Marianne and the Rebels

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  Hating the whole world and herself most of all, Marianne was on the point of dismissing both the negro and his tray when he picked a large letter off the cup on which it had been balanced and held it out to her silently between finger and thumb, while she glared up at him through the tangles of her hair.

  'This from Massa Jason,' he said, grinning. 'Ver' ver' important.'

  A letter? A letter from Jason? Marianne snatched it eagerly and ripped open the seal, stamped with a ship's figurehead, while Toby stood with his tray on his arm and the grin broadening on his round face, making a careful study of the ceiling.

  The note was not a long one. It took the form of a brief, formal apology from the captain of the Sea Witch to the Princess Sant'Anna, begging her to overlook his lapse from good manners and to reconsider her decision to take her meals alone in her cabin and honour his table in future with the feminine charm of her presence. Nothing more. Not one word of affection. Precisely the kind of excuses he might have sent to any distinguished passenger with whom he had exchanged words. Part disappointed, part relieved because at least he was offering her the necessary bridge, she addressed herself to Toby who was still gazing heavenwards, apparently lost in a beatific vision of his own.

  'Put it down here,' she said, pointing to her lap, and tell your master I shall dine with him tonight.'

  'Not at luncheon?'

  'No. I'm tired. I wish to sleep. Tonight.'

  'Ver' good. He sho' gonna be pleased.'

  Pleased? Would he really? Still, the words had a comfortable sound to the self-imposed recluse and she rewarded Toby with a lovely smile. She liked the old negro. He reminded her of Jonas, her friend Fortunée Hamelin's butler, both in his rolling accent and his infectious good humour.

  Marianne dismissed him, with orders that she was not to be disturbed for the remainder of the day, a command which she repeated a few minutes later to Agathe, who appeared, yawning, in the doorway, looking heavy-eyed and still rather sallow.

  'Stay in bed if you don't feel well, or otherwise please yourself, only don't wake me before five o'clock.'

  She did not add 'because I want to look my best' but that was the real reason for this sudden urge to sleep. A glance in her mirror had shown her a turned-down mouth and dark rings under her eyes. She could not show herself to Jason looking like that. So, after swallowing two cups of scalding hot tea, she snuggled down again, curled herself into a blissful cocoon and fell fast asleep.

  That evening, Marianne dressed herself for a simple meal with all the elaborate care of an odalisque about to try her luck with the sultan. Her own natural good taste warned her that too much splendour would be out of place on what was practically a ship of war but, for all its deliberate simplicity, her final appearance was none the less a miracle of graceful elegance. However, miracles take time to achieve and a good deal more than an hour was required before Marianne was bathed, scented, her hair dressed and herself finally inserted into a clinging robe of white muslin with no other ornament than a spray of pale silk roses nestling in the deep décolletage. More of the same flowers were tucked into her hair on either side of the chignon which was worn low on the nape of her neck in Spanish fashion.

  It was Agathe, whose attack of sea-sickness had apparently stimulated her imagination, who conceived the notion of this new arrangement. She had brushed and brushed her mistress's hair again and again until it shone satin-smooth and then, instead of dressing it high, after the mode in Paris, had arranged it in gleaming bands which hung in heavy coils on her neck. It was a style that did full justice to Marianne's long, slender throat and delicate features and gave to her green eyes, with their faint, upward slant, an added touch of mystery and exotic charm.

  'Oh, my lady, you look a dream, and not a day more than fifteen!' Agathe declared, evidently well-pleased with her handiwork.

  Arcadius, when he knocked on the door a few minutes later, shared her opinion, but advised the addition of a cloak for the short walk across the deck.

  'It is the captain who is to be the dreamer, not the crew,' he said. 'We can do without a mutiny on board.'

