Beyond paradise (3 page)

"I promise," Sylvie said. "I promise."

Later that night, Sylvie shuffled into her bedroom, feeling truly exhausted. She had always hated going to bed at a "seemly hour." She had always imagined that the world changed at night, that something magical happened to the sky, and that the ocean turned black. She had the feeling that she was missing something spectacular when she went to bed. And tonight would be the hardest night of all for finding rest. Tomorrow would be only her second adventure of a lifetime. The first, the voyage to Martinique, had been such a terrible disappointment that it hardly counted. But tomorrow, she kept trying to forget for fear she would let out an excited squeak, tomorrow she would see a pirate. And meet secretly

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with a dashing pirate hunter. Had she known, her mother surely would have killed her.

In their bedroom, Sylvie's younger sister was already brushing her hair. Chantal would be a beauty some day, Sylvie thought. Taller and larger-boned than Sylvie had been at the same age of fifteen, Chantal was already developing rather impressive breasts. And her golden hair always made Sylvie sigh over the drab, muddled color of her own. But to Chantal, Sylvie was the princess. Sylvie was the adult, at age eighteen. Sylvie was the one who had a slender waist and pronounced cheekbones. Sylvie was the one who would soon be leaving the house, and starting a grown-up life on her own. It seemed so exciting to a girl who still had nearly three years to go.

"Where were you today?" Chantal asked excitedly, the moment Sylvie closed the door behind them. "Did you see Etienne?" Chantal bounced gaily on the bed, squeezing her sack-like bed gown against the backs of her knees.

"Yes, I. .. saw him." Sylvie smiled weakly, then moved to the dresser.

"What do you talk about?" asked Chantal excitedly. "What do you talk about when you're together? Have you thought of names for your children?"

Sylvie tried not to laugh, but failed. "Turn out the lantern," she instructed, trying to conceal her chuckle.

Chantal did as she was told, and Sylvie undressed in the dark. "Do you think he is handsome?" the younger sister asked, sitting upright on the bed, her pale eyes glowing in the blackness.

"Handsomeness doesn't matter," lied Sylvie, because she wanted Chantal to be a good daughter. And she wanted Chantal to be happy. It would be a better life for her if she learned to want those things which she was destined to have, and to be-

Elizabeth Doyle

lieve in the ideals which would rule her destiny. "It doesn't matter what a man looks like."

"Well, when Maman and Papa pick a husband for me, I hope he will be handsome," she grinned.

Sylvie was determined not to lose this battle. She wanted her sister to be more content than she herself could ever be. She loved her sister. "Marriage isn't for your sake," she explained, pleased that she sounded so convincing, "it is for the sake of family." She was now in her nightgown, and slid in bed beside Chantal. "Look at this blanket," she said, wrapping it around her slender body. "It was made by our great grandmother. She is gone now, but her blanket stays with us. It is family which makes us immortal. Family springs from you, and it does not forget you."

Chantal was trying to listen, but her mouth closed gently and her eyes grew heavier. She was silent.

"When I marry," Sylvie continued, "you will have nicer dresses, and Papa will get a new horse. Etienne's family will become titled. And our children will have both his wealth, and my breeding. You see, we mustn't think of ourselves. We must think of our immortality, as we breathe life into a thousand more years of family."

"I see," said Chantal, for she could think of nothing else to say, and wanted very much for Sylvie to believe she understood.

Sylvie sighed miserably. It was so difficult to convince another of what she herself did not truly believe. She knew she was failing. "Chantal," she whispered into the night, "Chantal, please be a good girl when I'm gone. It is so important. Maman will have only you. And you must listen to her. I want her to have a ... a good daughter," For a change she added privately.

Chantal seemed to be drifting off. When Sylvie realized

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it, she smiled. There was truly nothing more boring than being reminded of the importance of obedience. She could hardly blame Chantal for slipping away. She remembered the question she'd asked, the one that had nearly made her burst into hysterics. Had she talked to Etienne about baby names? The bed began to shake with Sylvie's silent laughter. What a thing to talk about before one is even married! That would be only one step away from discussing the wedding night. The wedding night. Sylvie stopped grinning.

