by Nicola Pryce
‘You must’ve realised he was too heavy to be quite so old. Do monks shave their heads?’
‘I think they might.’ He was watching me.
I was surprised by how calm I felt. I had once had a mare with a rip to her fetlock, but had never seen wounds like this. ‘I’ll need fresh bandages and some brandy…’
‘Brandy?’ He seemed surprised.
‘Yes and quickly. Ship’s surgeons have noted wounds washed in fresh seawater heal better than those washed in barrel water…and bandages soaked in brandy can prevent suppuration.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Never mind how I know. Just help me off with this jacket…have you some cotton bandages? And I’ll need a clean bucket of seawater.’ I pushed up my sleeves, looking at the wounds again, trying to decide where to start. The shoulder wound was deep and badly burnt, bleeding through to his back. I would start with that.
Arnaud put the brandy on the side and started tearing up some cloth. I took a deep breath and began dabbing at the burnt skin, picking out the fragments of charred clothing, rinsing away the black shot. The wound was deep, the path of the bullet straight beneath the shoulder bone. It was still bleeding so I grabbed a thick wad of bandages, pressing them firmly to staunch the blood.
I thought the smell of burnt flesh, the sight of so much blood, would turn my stomach but my mind was racing, trying to remember what I had read. I knew to force the brandy-soaked strips of cotton as deep into the wound as possible. Both sides would need to be done. My hands were trembling, my heart beating. He must not die. He must not.
I reached over, holding the man against me, forcing the bandages deep into the wound, packing it solidly. The brandy was strong, the pungent fumes filling the cabin, making my eyes water. I stood back, examining my work, surprised by how practicality had stemmed my usual queasiness. The bleeding seemed controlled – perhaps I had stemmed it. Either way, I would use all the bandages. I would force them in so tightly until there was no more room.
Arnaud was behind me. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘I haven’t – I just read about it. Father’s library’s full of very useful books. He didn’t collect them, George Pelligrew did, but I’ve learnt a lot…I think it was The Recommendations of the Sick and Hurt Board.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pelligrew,’ he replied, smiling.
I smiled back, suddenly proud of what I had done. ‘Are the luggers still chasing us?’
‘They’re long gone. We’re making good progress.’
I turned the man gently away from me. The second wound was deep, curving in an arc across the back of his head. It was full of sand and large bits of grit; the edges jagged, the surrounding skin bruised and swollen. ‘I’m going to clean and dress this now.’
Arnaud nodded and left. The boat was swaying beneath me – gentle, yet deliberate. It felt safe, comforting, a lovely rhythm. I carefully cleaned away the sand and grit and pressed a thick pad against the wound, securing it tightly. Wrapping a large bandage round his head, I hoped it would hold. I had no notion of time; all I knew was that this man must live. He made no sound, no movement, but his body was strong, his skin healthy. I hoped he stood a chance. I dabbed some brandy to his lips. They were cracked and dry but his breathing seemed stronger. Covering him with a blanket, I pulled down my sleeves. I would leave him to sleep.
The cat had been sitting on the cabinet beside the bunk watching my every movement. She must have sensed I had finished as she sprang to the floor, rubbing against my skirt. I picked her up, holding her to me. ‘Help him live,’ I whispered. ‘We’ve had enough bad luck for a while.’
I felt incredibly hungry. A delicious smell was drifting into the cabin, drawing us both out to the galley. It was four o’clock, a cast-iron pot simmering on the stove, a pile of freshly baked rolls lying in a stack. There was beer in a jug and a cheese in danger of oozing off its board. Arnaud had washed and changed. He was freshly shaven. Over his blue silk jacket he wore a huge white apron. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘I think…well, I hope, I’ve stemmed the bleeding.’ He smiled and my heart seemed to stop. I felt breathless, almost dizzy. I looked down at the cat. ‘That smells delicious. What is it?’
‘Crab – but we’ve just caught a large sea bass. I’ll cook that for supper. Perdue will love it.’
‘Perdue?’
He nodded at the cat, a small plate of crab meat held in one hand. ‘She turned up one day. I found her on the deck. There’s a saying that if a black cat finds a ship, that ship will never sink.’
