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  “Well done, lad,” de Locke said to him, with a tight smile that might have been pride. Was it a misplaced paternal feeling that kept Alexandre in de Locke’s employ? Or was it simply Alexandre’s uncanny ability to hold his breath for so long? After all, that was the circumstance around which they had found each other.

  He was sleeping on a mattress, under the caravan where he worked when he first heard them.

  “The boy is not for sale,” said Givot, the caravan’s owner.

  “I will pay you what he’s worth to you. Autumn is only three weeks away, and then winter will follow. Your show will be off the road; you’ll be paying his keep for no return.”

  Givot harrumphed, and Alexandre felt a warm discomfort creeping over his skin. Were they talking about him? He felt vulnerable, as though he might be in trouble. Last time he had been in trouble, Givot had whipped him twice across the back with his horsewhip.

  “Where did you find him?” the mysterious voice asked.

  Givot, who loved the sound of his own voice, launched into a tale that the eleven-year-old Alexandre had never heard before. “His mother sold him to me when he was two. She was poor, couldn’t keep him. Tried to drown him in a laundry tub. When he stopped fighting, she pulled him up. He took a breath and kept right on breathing.”

  A chill spread through his stomach. Was this true? Givot had always told him that his parents were scholars, studying at the university in Paris. That, one day, when they had finished their studies, they would return for him. Until then, they had given strict instructions that Givot was to care for him, and he was to do whatever was bid him.

  The stranger was still talking. “This is my final offer. I know you could use the money. Your horses are looking tired and old.”

  “I won’t hear of it.”

  Alexandre blocked his ears with his hands so he wouldn’t hear the rest of the argument, the two men talking about him as though he were only as important as a horse. He curled on his side and held in sobs, a pit of emptiness opening up within him. He belonged nowhere, with no one. Sleep eluded him.

  Hours later, after all the lanterns had been extinguished, quiet footsteps had alerted him to somebody’s presence nearby.

  Gilbert de Locke crouched next to the caravan, leaning his head to seek Alexandre out. “Boy?” he whispered. “You should come with me.”

  Alexandre, small and frightened, had become paralyzed.

  “I will take you somewhere warm and sunny. I will pay you handsomely.”

  Only the first part of de Locke’s promise came true. The coast of India was indeed warm and sunny, but it seemed that de Locke forgot his offer of payment almost as soon as Alexandre had taken his hand and agreed to follow him. Being young, never having known anything but hardship, he didn’t complain.

  Down he went again, the two Sinhalese divers beside him. He worked as quickly as he could, waiting for his companions to be pulled up. Then he spun in a slow circle to make sure he was alone, his dark hair floating around his face. Baroque undersea formations surrounded him; only fishes watched. He reached for an oyster, wishing his fingertips could see inside. Aware that he had only limited time, he pried it open with his pick. Nothing. Another, and another. Nothing. The cracked shells spun slowly away from him, towards the ocean floor. Shadows of the other divers appeared above; he returned to his original task, collecting oysters for de Locke. One day he would find a pearl, in those brief moments alone under the sea. And when he did, he would run away from Gilbert de Locke and buy a passage home to France. He would show de Locke that he was no longer the naive boy he had once been.

  Gilbert de Locke poured three generous glasses of claret. One for himself, and one each for Arthur Petty and his wife, who sat on the sofa with a box of pearls between them. Arthur took the drink happily, but Mrs. Petty left hers sitting on the side table as she prodded the pearls, a disdainful expression pinching her nose. She needed a pair of pearls for earrings, but nothing was good enough for her.

  How de Locke hated the English.

  Arthur left his wife choosing pearls and joined de Locke at the window, his shoes clicking on the parquetry floor. “Do you deal with English traders at all, Mr. de Locke? I’m sorry, Monsieur de Locke.”

  “All nationalities,” de Locke replied, “though England dominates the merchant marine.”

  “We came out of Dartmouth two years ago on an English merchant vessel,” Arthur said. “Henry Blackchurch. Do you know him?”

