Unclaimed Heart (18 page)

Constance stopped hanging streamers and eyed Orlanda carefully. Her friend looked up coyly, a mischievous smile on her lips. Constance's jealousy made it difficult for her to speak. “Orlanda, what are you thinking?”

“Well, I'm not going to shout it to you up there.”

Constance climbed down from the chair and came to stand by Orlanda, who gave her another roll of colored paper. Together, they began wrapping the same pillar.

Orlanda spoke conspiratorially, her voice nearly washed away by the sound of the sea. “I have come to know Alexandre over the past few weeks, and I find him most agreeable company. I am almost certain he feels the same way. Constance,” she grasped Constance's hand, “I love him. Most ardently.”

“But . . . but . . .” Constance found her voice. “There are so many impediments,” she managed. “There is no possibility of a match.” Speaking those words aloud made her feel sad, bereft. But not for Orlanda's sake.

“Do you not think that love can overcome anything? Did Shakespeare not say, ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment'?”

Love
. Orlanda was in love with Alexandre. Why did the thought make Constance feel short of breath, anxious, as though she wanted to cry? Jealousy harder than diamonds tightened inside her.

“Do you need me to remind you, Orlanda?” Constance said. “He is in service to my father. You are the daughter of a gentleman. When was there ever a match made under such circumstances?”

“He is only in service to your father temporarily. Don't forget he also teaches me French. Why, a friend of my cousin in Oxfordshire married his governess. It's quite common.”

“For a man to marry a woman of lower social standing, yes. But I have never seen the opposite, Orlanda. Never.”

Orlanda's voice became increasingly whining. “Our fathers are not so very genteel. They have property, certainly, but they are in trade. They have no titles to protect, no ancient families to please. Alexandre is perfectly nice. I know he has rough edges, but he could be trained to be a gentleman: converse appropriately, learn how to dance, wear shoes . . .”

Constance bristled. To think Orlanda had almost invited Alexandre to the dance as a guest, but was now pleased for him to go as a servant. To think that she had declared love for him, but also spoke of him as though he were a puppy to be taught tricks. Her words came out savagely. “You are deluding yourself. Your father will never allow you to form an attachment to Alexandre; it would cause him extreme dishonor. Love counts for naught when you're English, Orlanda. All that counts is appearance. You are a lady and, one day, you will marry a gentleman. Whether you like him or not. And you are a little fool to think otherwise.” She stopped, realizing her heart was beating rapidly, that tears were just a blink away.

Orlanda, who had been shocked into uncustomary silence, finally found her tongue. “You speak very passionately, friend. But is your warning directed at me, or at yourself?”

Constance handed Orlanda the roll of paper. “I feel unwell,” she said. “I must—”

“Go,” Orlanda finished for her. “You're unwell and you must go. I know that you are not unwell, Constance. I know that you pretend to be unwell because my company is so tedious to you. I can only presume that my dullness is the reason my father is always at work, and my mother is always indisposed with her medicine.”

Constance softened. “Orlanda, I—”

Orlanda turned her shoulder. “I wouldn't keep you here a moment past endurance. Go.”

Constance pinched the bridge of her nose, her mind in turmoil. Then she turned and escaped to the beach.

The midday sun stood directly overhead, hot on her skin. She wasn't wearing a bonnet and was afraid her face would freckle. She found the meagre shade of a grove of coconut trees and sat in it, the wind tugging at her hair. Her eyes were drawn out to the ships in the harbor.
Good Bess
, a monster dominating the horizon. And Alexandre's schooner, neat and unassuming. She wondered what he was doing aboard, if Howlett had already asked him to serve tea and lemonade to Orlanda's self-important guests. Tears began to fall. She could deny it no longer. She loved him. She had schooled herself to be practical, rational. But practicality and rationality had melted away. The thought of Alexandre filled her with wild, raw feelings.

Constance pulled her shoes and stockings off and plunged her feet into the warm sand, closing her eyes. Her jealousy had made her speak harshly to Orlanda, but the tirade was as easily applied to herself. It was hopeless for her to be in love with Alexandre. Utterly hopeless.

And yet, she was still in love with him.

The sounds of the sea rushed around her. She replayed all her encounters with Alexandre in her imagination. His noble, brave silence when he first boarded
Good Bess
. The feel of his hard back pressed against her when he carried her to her mother's house. The rough warmth of his hand . . . The dull ache intensified within her. She began to imagine other encounters, being held close in his arms, the tickle of his hair on her face, his lips at her throat . . .

“Constance!”

She opened her eyes. Father was approaching, the sun glinting on his dark auburn hair. She felt guilty, as though he could see her thoughts. She pulled her toes out of the sand and reached for her shoes.

He stopped, gazing down sternly. “What did you do to Orlanda?”

“Why? What has she said?”

“She has said very little. But she returned to the house a few minutes ago awash in tears. Her father is on business in town, her mother is unwell, and so I have been charged with the task of admonishing you for your ‘cruel, cruel words.'” He smiled at her, bemused.

Constance relaxed. “She was being foolish, and I told her so,” she said.

