The Peacock Throne (17 page)

Jeremiah rejoined the party and handed Lord Danbury a note. Every conversation around the small camp trailed off, and an expectant silence hung in the air.

“He is delighted that we should desire to use his waterfall, and begs we visit his home and stay with him for the night,” Danbury said. He passed the note to Lydia. She hid a smile at the florid language of the missive.

The gentlemen gallantly insisted that Lydia and Danielle should avail themselves of the waterfall's delights first. Toting knapsacks full of washing, they made their way down the hillside to the ravine floor. The steepness of the climb prevented Lydia from truly taking
in the view until she reached the relatively level ground at the base. Pausing to wipe the perspiration from her face, she gazed about in awe. The beauty of the place made her heart skip as if it were doing a country dance.

Truly, God's creation was wondrous. Sunlight danced among the spray creating a multitude of brilliant rainbows. Sweetly scented flowers proliferated, perfuming the air. Danielle pointed out frangipani, ylang-ylang, jasmine, and even vanilla orchids.

Stripping down to her shift, Lydia entered the water. She scrubbed her laundry against a large rock with a piece of lye soap. She scraped her fingers against the stone until her knuckles were raw. It didn't matter. The prospect of soft, clean cotton against her skin, rather than material turned stiff and scratchy by filth and perspiration, outweighed other concerns.

The sun stared down as if taking an interest in their work and it would have been unbearably hot if she were not crouched in the water at the edge the pool. She beat the garments against the rocks and rinsed them, then spread them on the nearby bushes to dry.

Returning to the water, she waded in. A delightful shiver ran up her spine as the cool water embraced her, caressing and cosseting, washing away all signs of exertion. She sighed and allowed herself to be drawn deeper.

Her foot slipped on a slick rock and she went under. Flailing and splashing, she rose to the surface. One precious gasp of air but her feet could find no purchase. She sank again. Panic edged in on her. She sucked in water. A vision of the slick, mossy walls of the vicarage well spiralled from her memory and seared itself against her closed eyelids. She might have been six again.

A hand gripped hers and hauled her up. Her thrashing feet found the bottom and the darkness receded. Her head broke the surface and she coughed and sputtered.

“You are all right?” Danielle released her hand.

Lydia could not speak, but she nodded as she floundered into shallower water. With trembling fingers she pushed her sodden hair
away from her face. Her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a trot and she summoned a weak smile.

“Thank you.”

The Frenchwoman shrugged as if her aid had been of no consequence.

Lydia retrieved a precious cake of sweet lavender soap from the shore and extended it to Danielle. “I would be most happy if you would use some.”
Not too much
.

The young woman held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply, sighing prettily. “I have not such a thing since my marriage.” A wistful gleam came into the girl's eyes.

Lydia's better nature warred with her desire. “I would be delighted if you accepted it as a gift.”

Danielle smiled and immediately slid under the water, rising to lather her hair with the French-milled soap.

Lydia covered her discomfort with a smile, and waded back into the pool. She moved hesitantly. Her throat constricted, making it nearly as difficult to breathe as if she had been under the water again. She must learn to swim, or the unreasoning fear might cripple her.

Of course, Danielle took to the water like a mermaid. Her pretty features were more content than Lydia had ever seen them.

“You really love this place, don't you?”

“
Oui
, I do.
C'est très belle
. As a girl, I am 'ere much. I swim or make houses with the palm leaves.”

“I can see why. It is magical—as if no other human has ever touched it.”

“
Vous comprenez
. Like it waits for me.”

“Has it been a long time since you have been here?”

“Since my marriage to Jeremiah, before Monsieur Poiret owned this land.”

“You must have missed it.”

“
Oui
.” Danielle raised her chin, inhaling the perfumed air with closed eyes.

Determined to best her fear, Lydia dipped her head under the water as Danielle had. Gasping, she emerged and wiped the water from her eyes. It could have been worse. She would try again later, or perhaps another time.

She cast about for a way to spur further conversation with the reticent young Frenchwoman. “How long have you been married?”

“Four years.” A scowl flashed across Danielle's features.

“But you cannot be any older than I. How old were you when you married?”

“Fifteen. My father, he thinks it is a good match. Jeremiah did not ask a large dowry.”

“You are so much younger,” Lydia said. Such alliances were quite common; still, compassion welled up in her for the bewildered young girl Danielle must have been.

“Jeremiah can be hard but 'e is not a bad husband. And I am a woman married
honorablement
.”