  De Locke took a gulp of claret. “No, I don’t,” he lied. He didn’t tell Arthur Petty that Henry Blackchurch, with his bluster and his temper and his self-importance, was the reason he had started hating the English in the first place. Instead, he kept his eyes on the storm.

  “A fine fellow,” Arthur continued. “A true gentleman.”

  “How do you do there, Mrs. Petty?” de Locke asked, changing the subject.

  “I’ve found a pair that go tolerably well. I dare say they might make a fine pair of earrings, though I can see on close inspection that they are not identical.”

  “Never mind, dear,” Arthur said, “your head between them will provide a distraction.”

  De Locke swallowed a bark of laughter. Thunder boomed and rolled over the villa.

  “Quickly now, dear,” Arthur said. “There’s a storm on the way.” He turned to de Locke. “Don’t you worry about your vessel out there in the bad weather?”

  “Oh, no, La Reine des Perles is a solid schooner.” His eyes returned to the window again. “Besides, one of my crew sleeps on board. He”ll take care of her.”

  “A native fellow? Can they be trusted?” Arthur said, his mouth turning down haughtily.

  “Oh, the natives are trustworthy,” de Locke said, resisting the urge to say they were easily more trustworthy than the English. “But my lad is French. Alexandre Sans-Nom.”

  “Sans-Nom?” Mrs Petty piped up. “Doesn’t that mean ‘no-name’?”

  “That’s right, for he’s an orphan. I rescued him. He’s been with me for many years, does four times the work of any of my other men.”

  “You’re lucky to have such a good man in your employ. Be careful. A good European lad in these parts must be something of a prize. Somebody else may poach him.”

  De Locke scowled, shaking his head. “Nobody should dare to come near him,” he said to Arthur Petty, as the rain started to pound on the tiled roof. “Alexandre’s mine.”

  Chapter 3

  DARTMOUTH AND BEYOND

  Excitement and fear, Constance realized, were very similar. The flutter of birds’ wings in her heart, the empty feeling in the arches of her feet, the thump of her pulse in her ears. Quietly, quietly, feeling around in the dark, she packed the smallest trunk she could find with clothes, books, apples and biscuits. It was midnight. Daphne lay sleeping in their soft bed, oblivious. Constance didn’t want her cousin to be scolded for knowing about the midnight flight, so she said nothing. She had written a note, making herself sad at the thought of not seeing Daphne for many months.

  It had all happened very quickly, in the end. She had expected Father to stay a number of weeks, as he usually did. But four days after his arrival, he had caught her on her way upstairs from the supper table, bidding her a solemn farewell.

  “I won’t see you in the morning, child. There is a favorable tide at five tomorrow morning, and a good wind. I will be heading away. I hope to find you well on my return.”

  That was the moment that the excitement and fear had surged to life inside her. She had to steel herself, put her half-formed plan into action.

  Constance carefully closed the lid of the trunk, but she misjudged the fastenings in the dark. The snap of the buckles was unexpectedly loud. Daphne stirred. Constance froze. Silence and stillness returned. She laced on her bonnet and stood, hand reaching for the door.

  “Constance?”

  She spun.

  Daphne sat up, drowsy, puzzled. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Her voice was cle
ar and piping in the quiet gloom, so Constance threw herself on the bed and pressed her hand to her cousin’s lips.

  “Shh,” she said. “You’ll wake the whole house.”

  “What time is it? What are you doing?” Daphne whispered when Constance set her lips free.

  Constance fished the note from the front of her dress. “I was going to leave you this. . . .”

  “Leave me . . . ? Are you going somewhere?”

  Constance nodded, settling on her elbows next to Daphne. “To Ceylon.”

  Daphne’s eyes widened as she guessed Constance’s plan. “Oh, how very thrilling.”

  “You mustn’t stop me. And you mustn’t tell a soul.”

  “I won’t stop you, Constance. But tomorrow morning at breakfast I will tell Mamma; for if I don’t, she will worry extremely. By then, you will be gone.”