  His advice was sound. When Marianne, wrapped in a cloak of green silk, crossed the deck to the poop, the men on watch, who were engaged in shortening sail for the night, stopped work with one accord to watch her pass. All of them were clearly intrigued by the presence of the beautiful woman on board, and probably most were envious as well. There was more than one gleam in the eyes that followed her. Only the cabin boy, sitting on a coil of rope mending a sail, gave her a cheery grin and an easy unselfconscious: ' 'Evening, ma'am. Fine day.' And he received a friendly smile for his pains.

  A little farther on, Gracchus, now apparently quite wedded to a life at sea and on the best of terms with everyone on board, greeted her with unaffected enjoyment.

  She saw Kaleb, too, rubbing up the barrel of one of the guns on the maindeck under the watchful eye of the master-gunner. He glanced up, like the others, but his serene gaze was devoid of all expression, and he returned to his work at once.

  Then Marianne and her companion were entering the after cabin where Jason Beaufort, his first-officer and the doctor were already gathered by a table laid for dinner, engaged in drinking glasses of rum which they all promptly put down in order to bow as she came in.

  The cabin and its mahogany panelling were illuminated by the fires of the setting sun which flooded through the stern windows, filling every corner and rendering unnecessary the candles placed on the table.

  'I hope I have not kept you waiting,' Marianne said, with a little smile which took in all three men impartially. 'It would be a poor return for your kind invitation.'

  'Military precision was not designed for ladies,' Jason said, adding in a tone which he did his best to render agreeable: 'To be kept waiting by a pretty woman is always a pleasure. Your health, ma'am.'

  The smile lingered on him for no more than a moment but, beneath the downcast lashes, Marianne's eyes did not quit his face. To her profound and secret joy, hugging the knowledge to her as a miser hugs his gold, she was able to observe that her efforts had not been wasted. As Jolival helped her off with her cloak, Jason's tanned face took on an ashen hue and his fingers whitened suddenly on the stem of his glass. With a high crack, the heavy crystal snapped and the pieces smashed on to the carpeted floor.

  'You should watch how you drink,' Leighton rallied him caustically. 'Your nerves are on edge.'

  'When I need your professional advice, Doctor, I'll ask for it. Shall we eat?'

  The meal passed in almost total silence. The company ate little and talked less, oppressed by the atmosphere of tension which had descended on the cabin.

  The gloom which was spreading over the sea seemed to have extended to those in the ship. Jolival and O'Flaherty began by exchanging various reminiscences of their travels, with a kind of forced gaiety, but the. conversation soon lapsed. Marianne, seated on Jason's right, was too much occupied in observing him to have much energy left for conversation. But Jason, at the head of the table, like the inhibited Benielli on some earlier occasions, studiously avoided letting his eyes rest on his neighbour, and especially not on that delicious and all too provoking expanse of bosom.

  Marianne could see his long, brown hands on the white cloth, not far from her own, fiddling nervously with his knife. She had an impulse to put her own hand over those restless fingers and soothe them into peace. God alone knew what would happen if she did!

  Jason was as taut as a bowstring stretched to breaking point. The momentary loss of control which had made him snap at Leighton had brought no relief. Head bent, his eyes fixed on his plate, he was glum, irritable, obviously ill at ease and furious with himself for being so.

  Marianne knew him well enough to be fairly sure that at that moment he was bitterly regretting that he had ever invited her to his table.

  Moreover, slowly his mood was infecting her. She had John Leighton opposite her and the antipathy between the two of them was so strong as
to be almost tangible. The man had the knack of making her hackles rise with every word he spoke, even when not specifically directed to her.

  When Jolival inquired how the vessel, on her way to Venice, had managed to navigate the Straits of Otranto where the English squadrons based on St Maura, Cephalonia and Lissa were continually harassing the French forces from Corfu, Leighton grinned wolfishly.

  'If we're at war with England it's the first I heard. Or with Bonaparte, either, come to that. We're a neutral nation. Why should we worry?'

  The disparaging reference to the Emperor as 'Bonaparte' made Marianne quiver. Her spoon clattered against her plate. Sensing, possibly, that it was a sign that she was ready to give battle, Jason intervened, but with an ill grace.

