The Lady's Guide to Escaping Cannibals

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Naughty children stuck out their tongues, not ladies of the British realm—even when they were dealing with situations of acute emotional distress.

  The brandy was certainly going some way to making her feel braver, more like herself, in fact—or the self she ought to be. Someone who wouldn’t let these sour-faced men deter her from what needed to be done.

  This time, when the waiter returned, Bathsheba looked him full in the eye, leant forward conspiratorially, and put the same question she’d addressed to the concierge: was there someone who knew the comings and goings of the harbour vessels—someone “in the know”.

  Ages ago, she’d read a novel where someone had said that and winked. She considered having a go and fluttered one eyelash, but it only made her nose wrinkle up. Quickly, she brought out her handkerchief to conceal the peculiar squinching.

  The waiter looked perturbed.

  Damn. He really will think I’m mad, and ask me to leave. Bathsheba gazed into the brandy despondently.

  But the waiter didn’t say anything. Nor did he move away, except to angle himself slightly and cast his eyes to the very back of the lounge. Bathsheba squinted through the cigar smoke.

  Bending to wipe at an imaginary mark on the side table, he murmured something.

  “Silver?” Bathsheba sucked in her breath. He wanted payment? That was a bit rich, seeing as he hadn’t yet told her anything.

  “Senhor de Silva,” the waiter hissed and jerked his head. There was no doubt he was indicating someone at the far end of the room. Someone sitting in a booth rather than an armchair, with just his leg poking out.

  A booted leg.

  And, for the briefest moment, a dark face dipping into view.

  “Oh, I see. Very good, thank you.”

  The wink really had worked.

  Bathsheba nodded to the waiter and, slightly unsteadily, got to her feet. Taking her glass with her, she processed across the plush carpet of the Fairfax Hotel lounge. Judgmental eyes were still upon her but she lifted her chin and did her best to look purposeful.

  Nothing mattered but Sebastian.

  No matter who this person was, if he knew something that would help her find her brother, she had to talk to him. She had money, after all—and money bought information.

  Chapter Three

  Whoever she was, she was causing a hell of a commotion.

  Not that the stuffed shirts in the Fairfax were particularly keen on having him in their midst either, but he was suffered to occupy the corner booth on account of him bringing in a good deal of the liquor on those elegant shelves. He was expected to keep himself to himself while he drank, and that suited him just fine. He’d no desire to stick his nose in where government officials and crooked businessmen were cooking up their deals.

  One more shot and he planned to take his troubles over to Senhora Leonor’s establishment. The girls would have to take it easy on him, what with his ribs as they were, but that would do just fine. He wasn’t averse to lying back and letting a woman do the work.

  Before he could drain his glass, there was a crash of falling furniture halfway down the room and raised voices—one of the stuffed shirts cursing, and the regal-looking bit of petticoat apologizing.

  What the hell?

  She’d knocked over a table but it appeared to be her own drink that had gone flying.

  Dropping to the carpet, she fumbled about trying to find who knew what, sticking her dainty derriere in the air, then sat up on her knees to dab at the man’s soaked crotch with a napkin.

  Jorge gave a bark of amusement then drew a quick intake of breath, clutching his ribs.

  Too sore to laugh. Don’t look.

  But he couldn’t help it.

  The waiter, Carlos, had her arm hooked under his and was marching her away—but not to the doors.

  They were coming towards him.

  Damn it!

  The arrogant miss might be worse for drink but that hadn’t removed the haughty expression from her face.

  She was one of “them”, alright; no doubt related to one of the high-ups overseeing the Protectorate. She’d slipped her chaperone and was knee-deep in trouble.

  “Senhor, the lady wishes to speak with you.” Carlos didn’t wait for Jorge to reply, depositing her straight into the booth, before swiftly departing.

  Jorge scowled. This was all he needed.

  To be on the safe side, he pushed the bottle—still a good way full—to one side. He’d every intention of drinking it empty before the night was out. It wouldn’t do to have her knock that over as well.

