We have that one thing in common, she thought. We were both motherless children.
They stood together in the darkness, arms touching, listening to the waves lap against the hull of the ship. She felt her tension ease, and she leaned against him. For the first time in such a very long while, she let someone take her weight.
The foreign constellations crept into the night sky. Was Riche looking up at the stars too, she wondered, terrified that he might never see the North Star again, never find his way home?
‘Can you imagine what he must be thinking?’ she said, finding her voice. ‘Out there.’ The sky had coloured to Indian ink and the land was black.
Kermadec sighed. ‘Damned Riche. A torment from the very start.’ She felt him stiffen. ‘These savants will be the ruin of us.’
She frowned, remembering the rumours. ‘Is it true, what they say? That you would leave him behind?’
‘I fear he is dead and fallen down some dry crevasse. That is why we cannot find him.’
‘We don’t know that!’ She pulled away from him.
‘You’re right. But how long can I risk my men? We cannot survive this coast if we do not find water. Each day we lose here condemns us all.’
‘But to abandon him? To leave him here with no way home? What if he lives? What if he watches us sail away from him?’ Her voice grew frantic. She couldn’t believe that he would sacrifice one of his men, that he could discard Riche so easily.
‘I do not do this lightly.’
He must know that she did not only think of Riche. She had left her son in similar desolation, alone and afraid, on a dark slab of stone.
‘We cannot abandon him. I beg you, one more day.’
‘One more day,’ he said, pulling her close, his lips against the crown of her head. ‘I promise you.’
She felt the shock of his embrace, but let herself be comforted by the strength of it. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to quell the voices in her mind. You left your child. You do not deserve happiness.
She lingered on the deck, watching as Kermadec’s men rowed him back to his ship. In the east, a fat golden moon rose above the ocean. It looked to be kissing the water goodbye.
In the darkness she heard a hooting laugh. It came from above. She looked up into the rigging. She saw nothing: no movement, no shape.
‘Come down and show yourself!’ she said bravely to the blackness.
Raoul shifted into the moonlight, crowing like a cock who had seen the dawn light before any other.
‘How dare you spy on me?’ Her voice came out as a squeak.
His laugh was a long, low rumble. ‘Oh, Marie-Louise. Did you think you were the only spy on this ship?’
She fled the deck, fear nettling her skin, and memories chasing at her heels.
To be a spy for the revolution! Marie-Louise had found the idea thrilling. Hébert had collected her from her father’s house, arriving in a carriage wearing the silk culottes and tight-curled wig of the aristocracy, and leaving behind the story that the powerful and influential family of Noailles would look kindly on the Girardin family—and their business—for the benefit of Marie-Louise’s company.
‘It would be no small thing to win a contract to supply wine for one of the largest families at court,’ hinted Hébert.
‘It is said they occupy an entire wing of the palace,’ her stepmother said, wide-eyed with greed.
‘Madame Marguerite de Noailles is newly wed into the family and requires a companion. No one too young or pretty, you understand.’ Hébert had looked knowingly at Jean Girardin. ‘No one likely to turn her new husband’s head.’
Marie-Louise pretended she had not heard. She did not care what he said. She was excited. Just three short steps from her father’s house into Hébert’s waiting carriage and she would be gone forever.
As the horses lurched away, she did not look back.
He took her to a rented room where she could change out of her best taffeta and into her new clothes. Worn clothes. A dust-coloured apron over a faded red dress. Her throat was dry.
‘Just follow what the others do. You’ll soon learn.’ He smiled reassuringly.
She nodded.
‘You will be superb,’ he said, lifting her chin gently with his finger. ‘I know it.’
She walked alone towards the palace, her letter of employment sweaty in her fist. The avenue was long, the gates shining golden in the distance. Her heart quickened. She was on her own now. And there was no going back.
