Unclaimed Heart (19 page)

The sun was setting; the horizon was cloudless.

She hurried to the window and looked down. Alexandre was in his customary spot, his drawing book beside him with its pages flapping in the breeze. She couldn't stop herself from smiling and raced out of the room.

She slowed herself on the stairs as she passed Mrs. Howlett, grey-faced and trembling, being helped up by Chandrika.

Then she raced again, out the front door and around to the beach.

Alexandre saw her approaching, stood and waved. He pointed, excited like a child. “No clouds, Constance!” he called.

She hurried to join him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder as the sun grew huge and orange, its reflection blazing unimpeded in the water. His fingers were less than an inch from her own, and it was as though their hands were magnetized to each other. She had to fight hard to resist. But out here in the open she had to behave appropriately. She knew too well how clear the view to this position was from her bedroom window.

As the sun lowered into the water, she imagined herself with Alexandre, far from the eyes of anyone. And knew that, in such circumstance, she couldn't trust herself. She allowed herself to glance away from the sun, to him. His jaw was strong, his nose long and straight, his lips full and soft, his long dark hair tangled on his collar. He turned and saw her looking at him. She didn't turn her eyes away. Instead, they held each other's gaze. The world seemed to drop away from her feet. She felt she might faint.

Then he glanced away, and everything was back to normal.

“Have you heard?” he said. “I am to be a footman at Orlanda's dance.”

“I had heard,” she replied. “I think it's terrible.”

“You think I will make a bad footman?” he teased.

“No, I think it's terrible that you were even asked. It's . . . not . . .”

“I am not trained for such service,” Alexandre said. “And yet, I have few choices. In truth, I do not have high expectations of life. I can be happy with very little, so you must not concern yourself for me.” He glanced at her, smiling softly. “But thank you, nonetheless. I do not remember a time when somebody cared what happened to me.”

“I care,” she said, too fervently, but unable to stop herself. “I care very much.”

He didn't speak for a long time. The sun disappeared; streaky clouds began to gather. Then he said, “Do not care too much, Constance. For nothing can come of it.”

The words were like cold water on her heart. He was rebuffing her? Had her feelings for him been so obvious? She felt like a fool: as silly and cow-eyed as Orlanda. Wounded pride made her bluster. “I don't know what you mean,” she said, her voice mock-cheerful. “But I expect I had better get back for supper. They will be waiting for me.”

“Goodnight, Constance,” he said, picking up his drawing book.

“Goodnight,” she said in what she hoped was a practical tone of voice. Then, not knowing what else to say, she walked away in silence.

Constance couldn't decide what to wear.

Her three dresses had been freshly laundered, but she had packed them for practicality, not prettiness. Tonight, she wanted to look pretty. Not for all the other guests at the dance, but for Alexandre, who she knew would be there.

Orlanda's clothes were too small, though she had an excess of pretty dresses. Mrs. Howlett's were approaching the right size, though they were matronly and severe. Her bed was covered in a pile of discarded clothes, and she stood in her chemise, chewing the inside of her cheek and wondering what she was going to do.

A knock at the door. She quickly pulled on her robe and went to answer it.

“Father?” she said, surprised to see him. He had something behind his back.

“May I come in?”

She opened the door fully, and he revealed that he was holding a dress of white muslin, embroidered with beads. “I only remembered this morning,” he said.

“Remembered?” She took the dress, admiring its crisp whiteness.

“You had been looking for new clothes. That day at the markets.”

Constance recalled running into her father on the track to the beach, lying to him about hankering for a dress. “It's beautiful,” she said.

“I am not certain it will fit. But you are the same height as me, and I held it up against myself this morning at the dressmaker's shop.” His eyes glittered with laughter. “I may have set the dressmaker's mind to wondering. In any case, Chandrika has said she can make a few quick alterations if necessary.”

She pressed the dress against her body. It was perfect. “Thank you most sincerely, Father,” she said. “Your kindness, your thoughtfulness . . .”

“Surprise you? That is a shame. However, as it is less than a month since you believed me to be a pirate, I shall accept your thanks with good grace.” He nodded once, then turned to leave.

She closed the door, carefully unbuttoned the back of the dress and pulled it on. She fastened as many buttons as she could without help, then went to the mirror. It fitted beautifully. Another, gentler, knock at the door alerted her to Chandrika's arrival.

She let the housemaid in. “It's fine, Chandrika,” she said. “It fits almost perfectly.”

Chandrika admired the dress, then turned Constance around to finish off her buttons. “I'm glad, but I've come to see you about something else.” She took Constance's shoulders and turned her back. “My brother-in-law, Nissanka, is here to see you.”

“Nissanka? Then he must have news for me.”

“I do not know, Miss Blackchurch. But I have asked him to wait under the pergola in the spice garden to speak with you. The house is very busy. I thought you might appreciate the privacy.”

“Thank you, Chandrika. I'll just need to avoid—”

“Orlanda is occupied with dressing. I will go to her now.”

Constance took Chandrika's hand and squeezed it gratefully. Then she made her way down the stairs and out to the spice garden. Only an hour now before the guests were due to arrive. The dining table was set, the dancing room was prepared, the weather had stayed clear. Orlanda was excited beyond words, but Constance had never been fond of dances or parties. She was far more excited to hear what Nissanka had to say about Ranumaran.

He sat on the carved seat under the pergola. When he saw her, he stood.

