by Kim Wilkins
Alexandre must have heard her and turned to look over his shoulder. When he saw her, he stood.
“Hello,” she said softly.
The corner of his mouth lifted, a subdued smile. “Good evening, Miss Blackchurch.”
The formality stung. “You may call me Constance.” She moved forward, so she could see him properly. Tall and dark-eyed, with tanned skin, his black hair hanging loose to his shoulders. Yes, he was real. More than real, for he focused all her senses sharply, making the surroundings fade and blur.
“Very well, Constance.”
She noticed a large bruise across his jaw. She leaned closer to peer at it. “What’s that? Has somebody hit you? My father?”
“No, no. It’s an old injury.” He lowered his head. “I am in your father’s debt. He has treated us well.”
She wasn’t expecting this answer. “Really?”
One of the Sinhalese men, a lean man with big hands, looked up and said something to Alexandre in his native tongue.
Alexandre nodded, then returned his attention to Constance. “He says your father is a good man.”
“You speak Sinhalese?”
“De Locke and I lived in Ceylon for some years.”
She indicated the cuffs. “I’m so sorry about the chains.”
“I spoke to your father at length this afternoon. He said he’d send somebody to release us this evening. He didn’t have the key.”
Her heart jumped. She didn’t want to be discovered down here with Alexandre. But at the same time, she was finding it very difficult to pull away from him.
“Has he decided what to do with you, then?”
“I told him that La Reine des Perles has been my home for many years. When we anchor, he will let me stay aboard, take care of her, until he finds a buyer in Ceylon. Then I am to return to England with Good Bess. He won’t take payment—he says I can work for my passage. I can sell my pearl in England and have enough to get home to France and to start a new life. An independent one.” Here he smiled fully, and she felt her heart flip over.
“Oh, that’s . . . wonderful.” Weeks and weeks. She would have weeks and weeks with him around. Then she put the thought out of her head. It wasn’t as though Father would let her see him.
“Constance, I must thank you for your assistance, for helping me aboard.”
She gestured to his companions. “You would have ended up here anyway.”
A shadow crossed his brow. “Maybe. But I didn’t know that at the time, and you were generous enough to reach out to a stranger.”
She moved a little closer, put her hands around the bars of the pen. “How did you manage to swim away from the pearler without being seen?”
“It’s my job to stay underwater for long stretches,” he said, almost dismissively. Once again, Constance had the feeling that he wasn’t telling the whole story. “Constance, I wonder if I might prevail upon your generosity once more?”
“Of course,” she said too quickly.
He fished the pearl from the cuff of his pants and held it out to her. “Will you keep this safe? Perhaps you have a jewellery box? I can get it from you at the other end of our journey. In England.”
She took the pearl, brushing his warm fingers with her own momentarily. “I will be most pleased to honor your trust.” Then she heard voices and stepped away from the cattle pen in alarm. “I have to go,” she said quickly.
“Thank you,” he said again, his dark eyes evenly fixed on hers. “Most sincerely.”
She felt herself blush, then blushed all the more, and was grateful for the dim light. “You’re welcome. Most sincerely. Most, most sincerely.” She backed away, stumbling over her feet. “I’ll see you ashore? Perhaps?”
“I will follow your father’s instructions.”
Then she made her way aft, back through the ship and up to the roundhouse, a tangle of hot feelings in her heart.
De Locke slowly worked his way out of his ropes. They had tied him firmly but not tightly, giving themselves just enough time to get away. What did they think he would do if his hands were free before they were out of sight? They had taken his pistol, his ship, and his crew. All he had was the clothes on his back and a wretched basket with salted fish and half a loaf of bread in it. Did they think he would throw food at them?
Evening deepened to nighttime. The air was chill, but not cold. Still, he longed for his warm bed. How far was he from Tumkottai? He supposed he would hail a passing ship, or make his way by foot across the sand at low tide to the mainland—though all he could see from here was jungle and beaches. Anger began to burn bright inside him. Blackchurch. How had he found him? After all these years, de Locke had been sure he’d escaped his revenge. In all the wide oceans, across the Gulf of Mannar, how was it possible for Blackchurch to find La Reine des Perles?
