Unclaimed Heart

by Kim Wilkins

  She chewed her lip, eyes turned skywards. “How are we to manage this? Orlanda is worse than a team of spies.”

  “I will be on the beach most afternoons at sunset. It is the time of day I most favor for drawing. For thinking. Come and find me when you can.”

  She smiled, brilliantly. It seemed the sun shined right through to his ribs. “I will. Thank you. Thank you.” Then she was backing away, returning to the villa. He pulled off his uncomfortable boots and made his way down the beach to his boat.

  It was only much later that he remembered the golden bird Orlanda had given him. Guiltily, he pulled it out of his pocket and hung it on a nail. Orlanda would likely not accept its return without much discomfort. He would decide what to do with it another time.

  Days sped by and Constance began to think she would never get away to see Alexandre. Every afternoon, he sat on the beach to watch the sunset. She could see him from her window, and she watched the clouds gather on the horizon and hoped to be able to join him soon. But there was always something to constrain her: Orlanda with endless requests to help with guest lists and invitations; Father frowning at her sternly with reminders that she behave herself; even Chandrika, who caught her one afternoon just as she was heading out, to tell her that the cook had supper ready early and to be back within an hour. One hour wasn’t enough!

  Within a few days, she had hatched a plan. She went down to the library late one afternoon and found her father.

  “Father?”

  He turned. He had been writing a letter. She wondered if it had something to do with her mother. “Yes, child?”

  “I’m unwell.”

  He rose, came towards her, and put his palm across her forehead. “You’re not feverish.”

  “I have a stomach ache, and I feel very tired.”

  “Do you want me to send for Burchfield?”

  She shook her head. “I think I’d like to miss supper and go straight to bed. Only, could you make sure Orlanda doesn’t get it in her head to look in on me? I’d like to sleep.”

  “Of course. I’ll tell Chandrika.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Because Lord knows, neither of her parents can control her.”

  She felt guilty as she made her way back up to her room. Father trusted her. She had to make doubly sure that he never found out where she was going this evening. And with whom.

  In her room, she waited until she smelled the rich odor of soup fill the house and Chandrika called everybody to supper. She cracked open her door and listened. When she was certain everyone was in the dining room, she removed her shoes and crept down the stairs. Tiptoeing, she stuck close to the walls and made her way into the library and out into the garden.

  She ran across the flagstones and out onto the beach, laughter bubbling in her throat. She did it! She got away from all of them. The sand was warm between her toes. She scanned the beach for Alexandre and saw him a distance off putting his things back in the boat.

  “Alexandre!” she called, then realized she shouldn’t be calling so loud.

  He glanced up and saw her. She waved madly. He raised his hand in return, then walked up the empty beach to greet her.

  “Is it too late?” she said, panting from her run.

  He looked over his shoulder at the water. “I expect I can find my vessel in the dark. Either that, or I can sleep on the beach tonight.”

  “Oh, not on my behalf! You mustn’t sleep outside.”

  “Have you never slept outside? It’s glorious. Especially in these warm parts of the world.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mind. I should like to take you to see your mother’s house.”

  “Thank you,” she said, catching her breath. “You can probably guess that nobody knows I’m out here, so we mustn’t go back through Howlett’s garden.”

  “There’s a track through the trees,” he said. “But you have no shoes.”

  “Nor do you.”

  “My feet are used to the ground, they’re tough as leather.”

  “I took them off to sneak out.” She looked over her shoulder at the villa, tall and ghostlike in the twilight. “I can’t go back and get them.” She met Alexandre’s gaze again. “I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

  “Keep an eye out for rocks,” he said, leading her up the beach and across the verge of tough grass, then in amongst the coconut palms.

  The sun had almost slipped behind the world, and the trees crowded out the remaining light.

  Constance kept her eyes fixed on the track in front of her, not just to avoid rocks, but also to stop herself from stealing glances at Alexandre, who seemed immensely close even though he walked four feet away from her. The misunderstanding about the dance haunted her: Orlanda’s bumbling attempts to explain why she couldn’t invite him, then Alexandre’s fiery pride flaring into life (thrilling her heart, if truth be told). He didn’t want to go, of course. Though she wished very much that he did, that Orlanda could convince her parents to invite him, just so Constance could have one dance with him, feel his warm arms, be close to his lean frame. She wanted to tell him that her father had made her stay away from the French lessons, but didn’t want to embarrass him again with mention of their social differences.

  “When we get to the end of this track, we’ll come out on the southern edge of the town. Quite close to where we need to go,” he said.

  “Will we be able to find it in the dark?”

  “It’s not dark yet,” he said, indicating the twilight sky. “We’ll find it.”

  The town was very different at this time of the day. The stalls were empty, and there was a jumble of traders packing their wares while their children played on the cobbled ground around them.

  All the European settlers were at their homes for supper, and it seemed the area had been reclaimed by its former owners, who smiled and talked while they worked. Exotic cooking smells permeated the air. One or two people put their heads up to look at Constance and Alexandre as they crossed the corner of the square, but nobody called out or told them that it wasn’t fitting for them to be seen together. It made Constance feel light of heart, light of step.

