Upon A Starlit Tide

5. Storm-Diving

5

Storm-Diving

‘This was a good start,’ Samuel said approvingly, looking over their haul. ‘I’ll come back with Bones at the next dead tide, and then again tomorrow. Get as much as we can before someone else discovers it.’

‘That may never happen.’ Luce, still clinging to the side of the Dove, looked around doubtfully. The wreck was breaking up fast, and what remained was being rapidly swallowed by the reef. At high tide it would be impossible to see.

‘Fine by me.’ He hefted a bag over the side, tucked it away. ‘I’ll head into Saint-Malo when we’re done, see if I can’t stir up some interest.’

‘Who do you think will buy it?’

‘I wouldn’t be much of a smuggler if I named my contacts, would I?’ He tossed a piece of ballast playfully in the air, caught it. ‘With cloud this good, I might even get away with simply selling the location of the wreck. Let some other poor bastards do the diving. It only takes one little rock to start the negotiations.’

‘And it only takes one little word to a city official to see a storm diver arrested and drowned,’ Luce said. There were strict laws around the buying and selling of storm-stone in Saint-Malo. Those who did not heed them, and who were caught, were executed by water: secured to stakes below the low water line and left to drown as the tide came in, while the ramparts above filled to bursting with spectators. ‘Be careful, Samuel.’

‘Your lack of faith wounds me.’

Something brushed against Luce’s foot. She glanced at the shadows under the boat, distracted. ‘It’s not a lack of confidence in you that concerns me. The City Guard will be searching for the wreck.’

‘The Guard couldn’t find their arses in a privy.’ Samuel left off moving the stones and reached down a hand. ‘Here, come aboard. You must be cold.’

Whatever had brushed against her was larger than Luce had first supposed. She reached instinctively for Samuel as something emerged from beneath the boat.

It was a man. A drowned man, his reddish-coloured shirt straining against his bloated body, his face, only inches away from Luce’s own as he rolled sickeningly in the water, revealing the empty sockets where his eyes had once been, and the bloody foam leaking from his nose and mouth.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Samuel cried.

Luce stared and stared, frozen into place. Water pushed the sailor toward her and she lurched back in horror.

‘Here, Luce,’ Samuel said, above. ‘I’ve got you.’

He gripped her arms, hauling her clear of the water and into the boat beside him. As one, they leaned on the Dove ’s edge, regarding the man floating below. Closer to the wreck, Luce made out the form of a second sailor, then a third, bumping gently against the remnants of the Dauphin ’s hull.

‘I’m so sorry, Luce. I never should have let you in the water with me—’

‘I chose to help you,’ she said, trembling. ‘And it’s not the first time I’ve seen a... shipwreck.’

‘Even so.’ He reached for a rough blanket, pressed it around her shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t have to see such things.’

‘Neither should you.’

His arms were still around her. So close to him now—his hair dripping on her cheek, his chest before her, water-smooth—Luce had the sudden, treacherous urge to tilt her face to his, shipwrecks and drowned sailors be cursed.

Perhaps Samuel sensed it; he stepped quickly back, letting her go.

‘Someone has to make sure my family eats,’ he said reasonably, turning to the sail. Samuel’s father had been killed in a fishing accident many years before, leaving the responsibility of the family resting squarely on his eldest son’s shoulders.

‘And someone has to help you,’ Luce said. As though she were not a mess of confusion and longing. Samuel’s words seemed to tell her one story, and his body another. Which was true?

‘We should head back,’ he said, reaching for the anchor. He threw her a strained sort of smile. ‘Wouldn’t want you to miss the end of the forenoon watch.’

‘Of course.’ She pulled the blanket more tightly around her and gave him a strained smile of her own before moving to the far end of the boat. She stripped out of her wet clothes and stepped into her breeches, drawing on a dry chemise and stays and pinning her caraco into place. Samuel—adhering to an unspoken agreement that had lain between them since the first time they had dived together—busied himself preparing the sails, his back carefully turned.

