Unclaimed Heart

by Kim Wilkins

  “Everything I’ve done?”

  “You’ve brought me a joy I hadn’t thought possible in my life. And that is worth repaying.”

  She squeezed his hand. “As long as you promise to be very safe and come back to my arms whole and unharmed.”

  “I promise.”

  “Go on then. See what you can find.”

  De Locke unfolded his weary body from the ground where he had slept the previous night. The sun was already well overhead and had pierced through a gap in the leaves, and he realized the left side of his face was sunburnt. One more irritation to add to the long list. He had only managed to escape the skipper of the fish boat through speed, not guile. De Locke had run off while he was unloading his baskets, plunged into the jungle, and kept running until he was sure the skipper had given up on his payment. A jungle at night wasn’t the best place to sleep, so he’d made his way towards the sound of the ocean and found some grass near the edge of the beach. He had tossed and turned for hours before finally catching sleep on the verge of dawn.

  Then slept long enough to get sunburnt.

  He scratched at the row of mosquito bites all up his arm. There was an elephant track around here somewhere, but he’d have to head away from the beach to find it. No matter. There were still many hours of daylight left, and he expected to arrive in Nagakodi before sunset. He hoped to find somewhere to drink along the way, and perhaps some tropical fruit or other to ease his hunger pains.

  But first, he needed to go down to the sea, to splash salt water on the mosquito bites, which had started to ooze blood. He broke from the cover of the foliage, then stopped in his tracks.

  La Reine des Perles.

  He rubbed his eyes; it must surely be a hallucination, a trick of his overtired brain. But no, there she was, catching the sunlight on the azure water.

  De Locke began to laugh. There was no boat in sight to steal, but she was swimming distance away. He waded out into the sunlit water and began to make his way to his ship.

  Chapter 19

  Chandrika caught Henry as he emerged from the library, pulling on his coat and readying himself to sail.

  “Captain Blackchurch?” she said, urging him back into the library.

  “What now, woman?”

  She closed the library door behind them, found a note in her apron pocket and gave it to him. “This was under Constance’s pillow.”

  He watched his own hands shake as he unfolded it, as though he were outside himself. He was almost too frightened to read it.

  Dear Father,

  You are no doubt wondering where I am and what my intentions are. I wish to reassure you that I haven’t disappeared as my mother did; I have merely gone on a short adventure, from which I will return—depending on favorable conditions— before nightfall. I am with Alexandre, who has been of great service to me in my hunt, and whom I trust to keep me safe.

  I did not undertake this adventure lightly. You see, I have been conducting my own investigation into Mother’s disappearance and have followed my clues to the hidden temple of Ranumaran. There, I hope to discover my mother, and perhaps bring her back with me. I know that if I can do that, I can win back your good favor.

  Your loving daughter, Constance.

  “Captain Blackchurch?” Chandrika said, anxiously. “Is everything well?”

  “She’s gone to . . . ” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “She says she’s gone to find her mother.” Despair washed over him. “The girl simply wants her mother.”

  Chandrika wouldn’t meet his eye. “She is safe, then?”

  “I hope so.” He wiped away a traitorous tear, forcing his voice to be bright. “Ranumaran. Not far.”

  “No sir. But twenty miles.”

  “We’ll sail immediately.”

  Constance and Alexandre picked their way over the rocky beach to the southern side of the reef. The beach was more sheltered, the water clearer. Alexandre stripped to his trousers and waded into the sea.

  “Be careful,” Constance called.

  “I will.” Cautiously, he dunked under the water. The sandy bottom dipped away steeply. Rocks dotted it. He launched himself forward and began to swim, stopping every few feet to check the position of rocks. The shadow of the reef and the gully that ran behind it waited in the distance.

  Despite what he had told Constance, this was not without its dangers. He didn’t know the waters, the rocks were cruel, and there was always the danger of sharks. But neither was it inherently risky, especially for Alexandre, who had proved almost impossible to drown. He made his way through the warm water, a safe distance from the reef, then over into the gully.

