Unclaimed Heart (25 page)

He appeared on deck, his big square head and thick neck cocked curiously. “Miss Blackchurch?”

“You mustn't tell Father I've been,” she said.

“I can promise you nothing,” he replied, puffing up with moral dignity. “Captain Blackchurch is my employer.”

She dropped an oar and held up the note. “I have a letter for you, from Orlanda.”

He was speechless for a few seconds. Then his voice became soft. “Orlanda has sent me a note?”

Constance felt a pang of pity for him. It was one thing to manipulate Orlanda; she had lied about Alexandre and brought about this situation. But Maitland was innocent. And, it appeared, smitten with Orlanda.

He was already climbing down the rope ladder, leaning out to take the note from her fingers. “I'm honored that she should condescend to write to me. Will you pass on my thanks?”

Constance picked up the oars again and started to turn herself around in the water. “Tell her yourself,” she said with a smile. “I'm sure she will be glad to hear it.”

Then she was off again. Maitland and Orlanda weren't the only two people with a dawn rendezvous to prepare for.

The early morning was soft. Pale pink clouds streaked the sky as Orlanda let herself quietly out of the library and made her way through the garden. Her heart hammered. Alexandre would be waiting. She had risen an hour ago, spent an age crimping her hair, and tried on six different pair of gloves to match her dress. She wanted to look perfect for him. It was so like noble, beautiful Alexandre to forgive her for what she had done. She longed to repay him in kisses.

Orlanda smiled to herself. She was no stranger to what young men wanted from young women. The thrill of the idea pressed her heart. How she loved being out here in the dawn light on a secret assignation.

She arrived at the dancing room and saw him standing with his back to her.

But no. That wasn't Alexandre.

He turned and smiled. It was Captain Blackchurch's first officer, Francis Maitland. A nice enough fellow, to be sure, but not her dream-eyed beloved. She froze. He hurried towards her, hands outstretched.

“My darling Orlanda,” he said. “I am not good with words, so let me say to you what I have been rehearsing all night in my mind.”

Darling Orlanda?
What was going on?

He took her hand and pressed it against his heart. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

“I am?” A little glow inside her.

“All others around you seem pale and serious. Your laugh is like a bell. I love to listen to your sweet voice.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yes. Your delightful chatter fills me with joy.”

Orlanda became dimly aware that Alexandre
wasn't
coming, that somehow, somebody—Constance, of course!—was playing a trick on her. But she found she didn't mind so much as long as Francis Maitland was enumerating her virtues.

“I have been able to think of little else but you since the dance,” he continued. “Your eyes, your smile. Would you be so kind as to turn those eyes, that smile, towards me? It would make me the happiest man in the world.”

The secret thrill was back. She offered him her arm. “Come, Francis,” she said with a smile. “Let's find a secluded place where we can talk more freely.”

Constance worked quickly, scribbling a final note for her adventure. This time, it was addressed to her father.

She had woken in the middle of the night, excitement keeping sleep at bay. And in those long hours as she waited for the dawn to come—gathering a change of clothes, sewing Alexandre's pearl into the hem of her skirt for safekeeping, tying up the two bread rolls she had smuggled out of the dining room in a cloth—she had realized that Father would notice her missing at some point that day. That he would worry. If they knew the pearler was gone, they would suspect Alexandre. And Father would jump to the conclusion that they had run away together. Her mother had disappeared without explanation; Constance was determined she wouldn't do the same.

She blotted it, folded it, and placed it under her pillow. If they were searching for her, they would find it. He would read it. He would be impossibly angry, but at least he wouldn't fear the worst.

Constance peered at herself in the looking glass in the dim morning light. Today, her mother might see her for the first time in sixteen years. What would she think? Would she be proud? Relieved to be discovered? Constance frowned, defending herself from other, darker thoughts that she'd rather not entertain. Who knew what today would bring? She was nervous but hopeful.

She slipped out of her bedroom. Downstairs, she could hear the servants in the kitchen, preparing for the day. She tiptoed down the stairs and across the entrance hall, letting herself silently out of the house.

Alexandre was waiting on the other side of the villa, where the rowboat sat under a cover made of coconut-palm leaves. He was pacing, his back turned to her. She said his name softly, and he turned, smiling with relief.

“You came,” he said.

“Of course.”

“I was worried that something would go wrong.”

“Nothing's going to go wrong,” she declared. “We are the King and Queen of Today.”

He pressed her against him, kissing her behind the ear. “I saw Maitland leave the pearler ten minutes ago. We should hurry.”

They dragged the boat to the water's edge. Constance climbed in, and Alexandre pushed it into the water, leaping in and grabbing the oars. They arrowed out through the harbor as the sun hesitated behind the horizon. Constance stifled a vast yawn.

“Tired?”

“I didn't sleep.”

“Nor me. Too much to think about. Today is . . .” He didn't say it, but the idea hung between them. Their last day together.