‘It feels wrong to just leave them there like that,’ Luce said, as they headed back.

‘They cast their lots when they boarded that ship,’ Samuel said, his eyes on the water ahead. ‘They knew the risks. We all do.’ For a moment Luce wondered if he would reprimand her for Hannah Snell again. ‘The sea takes what it will, and she wanted the Dauphin and its crew. Its pretty captain, too.’

The slightest accusation in his tone.

‘I couldn’t just leave him there to die,’ she said, when the silence had stretched on too long.

‘I know that. But you stood in the Manche’s way, Luce.’ He lifted a hand, gestured to the deeps surrounding them. ‘You took something from her. One day she will want it back.’

‘She doesn’t seem angry.’ Luce raised her face to the tight sails, the warming sun. She had left her hair loose so that it would dry; dark strands whipped around her, playful in the breeze.

‘No,’ he agreed, watching her. ‘No, she does not.’ He tightened his grip on the tiller. ‘Perhaps I am wrong. After all, the sea loves you, Luce. She always has.’

‘You don’t think she will take my life in Morgan’s place, then?’ She spoke lightly, trying, and failing, to ease the worry in his eyes. He believed in this; it was more than superstition, more than fishermen’s tales. It had been woven into the souls of his people, knots in an endless net, for hundreds of years.

‘She will take us all, in the end.’

Unlike the ordered tidiness of the little cabinet adjoining Luce’s bedchamber—its specimens meticulously classified and labeled in Luce’s careful hand, its books on natural history, mathematics, and astronomy arranged in neat stacks—her part of the sea-cave was a riot of textures and colour. Every ledge, every crevice, held something different. Glass bottles, unusual shells, mismatched porcelain cups. Feathers, sextants, and spy-glasses.

Fishing nets were strewn from the walls, softening the cave’s grim lines, while a handful of ship’s lanterns lent light and warmth. There were sailmaker’s needles in carved horn cases, bench hooks, mallets, and rigging knives set between drooping silken gowns. Half-finished scrimshaw, wax and twine, glass fishing floats in every shade. Empty casks were arranged around a scarred ship’s table, and a canvas hammock swung from two outcrops, soft with blankets and cushions. She even had a dressing table, its drawers only slightly swollen, its triple mirrors glimmering above wooden pots of ruined rouge and spoiled velvet patches shaped like stars, hairbrushes and crab shells, a beautifully tarnished hand mirror, blooms of dried coral, bird bones, shark teeth, and ribbons.

There were dreams and secrets here. Hopes and plans, waiting for their time.

The jar of livres Samuel paid Luce shared space with a salvaged sailor’s bag, the rough canvas stained with saltwater and tragedy. Nevertheless, over the past few weeks Luce had been steadily adding to its contents: shirts and breeches, a fid and bodkin, cord, twine and beeswax, a housewife with needles and thread, and a jackknife. All the usual things a sailor carried with him when he rambled through the busy quay, seeking work on a ship.

Luce spent a moment, only, in her part of the cave—she needed to touch the canvas bag, assure herself that her ideas were not, as Samuel had accused, madness—before continuing to help him unload the storm-stone. The area he used was already crowded with casks and crates, packages wrapped in waxed paper. They had almost finished unloading the Dove when the sound of the ship’s bell drifted down from Le Bleu Sauvage.

‘Five bells,’ Samuel said, into the silence that followed. ‘Ten thirty. We made good time.’

Luce nodded. Her mother and sisters would not wake for half an hour, or more. She considered showing Samuel the sailor’s bag and resuming the conversation they had been having when she’d sensed the stone. She was, she realised, still angry at the way he had dismissed her plans. The urge to tell him that he was wrong, that she could do as Hannah Snell had done and take her future into her own hands, was strong. The memory of what had—and, at the same time, what had not —passed between them on the Dove, however, lingered. Far easier to take her leave of him and return to the chapel. To hastily weave the wild, wind-dried tangles of her hair into a rough braid, and brush the sand and salt from her crimson caraco and skirt, the thoughts of Samuel and seafaring and freedom from her mind.