  The depth increased steeply again, the bottom a murky swirl below him. He shot to the surface, took a slow deep breath, waved once to Constance, then dived.

  Down and down. Not on a stone and a rope this time, but simply with the weight of his own body. Sunlight shafted the water, but it was much cooler down here. He saw the front half of a ship almost straightaway.

  It was bow up, pointing accusingly at the reef that had caused the damage. Alexandre could see a gulf opening up behind it, a final steep drop-off. He swam to the bow, brushing off algae and seaweed. Fish darted in and out of a large hole, but he could see enough letters to know this was Faith Blackchurch’s ship.

  . . . NKEY KI . . .

  The Monkey King. He made his way up to the surface, the last of his breath squeezing tightly. Took another breath without facing the beach where Constance waited. He should just go now, swim back to her, tell her he had seen the shipwreck. She would be devastated; if only he could bring back for her something from the wreck, something to ease her sorrow. And so he dived again.

  He swam down to the wreck and examined the Monkey King’s swollen ribs. It was a jumbled mess of wreckage, splintered wood, brass black with algae, eels snaking around, barnacles attached to everything. He made out a wooden chair with only two legs, and swam towards it, picking in the debris around it. A dinner plate, a hairbrush. He kept sorting the junk, his lungs protesting that he was taking too long.

  Then he saw it. A delicate thread, too easy to mistake for a piece of seaweed. But it didn’t dance on the water; it hung. It was heavy. It was made of gold.

  Alexandre pulled the necklace free. On the end of it was a round locket. He wrapped the chain around his wrist, swam hard towards the surface, and broke the water gasping for air.

  Then, when his lungs felt balanced again, he slowly made his way back to Constance.

  Constance paced anxiously, letting out half her breath when she saw Alexandre surface safely and the other half when he climbed out of the water. He pushed his wet hair off his face and said in a breathy voice, “I’m sorry, Constance. I found the Monkey King down there.”

  “Mother’s ship,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  The tide of despair made her collapse forward. Alexandre caught her and held her while she sobbed. She was aware that he was making her dress damp, but cared nothing for it. Mother was dead. There would be no reunion, no words of kindness and wisdom. She let the desolation roll over her as she cried into Alexandre’s warm shoulder.

  He gently pushed her away. “Constance, do you recognize this?”

  She looked down. Wrapped around his wrist was a chain with a locket. It was green, filthy, but she would have known it anywhere. The locket her mother wore in the portrait at home. Shaking, she unwound it from his arm, scraping the algae off with her thumbnail. She held up the locket to the sun, remembering her long-held fantasy, that there was a picture of herself within. Curious fingers fiddled with the latch. It popped open.

  No picture of a baby. Instead, a miniature oil of a man she didn’t know. For a few moments, her brain tried to reorganize the man’s features into Father’s; but he was fair and blue-eyed, with a narrow nose. Nothing like Father. Then who was he?

  “Constance?”

  The question popped onto her lips unbidden. “Do you think my mother loved me, Alexa
ndre?” she asked.

  She was prepared for him to answer as anyone else might have: all mothers love their children. But he didn’t. He said, “I do not know. My mother was very unkind; perhaps yours was too.”

  She showed him the portrait. “I don’t know who this man is. I was rather hoping to find a picture of myself.” Part of her wanted to take the portrait of the stranger as confirmation that this was not her mother’s locket. But she knew that she would be lying to herself. Her mother had willingly disappeared, had willingly left Constance behind, for this stranger. Her world shifted on its axis, and she turned away from the light of the sun. The fact of her mother’s death was one thing to mourn, but the proof that her mother didn’t love her . . . She was numb.

  “I will have to tell Father,” she said. “I don’t know how he’ll take such news. But I shouldn’t wait any longer to break it to him.”

  “Come, we’ll make our way back.” He took her hand. The small gesture brought fresh tears. He was the only warm and solid thing left in her world, and at the other end of this journey, she had to let him go. She would drift without him, at the mercy of wind and weather.

