by Kim Wilkins
Constance quickly closed the lid of the box in her lap and picked up a volume of The Odyssey. “Reading,” she said.
Orlanda came to take the volume off her, wrinkling her nose as she read the title. While she was distracted, Constance quietly slid the box back onto the shelf.
“You’re reading Homer? Lord, really? I didn’t think anybody actually read Homer. I thought they just bought his books because they looked impressive.” Orlanda peered closely at the book.
Constance smiled, thinking of how Aunty Violet had insisted she read Homer and how Constance had, indeed, found it hard work.
“In any case, I thought you had a headache,” Orlanda continued, somewhat skeptically.
“I do. But it was hot in my room.”
“Ah! I told you so,” said Orlanda, temporarily satisfied. “You’ll have to ask your father to prevail upon mine. We could share a room.” She strode to the French doors and opened them, letting a warm gust of sea air in. “Now, would you like to hear exciting news?”
Constance feigned interest. No doubt it would be about the dance. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ve been speaking with my mother. I find that she’s only too ready to comply with my requests at certain times of the day.” Orlanda went into an exaggerated pantomime, lifting her trembling hand to her lips with an imaginary glass. “I’ve said I’d like to improve my French. I’m sure you can imagine why.” Here she trailed off into a sly giggle. “A certain French boy that I’ve met has got me very interested.”
Constance felt a stab of jealousy. She didn’t answer.
“So, can you imagine what I’ve asked her? Oh, you’ll love this. It is so wickedly perfect.”
“What have you asked her?”
She began to laugh. “I’ve asked if Alexandre can come once a week to give us French lessons!” she squealed. “And the best part? She said yes!”
As the sun sank, the waves began to rush, and the day began to cool. Orlanda had been called sternly by Howlett—a lack of attention to her daily chores was at issue—and Constance took the opportunity to let herself out of the library and through the garden to the colonnaded dancing room.
From there she picked her way over the sand to where Alexandre sat, alone.
She watched from a distance a few moments. Then he seemed to sense her presence and turned. He smiled.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
“Good afternoon, Constance,” he replied.
“I . . . ah . . . my father has been to see you?”
“Yes. Plans for the pearler.”
He didn’t invite her to sit with him, but of course he couldn’t. Not really. It would be seen as inappropriate, even on this wide empty beach.
How little she cared for what was appropriate.
She sat next to him on the sand. His feet were bare, and she wished hers were too, so she could feel the warm sand between her toes. “I saw you from upstairs,” she said, indicating the villa over her shoulder. “You were drawing.”
“I like to draw.”
“May I see?”
He reluctantly opened his drawing book and began to turn the pages. “These are all of La Reine des Perles,” he said. “But these . . .” He trailed off, began flipping slowly through a series of pictures in the same place. Each was slightly different.
“They’re beautiful. Where is this?”
“It is a place in France I saw when I was a boy. I do not know the name, but it is always in my mind. Like a pleasant dream. You wake and you want to go back. . . .”
“But you can never quite get there. I know.” She turned her eyes to the sunset. Rose blush and dusty blue. Clouds across the horizon obscured the sun.
He seemed to read her thoughts. “The clouds ruin it. They always ruin it. I have watched hundreds of sunsets over the sea, and there are nearly always clouds on the horizon. Only three times have I seen the sun sink into the water unobscured. It is spectacular. A ball of flame extinguishing itself.”
Constance loved the way he spoke, his soft accent. She fervently hoped that Orlanda’s plan to have him in the villa once a week would work out, but knew in her heart that Father would object. He had very clear ideas about people’s social situations. No matter how kindly he treated Alexandre, he believed crew belonged a long way from ladies and gentlemen.
“It’s still beautiful. Even with the clouds,” she said. The sea breeze tugged at her bonnet. “Alexandre, earlier today I . . . you said you would help me. With my search for my mother.”
