Into the World Page 6

  ‘Wilful, disobedient, wicked girl!’ her stepmother spat when she declined another elderly, lip-licking suitor. ‘Twenty-two years old—who will want you now?’

  Marie-Louise shrugged. Her stepmother slapped her face with a glove. ‘Marriage is about duty to your family, not love!’

  Marie-Louise had no reason to expect love or affection; she had no concept of it. She had hopes for a tolerable companionship, that was all. Until she met Etienne.

  He was four years older than her but looked like a gangly youth. All arms and legs and wide, bony shoulders. She had first noticed him among the wine barrels in the courtyard of her home. A new customer, she had presumed, peering down from the floor above. He rolled up his sleeves and she watched him lift the barrels onto his cart. He flicked his hair back and caught sight of her at the window. His smile was the largest she had ever seen.

  Over the weeks and months that followed she contrived to meet him in the courtyard. Stolen moments in dark corners. She loved to touch his large baker’s hands, rub her fingers over the powerful knuckles, and curl her own small hand snugly into his palm. She loved it when he talked of his café and heard the joy in his voice when he described his delicious food. He had great plans for his future—the humble pie could be taken anywhere, he said: meat, vegetables and sauce all bound up in a golden crust. He would cup his hands together as he spoke, like a nest. Food that can be eaten anywhere, at any time…now that was the future! All he had need of now, he said, was a wife.

  ‘The piemaker?’ her father said with a measure of disgust when she told him of Etienne’s proposal. ‘I will not allow it.’

  ‘Too late,’ she said, spreading her hands across her belly.

  He lashed out with the back of his fist. It struck the side of her head and her ear fired in pain. She tumbled, losing her balance, striking the hard tiled floor.

  ‘Slut! You disgrace us all.’

  So began the happiest years of her life. Free of her father, living with a man she loved and a child growing inside her. They lived in a tiny back room, not much larger than their bed, but it was all she needed. She worked with Etienne, serving customers until she grew too big, and then she sat in the corner of the kitchen with her feet up on a stool and a little plate of pies cooked especially for her. Etienne liked to surprise her. Each parcel of pastry kept its flavour hidden so she never knew what she would get. He laughed at the burst of pastry flakes across her breasts and kissed the bump of her belly.

  Her son was born with a smile ready from the start, or so it always seemed to her. He had his father’s smile. When it slowly stretched across his entire face, it melted her insides like warmed raclette cheese. He was growing fast and long; he would be tall, just like Etienne, who had to stoop to kiss the top of her head. They had named him Jean to appease her father, but at home they called him Jojo. Everyone said Jojo had his mother’s clear blue eyes. When those eyes danced at the sight of her, she was happier than she ever imagined she would be.

  But then she lost it all.

  First her son. An illness, the doctor said; not uncommon. She had sat by his side, sponging the sweat from his pale skin. Barely one year of life on this earth. Gone. She felt fractured after that, like mended pottery that leaked because some small piece had been lost. Her love for her husband was still strong, but now subdued. She rarely saw Etienne’s golden smile in the three years she had left with him. Often it seemed to falter before it could bring pleasure to either of them and she would reach out and stroke his lovely hand.

  Etienne was killed by a runaway horse. He had stepped out of their café carrying a tray of freshly baked pies when the beast threw its rider. Terrible timing, the undertaker said, so tragic. Marie-Louise did not see the impact, but she heard it. The pies smacked against the window, splitting open and streaking the glass pane with their flesh and juices.

  Without Etienne, she was bereft, unable to rise from her bed. Without Etienne, the bakers lost their way. No one opened the doors each morning with a long-limbed stretch and a smile. Whenever she thought of the café she felt sick and rolled over in her bed to face the wall. She didn’t want to live. No one remembered to shop for fresh fish or place the orders for beef. The customers drifted away. The café was ailing and she could not pay the rent or the staff. By the time she forced herself to dress and open the door of the kitchen, she found it empty. Even the flour bins had been cleaned out. Next the debt collectors took their turn. They picked over the remains of the café like vultures at a carcass, tugging at the innards, pecking out the eyes. They pulled the chairs and tables out onto the street and took the hand-painted sign from above the door. Her beautiful café was stripped bare. She stood shivering on the street, her arms clasped around herself. All Etienne’s dreams were gone. She had failed him. The bailiff locked the door with a heavy padlock. She had nothing left of her beloved family but memories.

