by Barbara Wood
Finally she looked at herself in the glass. But she frowned at her reflection. Although the dress was dazzling, she herself still looked old and plump. Kent would hardly give her a second look. And then she remembered the Star of Cathay. With trembling fingers she fastened the brooch to the lowest point of her décolletage, so that the diamonds and sapphires gave the appearance of the blue crystal having fluttered like a butterfly and landed quivering on her exposed bosom.
The transformation was instantaneous. A new woman stood before her in the looking glass. The crystal did indeed possess magic! Brigitte Bellefontaine was young, slender, and beautiful again.
Before she went downstairs, she took Colette’s hands in a firm grip and said, “Now listen to me. We are about to have unexpected visitors. Do not be afraid. Do not try to run away.”
“But, madame—”
“Colette! Listen carefully, for you must do exactly as I say…”
Before she left the bedroom, she took a final look at herself in the mirror and smiled with grim approval. Glancing at the musket leaning against the wall she thought, Sometimes a gown is better than a gun.
Although over a hundred slaves worked on Bellefontaine—in the fields, in the sugar refinery and rum distillery—it only took a handful of men with pistols and muskets to keep them all frightened and compliant. As Brigitte made her way through the main living room of her house, she heard the stamping of feet outside, the growled commands, the occasional sound of a whip. The female slaves, whose work was concentrated on the master’s family, house, vegetable gardens and hen yards, came running at the sight of their men stumbling at pistol and sword point into the main yard. They immediately sent up wails of lament. House servants rushed to the windows and cowered there, looking out with big frightened eyes.
Brigitte paused to compose herself. She could barely breathe. Outside she heard screams and shouts and gunfire. But she waited behind the closed front door, calming herself, an actress awaiting her grand entrance. Holding herself in check, for her impulse was to run, she held back for another long minute and then reached for the door, drew it slowly open.
The pirates were a frightening sight with their arsenal of weapons: muskets, blunderbusses, cutlasses, daggers, and pistols. Some even brandished boarding axes meant for hacking at nets and rigging. They numbered fifty, Brigitte guessed, and were dressed in an array of rags and tatters, with long filthy hair and mismatched boots. Against the backdrop of blazing torches they resembled, or so Brigitte thought, Satan’s army of imps and demons.
Henri was tied up in ropes, and had been pushed to his knees. Brigitte had to steel herself against running to him.
The veranda was arrayed in masses of climbing flowers, all colors of the rainbow, and the pillars were thick with green vines. The combined perfume was rich and heady while the last of a few industrious bees buzzed about the blossoms. Framed thus, as if on a theater stage, Brigitte did not say a word, but stood there until, one by one, the men fell silent and stared.
Captain Kent had just reached the bottom step when he realized everyone had fallen silent. He turned and looked up. Now, in the dusky gloom and by lantern light, Brigitte saw his features more clearly: they were sharp and hard. Kent was wearing a long black coat, generously cut, nearly reaching his ankles. It was richly embroidered with silk and gold thread, and the buttons were shining gold. His breeches were black, and he wore spotless white stockings and well-shined shoes with gold buckles. White ruffles frothed at his throat and wrists. Beneath his wide-brimmed tricorn hat he wore no wig but had his own long hair tied back in a ponytail with side curls over his ears, in the very latest fashion. Every inch the fine gentleman, Brigitte thought, as if he had arrived to attend an opera instead of ransack a house.
When his eyes met hers, a startling thought came suddenly to her mind: Back in the fortune-teller’s tent on the grounds of Versailles, a big celebration for the king’s birthday with actors and jugglers and a carnival. The old Gypsy saying to sixteen-year-old Brigitte, “This blue stone possesses tremendous fire. You see? It is trapped inside. One day this fire will be released and it will consume you. In love. In passion. In a man’s arms. A man who will make such love to you that you will nearly die of ecstasy.”