  Whatever she needed to say, he hoped she’d spit it out, but she was just sitting—looking flustered, pale but for the rise of colour high on her cheeks.

  She wasn’t bad looking, now that he’d a chance to see her close. Crawling about the floor had sent a few locks tumbling from the pins and given her a slightly breathless air. Her hair was an unusual shade, too, though it was hard to say exactly—somewhat auburn, but tinged with red. None of the women at Madame Leonor’s had hair like this.

  “Is it painful?” She leaned forward a little, peering at his face.

  Her question threw him for a moment, until he remembered his swollen eye. “Nothing a touch more bourbon won’t sort out.” He surveyed her through lids half-closed, quietly glowering. It was the sort of look he gave his crew when he wanted to be left alone, but she didn’t take the hint.

  “More likely worse tomorrow, but that’s what comes of fighting, isn’t it. One must live with the consequences.” She said it quite cheerfully, oblivious to his glare.

  “What makes you think I’ve been in a fight?” Even though it was true, and based on the sorry state he no doubt presented, her assumption riled him.

  “Oh, I’ve seen a few. My brother used to box for his college. He wasn’t terribly good, so someone was always giving him a black eye.” She stopped suddenly, looking perturbed.

  Resting her fingertips against her brow, she looked at him with a sombre expression, utterly regretful. “Very rude of me. Forget I mentioned it, please.”

  It caught him off guard—her about-turn of politeness and genuine discomfort. What was she about, this strange young woman? Her fair skin, speech and manner proclaimed her a lady, despite her antics in the past quarter hour.

  She wasn’t used to liquor—and that explained her ill-judgement, perhaps—but why was she here, unchaperoned, and ordering herself balloons of brandy?

  Giving a sniff and an uncertain smile, she held out her hand across the table. “We should start again. I’m… Mrs. Asquith.”

  Mrs., indeed.

  If she were married, he’d be interested to know where her husband was.

  As for the proffered hand, he didn’t know if she meant him to shake it or kiss it, like some medieval courtier. He did neither, merely taking a gulp from his glass.

  She was sitting very upright but he saw that her lip trembled as she brought her hand back to her lap.

  “You must think me very bothersome. I probably am. I apologize. It’s just that…I have something very important to speak to you about, but I’m nervous, and nothing’s quite happening as I want it to.”

  Again, he was disarmed. Most people he knew didn’t make apologies. Even those he knew well didn’t say the words. They usually just changed the subject, hoping the matter would be forgotten—which it usually was.

  It wouldn’t hurt to hear her out. It was probably a whole heap of nothing but she’d asked nicely, and he wasn’t such a bastard that he couldn’t give her ten minutes of his time.

  “It’s my brother, you see; the one I mentioned. He was supposed to meet me, here at the hotel but he’s…he’s…” She looked down for a moment and, when she raised her eyes again, they were glassy with tears.

  A troubling feeling swept over him. Something in her face was familiar; the way she was looking at him, perhaps—as if he were the only one who could help her.

  He’d enough on his mind without adding a damsel in dist
ress to his worries, but he couldn’t just ignore her.

  “Your brother?” He rested his forearms on the table. “What of him?”

  “He’s been away a long time; on a ship that sailed from here.” She bit her lip, frowning. “I’m frightened something’s happened to him.”

  “I see.” Jorge didn’t see at all. What did she expect him to say? He’d only just docked himself a few hours ago, and it wasn’t his custom to ask too many questions about other vessels’ movements. People preferred it that way. Live and let live.

  “He wrote a letter.” She fumbled in her pocket, extracting an envelope. “Here, you’re welcome to read it if…” She stopped abruptly, blushing, slowly placing what she’d held out upon the table between them.

  If you can read…

  Presumably, she was realizing that he might not be able to. Not every sailor could, but he wasn’t every sailor. His father had taught him his letters, besides a good deal else. The shelves of his cabin in The Marguerite were filled with books—but this young madam wasn’t to know that.

