Beyond paradise (2 page)

"Well, I suppose we would," she admitted, "but perhaps that is why the king has not commissioned us. Perhaps King Louis was hoping to find men who are more just and less frightened than we 'ordinary citizens'."

"Well, until you've fought a pirate," he said, "you mustn't tell me how it should be done."

Sylvie knew she had started an argument, and regretted that. He was handsome and brave, there was no doubt about it. But she just couldn't help asking, "How can you cut off a man's head?"

Jervais flexed his muscles once more. "I couldn't. But I can cut off a pirate's head."

Sylvie looked at him and scolded, "Are they really so terrible as that?"

Jervais assured her they were. "They wouldn't hesitate to cut off my head," he explained, "nor would they hesitate to rob hard-working merchants, ravish pretty girls, torture people merely for their amusement..."

Sylvie was taken aback by the mention of ravishing. No nobleman would bring up such a thing in front of a lady. Something about his candor made him seem even more attractive. He was raw. He did not hide his masculinity behind grace and propriety. Even his simple pigtail was more honest and real than the elaborate, curly wig worn by her husband-to-be. His breeches were plain black, and his shoe buckles a

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simple silver. Even his black waistcoat lacked the ornate buttons and swirls found so frequently on men of her class. His gun sash was not bold and fancy, but sleek, black, and made to blend with the rest of him. It was only on the island of Martinique that such a man would find the courage to confront the daughter of a country squire. In France, where the king's rule was not a distant notion but a tangible presence, he would never have dared this brazen attempt to woo her. At the moment, she was very glad not to be in France.

"Well, I think you must be right," she confessed.

"Of course I am." He proudly pulled back his strong shoulders as he swaggered along by her side.

"I should like to meet a pirate," she said.

Jervais caught her eye to see whether she jested. She did not. "Meet a pirate?" he asked, with a strange smile which conveyed something between amusement and distaste.

"Yes," she answered brightly, "it is as you said. I cannot judge you until I myself have met the enemy. So you must introduce me to a pirate."

"I can't introduce you," he snorted. "They aren't friends of mine, you know. I can't grab one by the ear and say, 'Dear Mr. Cut Throat, this is a sweet young lady who would like to make your acquaintance before you hang.'" He laughed crudely.

"Why not?" she demanded.

He looked at her as though she were deranged. "You're not joking, are you?"

"No."

His narrow eyes widened in amusement, a puzzled expression molding his face. "Well, I, uh . . . I suppose you could meet a jailed pirate. We've always got some waiting for trial." He jerked his thumb toward the western side of town, the home of that crumbling, windowless building which Sylvie was not allowed near. She had once heard screams from

Elizabeth Doyle

there, and her heart had sunk at the realization that someone was being beaten. Her hands trembled slightly at the mere thought of glimpsing the inside of that little jail. She was afraid, but she desperately wanted to do it.

"Can you really take me in there?" she asked nervously.

He shrugged his powerful shoulders. "I don't see why not. They're all chained up. It isn't as though they can hurt you."

"When?" she pressed him. "When can we go?"

Jervais thought this was the strangest plan for a first courting he could ever have devised. But clearly, this was a strange lady. "I suppose I can take you tomorrow," he suggested. He was rather in a hurry to win her, for he had to set sail within a week. He would not tell her that. Women did not like week-long courtships. He would tell her on the last day of his shore leave.

"My parents won't approve," she warned. "Can you meet me here? At this tree?" she asked, tapping it. She pointed through the grove to a small, wooden shack. "That is where I live," she explained. "Can you meet me here after dawn?"

Jervais nodded cordially. "As you wish." He had not been in a hurry to meet her parents, anyhow.

Sylvie had not felt this excited and daring since the move to Martinique. She knew she would spend all night imagining what she might see in that jail. A real pirate. A forbidden building. Jervais began to make his departure. When she saw that, she suddenly remembered. "Monsieur Tremblay!"

He spun on his heel. "Yes?"

