Unclaimed Heart (29 page)

Darkness descended on Constance. She breathed the sea. She felt her lungs would burst.

Strong arms caught her. She was being pulled upwards.
Too late
, she thought.
I'm already dead.
But then sunlight broke over her, and she was coughing and coughing as water, made hot by her body, poured from her nose and mouth.

“It's all right, I have you,” Alexandre said, pressing her against him. “I have you.”

Henry began to swim towards the place he had seen Constance disappear. Alexandre still hadn't surfaced. Then, the water broke and de Locke launched himself upwards, growling like a tiger. It caught Henry unawares, and he spluttered in the water as de Locke grabbed him in a headlock and pushed him under. De Locke used his free hand to punch Henry's nose. Blood spurted; stars flew before his eyes. Henry got his hands around de Locke's arm and clawed at his skin to no avail. He struggled, managing to get his nose above water long enough to see Alexandre drag Constance up and swim her towards the row boat. Arms reached out to help her in. A sensible boy, Henry thought, strangely detached from his circumstances. Now that Constance was safe, it didn't seem to matter so much that de Locke was wrestling his face into the water, that the world was going to continue without him. He relaxed, prepared for whatever would come.

What came was an almighty
thwack
. De Locke fell away, limp, and disappeared under the water. Alexandre, aboard the row boat, stood braced against the seat, holding out an oar.

“Captain,” he said. “Take hold.”

Henry, exhausted, hooked his elbow over the oar and allowed himself to be pulled to safety.

Constance sat, still damp, on the bed in her cabin aboard
Good Bess
, waiting for Father to return. She was weary, tired of worrying. What he did with Alexandre, the pearler, his officers . . . it hardly mattered. The adventure was over, and for once she wanted circumstances to wash over her, instead of trying so hard to control them.

A knock at her cabin door, then Father was there. He had changed into dry clothes, but his hair was still wet, combed back from his forehead.

“I looked,” he said, “but could find no dry clothes for you.”

“I'll survive,” she said.

He sat at the table, arms folded. Was wordless for long moments. Finally, he said, “I do not know where to start, Constance.”

“I do.” She took a deep breath and unclasped the locket from around her neck to hand to him. “I am sorry, Father, but I know now that Mother is dead. Her ship, the
Monkey King
, was wrecked off Ranumaran. Alexandre dived the wreck. He found this.”

His movements slowed as he took it; his brow softened. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

She let him sit silently. The ship pitched gently.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“I'm sorry, too, child. I . . . don't know what to think. She has been absent for sixteen years, but final confirmation of her death . . . ”

“I know precisely how you feel,” she blurted, glad to have somebody understand her. “There was always hope, but now there is just . . . ”

“Acceptance.”

“Yes,” she said softly. Then, “Father, who is the man in the portrait?”

“Which portrait?”

She approached him and flicked open the locket. “This one.”

Father's eyebrows twitched. He closed the locket and offered it back to her, but she shook her head. He placed it, instead, in his pocket. “His name was Donald Wicks. A business associate of mine. I knew he had feelings for Faith, so I ended all contact with him a year before her disappearance. I expected that would be an end to it.”

“So she ran off with him?”

“It would appear so.”

“And she left us behind? You. And me.”

Father stood and took her wrists in his hands. “Her actions were not your fault, Constance,” he said, reading her thoughts.

“But if she only loved me . . . ” she began, tears overflowing again. “I must have been a hateful child. Ill-tempered. Sleepless.”

“No, no. Constance, you were a bonny baby. You charmed whomever you saw. Oh, I loved to squeeze your little fat arms. You were so precious to me. . . . You still are, my dear.”

Constance reined in her tears.

“As to whether she loved you, I don't know, Constance. Perhaps she loved the idea of her freedom more. But you
were
loved. By Violet. By me.” He released her arms and walked away, pausing by the dresser, lost in thought.

She sensed a softening in him and decided to take advantage of it. “Father, what are you going to do with Alexandre?”

He turned, his brows drawn down. “Do not turn your mind to this nonsense. . . . ”

“Only he has lost his pearl,” she continued as though she hadn't heard. “He has no way of getting home now.”

“Alexandre is in the cattle pen, waiting for me to decide what to do with him. Theft of a ship is a serious offense.”

