childhood. She even had an education, of sorts. She could speak French and English with equal fluency and could read and write in English and manage her numbers reasonably well. She had had little use for her book-learning in the years since but enjoyed reading when the opportunity presented itself and was proud of her education anyway. Her mother, a practical soul, had seen to it that Paulette also developed sufficient skill with the needle and was a decent laundress, so when Edwin Falconer died of a seizure in his fifty seventh year, the pair of them were able to secure employment in another fine house. By the time of their father’s death, her half-brother had long since fled the coop, so the Falconer house was closed up. Paulette assumed it remained Will’s property, though he was now exiled.

  Paulette had been just thirteen years old when her father had passed away, and relieved to be able to remain with her mother when they’d found alternative employment. Sadly, that state of affairs was not destined to last. Her mother had succumbed to a virulent outbreak of influenza just two years later, leaving Paulette alone in the world but for Will.

  But she’d got by. Paulette had managed to secure her position as upstairs maid in the house of the mayor of New Orleans because the wife of the previous incumbent of the post was impressed by a French maid with fine manners and perfect English. Madame Bézak had been a fair enough employer, as had her daughter who had taken over the management of the household after her parents both met their end in a carriage accident. Well, until today.

  The position of mayor was awarded to Monsieur Chirac, and before many weeks had passed, a betrothal between him and the daughter of his predecessor had been agreed. They’d been wed within half a year of her parents’ untimely demises.

  Paulette had caught the eye of the new mayor immediately. He’d first beckoned her into his bedroom within a week of taking up the office, and their liaison had followed a regular pattern since. Once a week or so she would follow him into his room and permit him to sink his unimpressive dick into her eager body.

  Ever the optimist, Paulette had eagerly anticipated the pleasurable experience she knew her father always afforded to her mother. Yvette had not been coy regarding the nature of her relationship with Edwin Falconer, and Paulette’s expectations were high as a result. Giles Chirac had not come close to living up to them, but Paulette had not abandoned hope. She was a sensual being, healthy and hungry for the fulfilment she knew awaited her.

  She would not miss Giles Chirac, she reflected as she trudged the insalubrious streets and alleyways surrounding the docks, but the regular sex had been welcome enough. Still, she had more pressing matters to attend to now, the first of which was to secure passage to Santa Natalia to be reunited with her brother.

  Chapter 2

  Paulette exited the dingy tavern as hastily as she could. She picked up her skirts and fled through the sloppy debris strewn underfoot, desperate to put as much distance as she could between herself and the lewd suggestions of the tavern’s clientele as to how exactly she might pay for her passage to Santa Laura.

  Paulette was no prim innocent, but the debauched cat-calling from the filthy sailors she encountered in the dockside taverns of New Orleans held no appeal for her. She could sew and she could cook. She may not have coin with which to purchase her passage, but she could offer honest work and did not intend to prostitute herself. Sex was not something she would trade.

  She came to a wheezing halt at the rear of another similarly disreputable hostelry. Regardless of the distaste she might feel for the men who frequented such places, she really should gather her wits together and go inside, seek out the landlord, and ask if he knew of a vessel bound for Santa Natalia. Sooner or later, someone would be able to point her towards such a ship. She clutched her cloak about her, straightened her shoulders, and stepped forward.

  Three men emerged from the rear door of the alehouse, each of them unfastening their breeches as they laughed companionably. Paulette shrank back into the shadows and watched the inebriated sailors relieve themselves against the wall not six feet from her.

  “Old Rêné waters his ale,” one of the men observed, his gaze on the steady stream he directed at the filthy stones. “Look, my piss is as pale as a whore’s tits.”

  “Aye, I allus said so,” another agreed. “But ’e keeps a decent drop o’ grog, so I say we shall forgive ’im ’is piss-poor beer.”

  “Bloody robbin’ sod, all the same,” the third grumbled, refastening his clothing. “I say we relieve ’im o’ some o’ that fine Cuban rum.”

  “Aye, we shall,” the first of his companions concurred. “The more the better. We should drain ’is cellar dry, then we can sell ’im a few barrels more when we get back.”