The sound of her family’s voices, blended with others she did not recognise, wafted from the grand salon’s open doors as she approached. Unusual; her family never received visitors at this hour. Angling across the lawn, she spied an expensive-looking carriage drawn by four handsome greys in the stable yard, the de Chatelaine crest, with its white wolf, emblazoned on its lacquered door.

‘Damn my soul,’ she muttered—one of Samuel’s favorites— her belly lurching. It had been a mistake to meet Samuel today. Papa had told her last night that he had sent word to the de Chatelaines. Of course, they would rise early and hurry to Le Bleu Sauvage to reunite with their son.

The sick feeling worsened as she neared the house. Had her family been looking for her? Had they checked the chapel, found it empty? The voices became louder, punctuated by the soft clink of expensive porcelain, the silvery tones of the harpsichord as it woke. A light scale, a tinkering, and then music, sweet and stately. Veronique began to sing. Despite herself, Luce hummed along. Veronique had a lovely voice, and she had always played the piece, one of Scarlatti’s, well.

Luce hesitated at the servants’ door, torn. The urge to skulk to the kitchens and hide from their guests, avoid the stilted conversation in favor of one of Olivier’s delicious pastries, was strong. It was a good plan. Reliable. She had used it countless times to escape her mother’s notice, or whichever torturous social event happened to be transpiring.

And it would be the safest choice today, with Gratienne eager to impress the de Chatelaines, and Veronique and Charlotte wielding every weapon at their disposal: charm, wit, fashion, elegance. The salon would be a battlefield.

And yet. Luce was drawn by a second, no less powerful, impulse: to see Morgan de Chatelaine again. She had not forgotten the taste of salt and life on his lips, the cold touch of his fingertips.

Had he?

In the end, curiosity won the day. Brimming with nerves, Luce crossed the lawn, mounted the salon stairs, pushed aside the breeze-filled curtains, and entered the fray.

‘Lucinde,’ Gratienne said, from her place on the chaise longue between Charlotte and an elegantly dressed, dark-haired woman Luce knew to be Madame de Chatelaine. ‘Where have you been?’

Veronique ceased her song as Gratienne examined Luce from the top of her bare head to the tips of her boots. Luce, risking a glance at her reflection in one of the salon’s three mirrors, felt her heart sink. Despite her efforts, her clothing was rumpled, her hair—hanging in a thick tail over one shoulder—akin to a milkmaid’s. Her complexion was even worse than usual, bronzed by the sun and wind.

‘I’m sorry, Maman,’ Luce said. ‘I was walking in the gardens, and then I went to the chapel—I did not realise we had guests.’

Gratienne frowned. ‘So it would appear.’

A giggle from behind the harpsichord. With the morning light falling across her rose-coloured gown, illuminating her perfect skin, Veronique was raspberry cake and cream.

‘Ah, come now, ma chère,’ Jean-Baptiste said good-naturedly. He was standing near the fireplace with Monsieur de Chatelaine, who was admiring an enormous painting of the Fleur de Mer in full flight upon a stormy sea. ‘Lucinde was not to know. Mon trésor, you remember Monsieur de Chatelaine and his lovely wife?’

‘Of course.’ Luce inclined her head to each of them.

‘And this, of course, is their youngest son. Morgan.’

He had been gazing up at the painting, hands clasped behind his back, half-hidden by the two older men, but he turned when he heard his name, his dark gaze—curious, warm—meeting hers. Luce’s heart gave a strange little stutter. Awake, aware, he seemed vastly different to the man on the shore. The rough shadows of stubble on his cheeks were gone. Clean-shaven, he looked younger, perhaps only a few years older than Veronique. His cheekbones were high, his brows and hair as black as ever. Though not as tall as Samuel, he was lean and strong-looking, his sea-green, sleekly fitted frock coat tight across his shoulders, his breeches and stockings revealing muscled thighs and an impressive pair of calves. There was an energy, a quickness, to him. A sense of movement stilled, of energy contained. An impatience in the tap tap tap of his well-made shoes, as though their owner wanted nothing more than to spring up, move, be away.

