Unclaimed Heart Read online

  Orlanda spoke conspiratorially, her voice nearly washed away by the sound of the sea. “I have come to know Alexandre over the past few weeks, and I find him most agreeable company. I am almost certain he feels the same way. Constance,” she grasped Constance’s hand, “I love him. Most ardently.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Constance found her voice. “There are so many impediments,” she managed. “There is no possibility of a match.” Speaking those words aloud made her feel sad, bereft. But not for Orlanda’s sake.

  “Do you not think that love can overcome anything? Did Shakespeare not say, ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment’?”

  Love. Orlanda was in love with Alexandre. Why did the thought make Constance feel short of breath, anxious, as though she wanted to cry? Jealousy harder than diamonds tightened inside her.

  “Do you need me to remind you, Orlanda?” Constance said. “He is in service to my father. You are the daughter of a gentleman. When was there ever a match made under such circumstances?”

  “He is only in service to your father temporarily. Don’t forget he also teaches me French. Why, a friend of my cousin in Oxfordshire married his governess. It’s quite common.”

  “For a man to marry a woman of lower social standing, yes. But I have never seen the opposite, Orlanda. Never.”

  Orlanda’s voice became increasingly whining. “Our fathers are not so very genteel. They have property, certainly, but they are in trade. They have no titles to protect, no ancient families to please. Alexandre is perfectly nice. I know he has rough edges, but he could be trained to be a gentleman: converse appropriately, learn how to dance, wear shoes . . .”

  Constance bristled. To think Orlanda had almost invited Alexandre to the dance as a guest, but was now pleased for him to go as a servant. To think that she had declared love for him, but also spoke of him as though he were a puppy to be taught tricks. Her words came out savagely. “You are deluding yourself. Your father will never allow you to form an attachment to Alexandre; it would cause him extreme dishonor. Love counts for naught when you’re English, Orlanda. All that counts is appearance. You are a lady and, one day, you will marry a gentleman. Whether you like him or not. And you are a little fool to think otherwise.” She stopped, realizing her heart was beating rapidly, that tears were just a blink away.

  Orlanda, who had been shocked into uncustomary silence, finally found her tongue. “You speak very passionately, friend. But is your warning directed at me, or at yourself?”

  Constance handed Orlanda the roll of paper. “I feel unwell,” she said. “I must—”

  “Go,” Orlanda finished for her. “You’re unwell and you must go. I know that you are not unwell, Constance. I know that you pretend to be unwell because my company is so tedious to you. I can only presume that my dullness is the reason my father is always at work, and my mother is always indisposed with her medicine.”

  Constance softened. “Orlanda, I—”

  Orlanda turned her shoulder. “I wouldn’t keep you here a moment past endurance. Go.”

  Constance pinched the bridge of her nose, her mind in turmoil. Then she turned and escaped to the beach.

  The midday sun stood directly overhead, hot on her skin. She wasn’t wearing a bonnet and was afraid her face would freckle. She found the meagre shade of a grove of coconut trees and sat in it, the wind tugging at her hair. Her eyes were drawn out to the ships in the harbor. Good Bess, a monster dominating the horizon. And Alexandre’s schooner, neat and unassuming. She wondered what he was doing aboard, if Howlett had already asked him to serve tea and lemonade to Orlanda’s self-important guests. Tears began to fall. She could deny it no longer. She loved him. She had schooled herself to be practical, rational. But practicality and rationality had melted away. The thought of Alexandre filled her with wild, raw feelings.

  Constance pulled her shoes and stockings off and plunged her feet into the warm sand, closing her eyes. Her jealousy had made her speak harshly to Orlanda, but the tirade was as easily applied to herself. It was hopeless for her to be in love with Alexandre. Utterly hopeless.

  And yet, she was still in love with him.