  “Time for tears later, Constance,” he said, pulling gently on her hand. “You need to speak with your father.”

  Alexandre helped Constance out of the boat and back up the rope to the pearler’s deck. She had only a moment to register the warmth of his hands before a shadow fell over them both. She gasped. A large, red-haired man had a pistol cocked and pointed at Alexandre’s head.

  “Hello, Gilbert,” Alexandre said.

  “Who’s the girl?” the man asked in French.

  “She is a friend,” Alexandre responded.

  Constance, whose French was poor but good enough to understand this conversation, piped up in English. “I am Constance Blackchurch. My father is a well-respected merchant seaman and will be most offended and horrified at your treatment of Alexandre. Point that pistol away from him immediately.”

  De Locke grinned, turning the pistol on her. “Certainly, Miss Blackchurch,” he said with a heavy accent.

  Her heart stopped, her panicky bluster evaporating as pure, cold fear iced her veins.

  “You have just given me the most splendid idea,” de Locke continued. “Alexandre, I can’t sail this vessel single-handedly. You will do whatever I say, or I will shoot your companion. Do you understand?”

  Alexandre nodded wordlessly. He was ashen with fear. Constance had not imagined he could be so afraid, and his fear intensified her own.

  “Set the sails for heading south, back to Nagakodi. I have new business with Henry Blackchurch.”

  “What do you intend?” Constance cried.

  “You will find out in good time. Meanwhile, put your hands together so that I can tie them up.” He smiled cruelly. “You may wish to pray.”

  It took forever to get his crew moving. Five of them were ashore, and Henry had little hope of finding them quickly. The others, dismayed by the lack of warning, seemed to have forgotten everything they knew and fumbled their way through tasks so slowly that Henry began to believe he would miss the tide and have to sit here in the harbor and wait for Constance to return on her own.

  Finally, finally, they were away, doing their best to catch the reluctant winds. Maitland, who until now had been overflowing with apologies, took the wheel without another word and seemed determined to win back his captain’s favor with good work.

  Henry walked up and down the poop as they sailed into the heat of the morning, worried not so much about Constance but about what she might find. Was it possible that Faith had settled in Ranumaran? Was she living a simple life, the life of a fisherman’s wife? How would such a life etch itself on her beautiful face and hands? He knew now that she would not want to return with him. In truth, she had never really wanted to be with him. Even on their wedding day, she had cried. Not with joy, he knew that. She had been only eighteen, barely older than Constance. The marriage was considered appropriate for her. Her parents had been keen on the match; Henry had been utterly smitten. Faith’s own reluctance had never figured in the equation. He had convinced himself she would grow to love him. Within two years, when her eyes seemed to turn constantly elsewhere, he had realized his mistake. But he hadn’t been able to stop loving her. Even when she disappeared—when Violet, his close friends, even her family had suggested that she might have left willingly—he hadn’t been able to think so ill of her. He had reserved a little piece of himself to trust her, to hope for her return. They’d had Constance, after all. Divinely precious proof of love.

  “Sir?” It was the second officer, Hickey, rousing him from his reverie.

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve spied a vessel off our starboard bow. It’s the Queen of Pearls.”

  He folded his arms, embarrassed to have his crew see him out chasing his errant daughter. “Good. When she’s a good distance to parley, I’ll go across and have a word with her new skipper.”

  “Do you want us to ready the cannons?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, the hot flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “My daughter’s on board.”

  “Your . . . ?”

  “Not another word,” he said sternly.

  Hickey nodded and headed off, calling commands to slow down, ready to pull up alongside the schooner.