‘It is good to meet you, Mademoiselle Léon.’ A slight bow, a smile. Oh, that smile.

‘You seem much recovered,’ Luce said, with a dip of her head.

‘Your family’s good care has made all the difference.’

He was polished, polite. Entirely different to the wild, desperate man who had kissed her on the beach. That man had wrapped his fingers in her long hair and drank of her lips, taking and taking, as though he were drowning still and only she could save him. A dark thrill ran through her body. Did he remember?

‘I do not know how we shall ever thank you,’ Madame de Chatelaine said, smiling at each of the Léons. ‘Without your kindness, I doubt my son would be here with us now.’

‘And that, ’ Morgan said, moving toward the low table at the room’s center and sweeping a macaron from a platter, ‘would have been a tragedy, with macarons such as these.’

Everybody laughed.

Over at the harpsichord, Veronique tinkered with a few notes. ‘Come now, Monsieur de Chatelaine. What of the fishermen who found you? Without them, our care—and our macarons—would mean nothing.’

‘That is true,’ Morgan conceded. He took a bite of the light, almond confectionary, chewed blissfully. ‘I owe those men my life.’

Luce swallowed her disappointment.

‘Their efforts shall not be forgotten,’ Castro de Chatelaine said. ‘Nor will my ship.’ There was no mistaking the bitterness behind his words. Luce, glancing at Morgan, saw his shoulders, his jaw, tense.

‘Has there been any word of the Dauphin ?’ Jean-Baptiste seated himself gingerly on a spindly-legged chair. ‘Perhaps she could be salvaged...?’

‘She is lost,’ Castro said. ‘Along with her cargo, and all her crew.’

‘What was she carrying?’

‘What you would expect. Spanish wines, fruits, oil. Goods from the colonies—indigo and wood. A great deal of vicuna wool.’

‘What of her ballast?’

Morgan, frowning, opened his mouth as though he would say something. After one swift glance from his father, however, he promptly closed it again.

‘We took a risk,’ Castro said. ‘Sailed without storm-stone.’

‘You would not be the first to do so, nor the last,’ Jean-Baptiste said sympathetically. ‘I remember a time when storm-stone was as plentiful as sand. Walk upon any stretch of Breton shore, and you would kick your toe on it.’

Castro laughed bitterly. ‘I remember those days. When I was a young captain and in need of a fair wind, I would visit the nearest sea hag and buy one. For a few livres, she’d summon a breeze and wrap it in my handkerchief.’

‘I, too, bought my share of crone-winds,’ Jean-Baptiste said. He leaned forward, selected a pastry from the assortment on the table. ‘We still have a tide-crone here, you know.’

‘A groac’h? Truly?’

‘Indeed. She is shy, and crotchety. But I have seen her in the evenings, in her little witch-boat, or rambling upon the rocks.’

‘And does she still sell you fair winds?’ Castro cocked his head speculatively; wondering, no doubt, if the tide-witch was part of Jean-Baptiste’s enviable success.

Jean-Baptiste was no longer smiling. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘She will leave like the others, eventually,’ Castro said grimly. ‘All of them do, in the end.’

A somber silence. It was a matter of great concern, the leaving of the Fae. Not least because their very presence, or lack of it, affected not only the storm-stone quarries, but the existing stone in the ships, buildings, and walls of Saint-Malo. Some blamed the Church, ever set on driving the Fae and superstition out of Bretagne. Others blamed the people who fished and built dwellings on lands where the Fae were known to exist. They had been leaving, slowly and surely, for years. The thought of Bretagne without its magic, without its soul, was a melancholy one, indeed.

‘In any case,’ Castro said, ‘we did not give the Dauphin the storm-stone she deserved. A decision we are paying for, now.’