The asperity in Danielle's tone might have been a torch as it touched Lydia. Her cheeks flamed and her mouth dropped open. The Longs must believe she was mistress to one of the gentlemen.

“Oh, but no—no, it isn't like that.”

Danielle's responding smile was as thin and cruel as a paper cut. “Of course not.”

Lydia blinked rapidly. She would not cry in front of this woman. Which one did they think she was bedding? She swallowed back the hot defence that sprang to her tongue.
Madame
Long would not understand the relationships, or even care. She had attributed the woman's distance to her difficulty with English, when in truth she must disapprove of Lydia as a fallen woman.

Danielle looked away, but offered no apology. Instead she offered the soap back to Lydia.

“Thank you for the use, but I could not keep it. It is too fine.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lydia accepted the sweet-smelling little lump and waded towards the shore. “The clothes must be dry now, and I'm sure the gentlemen are ready for their turn.”

She wrapped the creamy bar in a cloth, and placed it back in her knapsack. Then she dressed as quickly as she could. Humiliation left an acid taste in her mouth.

They hiked out of the ravine in silence. Lydia didn't know what to say. In any case she could not manage small talk at the moment. For her part, Danielle had reverted to her usual taciturnity and made no attempt to start a conversation.

At the top, Lydia pasted on a smile and described to the gentlemen the beauty of the waterfall, encouraging them to take their time and enjoy the reprieve from tedious trudging.

Mr Long led the way—Danbury and Harting hard on his heels. They looked as though they were practically salivating at the thought of a good wash. Right behind them the valets toted the laundry, and bringing up the rear were the sailors and Mr Cabot, who—although voicing indifference to the possibility of a thorough wash—were delighted at the prospect of a romp.

There was no decorous wading for the men, as when Danielle and Lydia had bathed. Raucous whoops of laughter and the sound of splashing reached the women, even above the noise of the falling water. Despite the turbulence of her emotions, Lydia could not help but smile. It seemed men never did outgrow their tendency to act like little boys, particularly if presented with the opportunity of shoving someone into a body of water.

Lydia combed out her long hair. It had even more of a tendency to curl when wet. If she did not tend it now, it would become hopelessly tangled. The steady motion of the brush soothed her flayed emotions.

Loneliness threatened to swamp her. To whom could she confide her hurt? People were ever willing to leap to the wickedest conclusion. She couldn't imagine approaching either of the gentlemen on such a subject. They could do little in any event. No one could successfully order someone to change an opinion. She braided her hair quickly and returned it to its knot at the nape of her neck.

She was used to loneliness. It would pass.

Anthony eventually rousted the other men away from the delights of the water. Damp but refreshed, they climbed from the ravine, ready to complete the journey to Pierre-Louis Poiret's plantation.

“
Le Jardin du Roi
—Garden of the King?” Anthony asked Jeremiah.

“Aye.”

“They must be royalists.” Anthony raised his chin to allow James to tie his cravat.

Jeremiah snorted, but offered no other comment.

The cultivated plantation grounds were not far distant. As with the other plantations on the island, the main house was located near the centre of the spice gardens. Anthony regarded the scene with pleasure.

The cheery house was white with dark blue shutters and trim. Wide windows stood open to catch every stray breeze, and a large, shady veranda edged the residence. A dirt path led up to the house. Rutted though it was, it felt positively luxurious to be walking on a path again.

Pierre-Louis Poiret had evidently been informed of their approach. He awaited them on the veranda.

“Welcome, welcome, my friends. I am delighted to see you again.”

A manservant appeared behind him carrying a tray of glasses.

“Please come and be seated.” He gestured to a nearby grouping
of chairs on the shady porch. “You must be very hot and weary with all your walking.”

Another servant appeared behind the first, and escorted the others to the servants' quarters where refreshments had been prepared for them. Only Mr Cabot—with the status of a ship's officer—remained with them.

“This is nice,” Pierre-Louis said, once his guests were seated and served. “Very nice indeed. I must confess I have a great affinity for the English. Some of your countrymen were once very kind to me. They were even so gracious as to teach me your language while I was yet a boy.”

“It was kind of you to invite us to stay with you,” Harting said.

“Not at all. Not at all. You are most welcome. It can be lonely on this island and up here on the mountain we are isolated in so many respects. It will be good to have such pleasant company for a change.”

Monsieur Laurent came hurrying around the corner of the house. At the sight of guests, his steps slowed.

“Good afternoon.” He inclined his head formally to the assembled party.

“There you are, Laurent,” cried Pierre-Louis. “Isn't it delightful? Our friends have come to stay with us.”