The next morning she watched the search parties leave the ship for the final time. Today, Labillardière had been allowed to join the search. Raoul too was among the men. His words from the night before tormented her. What did he mean by accusing her of spying? Could he truly know what she had done? She paced the deck, hoping to jostle her memories. There had been so many people at Versailles, so many more than she had imagined. The palace was full of courtiers and their servants. All their faces swam before her; how could she possibly remember?
Girardin went about her tasks in an agitated state of suspense. By the middle of the day the sun was baking. Girardin peered towards the shoreline. It hurt her eyes to look at the shimmering salt-crusted dunes. She splashed drops of muddy water onto her tongue, ignoring the taste of it. Nothing moved on the shore.
At dinner, the search parties returned.
‘Did you find him?’ she called out.
‘No,’ replied Labillardière, climbing aboard.
Girardin slumped. We will sail away. We will leave him stranded in this barren place at the bottom of the world, dreaming of the family he will never see again.
Labillardière had a strange smile on his face. ‘He found us.’
‘What?’ Girardin looked around her for confirmation. She saw the men’s smiles. Saw Mérite leap up onto the taffrail, balancing like an acrobat with his arms spread wide, his face shining. ‘Riche has been saved!’
‘Where did you find him?’ she asked Labillardière.
‘As I said, we did not find him. But look…’ He rummaged in his pack and carefully unravelled a piece of canvas. He held up a plant stem with tubular red flowers, each shaped like a wizened hand encased in a velvet mitten. ‘I discovered this. A flower with the soft paws of a kangarou. A species entirely new to science!’
She clenched her jaw. He was truly impossible. ‘But what of Riche?’ she cried.
‘We saw no sign on our travels. We returned to our rendezvous in a state of grave apprehension for his life.’
‘The other search party then?’
‘They found his pistol, a handkerchief and some botanical notes, that was all. We were beaten at last; even I was convinced of the death of our unfortunate companion. There were tears of despair and exhaustion. Riche’s servant was distraught. Such dreadful wailing when he saw that we were making to depart! The poor man fell to the ground, overcome by tears. It was some moments before we realised they were tears of joy. Claude Riche had come stumbling through the bushes! He arrived just at the moment we were due to depart.’
Girardin felt the hairs of her nape rise.
‘Incredible!’ Félix clapped his hands.
‘He saw our ships from a distant hill and tortured himself with the thought we would leave before he reached the coast.’
Girardin looked toward the Espérance. We did not leave him, she thought. We did not maroon him here with no hope of return. Whatever else she had to fear in the coming journey, she would not have his abandonment on her conscience.
Chapter 41
Port du Sud, Recherche Bay, Van Diemen’s Land, 22 January 1793
AT THE FIRST TOUCH OF SAND BENEATH HER FEET, GIRARDIN stumbled and sank to her knees. She gripped the fine sand in her fist. Van Diemen’s Land at long last. Safety. Fresh water.
After leaving Espérance Bay, the ships had tracked along a sheer rock face of white limestone. No land could be seen beyond the cliff. No birds rose from it. No smoke. From west to east the wall looked endless, with no c
hange in elevation, and no inlet or stream or river to break their thirst. Weeks passed until there was scarcely any water left in the ship’s hold. Each day was the same, a slow charting of the coast. Each morning she rose to see the wall’s blank white face.
When the Espérance had signalled her distress on New Year’s Day, d’Auribeau convinced the General to ignore it. Girardin had been shocked. The signal was a code; it meant supplies were critical and Kermadec had only enough water to sail to Van Diemen’s Land. She thought of Kermadec’s suspicion that his steward was stealing rations. Was that why they had so few barrels left? Had the steward sold their water? She’d heard rumours that the Espérance had no more water for making bread and that their rudder needed urgent repairs. For three more days the General continued the running survey of the coast. She watched each day pass in agitation, thinking of the anxiety Kermadec and his crew would be feeling. Did they think their commander was punishing them? D’Auribeau pressed the General to continue, to keep looking for the supposed strait between New Holland and Van Diemen’s Land. But the wall of limestone and the headwinds were relentless. Even the Recherche was desperately short of water. The coffee ration had been cut for all but the officers, sending Labillardière into a rage at the injustice and causing one of the officers to hurl a jug of wine at his head. She was tearful when the General finally made the call to turn away from that coastline and return to Recherche Bay in Van Diemen’s Land where she knew they would find water.
