by Kim Wilkins
“Of course.”
“Only, I wonder if I can convince Father to arrange a party. There are some Dutch girls in town, sailors everywhere . . . we could send out the invitation all the way to Puttalam. Imagine . . .” She spread her arms out. “We could decorate this area with ribbons. Father could pay for musicians to come up from Colombo, or down from Kandy. Oh, Constance, is it not a wonderful idea?”
Constance agreed, but reluctantly so. After all, if she was consumed with organizing a dance, she wouldn’t have much time to search for her mother. And even less to sit quietly on her own and think about Alexandre.
“It’s settled then. I shall ask Father, and he shall say yes, of course; and this afternoon we will go into the town to order paper for invitations. Do you have a fair hand? I confess I write too hastily and spoil all my letters.”
“Yes, I have a fair hand,” Constance said.
“I should have guessed, for you are very calm and probably quite sensible. Father always says I haven’t an ounce of brain between my ears, and I suppose him to be right.” Orlanda sighed and squeezed Constance’s hand again. And Constance felt her resistance to her new friend melt away. Yes, she was spirited, silly, overbearing. But any girl who had been told she was stupid by her father would probably have turned out that way. She felt reluctantly glad for her own father momentarily, that he had bothered to insist on a good education for her.
“Come, let us practice our steps, as it has been an age since I danced,” Orlanda said, pulling Constance into the middle of the dance floor. “I shall be most shame-faced if I can’t manage a simple quadrille.”
Once the girls were gone, once Mrs. Howlett had retired, trembling, to her room, Henry was alone with Howlett at last. He waited only a few polite seconds before pouncing on him with questions. “What news? Any?”
“I’ve not heard another thing since that first day,” Howlett said. “That a woman named Blackchurch had spent considerable time here, in Nagakodi, some twelve years past. I confess, I haven’t much asked about it though, as my business keeps me well occupied.”
Henry was chastened. “Of course. Of course. I shouldn’t expect you to help me. It’s my problem, so—”
“Of course I will help you, old friend,” Howlett said, hands spread expansively. “I am quite an expert in the local language and will happily translate for you.”
“And in return, I will help you with your business. If there is anything I can do. Adding up accounts, writing letters . . .”
“Very well, it sounds like a fair exchange of time and skills. I am always terribly busy.” Howlett went to the fireplace and leaned on the mantelpiece. “I expect the place to start is in the town, back at the markets where I first heard mention.” Howlett offered him a strained smile, then spoke hesitantly. “Henry, have you really thought this through? You know that you might . . . discover things that are hard to know.”
“But at least I will know,” Henry said gruffly, uncomfortable talking about his feelings.
Howlett, clearly just as uncomfortable, backed away from the question happily. “Very well, then. Rest a little while to recover from your journey, and after dinner we will start our campaign.”
Constance and Orlanda were dressed in their town clothes, fastening their bonnets against the brilliant sunshine, when they ran into Alexandre on the front path up to the villa.
“Oh,” Orlanda said, speechless for the first time that day.
Constance’s heart swelled again, and she couldn’t stop herself smiling. “Hello, Alexandre,” she said shyly.
“Good day.” He had tied back his hair, but his feet were still bare.
Remembering her manners, she gestured towards Orlanda. “This is Miss Howlett.”
“Orlanda,” she said, finding her voice.
“This is Alexandre,” Constance said, tasting his name on her tongue again. “He is repairing a ship for Father.” She hoped that didn’t sound like she thought he was a servant.
“You’re a carpenter, then?” Orlanda asked.
“I’m actually a pearl diver. At least, that’s what I’ve done the last seven years.”
Orlanda smiled coyly. “Do I detect a French accent?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she launched into a stream of very bad French. “I am pleased very to make our much acquaintance, and hope that you do too.”
Alexandre was clearly battling with an urge to laugh, and Constance reminded herself never to speak a word of her own clunky French—why, oh why had she not listened to Mademoiselle Girard?—lest she too arouse his amusement. Alexandre answered in French, “The pleasure is all mine, Orlanda.”
Orlanda blushed, and Constance experienced an uncomfortable bolt of jealousy. Orlanda was so pretty, pale-eyed and girlish. Constance was too tall, too dark.
“Well, I must say, your English is better than my French,” Orlanda said.
“He speaks Sinhalese as well,” Constance put in, keen to demonstrate how well she already knew him.
“Ah, now that is a boon. My father thinks he speaks Sinhalese, but in fact he has the poorest grasp of the language. Why, he was showing off to visitors one time and asked Chandrika for a fork to stir his tea rather than a spoon. Chandrika, who has quite a sense of humor, brought it without correcting him. He took the fork without a blink and pretended it was a local custom.” Orlanda giggled. “Oh, I have stood too long in the sun and feel quite light-headed. Shall we return to the shade of the veranda? I’ll send Chandrika to make us tea.”
Alexandre became flustered as he realized the invitation was extended to him. “I . . . really only came to see the captain.”
“Father’s not home,” Constance said. “He and Mr. Howlett have gone to town.” She didn’t remind Orlanda that they were to meet their fathers in town in two hours. She had become very invested in the idea of taking tea with Alexandre, especially without Father around.