"I, uh..." She felt so utterly daft. "I should have mentioned this before, but I ... I didn't know when would be the best time, and I..." she took a deep breath. "Well, you see, my ... my parents arranged for me to ... well, I hope I didn't give you a false impression, but I—"

"You are betrothed?" he suggested with a wry grin.

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She nodded.

"1 know;' he assured her, lifting her gloved hand to his lips. And a demon in his eye told her that he absolutely did not care.

s

Three

Sylvie's house was nestled in a grove of banana trees. What it lacked in luxury, it more than made up for in cozi-ness. There were three rooms in the wooden shack which the Davants proudly called home; that was one more room than they'd had in France. The floor was of packed earth, and the windows were small. Yet, it was the home of nobility, for Monsieur Davant was a comte of the longest lineage, a member of the noblesse d'epee. Fancy possessions were not necessary, his wife often reminded the girls, as trinkets were a sign of gaudy materialism, while behavior marked class. Indeed, Sylvie didn't know why anyone needed wealth when a three-room cottage could be so very comfortable. The trees provided shade over its roof, always keeping it cool and comfortable inside. There was a musty scent rising from the walls which soothed Sylvie when she stepped inside the door, reminding her of a freshly cut log.

"Hello, Maman" she greeted hurriedly, for her mother had already begun setting the table for supper.

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"Please hurry," said her mother abruptly, and without a smile.

"Hello, Sylvie!" called Chantal, racing into the room at a child's speed.

Sylvie lifted her sister into her arms. "Hello, Chantal. Was your tutor here today? What did you learn?"

Madam Davant sniffed expressively. "She learned nothing. That is what she learns every day. There are no suitable tutors here."

Sylvie took a deep breath. She felt sorry for her mother, she really did. Everything was better in France; that was the theme of her present life's drama. Sylvie did not agree with her. She felt that the bright blue waters and the constant breeze were lovelier than any of France's dry, beige fields of rye. She felt that her mother was remembering what she wanted to remember about France, and not what really had been. But still, she knew that her mother's pain was real, even if her memories were suspect. "Well, why don't you help Maman and me set the table," she suggested to her fair-haired sister.

"You may fold the napkins," said their mother, busily arranging a silver centerpiece filled with toothpicks. "Here." She handed each girl a couple of white cloth napkins.

Sylvie let out a heavy sigh. Folding napkins was such a complicated task. She sat at the heavy oak table and began crimping and twisting. No matter what she did, she knew that it would not be good enough for their mother, who was a master at setting table. Chantal, on the other hand, was a natural at this, and could already do it better than her older sister. "Maman" Sylvie ventured, slouching as she worked at her project, "if you aren't happy with the tutor, why don't you let Chantal go to school?" After all, while the daughter of a noble ought to read and write, it was normally only sons

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who received tutoring. Girls more often attended a convent school.

Her mother stopped what she was doing and turned to Sylvie. "School? Herded into a classroom like chattel? Sylvie, you should know better." She returned to her work, as though the discussion had taken such an unthinkable turn that she could not bear to continue. A squire's child, daughter or son, would not attend school, not as long as she was that child's mother.

It took Monsieur Davant a long time to emerge from his bedroom. He always arrived at the table in full dining attire, including his finest wig of black ringlets, his broadest feathered hat, and a glittering sword at his side. Why he felt the need to keep up this French tradition, after spending all day in worn breeches and plain boots, was beyond Sylvie. But she realized that her parents were clinging to something which they knew would soon be lost. She knew that when the island of Martinique became an adult, stretching and growing away from its mother, France, the original settlers would not be there to prevent it or mourn its change.

"Well, there is my beautiful daughter," he called, kissing Sylvie on the cheek. Indeed, he thought he had the fairest daughter in all of Martinique. He was proud of her clear complexion and her bright blue eyes. He was also fond of her gentle, earthy manners, so much so that he ignored her eccentricity, and pretended that she did not have eyes for every man on the island except her fiance. "Did you enjoy your day?" he asked. "Did you spend your day frolicking?"

