Into the World Read online

  She shrugged. ‘It needs sage.’

  Félix smiled, then nudged her with his elbow. ‘Go on, don’t be shy.’ He nodded his head towards the town. ‘Or they’ll get the best ones.’

  Girardin swallowed. She looked along the length of the pier. How well would her disguise carry her through this town? Was it too late to change her mind? She rolled her shoulders forwards, hollowing her chest. Félix gave her a cheery wave as she set off.

  The dockyard whores had arranged themselves in battle lines and their fingers clawed her shoulders as she forced through their ranks. Gaunt faces pressed around her. The women wore black rags wound over their heads as veils. She heard them praying as they clutched their rosary beads and begged, offering up their bodies for another bite, another morsel of life.

  Girardin escaped, ignoring the jeers of the sailors behind her. She walked quickly through the cobblestone streets, unsure of her way but feeling comforted by the stone buildings. This could be a European town, she thought, if it weren’t for the coconut palms and banana plants. The people of Santa Cruz took no special note of another foreign sailor in customary loose white shirt and wide trousers, and with each step through the port town, her confidence grew. It felt good to have solid earth beneath her feet again. In her pocket she had the first of her wages and the coins felt weighty with promise.

  She had thought long and hard about what she might buy. Nothing expensive—she had her future to save for—but she wanted something to show her son when she returned. This is what I bought for you with my first wages. She imagined herself presenting him with some toy she had found, some exotic Spanish treasure.

  The street she walked up was lined with stalls selling trinkets and relics. Carved Madonnas gazed serenely down at her while the hawkers screamed in high-pitched Spanish, touting their wares. She shook her head. Each stall proclaimed to have the true finger of Christ, a bona fide splinter of the cross, but she wanted none of it. Keep your vengeful God, she thought and hurried past.

  The street turned abruptly and Girardin found herself in an open plaza, facing a glaring white church at the far end. The brightness made her eyes water. Heat emanated from the cloistered plaza, the buildings on all sides blocking it from the cooling breeze. A forbidding belltower of grey and white stone rose above the terracotta-tiled roof, casting a narrow finger of shade. Girardin kept to the perimeter of the square, beneath a fringe of palm trees.

  Here women clustered in groups, wearing coarse woollen cloaks, despite the suffocating heat, and broad-brimmed hats that sheltered their faces from the sun. Their children ran wild, chasing pigeons and stray dogs across the sun-baked cobbles. Girardin felt the eyes of the women watching her warily. It was a shocking thing, she found, to have someone look at you in fear. A matronly grandmother in a black dress wrapped her white, crocheted shawl tight around her, crossing her arms over her bosom as Girardin passed by.

  Two elderly men sat cross-legged across from one another, duelling with chess pieces. She saw a small boy playing with a brightly painted wooden cup and ball. A bilboquet! Perfect, she thought. She would find one for Rémi. Her steps were quicker, lighter, as she passed in front of the church.

  In the far corner of the plaza she came upon a statue of the Virgin Mary standing high on a pedestal. She paused at its base. Untouchable, Girardin thought, looking up at the Madonna. Incorruptible. The mother of Christ held out her arms to her, but Girardin turned away. She saw the dour grandmother staring at her.

  A French uniform caught her eye. A sailor was crossing the plaza towards her. He did not creep around the edge as she had, but walked boldly in the open sun. Girardin felt a trickle of sweat bead down from her temple. The Frenchman took off his hat and flicked his dark fringe from his eyes. She recognised him as the pilot, Ange Raoul, and remembered his deferential bow to her at the General’s cabin door.

  ‘A tribute to the immaculate conception,’ Raoul said, glancing up at the statue. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

  Girardin shuffled backwards. Raoul’s features were sensous and full. A handsome man aware of his sexual power. Despite his smile, she felt his menace.

  He advanced, forcing her to circle around the statue. ‘I’ve been following you,’ he said.

  Girardin stumbled on the uneven cobbles.

  ‘Young man on his first shore leave should be in a whorehouse, not looking up stone skirts.’ He backed her towards the wall of the church, into the shadow of the belltower, his dark eyes intent. When her heels touched the stone wall, he raised his head, sniffing loudly, taking in the scent of her. Her eyes grew wide.