  'You're talking like a fool, Leighton,' he said harshly. 'You know quite well our trade with England ceased on 2 February. We are neutral now only in name. And what have you to say of the English frigate which gave chase to us off Cape Santa Maria di Leuca? If by some miracle a French ship-of-the-line hadn't turned up to distract her attention, we should have been obliged to fight. As it is, there's no guarantee we shan't have to fight our way out of that damned channel.'

  'If they knew who we had on board, the English would be bound to chase us. An – er – friend of the Corsican! It would be too good to miss!'

  Jason's fist crashed down on the table, making the cutlery jump.

  'There is no reason why they should know, and in that case we should fight! We have guns and, praise God, we know how to use them! Any other objections, Doctor?'

  Leighton leaned back in his chair and spread his hands pacifically. His smile broadened, but smiles were not becoming to that sallow face.

  'No, by no means. Although it's possible the men might have. Already there are murmurs that two women on board will bring bad luck.'

  Jason did look up at this and his eyes blazed on the rash speaker. Marianne saw the veins swell in his temples but he kept a rein on his temper. His voice, when he spoke, was icy cold.

  'The men will have to learn who is master on board this ship. You, too, Leighton. Toby, you may bring the coffee now.'

  The fragrant brew was served and drunk in dead silence. Toby, for all his bulk, flitted round the table with the airy efficiency of a domesticated elf. No one uttered another word and Marianne was on the verge of tears. She felt miserably that everything on board this ship, which had meant so much to her, rejected her. Jason had not wanted to bring her, Leighton hated her and she had not even the satisfaction of knowing why, and now the crew looked on her as a Jonah! She curled her cold fingers round the thin china cup to get a little warmth from it. Then she swallowed the hot coffee at a gulp, and rose.

  'Pray excuse me,' she said, in a voice whose trembling she could not control. 'I should like to return to my cabin.'

  'One moment,' Jason said, rising also. The others followed suit. He glanced round at them and said curtly: 'Do not leave yet, gentlemen. Toby will bring rum and cigars. I shall escort the Princess.'

  Before Marianne, still unable to believe her good fortune, could utter a sound, he had picked up her cloak and placed it round her bare shoulders. Then he opened the door for her and stood aside to let her go first. They were absorbed into the summer night.

  It was dark blue and full of stars. They glittered softly and because the surface of the sea was pricked with little phosphorescent wavelets it seemed as if the ship were sailing through the starry sky. The deck was in darkness but men were gathered on the forecastle, squatting on the deck or standing, leaning on the rail, listening while one of their number sang. The man's voice, slightly nasal but agreeably pitched, reached easily to the man and woman moving slowly down the short flight of steps.

  Marianne held her breath, her heart pounding. She did not know why Jason had suddenly felt the need to be private with her but hope welled up tremblingly inside her and she dared not be the first to speak for fear of breaking the spell. She walked slowly ahead of him, oh, so very slowly, with her head a little bent, wishing that the deck was ten miles long. At last, Jason spoke.

  'Marianne!'

  She stopped at once but without turning. She waited, paralysed with hope now that he had used her name once more.

  'I wanted to tell you… that on my ship you are quite safe. While I am in command, you need have no fears, either of the English or of my own men. Forget what Leighton said. It is unimportant.'

  'He hates me. Is that, too, unimportant?'

  'He does not hate you. Not you specifically, I mean. He feels the same way about all women. He dislikes and resents them, not altogether without reason. His mother did not care for him and the girl he loved and was to have married left him for another. Since that time, he has fallen back on a general detestation.'

  Marianne nodded and turned, slowly, to look at Jason. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, as though he did not know what to do with them, staring out to sea.

  'Why did you bring him?' she asked. 'When you knew what this voyage was to be? You were coming for me and yet, on your own admission, you brought with you a man who hates everything to do with women.'

  'Because…' Jason seemed to hesitate for a moment before going on, in something of a hurry: 'He was not to make the whole voyage with us. It had been agreed that on the way home I was to set him down at a place arranged between us. You must remember that Constantinople was not then included in our plans,' he added, with a touch of bitterness that betrayed his hurt.

