Unclaimed Heart (27 page)

Tears began to fall. “But there must be a chance—she couldn't have been dead all this time.”

“I'm sorry, Constance.” He put his arms around her and she clung to him, sobbing. Years of dreams dissolved around her, leaving her with the harsh, brutal possibility.

She sat back, palming tears from her eyes. “But we don't know for certain, do we?” she said again. “We're only guessing.”

“I can find out for certain if you like,” he said. “I can swim out there and dive for the wreckage.”

Her heart was at once torn: it sounded like a dangerous endeavour, but she wanted badly to know for certain. If her mother was dead, then so be it. She could tell Father, and they could abandon their search. But if there was even the shred of a possibility . . .

“Is it risky?” she asked quietly.

“Not for me. I'm a strong swimmer; I can hold my breath for nearly six minutes.” He stroked her fingers. “I should like to do you one last favor, to repay you for everything you've done for me.”

“Everything I've done?”

“You've brought me a joy I hadn't thought possible in my life. And that is worth repaying.”

She squeezed his hand. “As long as you promise to be very safe and come back to my arms whole and unharmed.”

“I promise.”

“Go on then. See what you can find.”

De Locke unfolded his weary body from the ground where he had slept the previous night. The sun was already well overhead and had pierced through a gap in the leaves, and he realized the left side of his face was sunburnt. One more irritation to add to the long list. He had only managed to escape the skipper of the fish boat through speed, not guile. De Locke had run off while he was unloading his baskets, plunged into the jungle, and kept running until he was sure the skipper had given up on his payment. A jungle at night wasn't the best place to sleep, so he'd made his way towards the sound of the ocean and found some grass near the edge of the beach. He had tossed and turned for hours before finally catching sleep on the verge of dawn.

Then slept long enough to get sunburnt.

He scratched at the row of mosquito bites all up his arm. There was an elephant track around here somewhere, but he'd have to head away from the beach to find it. No matter. There were still many hours of daylight left, and he expected to arrive in Nagakodi before sunset. He hoped to find somewhere to drink along the way, and perhaps some tropical fruit or other to ease his hunger pains.

But first, he needed to go down to the sea, to splash salt water on the mosquito bites, which had started to ooze blood. He broke from the cover of the foliage, then stopped in his tracks.

La Reine des Perles
.

He rubbed his eyes; it must surely be a hallucination, a trick of his overtired brain. But no, there she was, catching the sunlight on the azure water.

De Locke began to laugh. There was no boat in sight to steal, but she was swimming distance away. He waded out into the sunlit water and began to make his way to his ship.

Chandrika caught Henry as he emerged from the library, pulling on his coat and readying himself to sail.

“Captain Blackchurch?” she said, urging him back into the library.

“What now, woman?”

She closed the library door behind them, found a note in her apron pocket and gave it to him. “This was under Constance's pillow.”

He watched his own hands shake as he unfolded it, as though he were outside himself. He was almost too frightened to read it.

“Captain Blackchurch?” Chandrika said, anxiously. “Is everything well?”

“She's gone to . . . ” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “She says she's gone to find her mother.” Despair washed over him. “The girl simply wants her mother.”

Chandrika wouldn't meet his eye. “She is safe, then?”

“I hope so.” He wiped away a traitorous tear, forcing his voice to be bright. “Ranumaran. Not far.”

“No sir. But twenty miles.”

“We'll sail immediately.”

Constance and Alexandre picked their way over the rocky beach to the southern side of the reef. The beach was more sheltered, the water clearer. Alexandre stripped to his trousers and waded into the sea.

“Be careful,” Constance called.

“I will.” Cautiously, he dunked under the water. The sandy bottom dipped away steeply. Rocks dotted it. He launched himself forward and began to swim, stopping every few feet to check the position of rocks. The shadow of the reef and the gully that ran behind it waited in the distance.

Despite what he had told Constance, this was not without its dangers. He didn't know the waters, the rocks were cruel, and there was always the danger of sharks. But neither was it inherently risky, especially for Alexandre, who had proved almost impossible to drown. He made his way through the warm water, a safe distance from the reef, then over into the gully.