Clasping her hands tightly before her, Brigitte glided forward to the edge of the veranda, as gracefully and without fear as she could, and said softly, “Welcome to my home, m’sieu.”
He stared. Then he smiled. And the way he looked her up and down—she knew that just an hour ago he would not have looked at her in that way. But she was beautiful now, because of the magic in the blue crystal. It had cast a spell and transformed her.
“Milady,” he said, removing his hat with a flourish and extending one leg forward as he bowed.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet so still and silent were the gathered men that everyone heard. “We offer you the hospitality of our home.”
Brigitte silently thanked God that she and her sisters had had an English tutor when they were girls, for her father had believed in his children having a well-rounded education in order that they may move in all the best and most cultured circles. Her sister had then married an English baron and had moved to Britain, so that for the past twenty years Brigitte had written letters to her nieces and nephews in English—thank God for that, too. While she was not expert at the language, she could make herself understood.
Kent’s eyebrows arched. “Hospitality! We won’t be staying, mistress. We’ve come for the gold and then we’ll be on our way.”
Several yards away, her husband, having been knocked to his knees, shouted, “Save yourself, Brigitte!”
She moistened her lips. “To refuse hospitality is rude, m’sieu. And I had heard you were a gentleman.”
He smiled. “So you know who I am then,” he said.
“You are Captain Christopher Kent.”
“And you aren’t afraid of me?”
“I am,” she said in as matter-of-fact tone as she could, but her heart beat in fear. “But regardless of who you are, sir, or your intention here, it is the custom among my class to offer hospitality to the visitor.”
His laugh was short and dry. “You think a few victuals will save your gold?”
She lifted her chin. “You mistake my intention, sir. You may have our gold since there is obviously no way I can stop you. But I had thought that as a gentleman you would understand the rules of civilized behavior.”
His dark eyes flickered and she knew she had touched a sensitive spot. Pirate or not, Christopher Kent believed in his heart that he was a gentleman. Why else would he dress so when the rest of his men dressed like animals? “I have six sucking piglets, ready to be cooked,” she added.
He put his hands on his hips and said with a laugh, “Well this is a new trick!”
While some of the men laughed with him, one of them, older than Kent, with long gray hair twisted into a nest of braids and a cancer growing on the side of his nose, stepped up and said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, how might ye be preparin’ them piggies?”
Brigitte refused to acknowledge the man. She continued to address Kent: “I cook them with cloves and garlic, capers and oregano, accompanied by hot bread soaked in garlic gravy, herbed goat cheese and a cold ginger soup. Mango tarts covered in chocolate sauce for dessert.”
“And what’s to drink?” the brute said sharply.
“French wine and brandy,” she said to Kent.
The man rubbed the good side of his nose and said to his captain, “It might not be a bad idea, Chris. We ain’t had a good meal since God knows when.”
“And let the soldiers catch us with our guard down? Don’t you see it’s a trick, Mr. Phipps?”
“I don’t think the soldiers know we’re here, Chris. But I can check.” He added more quietly, “And I don’t think it’s a trick. The lady’s bargaining is what. Thinks we’ll show mercy.”
Kent gave this some thought. And while he did, Brigitte drew in a deep breath
, causing the blue-crystal brooch on her bosom to flash its blue fire.
As she had intended, it caught Kent’s eye. He took one look at the white breast and gave a signal to Phipps, who in turn sent two men clambering up trees as lookouts. Then Kent gave another signal and a mob of his men rushed forward, thundered up the veranda steps, past Brigitte and into the house.
She used all her self-control to ignore the sounds of ransacking and vandalism within. Her home meant nothing in this moment; all her precious furniture and pottery, draperies and jewelry. The pirates could have it all.
Mr. Phipps came back to report: “The lookouts report that everything’s quiet, no hue and cry has been raised, it’s business as usual down at the harbor. What about that feast, Chris?”
Kent went up the steps and drew close to Brigitte. She could barely breathe as she looked up at him, for he towered over her. “How do I know you will not poison us?” he said. “I have been deceived by a beautiful woman before.”