  It was surprising she’d even deigned to sit with him. He must look entirely disreputable—and wasn’t that what he was. Honest trade had long since become smuggling, and the ship he’d relieved of the munitions hadn’t handed them over without a struggle.

  No matter the reasons, his conduct was as lawless as that of any pirate.

  She cleared her throat, her fingers worrying at the edge of the envelope. “I can tell you what it says.” Her gaze flicked upward, venturing to gauge his expression.

  “Go right ahead.” He suppressed a sigh. If he didn’t encourage her along a little, they’d be here all evening.

  “He wanted to explore this certain place, you see, and the ship was to wait for him—seven days—then bring him back, with his two team members, except that he’s late, by nearly two whole weeks.” Her voice rose in pitch as she galloped to the end of her explanation.

  “But you don’t know which crew took him?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you don’t know the destination?” He picked up his glass, swirling the contents.

  “Oh, that I do know.” She slid several sheets of notepaper from the envelope, scanning through. “Vonaku, or Veneta—something like that.”

  Jorge stilled his hand. She wasn’t going to say it; not Vanuaka. It would be too much a coincidence.

  “Here we are.” She was triumphant, waving the letter excitedly, clearly pleased at having something useful to share with him.

  There is was, upon the page—exactly as he’d feared.

  “Van-u-aka.” She took care to pronounce it, then beamed at him. “You’d be able to ask, perhaps, among the other crews you know? Someone might have heard something—of a British gentleman hiring the ship to take him there. They’ll know, won’t they, if the crew has come back into port?”

  Jorge recalled that anguished face—that of the man he’d pulled from the sea. It came to him, as it had most nights since they’d left those waters.

  God damn. How was this possible? The chances had to be a thousand to one.

  With a jerk of his wrist, he knocked back the bourbon and replaced the glass on the table.

  “I can ask.” He spoke abruptly. “But even if we find the crew, it’s likely they’ll have cast off to sea again by now. It’ll be a working ship, not a pleasure vessel. They won’t be sitting about waiting for the next misguided toff to come knocking, so they can take his money and maroon him in the middle of nowhere.”

  As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Her face fell. He hadn’t needed to be so blunt, nor so offensive. He shifted in his seat. “As I say, I’ll ask.”

  “Marooned?” Her mouth formed a perfect circle as she held the long vowel. She’d visibly paled. Her eyes were round and wide, not wishing to accept, yet believing.

  “It was just an observation. A random possibility.” He shrugged. There were other possibilities too—that the man he’d fished out of the water was her brother, or one of the men he’d taken with him.

  Jorge had made a promise of sorts, to let the poor wretch’s family know what had become of him. If there was a chance that this was the man’s sister sitting here, at this very table, Jorge had a duty to tell her… didn’t he?

  Why was it, then, that he couldn’t bring himself to do it? Because she’d be better off thinking her brother to be living out his days on some tropical isle, rather than making bones on the sea bed?

  Without warning, she reached for the bottle, uncorking it to pour a large glug into his glass. Just as suddenly, she brought it to her lips and, screwing up her face, swallowed half of it down.

  “Hey!” Before he could say anything else, she tipped back the glass again, grimacing as the remainder disappeared.

  She shook herself, pursing her lips before rubbing her hands hard over her face.

  When she looked at him again, it was with eyes wider and darker than before, but her gaze went straight to his. “Take me there. As soon as you can. Tomorrow.”

  There was no question that she meant what she said. How had she gone from crawling on the floor with her pretty arse in the air to this? Telling him what to do. He would’ve laughed, if he weren’t so damn annoyed. Who did she think she was?

  Besides which, there was no way he was going back to Vanuaka. Old Tom was right. Some places were best left alone. No matter who the man was who’d died in Jorge’s boat, visiting the scene of his death wouldn’t bring him back.