The depth increased steeply again, the bottom a murky swirl below him. He shot to the surface, took a slow deep breath, waved once to Constance, then dived.

Down and down. Not on a stone and a rope this time, but simply with the weight of his own body. Sunlight shafted the water, but it was much cooler down here. He saw the front half of a ship almost straightaway.

It was bow up, pointing accusingly at the reef that had caused the damage. Alexandre could see a gulf opening up behind it, a final steep drop-off. He swam to the bow, brushing off algae and seaweed. Fish darted in and out of a large hole, but he could see enough letters to know this was Faith Blackchurch's ship.

. . .
NKEY KI
. . .

The
Monkey King.
He made his way up to the surface, the last of his breath squeezing tightly. Took another breath without facing the beach where Constance waited. He should just go now, swim back to her, tell her he had seen the shipwreck. She would be devastated; if only he could bring back for her something from the wreck, something to ease her sorrow. And so he dived again.

He swam down to the wreck and examined the
Monkey King
's swollen ribs. It was a jumbled mess of wreckage, splintered wood, brass black with algae, eels snaking around, barnacles attached to everything. He made out a wooden chair with only two legs, and swam towards it, picking in the debris around it. A dinner plate, a hairbrush. He kept sorting the junk, his lungs protesting that he was taking too long.

Then he saw it. A delicate thread, too easy to mistake for a piece of seaweed. But it didn't dance on the water; it hung. It was heavy. It was made of gold.

Alexandre pulled the necklace free. On the end of it was a round locket. He wrapped the chain around his wrist, swam hard towards the surface, and broke the water gasping for air.

Then, when his lungs felt balanced again, he slowly made his way back to Constance.

Constance paced anxiously, letting out half her breath when she saw Alexandre surface safely and the other half when he climbed out of the water. He pushed his wet hair off his face and said in a breathy voice, “I'm sorry, Constance. I found the
Monkey King
down there.”

“Mother's ship,” she said.

“Yes.”

The tide of despair made her collapse forward. Alexandre caught her and held her while she sobbed. She was aware that he was making her dress damp, but cared nothing for it. Mother was dead. There would be no reunion, no words of kindness and wisdom. She let the desolation roll over her as she cried into Alexandre's warm shoulder.

He gently pushed her away. “Constance, do you recognize this?”

She looked down. Wrapped around his wrist was a chain with a locket. It was green, filthy, but she would have known it anywhere. The locket her mother wore in the portrait at home. Shaking, she unwound it from his arm, scraping the algae off with her thumbnail. She held up the locket to the sun, remembering her long-held fantasy, that there was a picture of herself within. Curious fingers fiddled with the latch. It popped open.

No picture of a baby. Instead, a miniature oil of a man she didn't know. For a few moments, her brain tried to reorganize the man's features into Father's; but he was fair and blue-eyed, with a narrow nose. Nothing like Father. Then who was he?

“Constance?”

The question popped onto her lips unbidden. “Do you think my mother loved me, Alexandre?” she asked.

She was prepared for him to answer as anyone else might have: all mothers love their children. But he didn't. He said, “I do not know. My mother was very unkind; perhaps yours was too.”

She showed him the portrait. “I don't know who this man is. I was rather hoping to find a picture of myself.” Part of her wanted to take the portrait of the stranger as confirmation that this was not her mother's locket. But she knew that she would be lying to herself. Her mother had willingly disappeared, had willingly left Constance behind, for this stranger. Her world shifted on its axis, and she turned away from the light of the sun. The fact of her mother's death was one thing to mourn, but the proof that her mother didn't love her . . . She was numb.

“I will have to tell Father,” she said. “I don't know how he'll take such news. But I shouldn't wait any longer to break it to him.”

“Come, we'll make our way back.” He took her hand. The small gesture brought fresh tears. He was the only warm and solid thing left in her world, and at the other end of this journey, she had to let him go. She would drift without him, at the mercy of wind and weather.

“Time for tears later, Constance,” he said, pulling gently on her hand. “You need to speak with your father.”