  Constance admitted that this was a good idea.

  “How on earth will you get on board?”

  “By the gangway, Daphne. It isn’t hard to slip aboard unnoticed. Staying hidden is the challenge.”

  “But, cousin,” Daphne continued, “how can you bear to travel so far by sea? Where will you sleep? In a dirty hammock under the deck, with no windows? There will be men everywhere, churls and drunkards. Knaves who have never seen a woman before. I shouldn’t like to spend so long on a boat.”

  “It’s not a boat, Daphne. It’s a ship, or a barque, or even a vessel, but don’t let a seaman hear you call it a boat.” Constance laughed. “In any case, Father often takes on passengers, good families, many women. But he isn’t this time because he’s leaving in such a hurry. I’ll stow away in one of the roundhouse cabins at the stern. I’ll have windows. I know Father’s ship well enough, I know many of his crew. I won’t be in danger from them.” Here she grimaced. “Just from Father when he finds out. I wonder if I can stay hidden all the way to Good Hope.” She climbed off the bed and picked up the trunk. “I have to go. They’re sailing in just under five hours. If I don’t slip aboard now, it will be too busy later. Somebody will notice me.”

  Daphne threw back the covers and leapt up to hug Constance. “I shall miss you, cousin. But I am so very excited about your adventure.”

  With her free hand Constance stroked her cousin’s hair, wishing she could be just a fraction quieter.

  Daphne stood back, squeezed her hand. “I do hope you find your mother,” she said softly.

  Constance smiled, feeling the flutters again. She wondered if she had raised her expectations too high. But if Father felt confident enough to make this hastily arranged voyage to the east, with hardly any outgoing cargo—he would lose a great deal of money on the journey—then finding her mother must surely be a distinct possibility. “I hope so too, cousin,” she said. “I have waited for her a very long time.”

  The early-morning air was chill, moist. Only starlight and a quarter moon lit her way across the cobbled quayside to Good Bess. Rain had come and gone, leaving puddles on the rutted ground. Above her, voices murmured softly on board; a light glowed in one of the portholes. The gangway waited. She stopped and placed her trunk at her feet, sticking to the shadows a few moments to catch her breath. What was she doing? She had never been further from home than London. Stars shone above her, Betelgeuse and Rigel anchoring the shape of Orion. Imaginings of the East pervaded her mind: broad sunlight, the smell of spices. Newly committed to her adventure, she bent to pick up her trunk. The buckle snapped open; the lid tumbled backwards, overbalancing it. Her apples rolled out and away, plopping into the water. Her clothes and biscuits landed in a muddy puddle.

  She could have cried, this small setback too much for her at such a tense moment. She gathered what she could, leaving the biscuits for the rats. As quiet as she could, she headed up the gangway, then made her way aft to the roundhouse.

  She had been aboard Father’s ship numerous times, but was always shocked by the intensity of its unpleasant smell. The lingering odors of tea, cinnamon and pepper were overwhelmed by the smell of mildew, salt, old fish, unwashed bodies. The smells were trapped by the claustrophobic spaces and had leeched into the wood. She ducked her head under the beams. There were cabins down here, usually reserved for paying travellers. Constance began trying doors in the dark. The first was locked. The next was not. She opened the cabin door and slipped inside.

  The ceilings were low, and for a tall girl like Constance this would mean stooping under beams and hanging lanterns for the entire journey. She put her trunk at her feet and closed the door behind her. Darkness. She waited for her eyes to adjust, listening to her own breathing, feeling the almost imperceptible bob and sway of the ship, which, although not yet under sail, was still subject to the uncertain footing of water. She could make out shapes: heavy furniture that she knew would be lashed down. Moonlight waited outside the window. She moved towards it, striking her ankle on something hard, making her way around it—a table, she felt it with her hands—and then hitting her knees. Directly under the window was a bed. Not soft and welcoming like her bed at home—the first pang of homesickness—but long and narrow and flat with no linen. She lay down carefully. Her eyes had adapted now, and she gained a dim picture of the cabin. A sofa, a writing desk, a dresser, a chair, and a mirror. She turned her eyes to the window and listened.