She caught her breath. He had called her beautiful! “An understandable caution, m’sieu. Then let your own men do the slaughtering and the spitting, and let them oversee the making of the sauces and bastings, and have my slaves taste everything that is prepared.”
She saw the dark currents in his eyes as he assessed what was surely an unexpected situation. “I hope you do not take me for a fool,” he said softly.
Their eyes met and held.
The moment stretched; Brigitte caught her breath. This was the crucial moment. And then Kent relaxed, his lips curled in a smile and he said, “Very well, we eat!”
His men cheered and Kent, inclining himself toward Brigitte, said, “Now to the matter of business. Where is the gold, mistress, or shall we wring it from your husband?”
Recalling tales she had heard of Kent, how his men had strung up plantation owners by the wrists in the hot midday sun until they told where their fortune was hidden, she said, “Please do not hurt my husband. If you promise not to harm him, I shall take you to the treasure.”
Making certain first that the roasting pits were being prepared and that her kitchen slaves understood their assignments, reassuring them that as long as everyone cooperated they would be safe, Brigitte led Kent and a handful of his men from the main yard down a flagstone path, one of many walkways scattered in this tropical paradise, leading to gardens and cottages, as well as to the sugar refinery and rum distillery, and, beyond that, the slaves’ quarters. Brigitte walked ahead of her “guests” with a graceful glide learned long ago in girlhood, her voluminous pink and yellow skirts skimming along the path as if no human legs propelled them beneath. It was a walk she had perfected on the grounds of Versailles to catch the flirtatious attention of young men; she used it now to guide thieves to a treasure.
They reached a clearing in the lush growth and saw before them a vision that made even these rough men goggle with wonder. It was a gazebo, seemingly spun of starlight, white and shimmering in the night. Brigitte graciously stepped to one side, as if about to serve tea. “There,” she said, pointing to the floor of the structure. “Beneath those boards.”
Standing their blazing torches into the ground, the men rushed forward, axes going at the boards with a great splintering and tearing. They ripped up the floor and hauled out the chests hidden beneath. Brigitte stood wordlessly as the men dragged their booty back to the compound where a bonfire had been lit, fueled, she noticed, by furniture from the house. By the light of the flames, the plunderers pried open the chests and gave a great shout when they saw the gold coins, for coins were what pirates preferred most.
That was clearly the signal for the celebration to get underway, for from out of nowhere a fiddle was produced and someone began a lively jig. Others had broken into the distillery and were rolling giant oak barrels of rum up the path. Female slaves began going nervously through the mob of men with wine bottles and cups, while on the other side of the fire the roasting pits were already singeing the pigs on spits. Brigitte saw her husband and the other captives being prodded into the pig pen, where they were pushed into the muck while their tormentors howled with laughter.
Somewhere during the rough march from the sugarcane fields, Henri had lost his magnificent wig. Large and richly black it had been, with carefully tiered curls rising high on his head and cascading down his back and over his shoulders. Newcomers to the island remarked that such wigs were now out of date, but Henri didn’t care. He held to old traditions, which dictated that a gentleman must look his best at all times, and so he wore his wigs no matter what the weather or what task he was about. But it had been knocked from his head and now he was bareheaded, his graying hair standing up in tufts as the pirates poked and kicked him and made fun of him.
Brigitte dug her fingernails into her palms and kept her composure. She wanted to grab one of the burning torches and run into the crowd of pirates, bludgeoning them as she went.
But in the next instant Kent was looking at her, and she remembered her resolve, and that this night was going to be her only chance.
“Hm,” he said, studying her in the flickering torchlight. “What makes you so unafraid, I wonder?”
His comment startled her. Could he not see the pulse galloping at her throat, the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her hands? “I am not unafraid,” she said, and it was the truth. But what she was afraid of was another question.
“When you came out of your house you did not seem surprised to see us. You appeared almost to have been expecting us.”