Laurent's smile was bland. “'Ow nice.”

“Yes, it is,” said Pierre-Louis firmly. “I have been unable to find your lovely wife. I wanted her to meet our guests.”

“I shall look for 'er.” Laurent directed a stiff bow towards the group. “If you will excuse me.” He departed, returning the way he had come.

“Laurent,” Pierre-Louis said with a sad shake of his head. “He is a good fellow—invaluable in so many ways.” He offered a charming smile. “We should talk of more interesting things. Dinner will be in one hour. We are not normally formal, but it is a special occasion to have guests so you will find suitable clothing in your rooms.”

“Now that will be a nice change of pace. I am weary of these grubby old togs.” Harting's gesture was eloquent of disdain.

“Servants will attend you at once.” Pierre-Louis motioned to one of the waiting slaves with a flick of his wrist. The man scurried away. In a few moments he returned, followed by several others.

“Ah, here they are,” Pierre-Louis said in satisfaction as he stood. “They will show you to your rooms. I will see you all again at dinner.”

Lydia had a bedchamber of her own. The slave woman opened the door with a flourish. The charming room captivated her instantly. Fresh white linens contrasted with mahogany dark wood. Stark white walls had no need of artifice. Wide shutters had been pushed back, and the windows flung open to reveal sloping spice fields on the hillside below, and beyond, the jungle all the way to the glittering sea. The room felt cool and inviting with its simple comfort and lack of pretension. Lydia sighed with delight and inhaled deeply as the breeze carried with it the scent of the nutmeg grove and the vanilla orchids. She could hardly keep from flinging herself down on the bed.

The slave took charge of her knapsack, and began to unpack her few things.

“You don't have to do this.” Lydia reached to take the bag back.

“I been told t' tend you.” The girl clutched the bag as if Lydia wanted to steal it.

“No, really. You needn't wait on me. In England I am little more than a servant myself.”

“Yes, I must.” The look in the girl's eyes flickered like a candle from bewilderment to fear.

Lydia gave up the argument. “At least tell me your name.”

“I'm Sophie,” she replied with a quick duck of her head. Her dark skin was the same colour as the nutmeg grown on the plantation, and just as smooth and glossy. Her tight-ringleted hair
was caught up and bound at the base of her neck and she moved with grace.

“I'm Lydia Garrett. You speak English well. Where are you from?” Lydia gave in to temptation, and perched on the bed.

“I'm just a slave, Miss. My fam'ly came from Africa. I don' remember it. My English is why I'm away from de kitchen.” As if anxious to turn the conversation, the young woman abandoned Lydia's knapsack, and went to the wardrobe. She drew out a gown, holding it up for Lydia's inspection.

Made of fine cotton, the dress looked light and airy. The creamy yellow colour reminded Lydia of freshly churned butter. In modern fashion it had a high waist and narrow skirt. Embroidered randomly over the skirt and bodice were dark green palm fronds—the needlework so delicate the leaves looked almost real. Fitted sleeves reached the elbow. A narrow ribbon of dark green velvet delineated the skirt from the bodice, tying at the back and trailing gracefully.

“This is absolutely lovely.” Lydia reached an admiring hand to stroke the fabric.

The girl bobbed her head. “Thank you, Miss.”

At the proprietary tone, Lydia looked up. “Did you make this gown?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You have a wonderful talent. The ladies of London would be climbing over one another to get such a beautiful gown.”

“Do you think so, Miss?” The girl looked at her eagerly.

“I do. Why does Monsieur Poiret have such clothing? I did not understand him to be married.”

“No, Miss, he's not married. Master has me make all de newest fashions for his sister. He's hopin' for her t' come live wit' him.”

“I didn't know he had a sister.”

“Dey haven't seen one anot'er in many years. She lives in France and he has a hard time reachin' her.”

“The aristocrats in France have had to be discreet if they do not wish to face the guillotine.”

“Yes, Miss.” Sophie replaced the gown lovingly in the wardrobe, and produced a pair of ivory coloured slippers for Lydia's inspection.

“These are lovely as well,” Lydia said, examining them. “Were they also made here?”

“Yes, we do many things for ourselves here. Ships come, but not so much, and it costs much to order things from France or England.”

“And yet it seems you lack for nothing.”

“Yes, Miss. You would like me to put up your hair?”

“That would be very kind.”

Sophie brought a basin of warm water, and Lydia washed.

“Do you know of any large caves in the area?”