“Nissanka, thank you so much for coming to see me,” she said. “Shall we sit down?”

“Yes, miss,” he said. The sky was growing soft. They settled together on the seat and, without prompting, he spoke.

“I ask my family, my friends in Ranumaran about your ‘hidden temple.' Nobody know. They ask their family, their friends. Finally, somebody know.”

Constance flexed forward, her heart picking up its speed. “Go on.”

“There is no temple in Ranumaran. ‘Hidden temple' is a story.”

“You mean, like a legend? A myth?”

He shook his head. “Not one of our stories. One of yours. An Englishman story. There is a cave in Ranumaran. I believe this is your hidden temple. They say an Englishman come every day for years, to the cave. Nobody know what he do. He come, he go again after an hour. The locals say, he must pray. It is Englishman's temple. He say he goes there for faith.” Here Nissanka smiled. “Your mother's name?”

“Yes. Faith.” Constance's mind tried to make sense of this. Her mother lived in a cave? And who was the Englishman who came to see her? Her captor? Did he bring her food and water?

“I am sorry I have nothing but story to tell you. No fact. But he has not been seen for some years now.”

She shook her head. It didn't matter. The important thing was that she had another clue to go on. “This cave, how do I get there?”

Nissanka scratched his head. “As for how you get there from here, I don't know. I go up with an elephant. You could sail. You see Ranumaran just after Sun Peak.”

“But once I'm in Ranumaran,” she said, hoping she didn't sound impatient, “how do I find the cave?”

He smiled, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “You follow my map.”

Constance opened the paper, scanned it quickly, then folded it once more. “I am in your debt, Nissanka. This means a lot to me.”

“I hope you find your mother.”

She returned to the villa with the map tucked up her sleeve for safety. She crossed the entrance hall—swarming now with servants hired for the evening—then headed for the stairs, when she looked up and saw Alexandre.

At first, she almost didn't recognize him. He had been groomed so severely. His hair was tied back with a velvet ribbon; he wore a dark-grey waistcoat, a white cravat, black pants with shining boots to his knees, and over the top an embroidered frock coat in yellow and gold. She stopped, agape. He didn't see her, too busy fiddling with a button on his waistcoat. After a moment, he hurried on his way.

It was strange. As much as she thought he looked unspeakably handsome in his fine clothes, she still preferred him as he ordinarily was. Natural, comfortable, a wildflower rather than one grown in a pot on the sill. She shook her head, telling herself to put an end to these thoughts. He had made it clear he entertained no such thoughts of her.

The laughing crowd made its way through the garden in moonlight and towards the dancing room. Brightly burning lanterns hung all about, lighting the room to gold. The colored streamers danced. At Orlanda's begging, Mr. Howlett had paid for a fence to be hastily erected on the sea side of the room to block the breeze. But still the sea air enveloped them, fresh and salty. The clavichord stood in the corner nearest the garden, and chairs and small tables had been arranged all around, creating a large round dance floor in the middle.

Constance followed along last. The dinner had been tiresome. She'd been stuck between Orlanda and a carrot-haired Dutch trader's son named Victor. Victor had become fixated on her, trapping her in long, dull conversations about elephant routes, his strong accent making him hard to understand. Orlanda, for her part, had spoken of nothing but how handsome Alexandre looked, how she was sure he was admiring her dress—in truth, there was very little to admire as it was flimsy and almost see-through—and how her father would certainly approve of him as a son-in-law after seeing him behave so gentleman-like. Their two voices seemed to batter Constance from either side. She watched Alexandre going through the motions of waiting the table, so unschooled in the movements that he seemed almost clumsy, and then decided she could watch him no more.

The dancing room was a welcome change from the oppressive heat indoors, but Constance knew she would probably have to spend the evening fighting off Victor's attentions and Orlanda's silly declarations of love. She took a seat by herself, near the clavichord, and hitched her gloves up over her forearms again. She watched the crowd as they gathered, talking and laughing. Most spoke English, though a pocket of Dutch seamen had formed resolutely apart from the rest on the corner closest to the beach, and the two French guests stood together, gazing forlornly at the party swirling around them.

Mrs. Howlett shuffled out, a sheaf of music under her arm. Orlanda approached, impatient and hopeful all at once, and helped her mother to get comfortable at the clavichord. Mrs. Howlett warmed her fingers on a scale, then played the opening chords of the first minuet. Orlanda, as the host's daughter, took her place as the first dancer, with an elderly Dutch gentleman—rumored to be related to Danish royalty—as her partner. Soon, other couples were joining them for the quadrille. Constance was not surprised when Victor appeared before her, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Miss Blackchurch?”

She wanted to moan, “I don't feel like dancing.” But she didn't, because that would have been rude. Instead, she offered him her arm and they were off.

The thing about the quadrille was that it took so long. Victor returned to his favorite topic of conversation, and Constance took the opportunity to direct her gaze to the refreshment table. There was Alexandre, standing with his noble back erect, gazing directly at her.

She smiled. He didn't return her smile. In fact, he was almost scowling. Then she was whirled around again, facing the other way for the next figure. When the dance turned again, he was pouring tea for the French couple, talking to them. She had the odd feeling that she had displeased him somehow. She became aware that Victor had stopped speaking and realized she had been asked a question.

“I'm sorry? I didn't hear you properly over the music,” she said.

“I said, have you ever ridden an elephant?”

“No,” she said.