Father held out a hand to help her to her feet. “It's about time somebody did, Constance. But could you please apologize? We are the Howletts' guests, and the right thing to do is keep the waters smooth.”

They began to walk, side by side in the sunshine. “Father, do you ever get tired of doing the right thing? Do you not sometimes want to do the wrong thing?”

He frowned. “Man should be a rational creature, not a slave to his instincts.”

She wanted to say,
What about woman?
But she didn't. Instead, she said, “Orlanda tells me that Mr. Howlett intends to press Alexandre into service as a footman at the dance. Do you not think that is too much to ask of him?”

“It's only a dance. I daresay there will be two dozen tedious people in attendance. They'll eat, drink, manage a few figures, go home and forget they ever came. Alexandre is working his way home with us; he'll do what he is asked, I imagine. Though he seems rather a rough creature and will likely drop a potato in somebody's lap.” Father suppressed a smile. “Let's hope it's somebody unpleasant.”

Constance managed to smile in return and steeled herself to apologize to Orlanda.

As Henry rowed, Howlett clutched the sides of the boat so hard that his knuckles turned white. Henry had been aboard
Good Bess
, making sure that all was well. Howlett had business with Alexandre, so they were paying a visit to the
Queen of Pearls
as well.

“Not comfortable on the water, William?” Henry asked.

Howlett smiled sheepishly. “I'm afraid I never got my sea legs. To be honest, it's one of the reasons I've never returned to England. The journey out was so distressing.”

Henry nodded to pretend he understood. Inside, he condemned Howlett as a coward. There had to be something wrong with a man who was afraid of the sea. He pulled the oars, his muscles straining. Ordinarily, he'd have one of his officers or crew row for him. But he wanted a few minutes alone with Howlett to discuss the progress of their investigations. At the villa, there was always somebody lurking around.

“I had a letter back from the shipping registrar this morning,” Henry said. “No record of a ship called the
Monkey King
. Faith's name appears nowhere.”

“She was with a man, they say. Do you have any idea who that might have been?”

Henry was jolted by his bluntness. “Of course not. For all I know, it was a white slave trader.”

“Hmm, which would explain why there was no record with the registrar.”

Henry rowed on through the silky water, not telling Howlett how disappointed he felt. He had been here at Nagakodi for three weeks, and his investigations seemed already to have stalled. Enquiries into who owned the little house on the edge of town revealed that Faith still owned it, but no other name appeared on the documents. The sale happened too long ago to discover who had paid for the dwelling, or from where the money was drawn. The neighbor, when approached by Howlett again, remembered the furniture being sold by debtors two years after she had moved out (at least, that was Howlett's translation of what the neighbor had said; Henry had his doubts that it was entirely accurate). It seemed his wife had disappeared, once again, into thin air.

Howlett spoke of a few other friends who might be able to help and promised to get on with writing letters that afternoon. True to his offer to help Howlett with his business in exchange for helping in his search for Faith, Henry agreed to take some accounts into town for him. Their business was sorted quickly, in time to board the pearler.

Alexandre had seen them approach and waited for them to climb up, offering a hand to Howlett to steady him.

“Thank you, boy,” Howlett said.

“You're welcome.” Alexandre was half-dressed as usual and Henry wondered, not for the first time, how he hoped to adapt to life back in Europe. And yet, that was where his heart was set on going.

“Alexandre, we both have business with you,” Henry said. “For my part, I've had word this morning of a buyer from Colombo. He's coming up in a week to inspect the
Queen of Pearls
. I can't imagine a reason he won't buy it, so do make sure it's tidy, ready for him to sail that day.”

“Yes, Captain.” Alexandre turned his steady gaze to Howlett.

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “As you may know, we are hosting a dance in two nights. I'd like you to come ashore and act as a footman for the evening.”

Alexandre nodded, then said, “What is a footman?”

Henry hid a smile. Howlett blustered. “A footman is a . . . presentable servant. You'll trim the lamps, wait at dinner, fetch lemonade and tea for the ladies and gentlemen at the dance. Ordinarily you'd wear a fine costume, but there's little chance of finding you a powdered wig in this town. You're about my height, so I'll loan you some decent clothes to wear. Come by at six; we'll dress you and send you down.”

“As you wish, sir,” Alexandre said, his expression giving nothing away.

As they rowed back to shore, Henry began to think about how much money he would get for the pearler. A tidy sum, most likely, as she was solid and well built, of Indian teak. It would go some way to offsetting the huge financial losses of this journey. Now, when he looked back on the moment he had opened Howlett's letter and discovered that Faith might have been in Ceylon, he couldn't believe his own hastiness. Sailing without cargo or commission, sailing without entertaining a shred of doubt that he would find Faith. He hadn't found her. Days were passing without new clues. Perhaps he would try to find a commission nearby and then, when the pearler was sold, head home.

Empty-handed.

Orlanda forgave Constance quickly and kept her busy. One afternoon Constance tried to meet Alexandre at the beach, but was stopped by Father, minding her that shoes were still expected of English girls even in foreign places. Then, the day before the dance, she returned to her room after writing place cards for Orlanda in the library and saw a sight from her window that made her heart leap.