He turned to her, smiled slightly, as though afraid to smile completely. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Her name was . . . is Faith Emilia Blackchurch. She went missing in 1782. All I know is that Father had enough reason to believe she might be here that he took out an empty ship to find her. There was a ship, I think. The Monkey King. You speak the local language. If you can find out anything—anything at all, no matter how small it might seem—I’d be so grateful.”
“I will do my best.”
They fell into silence as the sun slipped behind the horizon and the blue twilight came. Finally, Alexandre stretched his legs. “I had best get back aboard my vessel, before it is too dark.”
“I suppose it’s nearly supper time.”
He stood and held out a hand to help her to her feet. She took it, heart in her mouth. His skin was warm, rough. He released her fingers as soon as she was on her feet, but she thought she sensed reluctance. Her blood fluttered in her veins.
“Goodnight, Alexandre,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
Then she returned to the villa. The soft evening air was heavy with the smell of spice and smoke. She felt warm, as though she had been told a secret, or made a promise. Her feet were light on the flagstones back towards the library.
Father was at the writing desk, a lantern newly lit beside him. He glanced up, then shoved his papers under his elbow and leapt to his feet.
“Constance, I hadn’t thought to see you here.”
“I’ve been for a stroll.”
“On the sand. Yes, I see. You’ve brought in a trail on your shoes.”
Constance looked behind her and saw the sand on Howlett’s rug. “Oh,” she said.
“Never mind. You can clean it up later. I have to talk to you.”
She untied her bonnet, excitement filling her up. Was he going to share his search for Faith after all? “Have you heard something?”
His eyebrows drew down. “Yes, I have. And I don’t like it at all.”
Constance gulped, her heart frozen. “Oh, no! Is she dead?”
“Dead? Is who dead?”
“Mother.”
“I wasn’t speaking of your mother.” Father uttered a sigh of exasperation, pacing away from her. “Constance, my business here is my own. I don’t have a mind to share it.”
Constance hardened her heart against him. Fine, she thought, then I shan’t share my business either, and we shall see who finds her first.
“I’m referring to this nonsense about the French lad. Howlett’s silly daughter—” He realized his voice was too loud and dropped it to a harsh whisper. “Orlanda has gained her mother’s approval to have French lessons with him weekly. I think it is out of the question. I’m sure he’s a nice boy, but he’s crew. Crew don’t teach ladies French. Let the Howletts put their daughter in harm’s way. But not mine.”
She didn’t ask him what particular harm he thought Alexandre capable of. “But Father, you always urge me to continue my French instruction.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you always tell me that you’d rather study astronomy. Why is French now so interesting?”
Constance retreated from the question. Any strenuous protests would draw suspicion. She feigned indifference. “It matters nothing to me,” she said. “Orlanda can have lessons with him, and I shall enjoy the peace and quiet.” Though she’d get little peace, being tortured by her own jealousy.
“Ah.” Father pressed his lips together hard. “Well, there’s the p
roblem. I don’t want to offend Howlett, nor his wife. If I forbid you, then it looks as though I am judging the way they are raising their daughter. They must be made to think it is your decision.”
“Father,” she said in a mock-shocked voice, “are you asking me to lie?”
“I am asking you to help me keep good friends on side.”
“Orlanda will say that she won’t take no for an answer. She’ll probably sob with disappointment.”
He turned his shoulder to her, idly spinning the mounted globe that sat on the mantelpiece. “Orlanda is a ninny. She’ll soon recover.”
A few moments of silence passed between them. Outside, crickets had started to chirp. “Is that all, Father?” Constance asked.
“That is all.”
“I’ll see you at supper then?”
He turned and met her gaze. “Constance, I don’t understand young women, and I never have. But I must say this to you: I hope most fervently that you haven’t developed ideas about Alexandre that are . . . not fitting.”
She wanted to demand of him: Why must I always fit? Instead, she said, “No, Father. Of course not.”