And as for Alexandre . . . Week after week there had been no pearls, and here the boy had been hiding one all along. De Locke stamped his feet with frustration. Alexandre had been quiet, mumbling if he spoke, and de Locke never once suspected it was because he was hiding a treasure in his mouth. Thief. Traitor.
Traitor. Suddenly, it was clear to de Locke. He had seen the girl help Alexandre aboard Good Bess, without a blink. Alexandre knew them. Somehow he had contacted Blackchurch, given him their whereabouts, invited him to take the pearler. . . . He wanted to weep, and because he wanted to weep—big, fat, helpless tears—he grew angrier and angrier until he roared across the island, “Alexandre!”
And he vowed not to return to Tumkottai at all. He vowed instead to track down his enemies, and make them pay in blood.
Chapter 8
NAGAKODI, NORTH-WESTERN CEYLON
Early-morning light suffused the sky, and the chatter of sea birds drifted to Alexandre’s ears over the bay. He leaned on the starboard rail of La Reine des Perles, now anchored in Nagakodi’s quiet harbor, and watched the boat row away from Good Bess.
They had cast anchor late at night, and Alexandre had been freed from the hull—his two companions had already been delivered into the hands of the fisheries superintendent—and taken directly across to the pearler, where he slept soundly in his usual hammock. With the first light, he’d heard the commotion on the ship as people and their luggage were readied to be taken ashore, and had come out to see if he could glimpse her, the captain’s daughter. Constance.
What good it would do him to see her, he didn’t know. Captain Blackchurch was not likely to let them form an attachment. Alexandre knew he was very low in the world. But he thought he had seen in her some spark, some particular kindness that ignored their social differences. And he found his thoughts returning to her. He thought himself a calm person, accepting, able to manage no matter what the circumstances. But being near Constance made him feel a tightness he was unaccustomed to—as though his muscles were coiled in readiness for something, as though bright energy hummed within him.
There she was. Her fair face was hidden under a wide-brimmed bonnet. Her auburn hair caught the white morning sun, her back was very erect. She turned to look over her shoulder, saw him and lifted her hand in a tentative wave. He returned the wave, equally tentative. Blackchurch was scowling, but Alexandre wasn’t certain whether it was directed at him or just a sign of more general crankiness. He lowered his hand, leaned his forearms on the railing and breathed the light morning air.
Blackchurch wanted the pearler readied for sale. Alexandre had maintained it well over the years, but de Locke had skimped on some repairs. Many of the seams needed caulking, and her topsides needed a fresh coat of paint.
He hoped, though, that it wouldn’t take long. He hadn’t much of an idea when Blackchurch intended to return to England; Alexandre would have to ask him directly. The thought of being here too long made Alexandre nervous, because he knew de Locke. He wouldn’t let his livelihood go so easily.
Alexandre tried to put such anxious thoughts from his mind. The boat had skidded up onto sand. Bending palm trees caught the sun on their l
eaves as Constance gracefully climbed out of the boat, looking around her. He wondered what she was thinking. Was she admiring the raw beauty of the place? Or, like so many of the travellers here, comparing it unfavorably with the compact dampness of England?
He smiled. He liked to imagine that she saw the beauty, that she could think outside the well-worn tracks of her countrymen, find something to like about this unsophisticated place. Because that just might mean she could find something to like about him.
Constance gazed up at the doric columns of William Howlett’s villa. They dazzled white like marble, but marble was not found easily in these parts. Rather, it was a mix of lime and crushed oyster shells spread over the stone. Constance gazed at the double chimneys, the stone parapet and the portico. There was no concession at all to the local style of architecture. It was a little piece of England, here in Ceylon.
