Unclaimed Heart (17 page)

Chandrika was in the laundry, running a towel through the mangler.

“Orlanda needs you to translate,” Constance said. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” she answered, wiping her wet hands on her apron.

It suddenly occurred to Constance that Chandrika might know of the place her mother was supposed to be. “Chandrika,” she said slowly. “Do you know of the hidden temple of Ranumaran?”

“Ranumaran? It is a fishing village about twenty miles north of here. But I know of no temple there. Though, if it is hidden. . .” She smiled, and Constance had to laugh.

“My sister's husband is from Ranumaran,” Chandrika continued. “He would know. He lives on the northern side of town. I am going to see them next Thursday, if you would like to come.”

Next Thursday, a week away. The waiting would tie her stomach in knots. Constance needed to know before then.

“Or I could just give you his address. His English is quite good.”

“That would be wonderful. How do you say thank you in Sinhalese?”

“
Istuti
.”

“
Istuti
, Chandrika.”

“
Nalladu varuka
, Constance. You're welcome.”

Constance's feet, scratched and scabbed, had suffered in shoes for too long that day. She had them up on her pillow, wiggling her toes. She quickly threw the covers over them when Orlanda flounced in that afternoon, brandishing a piece of paper.

“Look!” she said, flopping onto Constance's bed. As she did so, Constance's feet were uncovered, and Orlanda recoiled dramatically. “Dear Lord! What happened to you?”

Constance's pulse thudded quickly in her throat. “I . . . was on the beach and I kicked a rock. Didn't see it.”

Orlanda frowned. “I've lived here rather a long time and never seen a rock on our beach.”

“A little further up,” Constance tried. “The ocean end.” She indicated Orlanda's sheet of paper, hoping to distract her. “Is this our guest list?”

Constance's feet were forgotten. “Yes!” Orlanda squealed. Is it not exciting? Twenty-five people are coming!”

“We really must think about decorating the dancing room very soon. Only your point about the rain is a good one.” Orlanda suddenly went white, her cold fingers grasping Constance's wrist.

“No! What if it rains on the night of the dance?”

“It's not worth worrying about, Orlanda. Even you can't control the elements.”

Orlanda fixed Constance in her gaze. “Sometimes I think you don't take me seriously.”

Constance gave her a squeeze. “Come, show me the list.”

The guests were drawn from all the European settlers in the near vicinity, plus ship's officers at anchor, mostly Dutch and English. “But look,” Orlanda said, pointing out one of the names, “Madame
et
Monsieur Croix. They're French. I shall no doubt impress them with my command of their tongue.”

Constance couldn't stop herself from asking about Alexandre. She hadn't spoken to him since their adventure two nights ago, and every day that went by without him was dull and colorless. “How are your lessons progressing?” she asked.

“They would be better if Alexandre taught me what I wanted to know, rather than endless grammar.”

“What do you want to know?”

Orlanda smiled impishly and shook her head. “You are all of a sudden very interested for somebody who declared herself averse to learning French at all.”

Constance let it go, moving to the window. She could see Alexandre's boat, making its way to shore. Ready to watch the sunset.

Climbing out her window and jumping the thirty feet to the beach would be easier than getting past Orlanda. There was simply no question of telling her she was going for a walk alone on the beach and escaping. Orlanda would want to come. But Constance needed to see Alexandre alone, to ask him to come with her to speak with Chandrika's brother-in-law.

Unexpected help came, at that moment, in the form of a burst of fumbled music: Mrs. Howlett had sat down at the clavichord in the drawing room.

“What on earth is . . . ?” Orlanda sat up, pressing her hands into her temples. “Is that a quadrille? Oh, my, the rhythm is completely wrong. She'll ruin everything!” In a second, she was on her feet and out the door.

Constance knew that she had no time to waste. She gave Orlanda one minute to get to the drawing room, then raced out of her room and outside. She knew that, in ten minutes, Orlanda would come looking for her, but she hoped that within ten minutes she and Alexandre would be on their way to town.

“Hello,” she said, stopping on the sand next to him.

He looked up and put his drawing book aside. “More clouds,” he said, gesturing to the horizon. “I told you so.”

She spoke quickly and breathlessly. “Chandrika's brother-in-law comes from Ranumaran. His name is Nissanka. I'm going to see him right now.”

“Do you need me to come?”

She decided to be honest. “I might not
need
you. Chandrika says his English is good. But I'd like you to come. Just in case.” She glanced behind her at the villa. “But we'll need to be quick because Orlanda is probably noticing I'm not where she left me, right now.”

Alexandre smiled, and scrambled to his feet. “Straight through to the track then,” he said. “And I'm glad to see you're wearing shoes this time.”

In his company, she felt herself light up again, as though all her senses now stood alert. As they walked, their hands sometimes brushed close to each other, creating sparks of heat. When his hand picked up hers briefly to lead her off the path into town, her body had a complex and entirely new reaction. Her stomach hollowed out, her knee bones melted away, and her face grew hot.

He dropped her hand as soon as they entered the market square, but still she couldn't stop herself from smiling.

They found Nissanka's house on a rutted street just outside town, one of a dozen
cadjan
houses, made of timber and woven coconut palm leaves. A woman—Constance surmised this was Chandrika's sister—sat outside on an old wooden chair in the long shadows of afternoon, watching as three small children played on the thick grass.

“Hello,” Constance said, approaching. “Chandrika sent me. I wanted to speak with Nissanka.”

At the mention of her sister's name, the woman smiled and rose. She spoke in rapid Sinhalese, which Alexandre translated. “She says welcome and asks after Chandrika.”