Would it really happen? Would Etienne actually bed her? Strangely, she had never really considered the matter before. She knew how babies were made, more or less, and she knew that she was marrying for the sake of having babies, but something had prevented her mind from putting the two things together. Surely, she couldn't let Etienne do that, could she? She didn't even like him! Was there another way? She thought and thought as she chewed painfully on her lip, but could not think of a loophole. How many babies would he want? Five? If he wanted five, then he would have to bed her five times, wouldn't he? Is that how it worked? She lifted the neck of her gown and peeked through the darkness. She didn't know exactly what they would do, but she knew that she would be asked to take off her clothes, and then he would do . .. something .. . down there, to make the baby. She began to pant heavily. No. She could not do it. She would not do it! In the morning, she told herself, in the morning, it will all seem better. But in her panic and discontent, it would be hours before she found rest.

*

Four

Jervais was late. This did not have the desired effect of making Sylvie all the more anxious to see him. Instead, it made her quite annoyed, and he was greeted with a scathing look. "If you wanted to meet me after breakfast, you should not have agreed to dawn," said Sylvie lightly, beginning her stroll toward the jail before he had even caught up to her.

"I was held up," he explained, working hard to increase his heavy strides.

"By the barrel of a musket?"

"No."

"By the death of family?"

"No."

"By falling into a giant pit from which you had to claw your way out?"

"No."

"Then you were not held up, you were just casual. Now hurry. I told my mother I would be home by midday."

When the bright sunlight struck Sylvie's hair, igniting strands of fire and strands of gold within the cassia waves,

Elizabeth Doyle

Jervais forgot to be angry about her scolding. Her hair was visible, but it was tied up today, secured by a proper, white brimmed hat tied under her chin with a pink ribbon. He liked it. With her lovely hair pulled back, he could see her face more clearly. He could appreciate the radiance of her ivory skin, and the handsomeness of her broad cheekbones. It was her eyebrows he liked the best. They were darker than her hair, and much too dark for her blue eyes. They had character, and there was nothing so enchanting as a beautiful face that also managed to be distinct. He wondered whether the mole at her mouth's corner was real or not. He hoped it was natural.

"You are a woman who likes punctuality," he observed, catching her rudely and seductively by the waist.

That was all he could think to say? thought Sylvie. She looked up at the handsome, broad shoulders which loomed behind her slender body. Why can't they ever be both handsome and bright! She smiled weakly. "I think your hands ask too many questions," she pointed out, gently nudging his

grip-

Jervais let her go with a little sigh of disappointment. "I like a lady with spirit," he chuckled now striding easily by her side. "I wonder only if your parents have selected a husband who can tame you."

"Animals are tamed, Monsieur. Women are won." She held his arm in an effort to make peace after her gentle rejection. They could now hear the ocean. It was a beautiful, maddening sound. But when Sylvie turned her head to the shore, she saw waters of turquoise, happy and playful like the ocean in a painting. She knew that the ocean could be more than that. She knew it in her heart, but she had never seen it. She had never seen it when it was black and deadly.

"You haven't answered my question," remarked Jervais, breathing in the sweetness in the air, which he was certain

1^

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must be the scent of Sylvie. "What is he like, this gentleman who will have you in his possession?"

Sylvie cast him a glance. "How could I answer a question you didn't ask?"

"Well, Vm asking now."

"He is very rich." She grinned, in an effort to goad her would-be suitor.

"Is that so?"

"Oh, yes, fabulously wealthy. And admired by many ladies for his grace "

That made Jervais swallow awkwardly, for he knew he himself was a strong but ungraceful man. "What else?" he asked in an effort to torment himself.

"Let's see, what else, what else ..." Sylvie tapped her chin, squinting up at the clouds as though deep in recollection. "Ah, yes," she said at last, "he is also completely spineless, unappealing, and without conviction." Jervais cast her a sudden glance, which made Sylvie break into a grin. "And I wish I would not have to marry him," she added.