Girardin heard splashing. She pushed herself upright and followed the sound of men singing. At the rivulet she rushed forwards, wading into the water. She cupped her hand and scooped up the cold water, drinking noisily. The water was tea-stained but fresh and she couldn’t remember when she had tasted better. She gulped it, not caring if the water spilled down her shirt. She felt like plunging beneath the surface, soaking and scrubbing the dry dust from her pores. She dunked her head and scrubbed the roots of her hair. A wooden barrel bounced over fallen logs and splashed into the creek beside her, drenching her. The sailor made no apology as he shoved it downstream to the waiting boat crews.
‘Your captain?’ she asked, hoping her voice would not betray her nervousness. Droplets of water dripped from her nose and chin. The sailor pointed behind him.
Girardin picked her way alongside the rivulet until she saw Kermadec standing beneath the shade of the paperbark trees. With the luxury of observing him unnoticed, she could let her heartbeat slowly settle. He was thinner than he had been five weeks ago and his long back was rounded as he rested on a staff of wood.
Girardin squared her shoulders and stepped forwards.
He turned, recognised her, and smiled. With relief she saw his eyes were shining.
He inclined his head to her. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘And you,’ Girardin murmured, biting her lip.
She was close enough to hear his chest rattle as he took a deep breath. ‘It is good to see you,’ he repeated.
Girardin steadied her hands by clasping her elbows. They were awkward together. These weeks apart had changed something between them. She wanted to reach out to him, but held back. Below, she heard the men splashing in the creek, their songs, whistles and laughter reaching up to them. ‘I bring a message from the General,’ she said. ‘He hopes you will dine with his officers this evening.’
‘Ha! A fine evening that would be. Shall we listen to Captain d’Auribeau’s snide remarks on the quality of our supplies? Will I watch him curl his lip and declare that this water my men have collected for him tastes of stagnant marshes?’
She was startled at the anger in his voice. His tone was bitter. It had the chill of the southerly wind.
‘And will I suffer as the General laments his lost chance of charting the unknown southern coast?’ He thumped the staff into the dry dirt.
She ached for him. That awful coast had changed him.
Kermadec raised his chin. ‘I know my errors; I do not need them explained to me. Please tell the General I must dine with my own officers.’
Girardin felt her throat close tightly as she swallowed. ‘But when will I see you again?’
He was silent, his jaw grinding. The desperation of her question hung in the air between them. She was close enough that, if he chose to, he could reach out and touch her.
‘How are your provisions aboard the Recherche?’ he asked finally.
She cleared her throat. She could not tell him the flour purchased in Amboyna was stale and rancid. ‘As good as can be expected.’
‘Fresh fish will hearten the men. Have the sailors been fishing?’
Girardin nodded. Why was he asking her this? An awkward silence grew between them.
Girardin looked to the beach, where a boat from the Espérance was drawing in to shore. She watched as Claude Riche stepped from the boat. His servant held a parasol above his head to shield him from the sun. The parasol was frilled and beaded like the one she had once owned.
‘How is Monsieur Riche?’ she asked.
‘A great vexation,’ he said harshly. ‘He insists on continuing his researches even though he is unwell.’
The surgeon, Joannet, followed from the boat, weighed down with his own collecting paraphernalia. She watched as Riche’s loyal servant stuck out his foot to trip him on the sand. She sniggered and turned to Kermadec, but he wasn’t smiling.
‘I find their petty jealousies no longer amuse me.’
She frowned, uncertain how to mend this strangeness between them. She turned her face to the beach. Two seagulls hooked their wings over the onshore wind, stalled in mid-air.
She heard rustling in the forest behind them. Labillardière and Félix crashed through the undergrowth.
‘Oh!’ Félix cried, looking between her and Kermadec. ‘There you are. We are going to visit my garden!’ He held up an empty pack to her. ‘Come and help us with the harvest.’