  The sounds of the sea rushed around her. She replayed all her encounters with Alexandre in her imagination. His noble, brave silence when he first boarded Good Bess. The feel of his hard back pressed against her when he carried her to her mother’s house. The rough warmth of his hand . . . The dull ache intensified within her. She began to imagine other encounters, being held close in his arms, the tickle of his hair on her face, his lips at her throat . . .

  “Constance!”

  She opened her eyes. Father was approaching, the sun glinting on his dark auburn hair. She felt guilty, as though he could see her thoughts. She pulled her toes out of the sand and reached for her shoes.

  He stopped, gazing down sternly. “What did you do to Orlanda?”

  “Why? What has she said?”

  “She has said very little. But she returned to the house a few minutes ago awash in tears. Her father is on business in town, her mother is unwell, and so I have been charged with the task of admonishing you for your ‘cruel, cruel words.’” He smiled at her, bemused.

  Constance relaxed. “She was being foolish, and I told her so,” she said.

  Father held out a hand to help her to her feet. “It’s about time somebody did, Constance. But could you please apologize? We are the Howletts’ guests, and the right thing to do is keep the waters smooth.”

  They began to walk, side by side in the sunshine. “Father, do you ever get tired of doing the right thing? Do you not sometimes want to do the wrong thing?”

  He frowned. “Man should be a rational creature, not a slave to his instincts.”

  She wanted to say, What about woman? But she didn’t. Instead, she said, “Orlanda tells me that Mr. Howlett intends to press Alexandre into service as a footman at the dance. Do you not think that is too much to ask of him?”

  “It’s only a dance. I daresay there will be two dozen tedious people in attendance. They’ll eat, drink, manage a few figures, go home and forget they ever came. Alexandre is working his way home with us; he’ll do what he is asked, I imagine. Though he seems rather a rough creature and will likely drop a potato in somebody’s lap.” Father suppressed a smile. “Let’s hope it’s somebody unpleasant.”

  Constance managed to smile in return and steeled herself to apologize to Orlanda.

  As Henry rowed, Howlett clutched the sides of the boat so hard that his knuckles turned white. Henry had been aboard Good Bess, making sure that all was well. Howlett had business with Alexandre, so they were paying a visit to the Queen of Pearls as well.

  “Not comfortable on the water, William?” Henry asked.

  Howlett smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid I never got my sea legs. To be honest, it’s one of the reasons I’ve never returned to England. The journey out was so distressing.”

  Henry nodded to pretend he understood. Inside, he condemned Howlett as a coward. There had to be something wrong with a man who was afraid of the sea. He pulled the oars, his muscles straining. Ordinarily, he’d have one of his officers or crew row for him. But he wanted a few minutes alone with Howlett to discuss the progress of their investigations. At the villa, there was always somebody lurking around.

  “I had a letter back from the shipping registrar this morning,” Henry said. “No record of a ship called the Monkey King. Faith’s name appears nowhere.”

  “She was with a man, they say. Do you have any idea who that might have been?”

  Henry was jolted by his bluntness. “Of course not. For all I know, it was a white slave trader.”

  “Hmm, which would explain why there was no record with the registrar.”

  Henry rowed on through the silky water, not telling Howlett how disappointed he felt. He had been here at Nagakodi for three weeks, and his investigations seemed already to have stalled. Enquiries into who owned the little house on the edge of to
wn revealed that Faith still owned it, but no other name appeared on the documents. The sale happened too long ago to discover who had paid for the dwelling, or from where the money was drawn. The neighbor, when approached by Howlett again, remembered the furniture being sold by debtors two years after she had moved out (at least, that was Howlett’s translation of what the neighbor had said; Henry had his doubts that it was entirely accurate). It seemed his wife had disappeared, once again, into thin air.

  Howlett spoke of a few other friends who might be able to help and promised to get on with writing letters that afternoon. True to his offer to help Howlett with his business in exchange for helping in his search for Faith, Henry agreed to take some accounts into town for him. Their business was sorted quickly, in time to board the pearler.

  Alexandre had seen them approach and waited for them to climb up, offering a hand to Howlett to steady him.

