Unclaimed Heart (16 page)

She brushed away another mosquito. “No, I won't. He thinks I'm young and foolish. If I can find Mother before he does, he will have to take me seriously.”

“Perhaps he will.” Alexandre considered her in the dark. “You should get back home.”

Reluctantly, she agreed.

As she returned through the garden, Alexandre's goodnight still soft in her ears, she noticed a light burning in the library. She stood behind the stone post and peered out. It was Father, writing. She couldn't go in the front door without being seen, but she could hardly go into the library looking as she did: a bloody bandage on her bare feet, mud and dust on her dress, a rip in her skirt, mosquito bites on her hands and face. Especially as she was supposed to be sick in bed. She sighed, sagging into the post. What now?

She couldn't stay here outside the library; Father might see her. So she let herself into adjoining the spice garden, found a patch of soft grass under a cinnamon tree, and lay down.

The stars were a bright dust above her. She began organizing them into constellations—Procyon in Canis Minor, Sirius in Canis Major. Then she stopped and let them scatter again into their own random beauty. She smiled. The air was warm and balmy, the sea beat rhythmically in the distance, and the scents of the spice garden were heady. She closed her eyes, turning over the events of the evening in her head. Alexandre, the old house, the clue to her mother's whereabouts. Then her thoughts began to skip and slip, and she drifted off into a sleep full of images of Alexandre.

Chandrika found her at dawn.

“Miss Blackchurch?”

Constance opened her eyes, remembered where she was, and sat up. The first words to her lips were, “Don't tell my father.”

Chandrika smiled, her dark eyes shining. “If you only knew how often I have heard that from Orlanda.” She took Constance's hand in her soft fingers. “Come. Everyone is still asleep. I am certain you can wash and change into clean clothes without being discovered.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Constance muttered, leaving the soft morning and all its exotic dreams behind her.

On the fifth day, a ship finally saw de Locke and sent a boat across for him.

By this stage, he had gone beyond anger to blind fury. At every hunger pang, every interruption of his sleep, every quaver of fear at the sounds from the jungle, he muttered Alexandre's name with murderous intent.

It was an English ship, and for once he blessed the English. Because they might know where Blackchurch was. “I'm looking for a ship named
Good Bess
,” he asked every crew member, until one finally said that he knew Henry Blackchurch, and that he most often did business with the East India Company in Colombo or Madras. The fact that de Locke had encountered him on the western side of Adam's Bridge indicated that Ceylon was his destination. The ship he was on was to sail to Colombo after a short stop in Tuticorin. De Locke had to make a decision. From Tuticorin, it was only a day's journey home. Should he just return, buy a new vessel, find a new crew. . . .?

The thought filled him with rage. No. He would not go home until this business was finished.

Alexandre woke with a jolt. Then relief flooded through him. It was a dream, nothing more.

He estimated from the position of the sun outside the round window that it was around eight o'clock. That meant he had an hour before he had to be at the Howletts' villa for Orlanda's French lessons. He turned on his side in his hammock and closed his eyes. Still, he couldn't completely dispel the anxiety that the dream had aroused. De Locke was a dangerous man, but he had always been on Alexandre's side. Now that he knew Alexandre had withheld a pearl from him, had jumped on the first passing ship . . .

He rose and dressed well enough to visit the villa. He had to speak to Henry Blackchurch.

Chandrika showed him into the drawing room, where Howlett and Blackchurch were deep in conversation. They looked up on his arrival. Howlett frowned, checking his pocket watch. “Are you not a little early, boy?”

“I hoped to speak with Captain Blackchurch,” he said.

“Speak then,” Blackchurch said.

“Sir, the
Queen of Pearls
is ready for sale. I wonder how long you imagine it will be before you have a buyer?”

“Keen to get home are you, Alexandre?” Blackchurch said with a tight smile. “My business here doesn't go so well. It might be some time. If nothing else, I have to wait until after this silly dance that our silly daughters have their hearts set upon.”

Alexandre knew what Blackchurch's business was, of course. Constance had told him everything. “I think you misunderstand my meaning, Captain,” he said. “When the pearler is sold, I will be able to move onto
Good Bess
. That is my aim. I don't mind how long we are anchored, but I have . . . doubts about my safety aboard de Locke's vessel alone.”

“It's not de Locke's vessel,” he snapped. “It's mine.”

Howlett put a hand over his lips to stifle a laugh. “Doubts about your safety? You think this de Locke character would bother to come and hunt down a pearl diver?”

“I worked at his side for seven years; I know him very well,” Alexandre said, deliberately keeping his voice cool. “If he finds me, he will punish me.”

Howlett shook his head condescendingly, but Blackchurch was gentler. “Boy, your imagination has got the better of you. De Locke won't find us. I brought no cargo with me, the voyage is unregistered, and nobody knows I'm here. He will no doubt be angry with both of us. But he is a coward, and he will eventually creep home to lick his wounds.”

His kindness brought Alexandre to his senses. Blackchurch was right: the nightmare had made his imagination run away with him. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“You can move aboard
Good Bess
if you wish, and I'll send another of my men to replace you on the pearler. But you won't find it quite so pleasant under the forecastle.”

Alexandre considered. On
La Reine des Perles
he had his own space, independence, air to breathe. Reassured by the captain's words, he shook his head. “No, sir, I think I will stay where I am.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I have sent a letter to the pearl fisheries superintendent and hope to have him find a buyer in the next few weeks. Hopefully before I sail for England. And don't worry, I have warned him about de Locke and told him not to divulge our whereabouts.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Run along, now, boy,” Howlett said. “No doubt Orlanda will be on her way to meet you in the library.”

Alexandre sighed inwardly. Ah, yes, much safer than dealing with de Locke, but no less frightening. French lessons with Orlanda.

When Constance heard a great thumping and a flurry of raised voices, she decided to go downstairs to investigate. Especially as one of those raised voices was Orlanda's.

“No, no,” she shouted. “I said out there.”

Constance came through the library and into the garden to see two local men struggling with the clavichord, while Orlanda pointed and gestured furiously.

“What's going on?” Constance asked.

“I'm trying to get these two dunderheads to move our clavichord out to the dancing room, in readiness for the dance.”

“But the dance isn't for over a week.”

“I like to be prepared.”

Constance moved towards the group and placed a firm hand on the clavichord, indicating the men should put it down.

They did so. One wiped the sweat from his forehead on his shoulder.

“Orlanda,” Constance said slowly, “the dancing room is not fully enclosed. If we have a storm, the clavichord will get wet.”

“Oh,” she said. “I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps I should leave it until next week then.” She blew noisily. “It's such a disappointment, Constance. Father won't hire musicians, so I have to rely on Mother to play the clavichord and if she's had too much of her medicine she will make a terrible mess of it.” She looked at the large instrument, sitting half on the flagstones and half on the grass, and sighed. “Well, then. You'd better put this back in the house, and I had better impress upon Mother the importance of daily practice.”

The men looked at her, puzzled.

“Back in the . . .” She began to gesture again, then grew fed up. “Oh, why haven't you bothered to learn English, for goodness' sake?”

Constance didn't point out that Orlanda hadn't bothered to learn Sinhalese. “Would you like me to get Chandrika?” she offered.

“Please. I'm having a devil of a time with these two. I shall tell Father to pay them only half, for indeed they only got the clavichord halfway to the dancing room.”

Constance smiled at the men, but they didn't smile back, no doubt judging her as harshly as they judged Orlanda. She felt embarrassed to be English and determined to learn a few basic words while she was here.
Please
and
thank you
would be a start. “I'll find Chandrika,” she said, and hurried into the house.