“And Mother is unwell in her room, so you see it is all settled. I am the mistress of the house, and I declare we shall have tea on the veranda. Come.” Orlanda led them back up the path and insisted they all sit around the wide teak table, shaded under a frangipani tree overgrown with vines. Chandrika proved difficult to find, and so Orlanda reluctantly left Constance and Alexandre alone for a few minutes while she made the tea.
“Why did you need to see Father?” she asked him, when the uncomfortable silence had drawn out too long. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“I need to ask him about paint,” he said dismissively. Then, a moment later, “But perhaps you can help. Do you know how long your father intends to stay here?”
“His business here is . . . uncertain,” she said guardedly. “There’s no way of knowing.”
Alexandre was clearly puzzled, but too polite to ask further questions. She was seized by the horrible fear that he would think she withheld the truth from him because of the difference in their social situations.
“It’s personal,” she blurted. “It’s . . .” Then she stopped herself, wondered why she was keeping the story about her mother secret from Alexandre at all. He could speak the local language; he might be able to help. She glanced about, checking that Orlanda was not on her way back yet.
“Alexandre,” she said, “can I trust you in confidence?”
“Of course,” he said, his intense eyes fixed on her. “Only, don’t tell me anything that you will later regret.”
Opening her mouth, sharing her secret, felt delicious, a secret thrill. She realized, dimly, that she was tying herself to him in a small way. The whole story came out: her mother’s disappearance, Howlett hearing of her, Constance stowing away on Good Bess. But before she could get to her point, that she hoped he might help her in her search, Orlanda returned with a tea tray.
“Well, I don’t know where Chandrika is. But here, I’ve made us a tolerable afternoon tea, nonetheless.” She smiled brightly as she sat. “So, what have you two been talking about?”
“The weather,” Constance said.
“Not much weather here, is there? Just hot and sunny, or hot and rainy.” She began to pour the tea, serving it with brown sugar and lemon. For all that she was terrible at French, and a self-confessed ninny, Orlanda made wonderful tea.
Alexandre cleared his throat. “I would like to say, ladies,” he said hesitantly, “that I am at your disposal, both of you, should you think of any way I can help you.” He nodded particularly towards Constance, and she hid her smile behind her tea cup, knowing that the offer was intended directly for her.
She didn’t know what was more exciting: that she had somebody to help in her quest to find her mother, or that the somebody was Alexandre.
Chapter 9
As Henry walked into town with Howlett, all he could think was, Faith was here. Howlett talked the whole way, and Henry hmmed in the right places, but really his mind was focused on the thought that his wife had once been here. Along the narrow dirt road, past the gleaming pagoda, alongside the houses—mudbrick and coconut palm leaves or tidy stone villas built by the Dutch—and then into the chattering market, its intoxicating mixture of smells permeating the balmy air . . . he wondered how Faith had experienced it, how she had felt, what she had thought of when her feet trod this very road. If she had thought of him.
“This is the one,” Howlett said, pulling up short at a market stall with an aging, but sharp-eyed, Sinhalese woman behind it. She climbed to her feet with difficulty, barely raising a smile for them.
Howlett began to speak to her in Sinhalese. Henry wished he understood what was going on. The woman appeared to grow impatient, repeating herself, while Howlett slipped in and out of English. Finally, he nodded and she sat back down.
“What? What is it?” Henry asked.
“It’s the same thing I overheard last time. The Blackchurch woman—they’ve translated the words into their own tongue, black church—lived some years ago in a little place to the north of the main square.” He indicated with his hand. The woman began to speak again, saying the same word over and over. Howlett looked at her puzzled, then said, “Ah.” He changed arms. “To the south of the main square.”
“A house? Which house? Does she know which one?”
“She’s given me quite clear instructions,” Howlett said. “We can go there now.”
Henry’s heart puffed up with hope. “Now? Wonderful! How do you say thank you? I want to thank her.”
“Irida,” Howlett said, checking his pocket watch on its chain.
“Irida,” Henry said to the woman.
She gave him an amused raise of the eyebrows. “Istuti,” she said.
Henry turned to Howlett, who said, “Oh. Yes. Quite right. Istuti is thank you. Irida means Sunday. Come along.”
Henry followed Howlett, wondering how much confidence he should have in his friend’s language skills.
The sun grew hot above them, and Henry tried to stick to the shade as they wove out of town on the muddy road and back down the hill into a densely vegetated valley. The last street belonging to the town beckoned on their right, and Howlett led Henry down it with confidence. Here and there, elephant tracks had created holes in the mud. They had filled with scummed water; bugs zipped around them eagerly. The houses were a mishmash of colonial and native features, mostly ill-kept. Howlett stopped in front of the second-last one on the street, gazing up at it with concentration working his brow.
“This is the one?” Henry asked.
“I’m fairly certain.” He indicated the front garden, so far overgrown it almost seemed to be disappearing back into the jungle. “She said it had an English garden. . . . I think I can see lavender in there.”