  From behind, the Spanish grandmother charged at them, warbling abuse, smacking her walking stick on the stone and pointing to the sea. Fuck off home, she seemed to be saying. Take your fighting and fornicating elsewhere. Godless French. When Raoul turned, Girardin fled into the Iglesia de la Concepción.

  Inside, the nave was blessedly cool and dark. Her eyes were slow to adjust. She let her heart’s pounding slowly steady itself. She would be safe in here, she hoped. She pictured Raoul’s arrogant stare, his flared nostrils. He suspected her sex and she was sure he had meant to confirm it.

  No one followed her into the church. The doors stayed firmly closed against the heat and light. Peering around the grey stone pillars, she found empty church pews. She slid into one and knelt before a silver altar.

  She was hit by powerful memories. It had been thirteen years since the funeral of her son, Jojo. After that, she had cursed God. He had stolen her darling boy like a thief in the night, cajoling, whispering false promises, dragging his soft cheek away from hers. God had heard her blasphemous thoughts and He punished her. He took Etienne. Who was she to question His plan, accuse Him of heartless barbarity?

  Footsteps rang loudly on the stone floor. ‘Santa Cruz de la Conquista—the Holy Cross of the Conquest,’ a voice boomed in the space behind her.

  Girardin jolted upright.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  She turned to see Monsieur Ventenat, the chaplain of the Recherche, walking forwards into the candlelight. His hands appeared chalky white against his flowing black robes. His bald head, naked without wig or hat to conceal the shape of his skull, disturbed her. It reminded her of death.

  ‘God grant that our journey does not end in as much blood as these Spanish explorers have on their hands.’ Ventenat knelt and genuflected before the altar. ‘The noble savage, the perfect state of society.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I fear many will have cause to regret our coming among them.’

  Girardin was confused by his melancholic words. She dropped her head and mumbled prayers for their safe passage. But she was thinking of Rémi. She had abandoned her son to the mercy of the Church even though she knew God had none left for her.

  ‘Holy Father, who art in heaven…’ The chaplain raised his voice so that it echoed in the cavernous space.

  She wondered which of her sins had sealed her fate. Was it cursing God for taking her first son from her? Or before that, when she disobeyed her father and married Etienne with his seed already taking root in her belly?

  Raising her eyes to the light streaming through the high windows she spoke silently to God. Are you listening? Her fists tightened beside her legs.

  ‘Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,’ Ventenat intoned.

  You took one son from me. You will not take the other.

  ‘Lead us not into temptation.’

  Keep him safe, you judgemental fucker. She swore at God as easily as if she had spent her life at sea. He is innocent.

  ‘And deliver us from evil,’ Ventenat finished.

  She stood abruptly. Even if Raoul was waiting for her, she couldn’t stay in here a moment longer. She burst out into the plaza, feeling the eyes of God on her back. Running now, she sought out the narrow alleyways leading to the sea. Entering the church had been a mistake. She should not have let her anger overcome her. Foolish! She needed God on her side now. She had left her
son in His care.

  Two French sailors staggered out of the alehouse door and weaved across the path in front of her. She flattened herself against a wall. A Spanish soldier pursued them with his sword drawn. More of the town’s guards began to rally in the street and she felt exposed. She ducked down a passageway, hoping to find her way back to the wharf.

  In the alleyway, Raoul held a prostitute against the wall. Girardin gasped, skidding to a halt. The woman’s black dress was pushed up her thighs and he thrust against her, kneading her breasts. The Angelus bells of the church began to toll and the woman cried out, pleading with Raoul to let her pray. He pushed her back against the wall and she began to chant her prayers, closing her eyes, face upturned to God.

  Girardin watched transfixed, unable to move away. Raoul cried out in satisfaction and let the woman fall to her knees. She held her rosary beads to her lips, tears streaking her face. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,’ she sobbed in Latin.