  “Thank you, boy,” Howlett said.

  “You’re welcome.” Alexandre was half-dressed as usual and Henry wondered, not for the first time, how he hoped to adapt to life back in Europe. And yet, that was where his heart was set on going.

  “Alexandre, we both have business with you,” Henry said. “For my part, I’ve had word this morning of a buyer from Colombo. He’s coming up in a week to inspect the Queen of Pearls. I can’t imagine a reason he won’t buy it, so do make sure it’s tidy, ready for him to sail that day.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Alexandre turned his steady gaze to Howlett.

  “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “As you may know, we are hosting a dance in two nights. I’d like you to come ashore and act as a footman for the evening.”

  Alexandre nodded, then said, “What is a footman?”

  Henry hid a smile. Howlett blustered. “A footman is a . . . presentable servant. You’ll trim the lamps, wait at dinner, fetch lemonade and tea for the ladies and gentlemen at the dance. Ordinarily you’d wear a fine costume, but there’s little chance of finding you a powdered wig in this town. You’re about my height, so I’ll loan you some decent clothes to wear. Come by at six; we’ll dress you and send you down.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Alexandre said, his expression giving nothing away.

  As they rowed back to shore, Henry began to think about how much money he would get for the pearler. A tidy sum, most likely, as she was solid and well built, of Indian teak. It would go some way to offsetting the huge financial losses of this journey. Now, when he looked back on the moment he had opened Howlett’s letter and discovered that Faith might have been in Ceylon, he couldn’t believe his own hastiness. Sailing without cargo or commission, sailing without entertaining a shred of doubt that he would find Faith. He hadn’t found her. Days were passing without new clues. Perhaps he would try to find a commission nearby and then, when the pearler was sold, head home.

  Empty-handed.

  Orlanda forgave Constance quickly and kept her busy. One afternoon Constance tried to meet Alexandre at the beach, but was stopped by Father, minding her that shoes were still expected of English girls even in foreign places. Then, the day before the dance, she returned to her room after writing place cards for Orlanda in the library and saw a sight from her window that made her heart leap.

  The sun was setting; the horizon was cloudless.

  She hurried to the window and looked down. Alexandre was in his customary spot, his drawing book beside him with its pages flapping in the breeze. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling and raced out of the room.

  She slowed herself on the stairs as she passed Mrs. Howlett, grey-faced and trembling, being helped up by Chandrika.

  Then she raced again, out the front door and around to the beach.

  Alexandre saw her approaching, stood and waved. He pointed, excited like a child. “No clouds, Constance!” he called.

  She hurried to join him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder as the sun grew huge and orange, its reflection blazing unimpeded in the water. His fingers were less than an inch from her own, and it was as though their hands were magnetized to each other. She had to fight hard to resist. But out here in the open she had to behave appropriately. She knew too well how clear the view to this position was from her bedroom window.

  As the sun lowered into the water, she imagined herself with Alexandre, far from the eyes of anyone. And knew that, in such circumstance, she couldn’t trust herself. She allowed herself to glance away from the sun, to him. His jaw was strong, his nose long and straight, his lips full and soft, his long dark hair tangled on his collar. He turned and saw her looking at him. She didn’t turn her eyes away. Instead, they held each other’s gaze. The world seemed to drop away from her feet. She felt she might faint.

  Then he glanced away, and everything was back to normal.

  “Have you heard?” he said. “I am to be a footman at Orlanda’s dance.”

  “I had heard,” she replied. “I think it’s terrible.”

  “You think I will make a bad footman?” he teased.

  “No, I think it’s terrible that you were even asked. It’s . . . not . . .”

  “I am not trained for such service,” Alexandre said. “And yet, I have few choices. In truth, I do not have high expectations of life. I can be happy with very little, so you must not concern yourself for me.” He glanced at her, smiling softly. “But thank you, nonetheless. I do not remember a time when somebody cared what happened to me.”

