Taking the cup from him, she says, “I look a fright, I’m sure.”
“You do look rather as if you danced the cotillion all night,” he says. “Dark thoughts?”
“Not dark so much as confusing.” She stirs a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. She hesitates, then forges ahead: “I’ve been wondering about your fiancée.”
With a sigh, he folds the newspaper. “I don’t like to talk of her.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you if you promise not to raise the subject again.”
“Very well,” she says, unsure.
“Mary-Anne was seventeen when I was engaged to her. I was only eighteen, but I had my own boat, a small one of which I was ridiculously proud. I took her out in it one day. It was hot and clammy and the sky had an odd color about it. I knew it wasn’t a good day to go sailing, but it had taken me weeks to convince her. She worried someone might find out we’d been alone like that. I told her it didn’t matter, that we’d soon be married.”
She’s holding her breath, fear churning. After a long pause, he continues. “The storm took both Mary-Anne and the boat. We foundered less than a mile from shore. I searched for her until my strength gave out. I should’ve died, too, but somehow, I made it back.”
“Oh, Jack.” It explains so much, she thinks: his insistence it’s dangerous to go to sea, his intent not to marry.
Looking down at the newspaper, he says tonelessly, “I felt so low after losing her that for several years I didn’t care for anything. Least of all the law. The poor harvest the next year gave me a reason for smuggling, but her death had removed the reasonnotto.”
She wants to reach for his hand and try to convey some of her feeling by touch, for she cannot find the words. Mary-Anne died at sea, like George; her own sorrow is echoed in Jack’s.
He says, “You know how I told you I’d never lost a ship? I lost the boat that day. I didn’t leave a fish in the cove—I worried Mary-Anne would scoff at my superstition.” A deep breath, then: “Make of that what you will. I prefer not to think of the aftermath. Suffice to say I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“Do you miss her?” she says quietly.
“It was a long time ago.”
She stirs her coffee so vigorously Jack says, “Are you trying to stir it to death?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He indicates her cup. “Your coffee.”
She’s still stirring. Jack puts his hand over hers. The warmth of it stills her motions and then he takes the spoon, placing it on the saucer. “It was a long time ago, Isabel,” he says again.
“Yes,” she says, wondering if that’s how it’ll be with George one day; if she’ll be able to look someone in the eyes and say,it was a long time ago.She can still feel the warmth of Jack’s hand. She keeps looking at it as he picks up the newspaper again. After a while, she drags her gaze away and focuses instead on the port and the gray, rolling sea beyond it. As always, the sight quietens the turmoil inside her—some of it, at least.
After breakfast, Jack and Captain Cuvelier go to meet the merchants interested in buying the tin theRapidehas carried from England, while Madame Cuvelier takes Isabel to the captain’s widow. The house is down a winding street near the church, a plain, neat cottage with stone walls and a slate roof, suggesting Madame Kerjean either never remarried or remarried below her station. A rose trellis climbs the walls and a path of white gravel leads to the front door, which is painted the same vivid blue as those of many of the other houses.
“You’ll not want to mention the free trade here,” Madame Cuvelier says, rearranging the cloth covering the basket of pastries she carries. “Although Madame Kerjean’s husband was a smuggling captain, she has since turned away from the free trade and has become very devout. She can be trusted, but she doesn’t wish to hear of it.”
“I won’t mention it,” Isabel says through the thump of her heart in her throat.
Madame Cuvelier knocks on the door of the cottage. Minutes pass. A blackbird scuttles along the low stone wall around the front garden.
Give her time,Madame Cuvelier mouths when she catches Isabel’s nervous glance.
At last, the door opens and a woman dressed in black, with a white lacy head covering looks down at them from a statuesque height. She’s about as old as Isabel’s mother would’ve been, Isabel thinks, and cuts a fine figure in the austere dress. A large silver cross hangs from a chain around her neck. Despite her mostly white hair, her face is devoid of many of the lines you’d expect of someone her age.
“Madame Cuvelier, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Madame Kerjean’s voice is low and clear. Her gaze slides to Isabel. “I don’t believe we’ve met, madame.”
“This is Mrs. Isabel Henley, come from England on theRapide,” Madame Cuvelier says. “I have brought her to meet you, but before I avail you as to the purpose of our visit, could I offer you these pastries? They’ve been made fresh this morning.”
“Why, thank you,” Madame Kerjean says. She turns to Isabel. “I’m pleased to meet you, Madame Henley. Please, do come in.”
She has trouble keeping her hands still. They keep shaking; all of her is shaking as she and Madame Cuvelier follow Madame Kerjean into the house.