The villa was half a mile from the beach. Most of the crew were staying on board the ship, except for Mr. Burchfield and the two officers who were staying with a Dutch family in town. Constance could still hear the ocean, but it no longer moved underneath her. So accustomed to the swell was she that her body seemed to remember the motion in all her muscles. It was a strange feeling, like a soft twitching.
Father led her up to the front door of the villa, and knocked purposely. Maitland had been to see Howlett late last night, when they first cast anchor, and had arranged the visit formally.
The door opened. A beautiful native woman, with her black hair pinned up under a cloth cap, opened the door, smiled and said in perfect English, “Good morning, I am Chandrika. Won’t you come in? I will fetch Mr. and Mrs. Howlett.”
She left them in a large, quiet reception hall, with a patterned wooden floor. A housemaid was dusting a bust of Cicero, and the dust rose and spun slowly in the sunlit air. A squeal of delight from the top of the wide staircase broke the peace. “Company!”
Constance looked up to see a pretty girl of about her own age, with pale-blonde hair and a pointed nose, hurrying down the staircase with extreme excitement. She approached Constance with alarming speed, grabbing her with such force that she dropped her trunk and nearly overbalanced.
“Oh, a friend!” the girl said. “You’ve no idea how bored I’ve been!” She stood back to smile at Constance, who smiled warily in return. “I’m Orlanda,” she said.
“Constance,” Constance replied.
“I just know we will be the best of friends.”
Father gave them a satisfied smile, clearly thinking that Constance had now found a companion as silly as the one she had left at home, and that he would no longer be bothered by her.
“Orlanda, show some decorum please!” This stern voice came from William Howlett, who had slipped into the room unnoticed. He smiled apologetically at Father. “Being in these parts works on the minds of the young. The wildness seeps in. I can barely constrain her to wear stockings and shoes some days.” He rubbed papery hands together. “Please, come through to the sitting room. My wife is indisposed; she’s only comfortable on her sofa. Leave your bags here, the maids will take care of them.”
Howlett was a whip-thin man, taller than Father by a head. He was unusually pale, his neck hunched at an odd angle. He wore a fine, embroidered frock-coat and a silk cravat at his neck, and his thinning grey-streaked hair was neatly secured at the nape of his neck. Howlett had been an agent to the East India Company and made his fortune with them. Now he owned a small company, specializing in spices and jewels.
Orlanda squeezed Constance’s hand all the way to the sitting room, which was a large, light-filled room facing east into a deep spice garden. The shutters were open, and the smell of cinnamon, ginger, and cloves was strong and sweet. Mrs. Howlett was semi-reclined on a sofa that had intricately carved legs. She had a quilted blanket pulled up as far as her lap, where her white hands lay limp.
She smiled weakly as her guests entered the room. “Good day, good day. I am very sorry, I am not feeling well.”
Orlanda leaned close to Constance’s ear and said, “She’s never feeling well.” Then she giggled.
Howlett glared at them both. “None of your silliness, young ladies.”
Constance wanted to protest that she hadn’t whispered, she hadn’t giggled, and she most certainly was not silly. But greetings and polite conversations were now taking place all around her, tea was being fetched, and Orlanda was rolling her eyes and drawing Constance to stand with her by the cold fireplace.
“There’s not much to do about here,” Orlanda said. “It was much better at Colombo. I had friends; there were parties. . . .” She trailed off wistfully.
Constance, aware she had hardly spoken yet, asked, “Why did you leave Colombo?”
“Oh, Father started this new business a year ago. He wanted to be nearer the pearl fisheries.” She dropped her gaze momentarily. “Besides, he wanted me away from Colombo.”
“Why?”
She glanced up to see if her parents were listening. They weren’t, both too engrossed in their conversations with Father. “There was a boy,” she said. “Thomas. A nice English boy.” She giggled. “You know?”
Constance didn’t know, but she nodded anyway.
“Oh, it all got a little mad. Lord knows I didn’t encourage him. Well, not that much. He was discovered trying to climb into my window one night. What a to-do!” Her blue eyes went heavenwards, sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I laughed and laughed. Father didn’t see the humor in it. So, how long will you be staying?”