She flicked her eyes towards Kermadec. He regarded the arrival of the gardener as he would a hair in his soup.
‘Will you join us?’ Félix asked her again, waving the sack.
She had failed them in Espérance Bay. Her courage had failed her. She wanted to help them now, but she glanced at Captain Kermadec and shook her head.
Félix looked crestfallen.
A third man in an officer’s uniform burst through the ferns behind them. She recognised the midshipman Mérite, and remembered the last time she had set foot on this land, feeling a twinge of pain in the sword wound on her arm.
‘What are you doing here?’ Labillardière seemed surprised to see Mérite had followed them.
‘General’s orders.’ Mérite grinned. ‘Wants someone to keep an eye on you all.’
‘The General sends a boy to babysit us.’
Girardin saw a pistol hanging at Mérite’s hip.
‘After what happened with Claude Riche, he doesn’t trust you to keep to your word.’
Labillardière turned his back and set off into the forest.
‘The garden is this way,’ Félix called to him, pointing northwards along the beach.
‘We must take advantage of every moment that is offered us,’ Labillardière said, disappearing behind the ferns.
Félix muttered to himself and set off purposefully along the beach. After he had gone ten feet, he turned, hands on hips, and noticed that no one was following. ‘This way!’ he called again.
She could hear Labillardière slashing through the ferns, heading deeper into the forest away from him.
‘Well, I suppose just a small detour,’ mumbled Félix.
Mérite caught her eye and shrugged. He followed the naturalists into the forest and the brief whirlwind of activity moved on without her. The ferns closed together behind them. The glade beside the creek returned to silence.
‘Do not trust those savants,’ Kermadec growled.
She blanched, shocked by his coldness. ‘They are my friends.’
‘They are revolutionaries,’ he said with disgust. ‘I have
heard the way they speak about our King.’ He pressed his handkerchief to his lips and his breath wheezed. ‘I do not want you consorting with them.’
She drew back. He meant to control her. She thought of her father and his careful inspection of all her invitations. She had thought Kermadec a different sort of man. Perhaps she had been wrong.
‘They are harmless,’ she said, her voice soft and steady.
‘Harmless? Riche nearly killed us all with his selfishness!’ His voice rang out in the clearing.
But her blood was pumping in her ears. She made her decision.
‘Félix!’ she cried out. ‘Monsieur Lahaie!’
She turned away from Kermadec and pushed through the undergrowth in search of the naturalists. The bracken snatched at her legs. Her cheeks burned. She felt humiliated and furious, if only for the thoughts she’d let run rampant. Kermadec was no different from other men. He had meant to sleep with her, that was all; he meant to do nothing more than relieve an itch. She had imagined a life with him, imagined they would marry and she could reclaim her son. The lie of it burned in her chest. The sound of his hacking cough behind her did not check her stride.
Chapter 42
HOURS LATER, AS THE STRAPS OF HER PACK SLICED INTO HER shoulders and the leather of her boots rubbed her toes raw, they still had not reached Félix’s garden. The sea was so far behind them she could no longer hear it. After being cramped on the boat for so many months, she was unused to walking such distances or carrying a pack that was heavy with the plants Labillardière had collected. As her flare of temper at Kermadec cooled, she regretted her hasty decision. Each step rubbed her blisters. The roots and vines snagged her feet and she swore aloud in frustration.
Confused by the sudden change in Kermadec, Girardin tried not to let her thoughts dwell on him. But his coldness hurt her. Had she truly misread his intentions? She clambered over a fallen log and the deceptive wood gave way beneath her, piercing her palm with splinters. She swore again. Perhaps he had only meant to protect her from the naturalists and their foolish obsessions, she thought, pulling the spines of wood from her hand. It was not like him to lash out like that. Kermadec was hurt by the General’s treatment of him and angry with Claude Riche for risking all his men; surely that was the root of his dislike for the savants. Too late she realised she was thinking of him again.
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