She pointed to the roof of the house. “On that platform there is a spyglass. I watched your progress from the beach.”
He stared at it with great interest. “I would like to see this glass.”
She nodded and led the way. They passed through the yard where the piglets turned on spits cut from branches, and Kent’s men were happily at work draining the rum casks. Atop two very tall palm trees, lookouts with spyglasses kept watch on the fortress and the town of Saint-Pierre. At the slightest sign of military movement, they could give the signal and Kent and his men would vanish. Brigitte prayed that no such signal would be given.
The house had been thoroughly pillaged, with pottery smashed on the polished wooden floors, furniture overturned, silver-and goldware heaped in a pile by the door, ready to be carted off. Brigitte wordlessly led Kent through to the rear garden, where purple orchids and orange bougainvillea mingled with scarlet hibiscus and pale pink oleander. She preceded him up the narrow staircase, her back straight, her head held high, as if she were giving royalty a tour of her home. But she was aware of the sharp cutlass that hung from his waist, the pistol and dagger tucked into his belt. The space between her shoulder blades crept with fear. She felt as if she were being followed by a wild animal, like the black jaguar the governor kept in a cage in his home.
When they reached the rooftop and its curious platform with a low guardrail, they saw that the full moon was starting to rise. They also had a good view of the compound below, where Brigitte’s terrified slaves were cooking under the watchful eyes of Kent’s men, being made to taste everything as they went along. Even the basting used on the piglets was tasted first.
At the sound of so much music, Brigitte gave Kent a curious look. He smiled. “We’re a lucky crew, for we’ve musicians among us. It’s every pirate ship that hopes for at least a piper and a fiddler.” He nodded as he leaned on the rail and watched the festivities below. “I’ve a good crew.” Phipps, the man with the many pigtails, was the quartermaster—the strong man of the ship, the ship’s magistrate and punisher of minor offenses. He was also responsible for the selection and division of the plunder. There was Jeremy, the sailing master in charge of navigation, and Mulligan the boatswain, Jack the gunner, Obadiah the sailmaker, Luke the carpenter. They even had a ship’s surgeon, although he was fairly useless in tropical waters where the main causes of death were the incurable yellow fever, malaria and dysentery. His main job was amputations.
Brigitte showed Kent the glass
and noticed that he had to bend low to peer through it, he was so tall. She also sensed a body of great physical strength beneath the long coat and breeches. The French colonists, with slaves to do all the work and such abundance of food and drink, were a soft lot; men who had forgotten the sport of dueling and riding. But she suspected that Christopher Kent was held together with strong muscle and sinew.
Kent looked through the glass and then, satisfied that no soldiers had been dispatched from the distant fort, he straightened and turned his attention to his perplexing hostess. His eyes went to the brooch on her breast and he said, “Now there’s a fair piece.”
“It is a famous stone, m’sieu, called the Star of Cathay. It was created in faraway China by a wizard who, the legend goes, created it to win a lady’s heart. It is supposed to bring love and romance to whoever possesses it.”
He smiled and reached for it.
She put her hand over it protectively. He mustn’t have it yet! She needed to be beautiful, for just a while longer. If he took it now, her beauty would go with it and her plan would fail. “I shall give it to you as a gift when you leave.”
He laughed and his gaze lingered on her hand, which protected not only the brooch but her breast as well. “And to what are you referring when you say you shall give it to me as a gift? The brooch or the treasure beneath?”
She tried not to look away, but instead met his bold gaze challenge for challenge. “Is this the way you treat the women on the island where you live?”
He shifted his eyes to the distant horizon and seemed to consider answering her. Finally he said, “I don’t live on an island. I have a plantation in the American colony of Virginia.”
Her shock was apparent. “You live among civilized people?”
“It is in fact those so-called civilized people,” he said with a wry smile, “who support my privateering. After all, plunder is only plunder until it can be sold. Without buyers there would be no reason for piracy.”
“I do not understand.”