  Until she cracked her toe on a protruding cobblestone.

  “Ow!” she shouted, stopping and bending over to clutch her foot.

  “What happened? Let me see,” Alexandre said, crouching and gently pushing her hand away.

  “Oh, oh, it hurts,” she said, trying to be brave but failing.

  “It’s bleeding,” he said. “Wait here. Sit down.” He took her hand and helped her to sit on the ground. She tried not to think about how dirty her dress would get. He ran off towards the markets and began speaking to a young woman packing up a stall that sold brightly dyed cotton fabric. She glanced over at Constance with sympathy, then offered Alexandre a strip of rag.

  He sat beside Constance and gently wrapped her toe, all the while speaking calmly. “It’s a small cut so you aren’t to worry. But I think you should go home. We’ll be on muddy tracks. . . .”

  “I can’t go home,” she said, wanting to sob. “It’s been impossible to get away. . . .”

  He stood and helped her to her feet, smiling. “I can carry you on my back.”

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” she said, even though she wanted to sigh, “Yes.”

  “I insist.” He crouched in front of her.

  She took a deep breath, then leaned forward, clasping her arms around his neck. He stood; the world fell away from her feet. He hooked his arms under her knees and her skirts rode up to her ankles. A sea breeze kissed her cheeks; her heart thumped wildly. He was so warm and so strong. She felt alive, more real than she had ever felt. She thought of her father’s warning—that she remember she was civilized, an English woman—and wanted to laugh.

  “Not far now,” he said, picking his way down a rutted track. “Hold on tight.”

  She wanted to hold on forever. “I will,” she breathed, not sure if he heard her.

  The peculiar chatter and squeal of jungle animals reach
ed her ears, and a rich damp smell rose, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, rather like dirt and rain and leaves rotten after too many seasons on the ground. Alexandre finally stopped in front of an overgrown garden, a house in darkness. He let her down, and she put her disappointed feet on the ground once again.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled, slightly out of breath. “You are a tall girl, Constance.”

  Her heart fell. Did he think her a great lunk of a thing? Not like compact little Orlanda.

  “But very graceful,” he muttered, so she almost didn’t hear it. A thrill fluttered through her, but he had turned and was eyeing the front of the house. “Shall we see if we can get inside?”

  They tried the front door but it was locked, so they made their way around the side of the house, through prickling overgrown grass—she tried not to think of snakes—and to the back windows. Alexandre pried one open and climbed in. Constance hitched her skirts and climbed in after him, tearing her dress on the way.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, tying a hasty knot in it. “I’m afraid women aren’t designed for this kind of adventure.”

  “I think it’s women’s clothes that are the problem,” he said. “Not women themselves.” Then he turned away, moving into the house. “Though I cannot imagine Orlanda dealing with the situation as capably as you.”

  She shone: a double pleasure in both a compliment to her and a denial of feelings for Orlanda.

  They went through the house, room by room, hands clasped together tightly. Only a few items of furniture were left behind, and those were broken or bent. Then they came to a dark, windowless room where the skittering of little feet in the ceiling gave Constance pause.

  “There’s something here,” Alexandre said, dropping her hand. “A piece of furniture, a desk. Shall I drag it out into the moonlight?”

  “Please.”

  Together they hauled the old writing desk beneath a window. With shaking fingers, Constance dislodged all its drawers and felt beneath them. It was too easy to imagine some letter, full of import, hidden precisely for her. But there was nothing.

  She fought with her disappointment as, covered in dust and sticky cobwebs, she climbed back out the window and into the balmy night air. Her excitement seemed to be slipping away. Once they stood outside in the long grass again, Alexandre considered her carefully.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t find anything.”

  “It was foolish to raise my hopes.”

  “There’s a house next door to this one. Shall we go and ask them if they know anything?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a waste of time.”

  He hid a smile. “Ah, the English and their melancholia.” He beckoned. “Come, Constance.”

  He led her back to the road, then up to the front door of the neighboring house. A dim light within told them somebody was home. Alexandre knocked and called out a Sinhalese word. A few moments later the door opened, and there stood an elderly woman with grey streaked hair and a shining jewel nestled in the side of her nose.

  Alexandre greeted her and began to speak to her in Sinhalese. She was guarded, but answered all his questions nonetheless, spreading her hands for emphasis. Constance waited, feeling useless. A mosquito settled on her cheek; she slapped at it but missed. Night was truly upon them now, the half-moon bright in the sky. The jungle noise was almost deafening, now that the crickets had taken up their full voices.

  Finally, Alexandre turned away and the woman went inside.

  “What did she say?”

  “She knew your mother.”

  Constance smiled. “Really? Did she like her? Were they friends?”

  Alexandre glanced away. “No, not friends. Your mother lived alone and rarely spoke to anybody. But this woman remembers her going away, as you said, on a ship. An English ship, the Monkey King.”

  “That’s what Father knows already,” she muttered. “He must have been here before us. Did she say anything else?”

  “She tells me there is a saying amongst the locals, and she has always wondered if it is about your mother. ‘The English faith is in the hidden temple of Ranumaran.’” “The English faith? My mother’s name was Faith . . . I know it’s almost too much to hope, but do you think it might be about her?”

