Revenant Eve (9 page)

“Whose is that?”

“It is my own.”

“Why do you talk like a froggie?” the littlest one asked.

“Quiet, Fletcher.” Benford cuffed the boy on the ear hard enough to send him staggering. “Have you ever shot a pistol, miss?”

Fletcher, who was probably about ten, blinked back tears, but didn’t say anything, and Benford turned back to Aurélie.

She said, “
Naturellement
—it is natural that I have shot my pistol. Why else am I here?”

The boys considered this, then one said, “You ever shot at anybody?”

“But yes. Not, what do you call it, a
fortnight
past. We were attacked by Ruiz the pirate, and I shot one in the knee. I hit another with my rapier.”

“
You
fought a duel with a
pirate
.” Benford’s derision made the others laugh.

Aurélie flushed. “I
shot
him! The other knocked my own rapier out of my fingers. But Benjy knifed his foot, and we ran away before he could pick up his cutlass and try to kill us.”

Another brief silence ensued, as far above, the topmen exchanged incomprehensible comments, and the rising breeze toyed with everyone’s clothes and hair.

The boys seemed to come to the mutual conclusion that the details in her telling, as well as the matter-of-fact tone, were convincing enough for trial.

Benford said, “Let’s have a squint at your shooting, then.”

Aurélie brought her pistol up, planted her feet, licked her finger to test the direction of the air, then sighted, all quick enough to make it plain that she was not a complete stranger to the heave of a deck.

The target was a crudely painted man shape on a stained, weather-rotted piece of sailcloth lashed to a grating. A flash—a report—a puff of smoke instantly wafted away on the wind, and the boys looked at the target, already peppered with holes. But they knew whose shots had landed where.

A new hole had appeared, well within the man shape, though to one side. The boys ran down to the target, and Benford stuck his finger in the new hole, as if Aurélie had somehow effected a cheat. But from the way he yanked back his finger, the burned edges were still smoldering from the hot iron ball.

“
You
shot a pirate?” one of the boys asked her, his tone more cautious.

“I told you,” she said. “Now I must reload my—”

“I thought this was the quarterdeck of a man-of-war, not a drawing room.” The newcomer was the third lieutenant, roughly the same age as
Benford. He and the latter eyed one another like a couple of bristling dogs, making it clear that the real conflict was between them.

Aurélie said, “It is only that the gentlemen wish me to demonstrate my pistol.”

“That one is the marquis’s daughter, sir,” one of the boys said in a significant whisper.

“So I am given to understand,” the lieutenant said with heavy sarcasm. After all, it was Aurélie and the parson’s mother-in-law who had displaced him from his cabin. “Carry on, gentlemen,” the lieutenant said with an air of importance, and he waited.

The others saluted, and he turned away—making it plain that he’d mostly spoken to get that salute from Benford, who as clearly hated being required to give it.

Benford flashed a grim look Aurélie’s way, but she was already in retreat, having obviously been around boys long enough to know that when the top dog of any given hierarchy indulges in a spot of legally sanctioned bullying, as soon as he’s gone, the next dog down will look for someone else to hassle.

Aurélie did not intend to be the recipient of Benford’s bad mood. She dashed down the companionway, dodging around the sailors carrying huge lengths of rolled up canvas, and almost smacked into the oldest of the lieutenants just coming up from the hatch. “I have been seeking you, your ladyship, to convey to you the captain’s compliments, and his invitation to dinner.”

Aurélie looked frightened as she dropped a curtsey, the pistol hidden in her skirt, which was now dusted with gunpowder.

“One of the marines will fetch you when it is time,” the man said, quite kindly. “You’ve only to look your best.”

Mrs. Cobb was waiting for her when she reached the lower deck. Scolding in a constant undertone, much the way she scolded the boys when she supervised their once-weekly bathing on the upper deck, she took Aurélie in hand, exclaiming and blessing herself when she saw the pistol.