  “We’ll not be back in New Orleans for a while.” The next man also completed his business and rearranged his dirty breeches. “I ’eard that the cap’n means to go over to Santo Domingo an’ then Port o’ Spain after Santa Natalia. There’s to be some decent pickin’s from the Spanish merchant ships in an’ out o’ Cuba and Santa Natalia, an’ I fancy ’e ’as ’is eye on some doubloons.”

  “Aye, the Raven likes the glitter o’ fine Spanish gold, an’ I can’t say I much object to it meself. Let’s drink to rich pickin’s an’ fair weather to see us on our way.” The first of the men started back for the door to the tavern, clearly intent upon sampling the fine rum on offer. One of his comrades fell into step behind him, but the third shook his head.

  “I best be gettin’ back. We sail at first light, an’ I’m on watch from midnight. I dare no’ turn up drunk or the cap’n’ll ’ave old Velvet flay the skin from me bones.”

  “A small tot o’ the fine stuff will do no ’arm, surely,” one of the men observed, halting at the door.

  Paulette remained hidden, watching from the shadows as the man dithered.

  Please, she mouthed silently. Please say no and return to your ship.

  “Best not. Ye all saw what ’appened to old Maggoty when ’e tried to take ’is watch after a skinful of ale. The cap’n ’ad ’im flogged an’ put ashore on Antigua. I can’t stand bloody Antigua.”

  “We’re goin’ nowhere near Antigua,” his shipmate argued, but to no avail. The man on watch bid the other pair a reluctant farewell and turned to trudge along the murky street in the direction of the harbour.

  Paulette offered up heartfelt thanks to any deity who might be watching and quickly fell in behind the man. Slipping quietly through the shadows, she made sure she stayed far enough back that he would not realise she was following, but close enough not to lose sight of her quarry. She had heard enough of their conversation to learn that they were crewmates on a ship bound for Santa Natalia, among other places, and she needed to know which was their vessel. With luck, this man would lead her right to it.

  The sailor weaved his way along the streets and alleyways leading down to the waterside, and eventually ambled up the gangplank of a sleek vessel of fairly average proportions, though Paulette would not profess to know much about ships. She was able to count eighteen gun portals on the side facing her, so surmised an equal number on the opposite side also. The vessel sported the usual three masts, and the sails which were presently rolled up within the rigging were square, and as far as she could make out, a dark grey or even black
in colour.

  The man she had followed disappeared on board, and Paulette ventured closer. She could make out the name painted on the bow of the ship as it bobbed at anchor: Raven’s Claw. Yes, that made sense. One of the men had mentioned the Raven. Paulette assumed the Raven to be the captain of the vessel, a man clearly not averse to handing out harsh discipline. He was a man to be feared, and if at all possible, avoided.

  She knew the ship was destined to sail at dawn, and one way or another, she meant to be on board.

  Paulette considered stowing away. There had to be ample places to hide on board, but the voyage to Santa Natalia would take weeks, and that was only if the captain did not decide to detour anywhere else on the way. She would struggle to remain hidden for that length of time, and what about food? Water? She would need to obtain sufficient supplies for the journey, again, complicated, as she was not certain of the duration of the trip. Getting on board, and then off again, without being seen would also be a challenge since someone would be on watch the entire time, and presumably sober enough to spot an intruder if the captain’s requirements were any clue.

  No, stowing away was not practical. She would need to revert to her next plan, and for this she would require a disguise.

  Paulette retreated from the waterside area and made her way into the myriad of narrow streets which ran up from the docks. She wandered up and down the streets, and it was not long before she spotted what she was looking for, a washing line upon which had been hung a selection of male clothing. This particular dwelling must have been home to a large family as there were several sizes of apparel dancing in the breeze, ranging from threadbare pants to fit a small child, to coarse woollen trousers suited to a grown man. Ideally, Paulette required something in between. She was in luck.

  She ducked behind a water trough in order to be able to observe the dwelling for several minutes. When she was quite certain no one was about, she crept into the tiny back yard and removed a pair of breeches from the line, quickly followed by a rough cotton shirt and a knitted wool hat. She considered the hat rather too warm to be comfortable in the Caribbean climate, but she had need of it. The alternative would be to cut her waist-length hair, and this she could not readily bring herself to do.