  Raoul turned towards Girardin, the flap of his trousers gaping open. He made no effort to cover himself. Had he known she was there? Girardin stumbled back. He locked his eyes with hers as he slowly rebuttoned his trousers. He smiled. There was surely no mistaking the threat in his casual actions. Hold your nerve, she commanded herself.

  ‘Pardon me, Monsieur,’ she said, before turning on her heel. His laughter climbed the walls of the narrow alley.

  Girardin broke into a skittish run that she forced herself to contain. Before her, the ship’s officers were rounding up the drunken crew, pushing them towards the liberty boats. The church bells clanged and the Spanish townspeople collapsed to their knees, chanting the Angelus for the third time. She thought only of returning to the ship. This time the whores let her pass unmolested. She wrapped her hand around the key at her neck. Her cabin key. How quickly that dank, tight space in the heart of the ship had become her only sanctuary.

  Chapter 12

  GIRARDIN COUNTED THE BARRELS FOR A THIRD TIME. EACH TIME she had reached the same result. Six barrels of wine were missing. The holds were almost full and in a matter of days they would sail. How was she to explain this to the General?

  She confronted Besnard in the galley. ‘Some of the Tenerife wine is missing.’

  He did not bother to look up. Both the chef and his assistant were chopping onions and carrots for soup, their backs turned to her. ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘You and I are the only ones with keys to the store!’

  ‘Maybe you counted wrong.’

  Girardin felt rage flush through her. She turned back to her ledger, disturbed that her shaking hand had blotted ink on the carefully ruled pages. She had read through the lists of her predecessor and assumed that his neat hand had turned to a scrawl because of the drink. Now she wondered if Thomas Besnard had driven him to the bottle.

  ‘Where do you want these?’ A voice startled her. A crewman stood in the galley holding two large cabbages out to her. She turned to her commis staff.

  ‘I need you to assist me,’ she said to them, raising her voice uncertainly above the noise of the fire. Besnard ignored her. The braid down his back swung with each jerk of his shoulder. The assistant, Luc, turned a bleary eye to look at her. He shrugged.

  ‘The vegetable bins need to be scrubbed and cleaned,’ she said.

  ‘Do it yourself,’ Besnard said.

  She listened to the blade strike against the board, heard the oven door screech open and clang shut again. She felt torn by indecision, unable to move, at a loss as to how to gain authority over these men.

  ‘Now, please,’ she said, her voice too timid.

  Besnard dropped his cleaver. He plucked the apron from around his neck and let it fall to the floor. ‘I’m busy,’ he said.

  She stepped back to let him pass.

  Her knees felt weak. Besnard pushed the crewman with the cabbages in front of him, swearing at the imbecile for interrupting him. As they moved away she saw the naturalist, Labillardière, watching her. How long had he been there? Had he witnessed her humiliation?

  ‘Laurus azorica,’ Labillardière said, holding out a bunch of leaves, ‘the Canary Island bay tree. The gardener thought you might like them.’

  She took the leaves and gripped them tight to disguise her shaking hands. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘The salmon pie you provided for our journey was a lifesaver on the mountain.’

  She was surprised, disconcerted by his praise. He looked vulnerable without his hat. She saw his dark hair was matted to his forehead and she felt more kindly disposed towards him for it. He stood staring at her until she broke the awkward silence. ‘How was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Moist and succulent, and the pastry had retained some of its crispness.’

  ‘No, Monsieur, not the pie—the mountain.’

  ‘Miserable. We spent a night behind a wall of cracked lava, like sleeping on broken glass in freezing temperatures. But the pie was delicious.’

  ‘It was my late…’ She stopped herself just in time. Her mouth dropped open. How easily she had almost betrayed herself. Oh, Etienne, she thought, I dare not think of you. ‘It was my late mother’s recipe,’ she said, then added quickly before he noticed her distress: ‘The peak of Tenerife, did you reach it?’

  ‘Of course—at least, the gardener and I did. Claude Riche was seized with a spitting of blood and continual vomiting, being of weaker constitution.’