  And no option other than to return to her father’s house.

  That night, Girardin rocked gently in her hammock, listening to the creaks and moans of the ship. She felt the uncertain ocean slipping beneath her. This time, she couldn’t afford to fail. Rémi needed her. She had to keep herself and these men alive so she could return to him. She held the vision of the sunlit café tight behind her closed eyes as though it could seep out between her eyelashes and fall to the ocean floor.

  Chapter 10

  Latitude 29° N, longitude 18°19′ W, 12 October 1791

  GENTLE KISSES LANDED ON HER EYELIDS, BRUSHED HER CHEEK and fluttered in her ear. Girardin murmured in her sleep. Feathery touches tickled the downy hairs at the corner of her mouth, nudging with increasing insistence at her lips, urging her to part them. Is that you, Etienne? she wondered in her drowsy state, but another man was conjured to her vision. His kisses smothered her and she brushed them from her mouth. Doubling their intensity, they slapped against her nostrils, stealing her breath. Girardin opened her mouth and gasped.

  Moths whirled into her mouth and she gagged on their powdery wings. She coughed and spat, tasting bitterness. She beat her hands about her head. Her hammock rocked and tossed her to the floor, where she landed on her hands and knees and felt more winged bodies squish beneath her palms.

  She lit her lantern. The moths had erupted from the cases of biscuit through the night. They swirled and flickered against the golden light. She sat on the floor of her cabin and stared up at them. The traces of her dream still lingered with her like a guilty conscience. It was not Etienne but a more recent lover who had come to life in her mind. In her dream he had rolled towards her; she recognised the pale skin of his chest and the dark line of hair running down the centre of his stomach. Her fingers had traced the line. He had pressed himself against her and she felt the throb of desire at the hardness of him. Her dream had felt so real it shocked her. Why did this lover visit her dreams? Why not sweet Etienne? The moths flapped in her face and she batted her eyes and cheeks and mouth, slapping herself in her anger. Why dream of a lover who had betrayed her? She could not bear to think of him.

  But he didn’t betray you, did he? her voices sneered. She hung her head. It was true. He had made no promises. It was she who conjured a life for them. When she knew a child was forming inside her again she had been overjoyed. She had imagined a future beyond the revolution, a new life, a new beginning. His games of duplicity had fooled her too. She had deceived herself that she could be a butterfly, instead of its plain, overlooked cousin.

  Girardin spat powdery wings from her lips. She pushed a rag into her mouth, scraping the bitter taste from her tongue.

  A sharp rap at her door startled her. She had to remember who she was: Louis Girardin, steward of the Recherche. She wiped the smeared moths from her face. Opening the door a crack, she was surprised to see the tall botanist at her door. Today he wore no coat, only a loose shirt over his breeches. There was something in his expression of distaste that made him look familiar, and the sensation unsettled her. Perhaps it was just the dream lingering, pulling
up people from her past she wished to bury.

  ‘Steward, these moths are an outrage! I cannot light a candle, so desperate are they to pile their fat bodies one upon the other and extinguish it. How can I work? Something must be done!’

  She blinked. What did he expect her to do?

  ‘You must speak to the General! The supplies are of inferior quality. He has been duped. For this species of moth to be emerging, the biscuit must’ve been on a journey before.’

  Reluctantly, Girardin stepped out. He ushered her forwards and she complied, squinting against the flapping onslaught. What was she to say to the General? She climbed the stairs with the naturalist close behind and turned towards the stern. Sheep pens flanked either side of the gun deck and in the gloom she could see their round eyes watching her. A cow shook its head to clear the moths and stamped its foot, while another scratched its behind on one of the cannons.