“Tell her she's well. Is her husband home?”

More translating passed, and it transpired that she was waiting for Nissanka to return from fishing, that he was expected any moment. She invited them in for tea, which they accepted.

Constance and Alexandre sat at a plain wooden table under the low roof, while Chandrika's sister—her name was Sirimavo—boiled water on the fire and made aromatic tea from fresh leaves. The children continued calling to each other outside in the gathering dusk, and Constance started to worry that soon she would be missed at the villa. Orlanda's questions didn't worry her; but her father's did. She drank her tea—very rich and sweet—and felt the tick of every second in the tight space under her ribs.

Finally, Nissanka arrived home with a string of fish. He handed them to Sirimavo and looked curiously at her guests.

“Hello, I'm Constance,” Constance said, rising and offering him her hand. “Chandrika said you might speak to me. She says you come from Ranumaran.”

He nodded slowly. “I grew up there. But I live here in Nagakodi long time now.” He sat at the table, and Sirimavo rose to make him tea as well.

Constance returned to her seat. “We want to know the location of a place called the hidden temple of Ranumaran.”

His puzzled expression told her that he hadn't understood, so Alexandre translated. Nissanka shook his head. “I am sorry; I have never hear of any temple in Ranumaran. There is Bodhi tree where they gather on
poya
days, but it is not . . . what was the word you say?”

“Hidden?” Constance prompted.

“No, it not
hidden
.”

Constance fought with her disappointment.

“Next week I go to visit my mother there,” Nissanka continued. “You want me ask her? Ask others?”

“If you would. I'd appreciate it,” Constance said. “
Istuti
.”

He smiled, and corrected her pronunciation.

“I had better go,” she said to Alexandre.

Alexandre thanked Sirimavo and Nissanka in Sinhalese, and he and Constance hurried back into town. It was on the path back through to the beach that they ran into her father.

“Father!” she said, flushing guiltily, glad that Alexandre hadn't taken her hand again.

“Constance, where have you been? Orlanda said you went missing over an hour ago.” His eyes turned to Alexandre. “And what are you doing with one of my crew?”

“I found Miss Blackchurch at the markets,” he lied smoothly. “I was showing her this quick way home, as she was worried about the coming dark.”

“What were you doing at the markets, Constance?” he asked.

She thought quickly. Father expected her to be vain and silly, so she said, “Looking for something new and pretty to wear to the dance. I only brought three dresses with me, and they are getting very worn.”

Father turned to Alexandre with a suspicious drawing-down of his eyebrows. “You can go. I'll accompany Constance home.”

“Goodnight, Miss Blackchurch, Captain,” he said politely, going ahead of them.

Father waited until Alexandre was gone before taking Constance's elbow and leading her forward. “Since when have you thought it sensible to go out and buy a dress right on supper time?”

“I didn't buy anything,” she said. “I was just looking at materials.”

“Answer my question. You know better, and I know that you know better.”

She blinked back at him, not sure what to say. The sea breeze rattled the palm leaves all around. “Orlanda,” she said. “She's suffocating me. I needed to get away from her.”

The tension in his body seemed to shift. He was still angry, but now he understood. “Ah. I can imagine. Still, running around at nighttime is not the answer. If you need to be away from her, you may come and sit with me in the library. I am helping Howlett with his paperwork, and I spend many hours there in the afternoons. You could read a book. It would be far too dull for Orlanda's taste.”

Constance's mind reeled in trying to comprehend the difference between sitting silently in the library with Father and running about in the open air with Alexandre, but she nodded anyway. “Thank you, Father. Perhaps I shall.”

He took her hand and squeezed it, his voice dropping quietly. “Don't disappear like that again, Constance.”

“I won't,” she said, not meaning it.

“It reminds me of . . .” He shook his head. “Let's not speak of it any more. Our supper is waiting.”

As they returned home, she realized what he had been about to say.
It reminds me of . . .
He was speaking of the night her mother disappeared, and she felt such strong guilt that it almost brought tears to her eyes. She had made him worry; she had made him think it was all happening again. She almost told him everything: how Alexandre was helping her, how she was finding out about the hidden temple of Ranumaran. But she held back. If he knew, he would make her stay home, never see Alexandre again. So she fell silent at his side, feeling sorry for him for the first time in her life.

The sea breeze caught the long trailing paper streamers that Constance and Orlanda were twining about the columns and roofbeams of the dancing room. Orlanda had complained that the space was “drab and much in need of decoration.” Constance thought the breathtaking view out across the harbor, and the deep garden, was anything but drab. But Orlanda was impossible to disagree with. So they wrapped and tied the streamers—Constance standing on a chair to reach the higher places —while Orlanda chattered
endlessly
about nothing of consequence. Constance had learned to make interested noises even though she wasn't listening any more, her thoughts rambling off over the water. Her mother, the hidden temple of Ranumaran, Alexandre . . .

Alexandre. She realized his name had been spoken aloud. She turned to Orlanda.

“What did you say, Orlanda?”

Orlanda stood back from a pillar, tying the streamer's end. “Really, Constance, are you deaf? I said, Father has decided to ask Alexandre to be a footman at the dance. He says the settlers in the area are tired of seeing natives in service, so he thought it would add a touch of class to the night.” She unraveled another streamer, yellow this time. “I dare say he's right. You know, footmen are supposed to be tall, imposing . . . handsome.” Then she dropped her voice to a tone that was, for Orlanda, almost thoughtful. “It will be nice to have him there. I've grown rather fond of him.”