Unclaimed Heart (7 page)

Later that evening, after the day's work was done, Alexandre split open the seam of his hammock with a knife and pushed the pearl inside it. Then he climbed into the hammock, and stopped for a while to reflect.

He and the two Sinhalese men had cracked open every oyster on the deck of
La Reine des Perles
, while de Locke looked on hungrily. No pearls today, which made Alexandre's deception all the more acute.

But Alexandre felt no guilt. He had not thieved from de Locke, he had thieved from the ocean. No, it wasn't theft. The ocean had offered him the pearl; he knew it. He had always respected her, loved her in his own way. Now she was ready to let him go.

All he needed was a ship to take him home. He would not be hasty. He would wait for another bout of bad weather, disappear before de Locke knew he was missing, make his way somehow to Tuticorin. And from there, France.

He climbed out of his hammock, found his drawing book—abandoned for weeks since de Locke's threat—and flipped to his favorite drawings.

But they were all muddled. September came before March, December's corner was bent. Somebody had been through these drawings.

De Locke, of course. A timely reminder that his master was not above searching his belongings.

Alexandre returned to his hammock, squeezed the pearl out of the seam and put it back in his mouth. It sat gently against his cheek. It would have to stay there until it was time to barter it for a passage home.

THE CAPE OF GOOD HOPE

 

As
Good Bess
moved closer to the equator, that line around the centre of the world that the sun loved so dearly, it grew warmer and more oppressive in Constance's cabin. The wind was brisk, but blew in the wrong direction to flood through her windows. The low ceilings compounded the feeling of unbearable closeness, and her breath seemed woolly and hot in her lungs. The tedium of the journey, too, had begun to grind her down. At one stage, she saw another ship, but it steered to the east and soon disappeared, probably for Cape de Verd or the coast of Africa. Apart from that, and the occasional excitement of seeing flying fish, she grew fatigued by her own company. She read her astronomy books and worked her way through a complete edition of Shakespeare that Father had aboard. The thrill of adventure had long been replaced by boredom. How she longed for Daphne's bright company, for somebody to speak to. She supposed she could have spoken to her father, but he was all but a stranger to her. The closer she drew to adulthood, the less they could find in common. What would she say to him? What could they talk about that wouldn't lead to his chastising her in some way?

Old Harry, the cook who brought her two meals a day, was kind enough to speak a few words to her, though she was cautious not to ask for too much. He gave her all the important information: where they were, how the journey was progressing. They passed within twenty miles of Palma and then the peak of Tenerrife, but haze and thick clouds prevented her from seeing either. Once they moved into the path of the trade winds, their good speed was consolidated and their captain—her father—was reported to be mightily pleased with their progress. Without Harry's updates, she would have believed herself adrift in the ocean forever, not drawing any closer to land, just rolling and rolling on the endless waves.

One overcast afternoon shortly after they crossed to the other side of the world, it grew so hot in her cabin that she felt she couldn't breathe. It had rained that morning, and then the grey clouds had hung over them like a woollen blanket, trapping the moist heat. Her body grew sticky, uncomfortable. She couldn't bear to sit on her bed, because sweat gathered on the backs of her legs and trickled down behind her knees. She hung at her window, but caught none of the freshness in the breeze. She began to feel anxious, overwhelmed. Air, she needed air. But Father had told her, very forcefully, that she wasn't to leave her room during the day.

Well, then. She would just have to make sure her father didn't find out.

It was a big ship; there were only eighteen crew. Surely she could work her way up on deck, hide somewhere . . . The poop deck was out of the question: Father spent most of his time up there. The quarterdeck had plenty of places to hide, but saw most of the action. But the forecastle deck, right at the very front of the ship, would certainly catch the best breezes, and it would be safe.

Constance moved to the door, cracked it open and listened. There was nobody in the narrow corridor that led to the pantry. She scurried out, making her way quickly towards the root of the main mast. Here she paused, back pressed up against the round, smooth wood. The sour smell of the ship was strong in the airless space. Above, she could hear a commotion. Laughing, shouting. She kept moving. Then somebody called out, “All hands on deck.” Footsteps everywhere. She crouched beside one of the eighteen-pound cannons, wriggling up against the wall. Her heart thudded dully as the sound of everybody moving surrounded her. Men dashed past, up the ladders onto the quarterdeck. They were in a hurry; they didn't have time to see a girl hiding in the shadows.

When Constance was sure everybody had passed, she rose and made for the ladder, curious, now, about the commotion. Carefully, she peeked out at the quarterdeck. She didn't have a clear line of sight; masts and ropes and the shadows of the sails were in the way. But now she could hear a loud clucking noise, flapping wings. She glimpsed men chasing about, laughing. Old Harry shouted instructions. It seemed he had gone to get chickens for dinner, and one had escaped. Guilt crept over her. Perhaps, like her, the chicken just wanted to feel the breeze. She mentally vowed not to eat chicken that afternoon.

