Unclaimed Heart (21 page)

Constance made it in through the library, up the stairs, and into her room without arousing suspicion. She was drifting on a cloud of euphoria, re-imagining the feel of Alexandre's lips on hers over and over. She closed the door quietly behind her, then turned to see Orlanda lying very still on her bed. Puzzled, she approached, parting the mosquito netting. At first she thought Orlanda asleep, but then she spoke.

“Good morning, Constance.” A snaky tone, one she hadn't heard before.

“Orlanda. What are you doing here?”

Orlanda sat up. “I heard you leave.”

Constance's heart froze over. What did Orlanda know? She thought about the view of the beach from her own window. What had Orlanda seen?

“Where have you been?” Orlanda asked.

Constance relaxed a little. So she hadn't actually
seen
anything. “I couldn't sleep. I thought a walk on the beach would help me relax,” she said.

“Liar!” Orlanda cried, her voice suddenly passionate.

“I saw you. I saw you with . . . him.”

“Shh,” Constance said desperately. “You'll wake the whole house.”

“I saw you standing on the beach, talking to him. And then you went off and . . . Constance, what have you done?”

“Nothing. We talked, that's all. Don't tell my father. Please, Orlanda, as my friend I—”

“Talking and walking? That is all?” Orlanda snorted. “Rubbish. I know boys. I know what they like to do. Why, when we were living in Colombo I did a few unforgivable things myself.”

Constance threw her forearm over her head. Orlanda's coy talk about romance cheapened love so. “I'm tired, Orlanda. I need to sleep. Please, forget what you have seen tonight. It was of no consequence.”

Orlanda wouldn't let the topic go. “You can pretend all you like that you are a well-behaved English girl,” she said. “But I know the truth. And I shant forget anything.”

The door closed quietly as Orlanda left.

Henry worked at the little writing table in the library. Two shafts of morning sunshine stretched across the rug. He was supposed to be writing letters to creditors for Howlett, but was in fact writing more letters about Faith, the
Monkey King
, the house near the edge of the jungle, the furniture that was sold . . . Letters to English businesses, all along the western coast of Ceylon, in Kandy, in southern India.
Faith Blackchurch
. He had written her name so many times now that it seemed to have lost its meaning. As though she wasn't a real person anymore, but a character in a fairy tale, and just as impossible to find. He realized his tone in the letters was growing increasingly desperate, that it was chipping away at his dignity. The last time he had felt like this—forlorn, robbed of pride—was in the months after she left. Sixteen years later, he was there again. And that was why he had to find her, even if he didn't like what he found. To put these feelings behind him forever.

Constance appeared at the door. Instinctively, he pulled a book over the letter he was writing, blotting all the words. He cursed under his breath. Constance looked puzzled.

“Father?”

“I'm not swearing at you,” he said, ashamed to let slip his sailor vocabulary.

She hesitated on the threshold.

“Come in, child. What is it you want?”

She closed the door behind her. “I need to escape Orlanda,” she whispered.

“That I can understand. The girl is a chattering fool and would drive most sensible folk away; though Maitland seemed to develop an attachment to her last night.” He indicated the bookcase. “Well, pull down the largest volume you can to frighten her off,” he said. “You can sit over there, but don't disturb me.”

She selected a volume of Chaucer and settled on the sofa with a beam of sunshine on her shoulder. He admired her for a moment: her outward grace as much as her good sense. How it had pained him to see her spend all her time the previous night in the company of that Dutch oaf, Victor Kloppman. But what was he to do? She was a young woman, approaching marriageable age, and there would be plenty of oafs beating a path to her door in the race to win her. Kloppman was a rich, well-bred young man. If she formed an attachment, he would have no grounds to reject her choice. The rules of such arrangements were strict, even when they made no sense. The pit of his stomach tingled with regrets and anxieties. He, of all people, knew how badly such arrangements could turn out. He tried to put these thoughts out of his head and began his letter again. Within minutes, Orlanda was at the door.

“Constance?” she said in an imperious voice.

He adopted his best gruff voice. “Constance is devoting the morning to her studies, which I am much dismayed to find she has neglected so far in her stay.”

Constance gave Orlanda a weak smile.

“Oh,” Orlanda said, unintimidated. “Perhaps I could sit with you?”

“If you please.”

It took seven minutes for her to grow bored, and then she was gone. Quiet returned to the library. Henry worked; Constance read. After a time, he became aware of restless energy in the room. He glanced around to see that Constance had put her book aside and was fidgeting in her seat, eyes turned towards the French doors.

“What is it, Constance?”

She met his gaze. “May I be very honest with you, Father?”

“I should hope that you were only ever honest with me.”

She nodded, chose her words, then began to speak. “Something happened at the dance last night. . . .”

Here it was, then. She was about to declare her love for Kloppman. He put his pen aside, trying to force all his muscles to relax. “Yes, child?”

“A wrong was committed, and greater wrongs may proceed from it unless you are a generous and reasonable man.”

This was a surprise. “So this isn't about Kloppman?”

“Kloppman?”