  “Even if it is, where is the hidden temple of Ranumaran?”

  Constance turned these thoughts over in her head, constructing a complex fantasy. Her mother, abducted from her home in England, brought to Ceylon, then escaping on an English ship and finding herself in a holy place, one of the mysterious and beautiful Buddhist pagodas. And waiting there ever since, in hopes that her husband and daughter might come to find her. There were many lapses of common sense in the fantasy, but it was so compelling to Constance’s heart that she couldn’t help but cling to the hope. “As likely as it may be, I’ve got to try it.”

  “What?”

  “How would we find Ranumaran?”

  “Ask the locals, look at maps . . . I can help you.”

  “Would you? I’m certain my father knows nothing of this. His letter to the shipping registrar made no mention of Ranumaran.”

  “You should tell him.”

  She brushed away another mosquito. “No, I won’t. He thinks I’m young and foolish. If I can find Mother before he does, he will have to take me seriously.”

  “Perhaps he will.” Alexandre considered her in the dark. “You should get back home.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed.

  As she returned through the garden, Alexandre’s goodnight still soft in her ears, she noticed a light burning in the library. She stood behind the stone post and peered out. It was Father, writing. She couldn’t go in the front door without being seen, but she could hardly go into the library looking as she did: a bloody bandage on her bare feet, mud and dust on her dress, a rip in her skirt, mosquito bites on her hands and face. Especially as she was supposed to be sick in bed. She sighed, sagging into the post. What now?

  She couldn’t stay here outside the library; Father might see her. So she let herself into adjoining the spice garden, found a patch of soft grass under a cinnamon tree, and lay down.

  The stars were a bright dust above her. She began organizing them into constellations—Procyon in Canis Minor, Sirius in Canis Major. Then she stopped and let them scatter again into their own random beauty. She smiled. The air was warm and balmy, the sea beat rhythmically in the distance, and the scents of the spice garden were heady. She closed her eyes, turning over the events of the evening in her head. Alexandre, the old house, the clue to her mother’s whereabouts. Then her thoughts began to skip and slip, and she drifted off into a sleep full of images of Alexandre.

  Chandrika found her at dawn.

  “Miss Blackchurch?”

  Constance opened her eyes, remembered where she was, and sat up. The first words to her lips were, “Don’t tell my father.”

  Chandrika smiled, her dark eyes shining. “If you only knew how often I have heard that from Orlanda.” She took Constance’s hand in her soft fingers. “Come. Everyone is still asleep. I am certain you can wash and change into clean clothes without being discovered.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” Constance muttered, leaving the soft morning and all its exotic dreams behind her.

  On the fifth day, a ship finally saw de Locke and sent a boat across for him.

  By this stage, he had gone beyond anger to blind fury. At every hunger pang, every interruption of his sleep, every quaver of fear at the sounds from the jungle, he muttered Alexandre’s name with murderous intent.

  It was an English ship, and for once he blessed the English. Because they might know where Blackchurch was. “I’m looking for a ship named Good Bess,” he asked every crew member, until one finally said that he knew Henry Blackchurch, and that he most often did business with the East India Company in Colombo or Madras. The fact that de Locke had encountered him on the western side of Adam’s Bridge indicated that Ceylon was his destination. The ship he was on
was to sail to Colombo after a short stop in Tuticorin. De Locke had to make a decision. From Tuticorin, it was only a day’s journey home. Should he just return, buy a new vessel, find a new crew. . . .?

  The thought filled him with rage. No. He would not go home until this business was finished.

  Chapter 11

  Alexandre was small again, in a skinny boy’s body, shivering in midnight air. The horse show was over; all the visitors had gone home. One grim light flickered nearby; the tank waited.

  “I don’t want to go in!” he protested. His heart threatened to burst through his ribs. Whispering shadows snaked around him.

  “You shall go in.” It was de Locke, pistol pointed at him. “You have no choice.”

  He climbed into the cold water. It tasted like the sea. He looked around and realized that he wasn’t in the tank at all, but at the pearl banks. Nighttime, blue shadows, cruel-toothed creatures circling. De Locke pushed his head down. Alexandre struggled against him, but couldn’t move. Crushed under the weight of the water, he fought to breathe. . . .

  Alexandre woke with a jolt. Then relief flooded through him. It was a dream, nothing more.

  He estimated from the position of the sun outside the round window that it was around eight o’clock. That meant he had an hour before he had to be at the Howletts’ villa for Orlanda’s French lessons. He turned on his side in his hammock and closed his eyes. Still, he couldn’t completely dispel the anxiety that the dream had aroused. De Locke was a dangerous man, but he had always been on Alexandre’s side. Now that he knew Alexandre had withheld a pearl from him, had jumped on the first passing ship . . .

  He rose and dressed well enough to visit the villa. He had to speak to Henry Blackchurch.

  Chandrika showed him into the drawing room, where Howlett and Blackchurch were deep in conversation. They looked up on his arrival. Howlett frowned, checking his pocket watch. “Are you not a little early, boy?”

  “I hoped to speak with Captain Blackchurch,” he said.