No words could have pleased Jervais more. He shared her contagious smile, and felt the urge to kiss her. But he wasn't sure he should. He might offend her. And for some reason, this was something he could not stand to do. What was happening to him? "Can you refuse?" he asked.

Sylvie shook her head. "No, my parents have made all of the arrangements."

This was quite usual, and so Jervais was not surprised. "He cannot watch you all the time," he suggested hastily. "There is no reason that you cannot pursue other. . . interests."

That is exactly what Sylvie had been thinking. She would not say it aloud in her mind, but she knew the real reason she was meeting Jervais on this day. If Etienne would keep mistresses, which she knew he would, then she wanted to keep

Elizabeth Doyle

open at least one door for herself. It was shameful and despicable thinking. In her world, a woman must never be unfaithful, no matter how many mistresses her husband might keep. "I cannot pursue other 'interests'," she scolded him falsely. "You know that as well as I."

"Why not?" he pleaded.

"Oh, look!" She pointed at the mercilessly bright sky. "Oh, never mind. I thought it was a falcon." It was a shaky attempt to change the subject, which even Jervais was bright enough to comprehend.

"Well, we're almost there," he said, as though Sylvie's rejection had been in earnest. "Are you still sure you want to see the jail? Really, we could go somewhere more appealing." This had troubled him all night and all morning. He could think of nothing wrong with showing her the jail which held all of his half-human trophies, but he could not help thinking there must be something unseemly about it.

"Are you thinking of turning on your word?" she asked mildly.

"No," he shrugged. "Not really."

"Good." And then she saw it. It was just a tiny stone building, like a house with no windows, crooked and resting awkwardly on the rocky shore. It was so unobtrusive. She had seen it a thousand times, and had been intrigued by it only because she knew what it was. If she had not, if she had never heard its screams or been told its secrets, she never would have spared it a second glance. It was ordinary. How horrific for something ominous to appear ordinary! She would dare herself to go forth. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see something which was forbidden to her. But already, she could smell death. "Are men ever killed in there?" she asked Jervais.

"Naturally," he replied. "I would certainly hope that I didn't

r

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risk my skin dragging them to shore, only to have them turned loose again."

"Do you think they will hate me?" she asked him. "Do you think when they see me they will want to kill me?"

"Who? The pirates?" He shrugged. "I doubt it. It's more likely they would want to bed you."

Something about that confused Sylvie. It was appalling and after hearing it, she dared move forth only because she had the assurance of Jervais's protection. Yet, there was an appeal in facing such danger. She had never before caught a glimpse of true savagery. She wasn't sure anyone had ever thought of ravishing her before.

"Don't be afraid," said Jervais in his most manly tone. "They can't hurt you, chained up as they'll be. And I'll be there." He straightened his broad shoulders.

"I'm not afraid," said Sylvie, "I'm just anxious. You have seen pirates by the hundreds, no doubt. But to me, this is exciting. I have heard a lot about them, but I have never seen a real one."

"Why would you want to?" he snorted. "They're nothing but filthy rats."

"Then they have fiir?"

He cast her a queer glance, only to find her smiling brightly. "All right," he relented with a mellow grin. "They aren't rats. But I should say I like rats a bit more."

They had approached the modest jail. It was impossible to believe that men were starved, beaten, and even hanged behind its damp, stone walls. The cold ocean was so loud and joyous, the seagulls so free. How could a place of such darkness exist within such cheer? Perhaps, thought Sylvie, as Jervais swung the door open wide and the smell of stinking flesh caught her nose, perhaps Hell is not a location after all.

Elizabeth Doyle

The angriest-looking man she had ever seen greeted them, if one could call it a greeting. Actually, he grumbled at them as though muttering a curse. He was the jailer, but he looked as filthy and worn as any prisoner Sylvie could have imagined. His silver beard prickled out in every direction. His eyes were bloodshot from drink and hatred. And he had buttoned his jacket crookedly. "Well, hello, Jervais." It was possible that he was smiling, but it was hard to see behind his beard. "Brought me some fresh meat?" he laughed, nudging the great pirate hunter in the ribs.