“Victor. That young man you danced with all night. I had thought that you might have formed an attachment. . . .”

An expression of impatience and distaste crossed her face. “Good lord, no. No.”

“I am glad,” he said with real relief. “He seems to me rather too dull-witted for you.”

Encouraged, she began to speak very quickly. “He was very rude, Father, especially to Alexandre, who was struggling with the tasks of a footman. Victor and I were getting tea, when another of the servants knocked Alexandre's elbow and hot tea went all over Victor's wrist. It was a genuine accident, and I saw it with my own eyes. Howlett had no right to shout at Alexandre so.” Here she paused for breath. He noted that her cheeks had flushed.

“You are very passionate about it.”

“I do not like to see an injustice done against an innocent man.”

Any pride he felt at her sense of justice was tempered by his suspicion that more than justice was at stake. “Howlett said Alexandre threw a coat at him and stalked off into the night.”

Here she slowed, not meeting his eyes. “I would have done the same, had I been so affronted. I want to ensure that Alexandre is not put off on shore, that he still has his opportunity to return to Europe.”

Henry veiled a smile. Of course he had endured Howlett's complaints about Alexandre and his demands that Henry put him off. But Henry hadn't taken him seriously. Howlett had all but invited the situation: letting Alexandre into his home to teach his daughter French, then dressing him up and unleashing him on society when it was clear he hadn't the skills. “Constance, you have spoken very clearly and warmly in defense of the young man. Alexandre and I have something in common, and that is an enemy named Gilbert de Locke. I am unlikely to abandon him here with so little cause. Still, I will go to speak to him today, and I will mind him to stay away from all young ladies and their parties until we sail. Within a week, the pearler will be sold, and he will join the rest of my crew on
Good Bess
. I'll explain to Howlett that, as poor a footman as he is, Alexandre is a valued member of my crew.”

She nodded decisively, then picked up her book again. “Thank you, Father.”

Unease troubled him. For all her pretense of reason, he could see her hands trembling. How deep did her feelings for the young Frenchman run?

De Locke waited inside the hot, crowded tavern. Only meagre sunlight struggled through the criss-crossed wooden shutters. The smell of men, beer and mud was overwhelming. He drank his glass of claret, wondering how long past the appointed hour he should stay before he gave up.

The door opened, letting a band of bright sunlight in. Hubert Rachet, the crooked friend of a crooked friend, stood outlined in light for a moment. Then the door closed and he was heading towards de Locke in the dim room.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, reaching for the wine bottle and filling a glass to the brim. “Got held up.”

Rachet worked in the offices adjoining the shipping registrar. De Locke's own attempts to find Blackchurch had stalled.
Good Bess
had not come to Colombo, and there was no record of his voyage with the East India Company, so he had paid Rachet to investigate, to see if he could find any information about Blackchurch's whereabouts. Well, he had promised to pay him. Given he'd already sold his pocket watch to buy a pistol, Rachet would be waiting some time for actual money.

“Have you got anything for me?”

“I have.” He gulped his wine, splashing it on his cravat. “I don't know what Blackchurch is up to, but it's not trade. He's written two letters to the registrar requesting information about a ship called the
Monkey King
that was rumored to be in these parts sixteen years ago. Left an address at Nagakodi, a port town about a hundred miles north.” He pointed straight up, as though towards heaven.

“I know Nagakodi,” de Locke said. “A pearl town, though I've never been there.”

“That's where your man is.” Rachet gulped down the rest of his wine, and de Locke smiled and leaned forward to fill his glass again. The drunker he was, the more likely he was to forget about money.

“I can't thank you enough,” de Locke said. “Now, let's talk about finding me a passage to Nagakodi.”

Alexandre stood on the deck of
La Reine des Perles
, gazing towards the shore. It was sunset, and he was fighting the strong urge to go and sit on the beach, where he knew Constance would see him and join him. But her father had been very clear: stay away.

Two simple words, but so complicated. How could he stay away from Constance, when his whole body was drawn to hers? When he was intoxicated by her? When he knew she still needed him to help find her mother? And yet, stay away he must, or risk Captain Blackchurch leaving him behind here in Ceylon, where the only thing he was good for was pearl diving, and where de Locke would eventually find him.

He became aware of motion on the shore, near the Howletts' villa. A figure, struggling with Howlett's rowboat, trying to get it into the water. It was a woman, and at first he thought it was Constance and his heart picked up its speed. But then she turned her face up, and he saw it was Orlanda.

Orlanda couldn't row a boat.

He leaned on the railing, watching in amusement. Her skirts were dragging in the water as she tried, most inelegantly, to climb into the boat. Finally, she fell forwards into it. She managed to get herself upright and pulled on the oars. Went around in circles for a few moments. He knew she was coming to see him, and he also knew she'd never make it so he wasn't worried about what nonsense she had in mind. He went inside and rummaged in the cupboard for cheese and bread, ate his meal, and returned to the deck.

She was still there, about a hundred feet off shore now. Was that the sound of her wailing? She had given up, the oars were tucked in, and she was drifting forlornly, crying her heart out.