“He didn't steal a ship,” she bit back, irritated with his suddenly pompous tone. “He helped me sail it. You know that. You know he's a good man. How can you bear to be so constrained by propriety? It is not reasonable!”

Father didn't answer, and a long silence drew out, broken only by the sound of the waves splashing on the hull of the ship.

“Father?”

“You must get him out of your head, Constance,” he said softly.

“I can't. I love him.”

“I know you
think
you love him, but you are young and—”

“I
do
love him. He is noble and clever and brave. Do you deny that too? For he saved
your
life, while Maitland and Hickey sat there like slugs on a rock.”

Father straightened his back. “I shan't endure this conversation another moment. We will be anchoring in less than an hour. Ready yourself.” He left, closing the door behind him.

Alexandre sat in the straw, going over his situation in his mind. His pearl, hunted for years, had disappeared into the sea along with de Locke. Now they rested together at the bottom of the ocean. Not only must he endure Constance's departure, but he also had little chance of returning home.

And yet, he could regret nothing. Those last few moments on the beach at Ranumaran, holding her while she cried, the aching tenderness, were imprinted on his memory.

A footstep nearby caught his attention. He looked up to see Captain Blackchurch approaching him in the gloom. Alexandre stood, nodded in deference.

“I owe you a very great deal, Alexandre,” he said.

“I did what any man would do,” he replied.

Captain Blackchurch smiled ruefully. “My own men didn't do it.”

“They would have, sir, had I not jumped in first.”

The captain rubbed his palms together and seemed to be considering something. “I will find you a way home, Alexandre, if that is what you want.”

“It is, sir.”

“Are you certain? Life will be very different in Europe. Shoes. Manners. Not running off with your employer's daughter.”

Alexandre dropped his gaze. “I love Ceylon. I love the raw beauty. But I do not belong here. One should endeavour, as much as possible, to stay out of places one doesn't belong.”

“Come now. Where would England be if she stayed out of places she didn't belong?” the captain said with a smile. “Well, Alexandre, I will see what I can arrange for you. I have friends in Colombo; somebody will find you a ship to work your passage home.”

“I don't know how to thank you, Captain.”

“It's easy,” he replied. “You stay away from my daughter.”

Orlanda was waiting on the beach when Constance was rowed up to shore.

“I was so worried about you!” she twittered, enclosing Constance in a tight squeeze.

Constance was taken aback. It had been only a day since their terrible argument.

Orlanda locked Constance's hand in her own and pulled her up the beach, still chattering. “Only, when you disappeared with Alexandre I realized how beastly I'd been, and I confessed
all
to Father. Everything. He was so disappointed in me, so very stern! But he admitted that he has been rather too busy to watch me, and I suggested he needed to employ a man to help with correspondence and so on . . . you'll never guess whom he's asked.”

Constance, finally freed from the barrage of words, shook her head, puzzled. “No. Who?”

Orlanda stopped, turning to her with a smile. Dusk gathered around them, bringing a cool breeze off the sea. “Francis Maitland!” Orlanda said. “On my recommendation of course.” Orlanda turned her eyes to
Good Bess
. “He's been growing weary of following your father around for some time now, but don't tell your father yet. I think Francis wants to wait until he's in a good mood.”

“He might be waiting a long time,” Constance muttered.

“In any case, I am sorry, Constance,” she said, resuming their walk up the beach towards the villa.

“And I am sorry too. I am especially sorry for misleading you and officer Maitland with the notes.”

Orlanda tapped her hand playfully. “There is nothing to apologize for. I should thank you. Tonight, after supper, I shall tell you all about Francis and me.”

Constance stretched her back, yawning. The events of the day had caught up with her. She wanted to take a warm bath, climb into her nightgown, and curl up to sleep. “I am so very tired, Orlanda. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Orlanda bit her tongue. “Of course. Tomorrow will be fine.”

Henry couldn't sleep. He was weary to his bones, but sleep wouldn't come. Finally, he rose from his bed and went to the window. He could hear the sea, and he listened for a while, letting its rhythms soothe him. The beauty of the sea, his truest passion. The horizon forever running away from him, always and always. How he loved to chase that horizon.