She tried to make certain the child was clean from top to toe, forced
to call loud directions through the flimsy canvas door because Aurélie would only bathe in private. Perforce I had to remain in the tiny cabin as Aurélie carefully poured hot water into the bowl, and scrubbed herself all over. She put on clean underthings, and carefully tucked the oilcloth-covered letter of credit into her clean chemise. Behind the oil-cloth, the necklace pressed against her skin, its outline completely hidden. Last came the figured muslin gown. She emerged fully dressed.

“What a very fine print,” the parson’s mother-in-law commented.

“Straight from Paris, that’s what the
marquesa
told me when she hired me. Paris to Saint-Domingue,” said Mrs. Cobb as she eyed Aurélie critically.

“I am amazed it is not splashed with blood from their dreadful guillotine.”

“Heh! The frogs are mad, everyone knows that, and as for that new government, Cobb says worse tales he’s never met with.”

The gown was patted and twitched into place. Mrs. Cobb’s strong hands were respectfully gentle with the fine muslin, edged with green velvet ribbon at the high square neck, along the long sleeves, and along the top of the double ruffle that reached to the tops of Aurélie’s slippers.

Last was a broad green velvet ribbon that had been carefully rolled so that the ends still showed a tendency to curl. It was tied high, with a large bow at the back where the V of the inset shoulders met.

“She’s brown as a monkey,” the parson’s mother-in-law declared dispassionately. “No amount of fine French clothing will disguise that.”

“That will go off soon’s she’s back in England’s cold,” was the cheerful rejoinder, and to Aurélie, “Mind you apply cucumber water every night, and my grandmother always said that bleaching with buttermilk would keep the skin pale as silk.”

Aurélie muttered in French, “I do not
wish
to be pale.”

The mother-in-law said to Aurélie, “It is rude to speak in heathen tongues before your elders. I trust you were properly baptized, child.”

Aurélie’s chin lifted. “I was baptized twice. Once by the priests at Saint-Domingue. And by my Nanny Hiasinte the obeah. That I remember, for it was when I turned ten, after we come to Kittredge Plantation.”

The old woman hissed. “Hush that heathen talk.”

Mrs. Cobb chuckled. “The dons and the frogs are all Popish, ma’am, they cannot help it. Heathens all! Bless me, that fine family she’s intended for will beat it out of her quick enough. There you go, lamb! Remember your curtsey for the captain, and let Amos, who is most like to stand at your chair, tie your napkin to keep your gown clean. And you are not to drink wine, even if they offer it. Half-wine at most, and you will do me credit.”

When the marine appeared, imposing in his red coat with his belt clay-piped and buttons polished, Aurélie followed close behind him to the doors of the captain’s cabin, where the officers were gathered in full uniform, cocked hats under their arms. Off to the side stood the fat, cheerful parson, his wife, and his mother-in-law.

At the sweet
ting-ting!
of the ship’s bells, the doors opened, and the guests entered the captain’s cabin, which stretched all across the back of the stern, with windows overlooking the ship’s wake. Aurélie was escorted to one side of the captain, the parson’s wife at his other side.

Aurélie had been taught dainty manners. She quietly avoided the gravy-rich slab of meat put on her plate, confining herself to the potatoes, peas, and what turned out to be the last of the white bread.

For drink, the women were offered citrus juice while the men downed a lot of wine. Big, scarred sailors were on duty as waiters, their manners rough and ready. They kept the wine aflow, as well as demonstrating deft skills at keeping the dishes on the table, a skill much needed. As the meal progressed, the room tilted more sharply, making me glad I wasn’t sitting with them. I know I would have been majorly seasick. The parson’s mother-in-law put down her silverware, and sat there going pale and green as she kept swallowing.

The captain did not ask if his guests would like to go lie down. He merely observed that the wind was freshening, and issued orders for the officer on watch to clew up the royals and topgallants if he was of a mind.