"Of course, Papa,"

"Excellent."

Madam Davant placed a tray of peeled pineapple beside her silver centerpiece, and then a plate of fish, heavily seasoned with onions, garlic, and shallots. "They are bringing

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slaves from Africa," she informed her husband stiffly, a sharp glint in her blue eyes. She rarely had an opportunity to speak to her husband, so at meals, she moved directly to the topic foremost on her mind.

Monsieur Davant stabbed his fork into a chunk of pineapple. "That is the way of the future," he said diplomatically, though in truth, he was no happier about it than she.

"It is repulsive," said his wife. "I don't want to have to gaze upon such cruelty. I don't want my daughters to see."

She had successfully made her husband uncomfortable. He wanted his wife to be happy here on the island of Martinique, and he was losing hope. She'd not had a positive word to say since the day they arrived, five years ago. And how was he supposed to defend an island which was importing slaves? "It is the bourgeoisie," he explained. "They will do anything for money."

"It is the peasants who will suffer," she said coldly, stiffly taking her place at the table. "How will they find work? They pay taxes to us because they are our responsibility. You can't just let them lose their livelihood."

"What do you suggest I do?" he asked impatiently.

"Nothing. You can't do anything. We are powerless here, we are useless. That's why we should—" The comte mouthed the next words as his wife spoke them, move back to France.

"I didn't come here by choice," he reminded her. "I was asked by King Louis himself to help colonize this island and secure it for France. You know that the English have their greedy eyes on it."

"But why you?" she asked for the hundredth time. "Why do we have to be the ones?"

"I don't know," he said. "It had to be someone. Why not us?"

She shook her leg nervously under the table. Sylvie thought this would be an excellent time to change the subject, but be-

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fore she could speak, Chantal asked, "Sylvie, did you see Etienne today?"

That was not the change of subject for which she'd hoped. She nodded pretending her mouth was too full to speak.

"Have you decided whether he is handsome yet?" asked Chantal. "Are you excited yet?"

Madam Davant gently scolded her daughter for uttering such words. "A girl marries to help her family, Chantal, not to gaze at someone handsome."

"That's right," chimed in her father. "After Sylvie marries, we will all have nicer clothes and furniture, and we won't even recognize her, she'll look so pretty when she comes to visit." He winked affectionately at Sylvie, who smiled weakly in return. All of that really did sound nice to her. To see her family better off, her sister wearing nicer gowns, it really would be a treat. And yet, why did it have to be Etienne? She knew better than to argue. Since she would have to marry him no matter what, at the very least, she wanted credit for having done so gracefully.

"Speaking of looking pretty," said Madam Davant, who was in every way a visual reflection of Sylvie, except that her hair was always properly styled in a tight bun. "Sylvie, you should wear your hair properly at the table. In France, you wore your hair like a lady. Why do you leave it hanging at your shoulders?" There was always a stiffness in her jaw, and a firmness in her blue eyes. But that was just her way. She was not a cold woman at heart, merely one who had learned the lessons of self-control.

"It's easier to leave my hair down," said Sylvie. "Besides, we are not in France anymore."

She winced before the words had fled her lips. "So you're no longer French?" her mother snapped. "We don't live there anymore, so now you are someone else?"

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"I didn't say that," groaned Sylvie. "It's just that people here don't worry as much about how they look. Girls don't bother with their hair."

'Those are peasant girls," snapped her mother. "You are shaming your father." This is what she always said when she, herself, felt ashamed.

"I will fix it tomorrow," Sylvie promised.

"Good. Now before you get married, I also want you to work on your cooking."

"Maman," Sylvie sighed with exasperation, "Etienne has servants. I won't be cooking his meals."

"Just because he has money, don't forget that he is of the bourgeoisie. Someone else might cook and clean for you, but it is you who must make sure that the house has good etiquette. It is etiquette which makes you who you are. Don't let a servant raise your children. Or Etienne, for that matter. And you must step in even to cook the meals if they are not served properly. It is still your household."