  The infestation of moths grew thicker near the stern of the boat. The savants’ quarters were above the bread rooms where most of the ship’s biscuit was stored. From behind the closed doors she heard a vehement oath, a shirt snapping in the air and the clatter of a shaving bowl, followed by more exasperated swearing.

  ‘You see? We are housed in the worst possible location.’

  Climbing the stairs to the quarterdeck, a gust of moths burst from the hatch behind her and fluttered upwards into the sails and out across the open sea. Perhaps they hope to reach Tenerife before us, she thought. Above her head, the telltales lay flaccid against the sails. She stood in front of the General’s door and realised the savant was no longer with her.

  ‘Come in!’ the General replied in answer to her knock.

  Girardin took a deep breath to steady herself. She wiped her hands against her tunic, then entered.

  The General looked up from his desk. Captain d’Auribeau stood beside him. A lone moth followed her into the room. She focused on its urgent fluttering, knowing it to be in tune with her heartbeat. This was the first time she had been in the same room as their captain. Up close, he had an unsettling countenance, low eyebrows in a pale, pointed face, and a tic that made his features jump and jiggle for no known reason. He could not be much more than thirty years, but his ailments aged him.

  The General waited expectantly.

  The moth made a haphazard path up towards the window panes in the cabin’s ceiling.

  ‘We are receiving complaints, sir,’ she stammered. ‘About the quality of the stores.’

  ‘Are we?’ The General cocked his head. ‘From whom, might I enquire?’

  She saw a look pass between the two men.

  In her anxiety she could not remember his name. ‘A savant. The tall one.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Labillardière,’ the General said with a knowing smile. ‘Of course.’

  D’Auribeau clapped his hands together and twisted his palms apart with distaste. The moth was smeared across his hand. ‘An old trick, to show a few good cases and supply the rest with second-rate wares. I’d have thought Captain Huon de Kermadec would be wise to such deceptions, a man of his experience.’

  Girardin did not like the tone of his voice.

  The captain inspected the remains of the moth on his palms before dusting it from his hands with exaggerated disgust. She saw his lips purse with satisfaction.

  ‘The wine,’ d’Auribeau continued, ‘is so inferior that the crew almost refuse to drink it. They threaten the most foul punishment on those responsible.’

  ‘I agree it is watered-down barrel scrapings passed off as Bordeaux,’ said the General placatingly. ‘The provisions supplied to us are a disappointment.’

  ‘Captain Huon de Kermadec must feel this failure keenly.’ D’Auribeau looked up to the moths dancing along the ceiling. ‘The victualling was his responsibility.’

  With his hands clasped behind his back, the captain had a look of a crow about him, Girardin thought. Bobbing and swaying with its wings folded away. She was suddenly reminded of her mother’s stories of village crows, the hateful men or women that sent anonymous poison letters to their neighbours. Had she betrayed Captain Kermadec by coming to the General with this complaint? She thought of his kindness to her and felt ashamed.

  The General looked at her directly. ‘There is nothing that can be done until we resupply at Tenerife, but I shall write to inform Minister Fleurieu of this deception.’

  Write to the minister! What had she done? Would Huon de Kermadec be censured?

  ‘If the Espérance were not so sluggish we would have reached Santa Cruz port before now,’ Captain d’Auribeau noted wryly.

  ‘You cannot blame Captain Kermadec for these light and fickle winds.’

  She thought she heard a note of admonishment in the General’s voice, but as Captain d’Auribeau turned his face away from the General, she saw his lips purse again with self-satisfication. She pictured Huon de Kermadec’s flushed cheeks and slow spreading smile and knew she had helped to strike a blow against him. Feeling sickened, she made to leave.

  A messenger at the door interrupted them. ‘We have sighted the peak of Tenerife, sir!’

  ‘Very good, Raoul!’ the General replied. ‘You see, Captain d’Auribeau? All will be well. We shall be enjoying a glass of Tenerife wine by lunchtime tomorrow.’