  There was something in his unwitting arrogance that suddenly reminded her of where she had seen the botanist before. At the salon of Sophie de Condorcet! He had been invited to speak of his years of exploration through the Levant. Girardin remembered the tone of his voice, his irritation as he was asked many questions, each one interrupting his botanical tale. Where did he sleep in Lebanon? In shepherds’ huts, of course. How did he travel through Syria? By foot or by donkey, of course. Did he fear for his life while nursing a plague-stricken monk? Of course not.

  Would he remember her? Girardin pulled back from the lantern light. There was nothing in her state now, dressed as she was, to remind him of those days. And though her entrance at the salon that night had been late and clumsy, a plain girl who made no effort to speak would hardly have made an impression.

  Labillardière had been introduced to the salon by his friend Jacques Hébert, who attended only rarely. It was said Hébert preferred the radical Club des Jacobins that met on rue Saint Honoré. But that night, he had looked like the cat with the cream, purring delightedly at the attention he was receiving for bringing such an enlightening speaker. She watched him ingratiate himself with the Marquis de Condorcet, Sophie’s husband. Hébert’s dark, shoulder-length hair was beginning to recede on his forehead, even though he could not have been more than thirty years old, and she saw he wore it long out of vanity, to sweep across his brow. His long, pointed nose dipped into the aroma of the marquis’ best claret and gave an appreciative quiver.

  ‘Weasel,’ Olympe snarled. ‘I do not trust him,’ she whispered to Marie-Louise. ‘Or any of his Jacobin friends.’

  The explorer, Labillardière, looked ill at ease. The tall, stiff-shouldered man stood aloof at supper, pressed back against a brooding still life by a Dutch master: peasant-caught hare bent backward over the table, pewter tankards, a crust of bread. Marie-Louise could see he did not enjoy his audience at the salon. He declined a plate of elegant sweets. In his speech he had spoken of suffering. In Palestine, he had witnessed peasants with nothing to eat but the wild herbs plucked as soon as they emerged from the rocky earth. He had returned home to Alençon only to see people die of hunger in the street for want of bread.

  The women pressed around him, wanting to know what the Turks and Arabs were like.

  ‘The people of the Levant die of hunger and poverty just as our own countrymen do.’ He looked to his friend, Hébert, and gestured with an impatient flick of his head.

  Hébert pulled a cake from his mouth to speak. ‘Equality for all men!�
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  ‘And women,’ Olympe added amid the applause. But Labillardière had already left the room.

  That night, Labillardière had looked at the men and women of the salon with contempt and Marie-Louise could see the hypocrisy reflected back at her. They gathered to discuss inequality and justice while they ate sumptuous suppers in gilded halls. They dressed in plain and simple fashions to show their contempt for the ancien régime, but they did nothing! Men like Labillardière and Hébert were men of action. Did it matter that the pamphlets Hébert published were cruel and fictitious? Did it matter if he told lies, if the result was to wake the citizens of France from their slumber? Perhaps others in the salon had the same sense that she’d that day. They were not doing enough. The world had to change and they had to do more.

  Goosepimples spiked her skin. These memories chilled her. She wrapped her arms around herself to stop from shaking.

  The naturalist was still speaking. Unaware of her distress, Labillardière was showing her the soles of his shoes, which had been torn apart by the lava.

  ‘I am fascinated by the alpine boundary,’ he said. ‘We were surprised to find a delicate violet growing at the edge of the exposed volcanic summit. Beauty survives in the most unexpected of places.’

  Besnard appeared behind him and shunted the botanist aside. ‘Some of us have to work, not prance about picking flowers.’

  Labillardière stared at the chef, his eyes narrowed and upper lip jagged in distaste. Then he bent forwards, leaning close to her ear. She flinched; her fear of recognition, however ludicrous, still lingered. He did not appear to notice. ‘Your chef is selling extra rations of wine to the sailors,’ he said in a low voice.

  Girardin stood motionless. She held her breath while Labillardière spun on his heel and left the galley. She watched him dodge past the ship’s boys as they mucked out the animal pens. Slowly, she released her breath. She waited, calming the beating of her heart. Then she turned to her chef.

  ‘Give me your key,’ she said.

  Besnard snorted and ignored her.