The hairs on my arms stood up. Shivers ran down my back. ‘Honestly,’ I laughed, ‘you sailors are far too superstitious!’ Perdue seemed to understand my words. Springing from my arms, she jumped on the desk. Her tail flicked, her green eyes stared at angrily me.
Arnaud Lefèvre sucked in his cheeks and shook his head. He handed me the dish of crab meat. ‘Oh dear, I think you better give her this,’ he said.
I held the dish out for her, feeling immediately sorry. She had stayed by my side all through the storm, she had sat watching me dress the man’s wounds and, only minutes ago, I had been asking for her intervention. I needed all the luck I could get. If we had been alone, I would have gone down on my knees and begged her forgiveness.
Chapter Twelve
On board L’Aigrette
Saturday 9th November 1793, 00:30 a.m.
L’Aigrette’s movement was smooth and rhythmical, plunging us gently through the water. I held the tiller, watching the foam swill across the deck, hearing the waves break against the bow. The wind was on the port side, smelling of salt, of vast oceans and distant lands. It was as if I had been sailing all my life. I glanced at the compass; north-north-west. It was just past midnight – only four hours until landfall.
‘Jacques, take your break, I’ll keep watch – I won’t sleep tonight. I’ll wake you when the coast’s in sight. How’s your wrist?’
Jacques shrugged. ‘Better all the time. That fish was delicious – I’ll wash the pan.’
‘No, I’ll do it. You get some rest.’
Jacques nodded to us both. ‘Goodnight, Miss Smith.’
The night was so dark, the tiny crescent moon giving no light. Arnaud pushed the pan to one side and edged closer to my side, his jacket pressing against my cloak. I could feel the warmth of his body through his clothes. He was too close, his position too intimate. A lifetime ago, this was how Rose and Sir James had sat. I must draw away, hand him back the tiller. Now we were alone, I must go below, but somehow I felt so reckless, as if the coast of England would come too soon.
‘The fish really was delicious. I’ve never tasted anything so good. Jacques doesn’t know who I am, does he?’
‘No, your secret’s safe. Why?’
‘It’s just I thought he might have recognised me – he looked surprised when I took down my hood.’ Arnaud smiled, his eyes almost black in the darkness. ‘Why do you smile? I’m being serious.’
‘I told him you were a middle-aged governess with a pock-marked face and a disfiguring scar which you liked to keep hidden. I told him it was better for us all if you kept your hood up!’ He grinned broadly, his eyes alight with mischief.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, but I wanted you to be safe. You’re a born helmsman, Cécile. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?’
I handed him the tiller, leaning back, feeling the wind on my face. The wind of my dreams; the wind I had always imagined. I felt so free. ‘I’ve only ever sailed on my bed in Richmond. I used to sail Charity to China – we often went there.’
‘China?’ he turned round, smiling the same tender smile.
‘Yes – we’ve a lot of things from there. Father works for the East India Company and one of the captains brought us back some fans. When Charity broke hers, I told her I would sail her straight to China to get another one. That was the first time.’
‘Did Charity like sai
ling to China?’
‘No, she hated it! She was scared we wouldn’t find our way back. She thought we’d be eaten by tigers. I told her I had a compass and I’d take a gun.’
‘So you do know how to shoot.’ He was laughing now.
‘Only tigers!’ I replied, laughing back. ‘The compass was a brass badge I found on the terrace. I think it was a naval button – it could have been military – but it had four points on it so I knew it was really a compass. I told Charity all we had to do was point east and then we’d come back pointing west. Poor girl, I used to draw the curtains round the bed and she would cry all the way.’
‘So you did get to China?’
‘Oh yes, we always got to China, but Charity was too scared to open the curtains, so I’d have to sail her all the way home again. She never let me stay long enough to get her another fan. I had to give her mine in the end.’
‘Did you sail by the stars as well?’ His tone was soft, strangely hoarse.