  The aide pilot who had delivered the message stepped aside to let Girardin pass. He bent low in a bow of exaggerated courtesy, as one might for a lady of the court. The gesture startled her. When he rose up she caught the smirk upon his lips. He was looking at her with obvious interest beneath a heavy fringe of black hair. Her heart thumped. Again she felt the demons of the past chasing her. There was no way she could know this man, yet his bold look had the hint of the familiar and she began to doubt the invisibility of her disguise.

  Chapter 11

  Tenerife, Canary Islands, 13 October 1791

  THE OARS GROANED AGAINST THE SIDES OF THE LONGBOAT AS the six sailors swung their backs. Girardin sat in the bow, chewing her thumbnail. Directly ahead lay the town of Santa Cruz. Thick forests of palm wrapped the town in a vivid green blanket. A church tower of white and grey stone glistened in the sunlight, thrusting above the terracotta roofs. She could hear the bell tolling, calling the faithful to prayer. She shifted on the wooden thwart. Her feet were tangled in empty wicker cages and she kicked them free.

  Traps of all sizes had been tossed into the boat by the two men sitting alongside her. The naturalist Labillardière wore his customary oversized black hat. It tapered outwards to a flat top designed to give the impression that the head beneath must bear a brain that was large and impressive indeed. She blamed him, fairly or not, for making her betray Huon de Kermadec. She felt complicit in d’Auribeau’s attack on his abilities and it nagged her conscience. Labillardière, for his part, seemed oblivious to her scowl. He stared past her and up towards the peak of Tenerife, the mountain that loomed above the town.

  The broad brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face, but she could see his features were strong: full lips, heavy eyebrows and large dark eyes. A feeling that she had met this man once before chafed at her. She knew his face, the timbre of his voice…but from where? After watching him through her eyelashes for some time, she gave up trying to remember. If he recognised her, he gave no sign. She pulled her own hat low to shield her face.

  Beside her, the gardener Félix Lahaie rubbed his hands together. She saw his fingers were dry and cracked, with dirt ingrained, and they reminded her of her father’s hands. Even long after Jean Girardin had left the garden beds of Versailles, the chapped and splintered skin had betrayed him. But she did not hold this similarity against him. Félix had a gentle pouchiness to his features and an amiable lip. She was inclined to like him. When he had climbed into the boat that morning he had winked at her. ‘I am being allowed to go botanising with the savants.’ He spoke freely as Labillardière had not yet arrived. Leaning forwards he tapped his nose. ‘I must keep my own collections secret, they hate competition.’ Girardin had re
turned a small smile and said nothing.

  A golden crescent beach swept away to her right. The breeze was warm and fragrant, bringing the spicy, floral scent of land. Despite her nerves, she began to feel the stirrings of excitement. These would be her first steps on foreign shores. Félix caught her eye and grinned.

  On the pier, two men from the Espérance were waiting for them. One wore a long brown coat and stood with his hands on his hips, while his servant held a parasol above both their heads.

  ‘Claude Riche!’ Labillardière called out to him and threw up a rope. The boat bumped against the wooden pier.

  Claude Riche removed his hat in greeting and a spray of crimped, wiry hair bounced up. His greatcoat was appended with all manner of pockets. There were loops with vials, pincers and knives. A hammer and a flintlock pistol hung from a belt. On his back he wore a canvas pack onto which he had attached more hooks, rings, belts and buckles, and clipped an assortment of wicker cages like a human beast of burden. Girardin had never seen such outlandish garb. She heard the officers in the stern sniggering.

  The sailors stowed the oars and scrambled up the steps, teasing and tripping over one another in their haste to be first to the alehouses along the docks. The officers were not far behind.

  ‘Get back here!’ Labillardière called after them, but the sailors must have lost their hearing because they pounded faster along the pier.

  Girardin helped Félix unload their equipment. He told her they were to climb the peak and wouldn’t be back for several days. She looked up to where the mountain had lost its tip in cloud. It seemed an impossible feat.

  ‘Here,’ she murmured. ‘Take this.’ She pulled a cold salmon pie from her bag.

  He thanked her warmly. ‘Did you bake this?’