Still, while they were all occupied with their game, they wouldn't see her creep up onto the forecastle deck. She hurried up, stepping around neatly coiled ropes, and found herself a place in front of the forecastle mast. The long bowsprit pointed out to sea before her, its rigging criss-crossed against the lowering sky. She sat, already blessing the wind, which tangled her hair behind her and cooled her sticky skin.

The ocean disappeared beneath her, grey and vast. She could taste salt on her lips. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, freed from the oppression of her cabin. Voices nearby had her jerking upright, looking around. But they were coming from beneath her, through the wooden lattice that let light in to the spaces below. She remembered, then, that under the forecastle deck was where the skilled crew—boatswains, gunners and carpenters—had their accommodation.

“She certainly gave Old Harry a run,” the first voice said gruffly.

“I think he'll relish carving her up,” his companion replied in a thick Irish accent.

Laughter. She relaxed. They didn't know she was here.

Their conversation moved on, Gruff-voice and the Irishman. An albatross circled above, and she watched it, trying not to listen to them speak. They used the most unsavoury turn of phrase, and when she realized they were talking about a woman . . . and then a particular kind of woman . . . she was scandalized and curious all at once.

Eventually, though, they turned to other matters.

“So why do you think the captain is bringing us all this way without a cargo aboard?” said Gruff-voice.

“I reckon he's got something mighty precious waiting at the other end. An opportunity he had to chase quickly.”

Constance smiled to herself. He was right, in a way. Her father did seek something precious, but it wouldn't earn him any money.

The Irishman continued. “Some of the others disagree with me. They say he's on the run, had to leave England in a hurry.”

“In trouble? No, not Captain Blackchurch.”

“You don't know then?” His voice dropped. “About his past?”

Constance's spine stiffened. She strained to hear every word.

“That rubbish,” snorted Gruff-voice. “Piracy off the coast of Madagascar? I don't believe it.”

“You don't, eh? Ask Old Harry sometime—he was there. The only crew member Cap'n Blackchurch has kept. The others he got rid of; they knew his dark secret. Cleaned himself up, hoisted the red duster instead of the Jolly Roger, and now he's respectable Henry Blackchurch Esquire. But I reckon at night he can still smell the blood on his hands.”

Then they were gone. Constance was numb. Could it be true? Could Father be a pirate? A thief? A murderer? She realized she hardly knew anything about him, had spent so little time in his company. Now the question seemed obvious. What kind of man was her father?

In her cabin, alone, Constance had too much time to contemplate this question. Her suspicions, with nobody rational to help dispel them, multiplied until her mind teemed with them, and her feelings for her father iced over with fear, as though she were a character in one of Daphne's silly books. If only Father hadn't confessed to some horrible deed in the letter to Violet, she might have been able to dismiss these feelings. She had always taken pride in her rationality. Reason was a thing to be cherished, or so Dr. Poole said. But now, every time she saw Old Harry, all her veins and nerves lit up with the desire to ask him if the tale about her father were true. It took all her energy to hold the questions in. If it got back to Father that she knew his secret, he would be angry. And she was more afraid of that anger than ever.

A sudden change in wind direction blew the heat away, replacing it with the chill of the Southern Ocean. In the following days they suffered through heavy squalls, and Constance no longer took her evening turn about the poop deck. Rather, she hunkered down in her cabin with her dread and wished with all her might that she was at home in England.

Then, one night, she had a nightmare. Father, with his clothes alight, roaring: a monster, a demon, brandishing two pistols like an old engraving she had seen of Blackbeard. One was pointed at her.

She woke. The room was filled with morning light. Somebody was knocking at her door. Alarmed, she pulled the blankets up to her chin.

Another soft knock. “Miss Constance?” It was Old Harry, with her breakfast.

“Come in.” She had slept late. Usually she was up and dressed by now, sitting at her writing desk working on a letter to Daphne that enumerated every fear she felt about Father.

He brought her a tray with warm oats and honey on it, placing it on the little table in the centre of the room.

“Good weather has returned today, miss,” he said as he straightened his back. “Our head is now right for the Cape; we've only twenty-eight degrees of longitude to run down. The captain says we'll stop there a few days. You'll be able to post your letter.”

At mention of the captain, Constance felt the terror of her dream return to her. She couldn't help herself letting free a little groan of fear.

“What's wrong, miss? You've gone quite pale. Do you want me to call the surgeon?”

“No, no. I'm . . . I'll be fine.” She forced a smile. “Harry, is my father . . . he's a good man, yes?”

“Why yes, of course.”

“You've known him a long time.”

“I've been with him for twenty years. Since my leg worked proper.”

“Has he always been so? A good man, I mean?”

To Constance's horror, Harry's eyes flickered. He took a moment—it seemed an eternity—to answer her. And in that moment she knew, she
knew
. The Irishman had been telling the truth.

“He has always been as he is, miss,” Harry said firmly. “The best captain I could have wished for.”

“Of course.” She tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. Harry wouldn't meet her eye; he left the room quietly. And from then on he told her nothing more about their journey, but delivered her meals wordlessly.