Bent over the dressing table sorting various pins and baubles, Sophie froze in mid-motion. “Caves?”

Lydia turned to her. “Yes. We're here to search for something Lord Danbury's father left many years ago. We understand that it was stored in a cave.”

Sophie shook her head in quick, hard jerks. Turning her back, she hurried to the wardrobe and again removed the beautiful gown. “I don' know 'bout no caves.”

Lydia opened her mouth to press the point, but the girl met her gaze. Rounded eyes, swimming with unshed tears, spoke of deep-seated dread.

The girl must know something. But whether it was about the throne was unclear and now was not the time to torment the poor thing with questions. Lydia patted Sophie's arm. “Don't fret now.”

The girl visibly swallowed and then nodded. She raised the gown and Lydia stooped so she could lower it over her head. Sophie carefully did up the long row of tiny buttons down the back. She sat Lydia down in front of the vanity, and swept her hair up and away from her face, securing it with a couple of gold pins. When they were finished Lydia stood up to see the results in the glass.

“You look beautiful, Miss.”

The gown was a trifle too long and the slippers too large, but overall she did look nice. The cream and green was becoming with her auburn hair. Lifting her skirt and poking her slipper-shod foot out, she gave it a shake.

“These feel light as air after wearing boots for so long.”

“I'll show you de drawin' room,” Sophie said.

Conversation stopped and the gentlemen stood as Lydia entered the room.

“
Mademoiselle
, you are lovely,” Pierre-Louis said.

Lord Danbury and Mr Harting added their voices to the compliment.

“Thank you,” replied Lydia. Both the gentlemen had taken full advantage of the hour to shave and have their hair trimmed, as well as being rigged out in formal dinner attire. “I imagine your valets were relieved to make you appear as gentlemen again.”

“I don't know about my valet, but
I'm
glad to look like a gentleman again,” Mr Harting said.

“Well, you are all dashing.”

Poiret went about his duties as host. “You have met my friend Paul Laurent, but may I present his lovely wife, Madame Laurent.”

A stout woman of middle age, Madame Laurent wore a gown in a style popular a decade earlier, with a tightly corseted waist and wide, panniered skirt. Heavy ornamentation weighed it down. She had even powdered her hair and piled it in a high pompadour.

Lydia curtsied to the older woman. The woman did not smile. She sized up the party, Lydia in particular, with a critical eye even as the appropriate pleasantries were exchanged. It seemed unlikely that they passed muster. Danielle's innuendo of the afternoon set her cheeks alight once more. This old harpy probably thought the same.

Glancing around for an escape route of some sort, Lydia fidgeted with her fan. What was she doing here? She had no idea how to behave at a formal dinner party. If she could just draw one of the gentlemen aside she could tell them of the maid's strange reaction and then she could plead illness.

“We are waiting for Mr Cabot, then we will go in,” Pierre-Louis said.

As he spoke the man entered. He looked extremely uncomfortable out of his uniform. The jacket appeared too small, the pants too loose, and he had retained his own battered boots, but he smiled in response to their greeting.

“Shall we go in?” Pierre-Louis asked.

He took Lydia's arm to lead the parade into the dining room.

The dining table was of the same dark wood as the other furniture in the house, but ornately carved with vines and flowers. The walls provided relief for the eye with their stark white simplicity, and again the view was so breathtaking that artwork would have been redundant.

The heady aroma of nutmeg, pepper, cinnamon and any number of other delights swirled around the table. Lydia grew almost dizzy with the scent, and sat gratefully when a servant pulled a chair out for her. Her stomach gurgled in anticipation and she clasped her hands discreetly over her middle to muffle any further comment from that quarter.

It felt novel to sit at a table and dine on something that had not been prepared over a campfire. She restrained herself from devouring the hot, crusty French bread like a maddened goat. The closest they had come to bread in weeks was the ship's biscuit they had brought with them.

The conversation did no more than limp along initially, but Pierre-Louis Poiret was skilled at oiling the gears of social mechanism and soon had everyone interacting with one another—if not comfortably, at least cordially.

After the meal Madame Laurent led Lydia away to the veranda to catch a bit more of the breeze while the men enjoyed their port.

The Frenchwoman's stays creaked as she seated herself in the breeziest corner. Lydia took a nearby chair. Long, awkward silences were punctuated by brief bursts of pointless conversation.

Sophie appeared and bobbed a curtsy. “For you, Miss.” She
extended a small slip of paper to Lydia then turned on her heel and scurried away.

Ignoring Madame Laurent's disapproving sniff Lydia opened the folded note.