  Marianne was stabbed by it to her very soul. Her own gaze went sadly to the sea, where it fled in ripples of blue and silver away from the side of the ship.

  'Forgive me,' she murmured. 'Duty and gratitude can be heavy burdens to carry, but that is no reason to disown them. I wish with all my heart it could have been different for us. I'd dreamed for so long of this voyage, wherever it took us. For me, it was not the end that mattered but being together.'

  In an instant, he was close to her, pressed hard against her. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he implored her, with a passion near to desperation:

  'It's not too late. The course we are on is still – our course. It's not until we're through the straits that we must choose… Oh, Marianne, Marianne, how can you be so cruel to us both! If you would only…'

  His hands were touching her. Weakly she shut her eyes and relaxed against him, aware to the point of agony of the moment's closeness.

  'Am I the one who is cruel? Did I offer you an impossible choice? You thought it only a whim, some kind of attempt to keep alive a past that is gone, a past I don't even want…'

  'Then prove it, my love! Let me take you away from all this. I love you to death and you, of all people, know it! You made that dinner hell for me. I've never seen you look so lovely… I'm only a man! Can't we forget the rest of the world?'

  Forget? It was such a beautiful word and how Marianne longed to be able to utter it with the same conviction as Jason. A nasty, insidious little inward voice would keep whispering that the forgetfulness was to be all on her side. Was he going to wipe the slate clean of all his own past memories? But the present moment was too precious and Marianne did not want to lose it yet. Perhaps, after all, Jason was going to give way? She wriggled round in the circle of his arms and brushed his lips briefly with her own.

  'Can't we forget as easily on the way to Constantinople as on a course for America?' she murmured, kissing him. 'Don't torture me. You know I have to go… but I need you so! Help me!'

  There was a little silence, momentary but complete. Then, all at once, Jason's arms fell.

  'No,' he said.

  He stepped back. Between the two bodies which, a moment before, had been touching, ready to melt together into the same fusion of joy, the curtain of refusal and incomprehension had dropped coldly into place once more, the captain's tall figure bowed sharply, outlined against the blue vault above.

  'Forgive me for asking you,' he said icily. 'This is your cabin. Allow me to wish you a go
od night.'

  He had turned away, he was going further perhaps now than before, just because of love's weakness which had made him cry out in his distress. Pride, that terrible, unapproachable masculine pride, was uppermost once more. As the virile figure vanished into the night, Marianne cried after him:

  'Your love is nothing but lust and obstinacy! But I'll always love you, whether you like it or not… in my own way, because it's the only way I know! You liked it well enough before… It's you who cast me off.'

  That went home. He checked, fractionally, as though he would have turned back, then he stiffened and went on towards the after-cabin where, safe from feminine wiles, those other men, his brothers, waited for him.

  Left alone, Marianne turned towards her own cabin. She was about to open the door when she had the odd feeling that someone was watching her. She swung round abruptly and as she did so a dark shadow detached itself from the foremast and slipped away forward. It was silhouetted for an instant, lithe and dark, against the yellow glow of the prow lantern. Marianne knew, from the supple way he moved, that it was Kaleb and the knowledge annoyed her a little. Apart from the fact that she had other things on her mind just then than the fate of the black people of America, she could not at that moment see the runaway slave as anything other than a source of discord between Jason and herself.

  The door banged to behind her and she hurried to the haven of her bed to mull over in solitude possible ways of defeating Jason's obstinacy. Whatever else had happened, that evening she had won a victory, but she strongly doubted whether Jason would grant her the opportunity of winning any more. Instinct told her that he would probably avoid her like the plague. It might perhaps be wise to deprive him of that satisfaction by keeping out of his sight for a while, even if only to give him time to start asking himself a few questions?

  The Sea Witch sailed on through the night, regardless of the hopes and fears she carried with her, while on the forecastle the sailors continued their singing.

  CHAPTER SEVEN