“Well. No good would come of it, you understand? Remember you are a civilized English woman, not a wild savage. Let Orlanda be foolish. You are a sensible girl.”
Ordinarily, she would glow at his compliment; they were so rarely bestowed. But this time it was misplaced. She was, indeed, having thoughts about Alexandre that were far from sensible.
Chapter 10
An anxious knot sat in Alexandre’s stomach the morning of the first French lesson. It had been a week since they had arrived at Nagakodi, and five days since Howlett had cornered him and told him that he would be instructing the “young ladies” in the library every Tuesday.
“You won’t receive payment,” Howlett said. “Acceptance into my home should be payment enough for a man of your social situation.”
Alexandre would have accepted these terms anyway. But the prospect of being with Constance once a week made him agree readily, though he’d been careful not to appear too eager.
Today, too, he had information for her. He had questioned a number of the locals and discovered that Faith Blackchurch was remembered by many of them—and not for good reasons. She had lived locally for four years, gained a reputation for a cruel temper with the local traders, before disappearing. Getting Constance alone to speak to her, however, might prove difficult. Orlanda was very overbearing.
He brought the rowboat ashore and stepped out. He was unused to wearing shoes, and these were an old pair of de Locke’s boots, too small for him. Still, he imagined he looked quite respectable: shod, hair tied back, buttons all fastened, cuffs unrolled and tight at his wrists. He walked up to the villa and knocked soundly on the front door.
Chandrika showed him in. Orlanda waited in the library with Howlett. Constance was nowhere in sight. Morning sunshine slanted into the room and illuminated the green leaves of the hibiscus outside the French doors.
Howlett unfolded his spidery body from the couch, glancing at his pocket watch. “Ah, you are punctual, I see.”
A mixture of tension and confusion made him hold his tongue. He stood wordlessly, aware he should say something but not sure what it was.
“Good, then,” Howlett muttered. “Orlanda, let the young man go after one hour. I shall come to check.” He turned to Alexandre. “She hasn’t much of a brain, so do be easy on her.” Then he left.
Orlanda smiled at him prettily. “Sit here with me on the sofa.”
“Where is Constance?” he said, without moving.
“Constance has been just beastly!” Orlanda said, her bottom lip pushed out. “She says she has no desire to learn French and wouldn’t be persuaded to think otherwise—not even for me, her only friend in Ceylon! I am so very disappointed in her.” She patted the seat next to her, all smiles again. “Come. Sit.”
Alexandre did as she asked, all the time feeling the sink of his heart. When Constance had come to speak to him on the beach, he had been certain he saw some flicker of feeling in her eyes. He felt very deflated, foolish even. Orlanda was chattering to him without pause, but he couldn’t bring himself either to listen or to respond.
“Shall we begin, Alexandre?” She handed him a piece of paper on which she had written a column of French words and phrases. “Here is a list I’ve made. Could you tell me how to pronounce them correctly?”
When he saw what they were, he was speechless.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Can you not read?”
“I . . . yes. I can read.” De Locke had taught him to read, one of his only precious gifts. The problem was the nature of the words: Love, she loves him, he loves her, I love you, you love me. Kiss, she kisses him, he kisses her, I kiss you, you kiss me.
Her voice became hard. “Well, then, do as I ask.”
Alexandre thought quickly and handed back the paper. “I can’t read them as they are. The grammar is all wrong. I think for our first lesson we should concentrate on grammar.”
Orlanda, temporarily foiled, put the list aside and paid close attention. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s start with you.” Orlanda was not as dim-witted as her father thought. In fact, she was very bright. Her problem was that she couldn’t focus for long without being distracted by some trivial thought or another, all of which she felt compelled to voice. Alexandre estimated half the lesson was idle chatter. He didn’t mind listening to her, but he was not given much to talking, so he spent a lot of time in silence.