  “I can pay you!” She was leaning forward, fixing him with that bold stare again. “Whatever you need, I can find the money.”

  He did laugh then, though it made him wince. “It’ll be impossible to land. Even if we did, where would you start looking? You’re going to search the whole island are you?” He lounged back in his seat. “Besides which, it’s not safe. You can’t begin to understand. There won’t be any welcome party—at least, not one you’d want to meet.”

  “They’re savages you mean!” The colour rose abruptly in her cheeks, while her mouth set in a determined line. “You may say so, but it’s not my view. My father spent years studying tribespeople—in West Africa and here. My brother, too. I’ve read almost everything they ever wrote, so don’t tell me I can’t understand.”

  Jorge clenched his fists. “You don’t know the first thing about ‘my view’. I never called anyone a ’savage’. That’s a word Europeans use for anyone they can’t take the measure of, even though there’s plenty that’s cruel and brutish in their own behaviour. Those ‘savages’ don’t flinch from battle, and some blood feuds endure generations, but they have their own codes of honour, and they don’t screw each another over for the sake of money.”

  In anger, his voice had grown louder. There were some murmurs from further down the room, and Carlos was looking over.

  It was time for Jorge to leave. He didn’t have to listen to this nonsense. He grabbed the bottle and swung his legs out of the booth, making to stand up, but she reached across, boldly, stopping him.

  “If my brother might still be there, I have to go.” Her eyes blazed.

  He hesitated only for a moment, looking down at her brashly placed hand upon his—at her fingers, so long and elegant, the nails finely shaped.

  “That’s as may be, but I don’t have to take you.” It was the end of the conversation as far as he was concerned. It was for her own good. Even if the man were still alive, it wouldn’t be for long—not on Vanuaka.

  “A hundred sovereigns.” Her palm was hot on the back of his hand. “Half before we sail and the rest when we bring back my brother.”

  The sum was sufficient to make him hesitate, but he needed more than five times that to settle his debt with Goytacaz.

  “There’s an extra danger. A volcano. If it’s safe to land, I’ll give you three days to search for him. Five hundred sovereigns—and I’ll need the whole amount, regardless of whether we find your brother.”

  She blanched, drawing back as if he’d
struck her. For the tiniest moment, something writhed low in his belly, reminding him of the dishonesty he was perpetrating. The sum he was asking was excessive in the extreme--but it would enable him to soon clear his debt. And, what of the map in his possession? He didn't relish a return to Vanuaka but it would give him a chance to find out if the map was real--if there truly was something of value that would turn his fortunes; that would enable him to leave behind the life he'd fallen into. He might return to honest trading, if he'd enough money behind him.

  He rose to his feet, looking down at her. This was her decision. He wasn’t forcing her into anything.

  “Five hundred.” She nodded her head. “But not until I’ve had three days on the island.”

  Picking up the bourbon, he took his final swig straight from the bottle. “Done.”

  Chapter Four

  Seventeen days later…on The Marguerite

  Hanging her skirt, blouse and jacket upon the hook, Bathsheba stumbled the few steps from one side of her cabin to the other, grabbing hold of whatever she could to steady herself. She had a fair set of “sea legs”, and wasn’t prone to sickness, but the ship was plunging alarmingly.

  The quartermaster had looked in, earlier, to assure her there was nothing to worry about—that it was only the usual sort of squall that blew up in these waters. But he’d instructed her not to go on deck at all until told otherwise.

  With each swell of the waves, her stomach rose and fell in similar motion. Meanwhile, the wind was whistling wild, and the planks flexed and groaned. The ship was a living thing, sighing and shifting, and here she was, trapped in its belly without even a porthole to open.

  Not that her cabin wasn’t cozy. Though small, it contained all she needed. Using the chamber pot was a trial, but the mattress was comfortable and a Turkish rug in shades of blue covered the bare boards, matching the flowered basin set into the top of the cabinet.