As before, my awareness of what was passing blurred if Aurélie had no interest, and she clearly had no interest in the conversation, which covered gossip in Kingston, ships and captains at various stations, and
rumors about the French Revolution. From the hints I’d garnered so far, I figured the time was somewhere in the middle of the 1790s.

Aurélie brightened when dessert appeared, a suety mass called plum duff, with rum poured over it. Her sailor attendant gave her a hearty helping, with the result her cheeks were quite pink when the captain sat back and decided it was time to pay attention to his guests as individuals.

He turned to Aurélie first. “Now, young lady, how am I to address a marquis’s daughter? Are you Lady something, or is it Donna?”

Aurélie said obediently, “I am Doña Aurélie de Mascarenhas. But my mother says, I must be ‘Lady’ when I am in England.”

“Oho, Donna it is,” the captain replied. His face was red and shining under his wig, his glass attentively filled every time he took a swallow. “So, tell us about your Papa, young donna. Is he related to the Dukes of Aveiro? I remember there was some kind o’ to-do, but that would be in my father’s time. Weren’t most of ’em put to death?”

“They are the Portuguese connections of the family,” Aurélie said. “I do not know them. My father, he died when I was two. He had a letter of marque against France.”

“But you speak French, do you not?”

“That’s because my Grandmère is French. She came to Saint-Domingue from Martinique when she was small. She told me many stories about her cousins, the Taschers, at Les Trois-Îlets. ’Tis very beautiful, she says.”

“Tascher!” one of the lieutenants exclaimed. “Why, isn’t that the name of the Creole dasher taken up by one of the Directors in Paris?”

Definitely Josephine—Tascher de la Pagerie was her maiden name.

The captain raised his glass and said deliberately, “We will toast the lady.” Ah. A reminder that they ought not to take a lady’s name in vain. I knew that wasn’t going to last. Poor Josephine was soon to be almost as vilified as her second husband.

The men raised their glasses, but before they could drink, the stern windows filled with blue-white glare, and thunder cracked, loud as cannon, directly overhead. Aurélie jumped, causing laughter among the officers.
“It is not pirates,” the captain said. “The only battle is betwixt us and the celestial bodies. You will be very glad to live in civilization again, where there are no hurricanes or pirates. For my middies told me that you are quite a fire-eater, young donna. We shall toast our young donna.…”

T
HE ONLY INTERRUPTION
to the slow unwinding ribbon of the ship’s wake, stitching together the changing sea and sky, was Aurélie’s single attempt to climb into the tops. No sooner had she scrambled up to the second level, to the big platform joining the lower part of the mainmast, than the parson’s wife let out a faint shriek, pointing.

Alarm telegraphed from officers to sailors, and a sailor’s huge, hairy arm wound round Aurélie’s skinny waist and plucked her off the masthead. She was indignant and tried exclaiming that she knew very well how to climb aloft, but in her excitement she spoke French, and by the time the sailor holding her had climbed down and set her on the deck, she was surrounded by well-meaning adults who scolded her about danger.

After that, she was confined in morose boredom to the wardroom, which caused time to blur for me until the morning a band of rain cleared off and a sailor called from the heights that Ushant had been sighted.

Aurélie jumped up and rushed up on deck with the other passengers, as the ship’s crew began preparing for Portsmouth.

Aurélie was jubilant and nervous by turns, jiggling and jumping around. Mrs. Cobb made her wear her good dress, though poor Aurélie was shivering, her skin goose-bumpy in the brisk air. It had to be cold to
a kid who’d only known tropical weather, which ranged from warm to broiling, even during storms. She definitely didn’t have any jackets or sweaters or a cloak in her trunk—she’d probably never worn such a garment in her life.

Mrs. Cobb kept Aurélie tightly by her during the chaos of the landing, scanning the crowds that had gathered along the quay. Of course no one was there to meet them. No message could have reached England faster than Aurélie had. Mrs. Cobb took Aurélie to an inn called the Fountain, which was full of naval people, hired a room for both of them, and arranged for a letter to be dispatched.