Unclaimed Heart (13 page)

“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.

Footsteps behind her. Her heart jumped. She turned. It was only Orlanda.

“What on earth are you doing down here?”

Constance quickly closed the lid of the box in her lap and picked up a volume of
The Odyssey
. “Reading,” she said.

Orlanda came to take the volume off her, wrinkling her nose as she read the title. While she was distracted, Constance quietly slid the box back onto the shelf.

“You're reading Homer? Lord, really? I didn't think anybody actually read Homer. I thought they just bought his books because they looked impressive.” Orlanda peered closely at the book.

Constance smiled, thinking of how Aunty Violet had insisted she read Homer and how Constance had, indeed, found it hard work.

“In any case, I thought you had a headache,” Orlanda continued, somewhat skeptically.

“I do. But it was hot in my room.”

“Ah! I told you so,” said Orlanda, temporarily satisfied. “You'll have to ask your father to prevail upon mine. We could share a room.” She strode to the French doors and opened them, letting a warm gust of sea air in. “Now, would you like to hear exciting news?”

Constance feigned interest. No doubt it would be about the dance. “Yes, of course.”

“I've been speaking with my mother. I find that she's only too ready to comply with my requests at certain times of the day.” Orlanda went into an exaggerated pantomime, lifting her trembling hand to her lips with an imaginary glass. “I've said I'd like to improve my French. I'm sure you can imagine why.” Here she trailed off into a sly giggle. “A certain
French
boy that I've met has got me very interested.”

Constance felt a stab of jealousy. She didn't answer.

“So, can you imagine what I've asked her? Oh, you'll love this. It is so wickedly perfect.”

“What have you asked her?”

She began to laugh. “I've asked if Alexandre can come once a week to give us French lessons!” she squealed. “And the best part? She said yes!”

As the sun sank, the waves began to rush, and the day began to cool. Orlanda had been called sternly by Howlett—a lack of attention to her daily chores was at issue—and Constance took the opportunity to let herself out of the library and through the garden to the colonnaded dancing room.

From there she picked her way over the sand to where Alexandre sat, alone.

She watched from a distance a few moments. Then he seemed to sense her presence and turned. He smiled.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Constance,” he replied.

“I . . . ah . . . my father has been to see you?”

“Yes. Plans for the pearler.”

He didn't invite her to sit with him, but of course he couldn't. Not really. It would be seen as inappropriate, even on this wide empty beach.

How little she cared for what was appropriate.

She sat next to him on the sand. His feet were bare, and she wished hers were too, so she could feel the warm sand between her toes. “I saw you from upstairs,” she said, indicating the villa over her shoulder. “You were drawing.”

“I like to draw.”

“May I see?”

He reluctantly opened his drawing book and began to turn the pages. “These are all of
La Reine des Perles
,” he said. “But these . . .” He trailed off, began flipping slowly through a series of pictures in the same place. Each was slightly different.

“They're beautiful. Where is this?”

“It is a place in France I saw when I was a boy. I do not know the name, but it is always in my mind. Like a pleasant dream. You wake and you want to go back. . . .”

“But you can never quite get there. I know.” She turned her eyes to the sunset. Rose blush and dusty blue. Clouds across the horizon obscured the sun.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “The clouds ruin it. They always ruin it. I have watched hundreds of sunsets over the sea, and there are nearly always clouds on the horizon. Only three times have I seen the sun sink into the water unobscured. It is spectacular. A ball of flame extinguishing itself.”

Constance loved the way he spoke, his soft accent. She fervently hoped that Orlanda's plan to have him in the villa once a week would work out, but knew in her heart that Father would object. He had very clear ideas about people's social situations. No matter how kindly he treated Alexandre, he believed crew belonged a long way from ladies and gentlemen.

“It's still beautiful. Even with the clouds,” she said. The sea breeze tugged at her bonnet. “Alexandre, earlier today I . . . you said you would help me. With my search for my mother.”

He turned to her, smiled slightly, as though afraid to smile completely. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Her name was . . . is Faith Emilia Blackchurch. She went missing in 1782. All I know is that Father had enough reason to believe she might be here that he took out an empty ship to find her. There was a ship, I think. The
Monkey King
. You speak the local language. If you can find out anything—anything at all, no matter how small it might seem—I'd be so grateful.”

“I will do my best.”

They fell into silence as the sun slipped behind the horizon and the blue twilight came. Finally, Alexandre stretched his legs. “I had best get back aboard my vessel, before it is too dark.”