  Constance’s hands were tied tightly in front of her. She had been compelled to sit on the deck, while Alexandre had to manage the sheets, which he did quietly and coolly. She wished she could read his thoughts. Her own were in turmoil. She knew only a little about de Locke and didn’t know if he was dangerous or merely a fool. She veered from terrified thoughts of Alexandre’s death, or her own, to semi-calm acceptance that he would put them ashore soon, then sail off in the vessel he thought belonged to him. Nonetheless, she felt useless just waiting, so she began to work away at the stitches in the hem of her skirt. If she could free the pearl, perhaps she could convince de Locke to leave them be. He was angry at Alexandre; perhaps this was the reason. Perhaps once he had it, he would be satisfied. Her fingernails picked at the cotton, slowly and carefully, stitch by stitch.

  But before she had the chance to work it completely free, de Locke called to Alexandre in French, “I see the English pig’s ship.”

  Constance turned and searched the sea with her eyes. There she was, Good Bess, sails set steadfastly, powering through the waves towards them. She sighed inwardly with relief. Never had she been so glad to see her father.

  “Hove to,” de Locke said to Alexandre. “I will speak with him.”

  The pearler slowed, then stopped moving forward. She waited on the motion of the waves, as Good Bess loomed closer.

  “It would be best if they don’t see me,” de Locke said to Alexandre, indicating with a tilt of his head the hatch that led below deck. “But you can be sure, I will come up to talk to Blackchurch when I am ready, and any attempts by you to escape will mean certain death for his daughter. Do you understand?”

  Alexandre nodded mutely. De Locke pulled Constance to her feet and arranged her so she stood beside Alexandre, hanging his coat over her hands so that her bonds could not be seen. “Come now, child. Smile for Papa.” Then he turned and went down the first three steps to the cabin, waiting in the dark.

  Good Bess was close enough now that Constance could see her father on the poop deck high above them. She couldn’t make out his expression, but suspected he was frowning. She tried to smile, but couldn’t. She wanted to sob, but didn’t.

  His voice came over the speaking trumpet. “Constance, I am coming over in a boat. You are to climb into it immediately. Maitland will assist Alexandre in sailing the ship back to Nagakodi.”

  She nodded that she had heard. De Locke snickered in his hole. Now Constance grew terrified. Of what was this man capable? Would he hurt Father? She realized, suddenly and clearly, that she wouldn’t feel safe in the world if she lost Father.

  Over on Good Bess, the boat was
lowered into the water, with Father, Maitland and Hickey inside. They began to row across the narrow space between the ships. De Locke waited until they were only twenty feet away, then uncoiled from his hiding place, brandishing his pistol. “Good afternoon, Captain Blackchurch,” he shouted over the wind.

  Father scrambled to his feet, nearly capsizing the boat. Maitland pulled him back to his seat. “De Locke! What are you doing with my daughter?”

  She didn’t see it, but she knew that the pistol was once again pointed at her head, because Father’s face was panicked.

  “I am interested to know how much her life is worth to you.”

  Father held up both his hands. “Stop. Do not hurt her. She is worth everything to me. You may keep the Queen of Pearls; just let me have my daughter.”

  De Locke began to laugh so wildly that Constance feared he would fire the pistol by accident. “The pearler? But you said she is worth everything. Much more than this wretched vessel.”

  Moments passed with no words spoken. Constance could see Father’s face working, as realization was upon him.

  “Yes, that’s right, Blackchurch. You hand over Good Bess or Miss Blackchurch is no more.”

  Constance wanted to call out to him not to listen to de Locke, that she had brought this on herself with her impulsiveness, that he must keep his livelihood. But she was afraid, so afraid. She wanted to cling to life at any cost.

  De Locke was beckoning Father’s boat grandly. “Come, come, do not delay. You may take possession of this fine vessel, and I shall take your little boat back to my new ship.”

  “Are these your only terms, de Locke?” Father asked.

  “My only terms.”

  “Then so be it.” He gave the order to continue rowing. Constance’s stomach hollowed out with despair.

  De Locke laughed, giving Alexandre a companionable punch on the shoulder. “Well done, lad,” he said in French. “You’ve brought me another great success. I was going to kill you, but now I think I’ll take you over to Good Bess with me.”