“I don’t know,” Constance replied, thinking, Not long, I hope. “Father has some business to take care of . . .”
“I do hope it’s for months and months, as I have been so lonely and so bored.” She turned to her parents. “Father, Mother? May I show Constance to our room?”
Howlett bustled over. “Constance is not sharing a room with you, Orlanda.”
“But I specifically asked—”
“We have enough space here for Miss Blackchurch to have her own room. If I put you two in together, you’d never get a wink of sleep, up all night giggling and telling secrets.”
Again, Constance was stung by the assumption that she was so foolish.
“But you can’t put her on the western side!” Orlanda protested. “The noisy sea will bother her. It never stops, you know.”
“She can close her window if she is so bothered.”
“At least let me take her up to show her.”
“Very well.”
Orlanda seized Constance’s hand and dragged her through to the entrance hall and up the stairs, chattering all the time. “How rude it is to put you on the sea side of the house,” she said.
“I like the sound of the sea.”
“Nonsense, you needn’t be polite about it. It would have been much better for you to share my room. Perhaps in a few days, when everything has settled again, you might ask Father specially. One can’t hear the sea from my room, and when one wakes in the morning one can almost imagine one is back in England and not on a horrid salty island in the middle of nowhere.” Orlanda drew breath. She opened the heavy wooden door to a cool, dim room. “When the sun reaches this side of the house, the heat is unbearable for a few hours. We normally take cool tea on the eastern veranda at that time of day.”
Constance opened the mullioned windows, letting in the fresh sea air. She could see the wide bay, boats coming and going, Good Bess dominating the scene. Her eyes worked hard to find Alexandre’s pearler. There it was. She wondered what he was doing now and remembered his pearl, which she had safely locked away in her trunk. “I could watch the sun set from here,” she said.
“If you had a mind to.”
She turned to Orlanda, untying her bonnet. “Do you not have a mind to watch sunsets?”
“What’s the point? There will be another tomorrow.”
A soft footfall near the door caught their attention. Mrs. Howlett stood there, supported by Chandrika.
“I will return to my bed,�
� Mrs. Howlett said. “I hope you don’t think me rude, Constance.”
Constance could see the woman was trembling. “Of course not, Mrs. Howlett. If you’re not well, you should be a-bed.”
They shuffled off down the hall. Orlanda flopped onto Constance’s bed, while Constance hung her bonnet on the corner of the dressing-table mirror. “I’m sorry your mother isn’t well,” she said.
“She’s never well.”
“What is it that ails her?”
“Nothing.”
Constance sat with Orlanda, puzzled. “It must be something.”
“Nothing that is an illness.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure Mother would be well enough if she stopped drinking laudanum.”
Laudanum, Constance knew, was a mixture of opium and alcohol. She had heard of people who grew addicted to the medicine, who suffered horrors and daytime nightmares from its overuse.
“Medicinally, of course,” Orlanda added, though her ironic tone showed she didn’t believe it. “I don’t mind so much, Constance. With Mother always indisposed, and Father so busy with his work, nobody has much interest in what I do, or where I go.” She sat up suddenly. “Come, let me show you the rest of the villa.”
Room by room, Constance was introduced to the place that would be her home for the next short while. She liked the look of the library, on the lower floor, with French doors leading to an overgrown garden. Hibiscus grew in profusion, brightly colored blooms catching the morning light on their petals. On the other side was a long colonnade of wood, with a roof over it made of layers of coconut palm leaves. Lamps were suspended from the beams; tidy flagstones made up the floor. The untamed garden encroached on three sides, and the beach ran off from the third. To the north, Constance’s eyes were drawn up the hill to a gleaming pagoda.
“This is a dancing room,” Orlanda said with a sigh. “If it can be said to be a room when there are no walls. If it can be said that it’s for dancing when I am the only soul who has a mind to dance.” Orlanda’s eyes lit up, a sudden realization seizing her. “Do you like to dance, Constance?”