“Alexandre,” she said, when he was certain that the hour must have already passed and had started to wonder if Howlett was going to come back to set him free, “I have something for you.”
He was puzzled and, truth be told, a little concerned. “I beg your pardon?”
She slipped her hands behind her neck and released the clasp on the necklace she was wearing, a little gold bird on a chain.
Alexandre leaned away from her as she offered it to him. “No, no,” he said. “I cannot accept a gift from you.”
“But I want you to have it.” She reached for his hand, tried to prise open his fingers, and managed to tangle it around his thumb. All the while he protested and she insisted. Then the door to the room opened, and Orlanda jumped away as if scalded, leaving the necklace wrapped around Alexandre’s fingers. Presuming it to be her father, he quickly thrust his hand into his pocket.
It wasn’t her father. It was Constance.
“Good morning, dear friend,” Orlanda said smoothly. “I’m sorry, but the French lesson is finished. It is too late for you to change your mind.”
“I don’t wish to change my mind. Good morning, Alexandre,” she said, but he found he couldn’t meet her eye. “Orlanda, the paper and ribbons have arrived from the stationer.”
Orlanda squeaked. “Lovely! Now we can get on with making the invitations.” She turned to Alexandre. “I’m going to host a dance, you see. Would you like—” Then she stopped herself, and an uncomfortable silence dragged out, as they all realized she had been about to invite him, then thought better of it.
“It’s a very great shame, but I don’t suppose I can invite him,” Orlanda said, turning to Constance, who had the decency to blush. “Father will expect me to invite only ladies and gentlemen. Do you think I should ask if I can make an exception?”
Alexandre wavered between embarrassment and anger. His pride made him speak up. “I do not wish to go,” he said. “Such a gathering does not interest me.”
“Yes, I imagine you would be very uncomfortable,” Orlanda continued, still oblivious to the embarrassment she may have caused him. “I expect you don’t even know the simplest dance. We shall have to manage without you, shan’t we, Constance?”
Constance examined her hands, refusing to meet Orlanda’s eyes. Orlanda bustled to the door. “Thank you for today’s lesson, Alexandre,” she said. “Can I show you to the door?”
Alexandre stood and pointed his thumb behind him. “May
I go through the garden? It’s quicker.”
“But I have to collect my stationery at the front door,” she said.
“I’ll show him out,” Constance offered.
Orlanda looked at her, narrowed her eyes fractionally, then shrugged. “Certainly.” She flounced off, leaving Constance and Alexandre alone in the library.
“This way,” she said, moving ahead of him. There was such grace in her movements, not like Orlanda’s overly cultured primness. As they passed through the French doors into the garden, she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Have you any news of my mother?”
Alexandre felt a wave of irritation, and tried to understand its cause. Perhaps it was that she had not considered him good enough to teach her French; and yet now, when she needed something from him, she was not averse to his company. The baffling thing to Alexandre was why any of this mattered. He had never in his life cared what people thought of him, of his social situation. But with Constance, he cared very much.
“Alexandre?” she said, stopping and turning to him. “Did you hear my question?”
He shook off these feelings, more fitting for a silly girl like Orlanda. “Yes, Constance. A number of people remember her.”
Constance’s eyes rounded. “They do?”
“Yes, and they told me where she once lived. But she is no longer there.” She had gone pale, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and take her hand. “Are you well?”
“I’m . . . it’s just such a shock, I suppose. Nobody knows where she went?”
He shook his head, not telling her that many had thought the town well rid of her. “The house still stands, though, on the outer rim of the town, nearly in the jungle. I can tell you how to get there.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said, “yes, there might be something there. A clue. A diary . . . something. But, Alexandre, could you take me there? If it’s a long way from town, I should be quite nervous to go alone.”
Complex emotions swam through him. The desire to be with her, to protect her, was strong. Much stronger than the insult he had felt at her imagined rejection. Despite his misgivings, he said softly, “I am at your service, Constance.”