A flock of seagulls circled overhead. The morning breeze was fresh, plucking at her clothes and hair. Mingled excitement and sadness threaded through her, as the beach disappeared behind them. Soon, they were tying the rowboat, climbing aboard
La Reine des Perles
. Alexandre showed her quickly where everything was, then wound in the anchor. He seemed so strong and capable—his feet bare, his trousers rolled to his knees—that she was momentarily distracted from the task at hand. But Alexandre began shouting orders at her as the sun rose, and the ship was readied to sail. Finally, he told Constance to take the wheel, while he managed the ropes that controlled the sails. One by one, they were hauled up, the wind flapping them, the sun staining them orange. He pulled them and tied them, and their bellies filled. Constance could feel the ship straining beneath her hands, as anxious to get away as she was. Slowly, slowly, they began to move. Away from the harbor and towards the hidden temple of Ranumaran.

Three hours out of Nagakodi, the area began to look familiar to Alexandre, and he was lost in thought as he tried to remember if he had been there before. He held the wheel as the pearler bounced along the choppy waters. The sun dazzled on the sails. Constance was as useful and strong as any crewman, but that was no surprise if her father was a sailor. Even if he'd never taught her a thing, that kind of sea-courage was passed along in the blood.

“You're very quiet,” she said, leaning on the railing opposite him.

“I'm trying to remember. I think I've been here before. With de Locke. When I was just a lad.”

“Really? So do you think you've seen Ranumaran before too?”

“I'm not sure. De Locke never told me where we were going; we just went.” His eyes caught on a rocky outcrop in the distance, almost like the face of an ape. “Yes, I'm certain I've sailed up here before. We've hunted for pearls all through the Gulf.”

“Tell me about de Locke,” she asked, turning so that her back was against the railing.

Alexandre shook his head. “I don't even know how to start.”

“Why did you choose to work with him?”

“There was no choice. He acquired my services in France when I was only a boy. He was good to me, I suppose. Even gentle. As long as I did as he said, we had no conflict. He taught me to read and brought me books and drawing paper. He never paid me, but I ate well enough and always had a safe place to sleep.”

“Were you like a son to him? A protégé?”

Alexandre laughed bitterly. “I never made the mistake of thinking he had any fond feelings for me.” But her words provoked the memory: de Locke shaking with rage, the pistol at Alexandre's temple.
Alexandre, how could you?
De Locke had been angry about more than the theft of the pearl; he had been angry that Alexandre had betrayed him.

“And for your part? Did you have any fond feelings towards him?”

“I did at the start,” Alexandre conceded. “But we do not stay forever children, Constance. Knowledge comes with age, although it's not always welcome.”

“Do you think knowledge really comes with age? Then that would make my father a very knowledgeable man.”

“He is.”

She tilted her head, irritation crossing her brow. “And yet, he'd rather I married Victor Kloppman than you.”

“We are all constrained by our circumstances.”

“You are so forgiving of my father.”

“He was forgiving of me.”

“Not in the end.”

“He was forgiving of me as far as he could be. I understand.” He paused, watching her a moment. “Constance, if you find your mother, what do you think will happen next?”

Her eyes went to the horizon. “I don't know. I have this fantasy: we rescue her and take her back to Father. He forgives everything, even us. But as to what will really happen . . .” She paused here. “I think it would satisfy me just to look on her face,” she said softly. “I have waited so long.”

As they rounded a curve in the land, the vertical summit of Sun Peak came into view. “God willing, your wait will soon be over. I believe we are scarce two miles from our goal.” For a reason he couldn't articulate, he began to feel tense. Perhaps it was because he suspected Constance would be disappointed. Either they wouldn't find Faith Blackchurch at all, or they would find her and she would not be as Constance hoped. He had heard enough of the people of Nagakodi complain about a sharp-tongued, cruel-tempered woman. Or perhaps the tension was simply because he knew today would be the last hours they spent together.

But neither of those explanations seemed right, so he bent his mind back again to his childhood, to the time when he and de Locke had been here before. He peered into the distance, looking for landmarks. A shimmer of white ahead on the water caught his eye.

And he remembered.

“Get down!” he shouted to Constance. “I'm going to have to gybe.” He remembered how he and de Locke had only just missed it, a jagged ridge of rock perfectly visible at low tide, but cruelly lying in wait when the tide was high. And, once more,
La Reine des Perles
was headed directly for it at speed. “There's a reef ahead. It will tear us in two.”

Constance flattened herself on the deck, and Alexandre hauled the wheel as hard as he could. There was no time to sheet in. The ship shuddered underneath him; he felt huge resistance. Normally, he was very cool in a crisis, but the instinct to protect Constance was overwhelming. As they turned, the sails crashed around—first the headsail, then the foremast sail, with a huge crack. Splinters flew off the mast. All the booms swung fast and sudden, sweeping savagely across the deck, skidding above Constance's head. His heart thundered. The pearler, grinding against its trajectory, came around. She was out of control now, and the main sheets were a tangle, hooked around the boom crutch.

“Constance,” he called, wrestling with the ropes, “can you release the jib sheet?”