‘Just the North Star,’ I said, looking up. The cloudless day had given way to a cloudless night. Above us, the black sky was ablaze with countless stars. ‘It’s that one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he replied softly, ‘and that one? Do you know who that is?’ He pointed to the brightest star, outshining all others with a brilliance of its own. ‘She’s the goddess of love and beauty.’
‘She must be Venus,’ I said gazing up at her.
The wind was ruffling his hair. He was pointing up to the stars with one hand, the other hand lightly holding the tiller. ‘And that’s Orion – those three stars form his belt… can you see that’s his right hand…and that bright star marks his sword. He’s hunting – that’s his left hand, holding up his shield. He’s chasing the nymphs, the Pleiades, but they remain safely out of his reach.’ He leant closer so I could follow the direction of his gaze. His cheek was next to mine, his breath soft against my skin. I caught the scent of almond soap and forced myself to look away.
‘Then Orion’s a fool,’ I said. ‘He should know better than chase nymphs who’re beyond his reach.’ This was too dangerous. I was being seduced. I must go below.
Suddenly a flash of light caught my eye and I looked up. A brilliant light was flashing across the night sky; a bright red light, blazing so intensely, arching across the sky, leaving a trail of light in its wake. It was so quick, so dazzling, vanishing almost as quickly as it had come and I stared at its path, willing it to reappear. ‘Did you see that?’
‘Yes. A shooting star…a red one – they’re very rare…I’ve never seen one before.’ He was no longer smiling but had turned away, staring at the waves breaking against the bow.
My stomach knotted. ‘Why are you scowling? Is it a bad thing? What does it signify?’
‘Good fortune, long life and happiness.’ The bitterness in his voice seemed at odds with his words.
‘But…I don’t understand – that’s a good omen. I thought you were going to tell me something awful’s going to happen.’
He turned round. There was pain in his eyes. ‘Can’t you see something awful is going to happen?’ His chest was rising and falling, the intensity of his gaze making my heart race. ‘Cécile, don’t marry Viscount Vallenforth – the man’s a vicious brute, for all his wealth and position. You were right to run from him.’ He turned away, his mouth hardening. ‘I just wish I wasn’t taking you back to him.’
I turned to face the wind. I needed to cool the heat in my cheeks, hide the tears filling my eyes. He had voiced my very thoughts. For thirty-six hours, I had been the woman I wanted to be – brave, adventurous, able to do things for myself. I loved everything about this boat – the smell of the sea, the wind in my hair, the sun against my cheek. I loved the sense of adventure, the way my body tingled with excitement, the hint of danger. I did not want to go back.
I wanted to learn how to haul up the sails, navigate by the stars. I wanted to swim in clear blue water, dive for lobsters. I wanted to make bread from beer froth, catch sea bass and cook it on a bed of herbs. I wanted to watch the gannets, shooting like arrows through the air. I wanted to smile back at the dolphins as they rode the bow waves. For a woman with everything, I wanted so much. I fought the lump in my throat, forcing out my words as if they would choke me. ‘If I don’t marry Viscount Vallenforth, Mama will soon find me another suitor.’
‘Then I hope the next one doesn’t whip his stable boys.’ His voice sounded bitter.
‘I hope so, too.’ I held back my tears, forcing myself to sound indifferent, watching the white crests disperse into fine spray. ‘Arnaud, what does a red shooting star really mean?’
His voice was no more than a whisper. ‘When Venus sees two people who should be together, she tells Cupid to send an arrow. It’s his lover’s dart – then nothing can keep them apart.’ His eyes held mine and I clutched my cloak round me. I felt so empty.
‘Then it’s a shame it was wasted on us.’ My voice sounded so much like Mama it frightened me. ‘I need to check our patient and get some sleep. I’ll be glad to get back to dry land – thirty-six hours on a boat is quite long enough. Goodnight, Captain Lefèvre.’
It was the wine, that was all – the bottle of Chablis that had gone so well with the sea bass. Between us, we had drunk the whole bottle. It was the wine, the stars, the beauty of the night. I was not like those silly girls in novels. I had read those books – long before Mama had them removed from the library. Sicilian Romance…The Old Manor House…I had read them all. I could not be fooled by talk of Cupid’s arrows.