  Gradually, sounds began to gather. Footsteps on the gangway, voices calling to each other. Was that Father? She couldn’t be sure. Shouting, laughing. Chickens clucking. The sky began to shed some of its ink. The movement and noise now grew frantic. Father’s voice was strong and certain now, barking orders. Her anxiety swelled as she thought of him finding her. He couldn’t find her, not yet. Not until they were well beyond English waters. She didn’t want to be sent home.

  Dawn drew near, the sky washed to pastel blue. Constance could see the detail in her cabin now, the scarred wood floor, the dusty age of the furniture, the faded Eastern rug.

  More footsteps, running. She tensed, wondering if she should hide. But they scuttled past. The ship creaked, loosened from its stays.

  And began to move.

  Constance sat up, daring a glance out the window. The quayside slipped away from her, and she felt a sudden pang of vulnerability. If she felt this way less than twenty feet from the land, how on earth would she manage to make it all the way to Ceylon?

  But then the wind caught the sails and she felt Good Bess heel to one side. The ship gathered speed, and a pleasant giddiness surprised her. Cutting through the water, Good Bess moved out towards the mouth of the river and the open sea. Constance liked the fluid motion, the silky movement as solidity fell away, almost like she imagined flying would be. The sky brightened; the first waves hit the bow, making a rhythmic splashing noise. They were on their way, and the thrill of excitement was more intense than the dull ache of homesickness.

  Constance kneeled on the bed and watched as the land behind her lost its familiarity through distance, became nothing more than a dark outline on the horizon. A collection of rough-voiced gulls followed them, catching warm air under their wings and morning sunlight on top of them. She could hear her father’s voice on the poop deck above her, but couldn’t make out his words. He began to whistle, an old jig that he always whistled aimlessly when he was happy. What a strange way to discover something about her father: that sailing made him happy. She’d always assumed that he was a seaman because that was how he made money. The whistle faded away. She lay down on her bed and watched the lantern in the middle of the room sway back and forth on the gentle swell. Tiredness caught up with her, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  Whistling. Very close.

  She sat upright, heart thudding. Father. She scrambled onto the floor and behind the dresser. From here, she could see her trunk at the front of the room. If he opened the door, she would be discovered.

  But he didn’t open the door. The whistling continued. There were thumping and footfalls nearby. Constance turned her eyes to the wall, a thin partition between this cabin and the next.
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  Between her cabin and her father’s.

  She almost laughed. She had unwittingly taken the cabin next to his. In fact, she had tried his cabin door in the dark at midnight. What a blessing it had been locked! She climbed back onto the bed as quietly as a mouse. Silence would have to be her strongest ally over the coming days, for the bear slept close by and he was fearsome when angered.

  Henry Blackchurch leaned on the rail, watching the wake of the ship. The silvery twilight had blackened the sea; the evening chill grew more intense. They had been the lucky recipients of favorable winds all day, and now, as they sailed into the first night of their journey, Henry had come to believe that it was some kind of sign from above. He was being sent good winds because his journey was fated: they would make quick time to Ceylon, they would find Faith, and she would return home with him.

  Henry sighed, allowing himself a rare moment of melancholic reflection. In sixteen years, he had changed greatly. After frustrating results from the few leads he’d had, Henry had aged significantly, the wear of worry appropriate on his face. What would Faith think of him now? He knew instantly that this was his last chance.

  “Sir, a moment please?”

  Henry turned, straightening his spine. Jack Maitland, his first officer, stood there: a scrubbed potato of a man, altogether too serious for his young years.

  “Yes, Maitland?”

  “The crew have been asking if we’ll stop at Porto Santo as usual. If the winds continue favorably, we should be there around a week from now.”

  Henry shook his head emphatically. “No. There isn’t time to stop, it would slow us down. We’ll go all the way to Good Hope, put ashore there for a short while.”

  “Good Hope? But there will be letters to send. . . .”