  “I care,” she said, too fervently, but unable to stop herself. “I care very much.”

  He didn’t speak for a long time. The sun disappeared; streaky clouds began to gather. Then he said, “Do not care too much, Constance. For nothing can come of it.”

  The words were like cold water on her heart. He was rebuffing her? Had her feelings for him been so obvious? She felt like a fool: as silly and cow-eyed as Orlanda. Wounded pride made her bluster. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her voice mock-cheerful. “But I expect I had better get back for supper. They will be waiting for me.”

  “Goodnight, Constance,” he said, picking up his drawing book.

  “Goodnight,” she said in what she hoped was a practical tone of voice. Then, not knowing what else to say, she walked away in silence.

  Chapter 13

  Constance couldn’t decide what to wear.

  Her three dresses had been freshly laundered, but she had packed them for practicality, not prettiness. Tonight, she wanted to look pretty. Not for all the other guests at the dance, but for Alexandre, who she knew would be there.

  Orlanda’s clothes were too small, though she had an excess of pretty dresses. Mrs. Howlett’s were approaching the right size, though they were matronly and severe. Her bed was covered in a pile of discarded clothes, and she stood in her chemise, chewing the inside of her cheek and wondering what she was going to do.

  A knock at the door. She quickly pulled on her robe and went to answer it.

  “Father?” she said, surprised to see him. He had something behind his back.

  “May I come in?”

  She opened the door fully, and he revealed that he was holding a dress of white muslin, embroidered with beads. “I only remembered this morning,” he said.

  “Remembered?” She took the dress, admiring its crisp whiteness.

  “You had been looking for new clothes. That day at the markets.”

  Constance recalled running into her father on the track to the beach, lying to him about hankering for a dress. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “I am not certain it will fit. But you are the same height as me, and I held it up against myself this morning at the dressmaker’s shop.” His eyes glittered with laughter. “I may have set the dressmaker’s mind to wondering. In any case, Chandrika has said she can make a few quick alterations if necessary.”

  She pressed the dress against her body. It was perfect. “Thank you most sincerely, Father,” she said. “Your kindness, your thoughtfulness . . .”

  “Surprise you? That is a shame. How
ever, as it is less than a month since you believed me to be a pirate, I shall accept your thanks with good grace.” He nodded once, then turned to leave.

  She closed the door, carefully unbuttoned the back of the dress and pulled it on. She fastened as many buttons as she could without help, then went to the mirror. It fitted beautifully. Another, gentler, knock at the door alerted her to Chandrika’s arrival.

  She let the housemaid in. “It’s fine, Chandrika,” she said. “It fits almost perfectly.”

  Chandrika admired the dress, then turned Constance around to finish off her buttons. “I’m glad, but I’ve come to see you about something else.” She took Constance’s shoulders and turned her back. “My brother-in-law, Nissanka, is here to see you.”

  “Nissanka? Then he must have news for me.”

  “I do not know, Miss Blackchurch. But I have asked him to wait under the pergola in the spice garden to speak with you. The house is very busy. I thought you might appreciate the privacy.”

  “Thank you, Chandrika. I’ll just need to avoid—”

  “Orlanda is occupied with dressing. I will go to her now.”

  Constance took Chandrika’s hand and squeezed it gratefully. Then she made her way down the stairs and out to the spice garden. Only an hour now before the guests were due to arrive. The dining table was set, the dancing room was prepared, the weather had stayed clear. Orlanda was excited beyond words, but Constance had never been fond of dances or parties. She was far more excited to hear what Nissanka had to say about Ranumaran.

  He sat on the carved seat under the pergola. When he saw her, he stood.

  “Nissanka, thank you so much for coming to see me,” she said. “Shall we sit down?”

  “Yes, miss,” he said. The sky was growing soft. They settled together on the seat and, without prompting, he spoke.

  “I ask my family, my friends in Ranumaran about your ‘hidden temple.’ Nobody know. They ask their family, their friends. Finally, somebody know.”