The lanterns were lit in the cabin, the wood gleaming in the soft light. A fresh chart lay on the desk, the brass dividers stretching open across it. I would be home soon. Perdue was lying on the cushion, well fed and purring. I opened the door to Arnaud’s cabin and checked my patient. He was breathing deeply, some colour returning to his pale cheeks. The bandage on his head was clean and dry. I pulled back the blanket. The shoulder bandage looked fresh, no signs of seepage.
‘Are you comfortable?’ I whispered in his ear. There was no response. ‘Est-ce que vous êtes confortable?’ I repeated. For a moment I thought I saw his eyelids flicker. I tucked the blanket carefully round him and trimmed the lantern, the brass gleaming like everything else.
I turned to go but two books in the wooden alcove above the bed caught my attention. I reached over, bringing them nearer to the lantern. They were small books, beautifully bound, their red leather bindings worn soft with frequent use. I opened the first. It was a book of poetry. I opened the second and a searing pain shot through me, so sudden, so violent, it felt as if my heart was on fire. The book was a compendium of birds – almost identical to the one I kept by my bed.
I could hardly see the pages. Through my tears I glimpsed the beautiful etchings – egrets, sandpipers, curlews, cormorants, marsh harriers…the collared doves…
I closed the book. The next three hours could not pass quickly enough.
Chapter Thirteen
Porthruan
Saturday 9th November, 4:00 a.m.
‘Wake up, Cécile. The coast’s in sight.’
I had not been asleep. I had been watching him through closed lids – the way he held the papers to the light, the way he held the quill. He had been too absorbed to realise I had been aware of his every move. ‘How’s our patient?’ I said as I took the china cup of coffee.
‘Not awake, but he’s been talking in his sleep. It won’t be long before he comes round. You saved his life, Cécile.’
Perdue stretched and I stroked her little round belly. ‘I’m going to miss this little cat.’
‘She’s never taken to anyone else before.’
‘I think the roast beef and crab might have helped!’
There was no joy in his smile. He seemed distracted, passing his hands through his dishevelled hair. Rough stubble covered his chin, dark circles shadowed his eyes. ‘Everything’s ready, wash when you like – you’ve about thirty minutes. We’ll soon be passing Polperro.’ A te
rrible emptiness filled me. It was still dark and I glanced at the clock. Half past four.
‘Thank you.’ There was tension in the way he spoke, formality in the way I replied. It would need to stay like that.
He had prepared everything – hot water, fresh soap, a silk cloth, a tortoiseshell comb. I stared at my reflection, lifting my chin for courage. In my hand, I held my jewels. I would secure my hat with the pin and wait until I reached Pendenning to wear my diamond earrings, but the huge sapphire ring with its circle of diamonds? I knew Arnaud Lefèvre needed to see it on my finger.
I checked my patient. Arnaud had changed him into working-men’s clothes, his heavy jacket now hiding his shoulder wound, his hat drawn low over his bandage. He was not awake but seemed restless, tossing his head, his brows contracting in pain. His breathing was easier and his colour improved. I unbuttoned his jacket and checked his wound, enjoying a sudden rush of pride. It was clean, no fresh blood, the bandages still tightly in place. I redid the buttons, noticing the top button on the right was missing.
‘Are you ready, Miss Smith?’
I pulled my cloak tightly round me. Freshly squeezed lemons lay on the galley top, coffee warming on the stove. Perdue rubbed against my skirt and I bent to pick her up. ‘Goodbye, Perdue,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you for keeping me safe.’
‘Two at the bow, three on the mast – take these for the stern.’ Through the hatchway I could see Arnaud handing lanterns to Jacques. He reached for a rope. ‘All sails down except the fore sail – it’s a lee shore so we can’t get too close.’
I hurried up the stairs. Arnaud was leaning against the bulwark, staring at the mass of black land just visible through the greyness. I pulled my hood firmly over my hat. ‘But we’re still sailing! I thought we’d be anchoring – or at least tying up along the quay.’
‘Not this time!’ He sensed my alarm and his face softened. ‘It’s better you leave before the excise men welcome us home – they’ll search this ship from top to bottom.’