Lavender. Faith’s favorite flower. She had given him a sprig from her mother’s garden the first time they met. The powdery smell of it always returned him to that moment, reminded him of her laughing eyes, her cool hands. . . . “This is where she lived,” he murmured, so quietly that Howlett, who was making his way to the front door, didn’t hear him.
He crossed the rutted road, mud sucking at his boots. An elderly native man worked on the veranda of the house next door, beating a rug rhythmically. It was loud in the hazy afternoon air—and seemed to echo the thump of Henry’s heart.
Howlett was already knocking at the door, calling, “Halloo! You know, I think there’s nobody home,” he said to Henry.
Henry went to the window that looked on to the veranda. He rubbed the salt and dirt off it with the side of his fist and pressed his face up against the glass. A long-legged spider skittered away.
“You there! I say!” This was Howlett, using his awkward half-Sinhalese, half-English on the neighbor. Henry didn’t need the neighbor to confirm it: the house was empty. Dust and a broken chair were the only objects in the front room. Paint peeled with the weight of too many humid summers; dirty strands of cobwebs hung along the cornices. He allowed himself a moment of self-pity, then told himself to be sensible. Just because she wasn’t in this house any more, didn’t mean he wouldn’t find her.
Howlett returned from his conversation with the neighbor. “She hasn’t lived here for twelve years,” he said. “The old man next door says she was here only four years, barely said a word to anyone, then went to live on a ship, the Monkey King. English, apparently. Do you know of it?”
“A ship? But she hated ships. At least . . . that’s what she told me.” He mused on this a moment. “Did the neighbor say anything else? Anything that can help us find her?”
Howlett scratched his head. “Truth be told, he was a little hard to understand, and he was very keen to convert us to some godforsaken pagan religion. Few words about ships, and far too many urging us to pray in one of those hideous temples. But the name of the ship was, at least, clear. We can write away to Colombo, for old shipping records.”
Henry cheered himself. Shipping records, of course. They might be able to track down the owner of the Monkey King, and from there, discover where Faith was now.
“Thank you, Howlett,” Henry said. “I shall draft a letter this afternoon.”
Finally free of Orlanda’s chatter, Constance went to her room and lay down for a few moments on her bed, feet dangling off the side. On the trip into town, Orlanda had taken her to the stationer to order paper, ribbons and wax, and was now threatening to make her spend the next two days organizing guest lists and planning menus. Constance had pleaded a headache and escaped.
It was very warm in her bedroom now, as the western sun found her window. She closed her eyes and had the odd sensation of the phantom sea moving under her again. Father had said it might take a few days for her to reacquire her “land legs.”
Father. He had been acting very strangely this afternoon on their walk home from town. She suspected he and Howlett had discovered something about her mother, because he was tight-lipped and distracted. Then he had shut himself in Howlett’s library with a quick command to Chandrika to bring paper and ink. But what had they discovered?
She rose and paced to the window to close the shutters against the sun. She glanced down at the beach and saw Alexandre. He sat on the sand, a large drawing book across his lap, gazing out at the water. His shoulder was flexed towards her, and she was overcome by the desire to touch that shoulder, to feel his warm skin beneath the loose cotton shirt.
What was she thinking? These weren’t thoughts that a young woman of her position, of her breeding, should be entertaining. But that was precisely the problem: Alexandre made her forget social position; he made her forget good manners and all the other polished surfaces of society. He made her feel the delicious naturalness of what lay beneath.
Constance sank back from the window, leaning her shoulder against the wall. It would do nobody any good to think such things. She pinched her own wrist, the sharp pain concentrating her senses on something other than Alexandre. When she moved away from the window, she took only one last glance.
Father was talking to him. He had sat on the sand next to Alexandre and was giving him instruction of some kind.
She watched, curious, a few moments, feeling inexplicably guilty; as though they could both read her thoughts. Then it dawned on her. If Father was on the sand giving Alexandre instructions, he was no longer in Howlett’s library making secret notes.
And she very much wanted to see what he suspected about her mother.
As she cracked open her bedroom door, she was most afraid of arousing Orlanda’s attention. If her new friend found her creeping about, she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace.
Down the stairs she crept, stealthily, then dashed past the parlour and into the library. She closed the door behind her. The French doors to the garden were closed, and the room was stuffy. She glanced around and could see no writing paper, no ink well. The writing table nestled in the corner of the room was bare. He’d hidden what he was working on.
She began to search the bookshelves. Beneath a six-volume edition of Homer’s Odyssey, she found a large flat stationery box. She removed the books, opened the box, and found a letter. It was much blotted. Only a draft. He hadn’t known how to word it. Perhaps his walk on the beach was to clear his head, to make the words organize themselves better. If that was the case, he might be back soon. She scanned the letter quickly. It was to the registrar of the East India Company’s shipping index in Colombo.
I wish to inquire about a ship named Monkey King, suspected of English origin, known in the north-west of Ceylon in or about 1787. I have no information regarding class, size or purpose. I wish to know in whose name the ship was registered, and whether the Company has any further records that may apply, specifically if any of those records relate to a person named Faith Blackchurch. . . .
Footsteps behind her. Her heart jumped. She turned. It was only Orlanda.
“What on earth are you doing down here?”