Luce stared at him. How easily the lies fell from his mouth! Not two hours ago she had held storm-stones from the Dauphin in her own hands. Felt the low, telling hum of their magic.

‘It is truly a miracle that you survived,’ Charlotte said, gazing admiringly up at Morgan. ‘To think—you are the only one!’

‘Hush, Cee,’ Veronique said reprovingly. ‘I am sure Monsieur de Chatelaine does not need you to remind him of the perils he has faced.’

‘Indeed,’ Castro said, sharp as a blade. ‘I am certain he will not soon forget them.’

There was a loaded silence.

‘Does anyone ever forget such a thing?’ Luce asked. She looked down at the edges of the carpet, the delicate pattern of tangled flowers there, and thought of Morgan’s crew, those silent sailors rising from the Dauphin ’s broken shell. ‘I do not think it is possible. To bear witness to the fury of the sea, to have your life held entirely in its hands—to live or die depending on its whim— must be terrifying, indeed.’ She remembered the drowned man, his sightless eyes and bloated limbs. ‘I can only imagine what those poor men faced before the end. I wish them peace.’

She looked up, and immediately regretted her decision to speak. Every face in the room had turned toward her, displaying various shades of shock, confusion, and disapproval. Only Morgan’s dark gaze was free of judgment.

‘Do play for us, Lucinde,’ Gratienne said into the sudden silence. She turned to Madame de Chatelaine. ‘She has quite a talent for music, you know.’

She was not exaggerating. When Luce sat down at the harpsichord or the harp, the mood of the entire household changed. The gardeners stopped in their work and turned their heads to listen. The domestiques trailed aimlessly about the house, polishing rags hanging limp at their sides. The smell of burning wafted from the kitchens. Once, Luce looked up from the harpsichord to find all seven of her father’s horses gathered on the steps of the grand salon, ears pricked, huge eyes intent.

Gratienne’s pride in Luce’s talent, however, was less about the music, and more about leverage. She wanted nothing more than to find perfect matches for each of her daughters; husbands that would enhance not only their social standing but her own as well. In this sense, music was a powerful weapon.

‘Yes, Luce, you must play,’ Veronique said. She, too, was aware of the power of talent, and was not indisposed to basking in its glow. ‘I cannot hope to perform well when you are near. You so outshine me.’

Utter nonsense—Veronique played the way she shone, which was brightly and well. She was, however, already rising gracefully from the bench. Gliding across the room, she took up the platter of pastries and offered it to Morgan with a smile.

‘Thank you, Lucinde,’ Gratienne said gently. Luce, who had long understood that her mother had three sources of pride— the number of domestiques she kept, the cost of her clothes, and the behavior of her children— and that obeying her mother now would spare her a great deal of discomfort later, moved obediently toward the harpsichord. At the last moment she changed direction, bearing instead for the harp. Huge and golden, its arched neck as graceful as a swan’s, it had been a gift from her father some years ago. Luce ran her fingertips along the strings, wakening them to silvered life, then sat down, arranging her skirts.

The music came, as it always did, from some other place: the air flowing through the salon’s open doors, the sunlight pouring against the windows, the sea, hushed and listening beyond the fields and forest. She knew the tune, knew the strings, yet rather than making the music, Luce released it, allowing it to flow unfettered from her fingers as though it had a will of its own.

‘ Upon one summer’s morning, ’ she sang, her voice low and faintly smoky with disuse, ‘ I carefully did stray down by the walls of Wapping where I met a sailor gay. ’

Conversing with a young lass

Who seem’d to be in pain

Saying ‘William, when you go

I fear you’ll ne’er return again.’

The tune, which had begun gently enough, deepened. Luce’s voice, clearer now, melded with the harp’s notes.

‘My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold.’

‘That is an English tune, is it not?’ Gratienne asked disapprovingly as Luce’s song, and all its longing and sadness, faded into silence.

‘Music cares not for war,’ Jean-Baptiste said, reaching for a macaron. ‘It travels where it will, often by ship.’

‘That is true,’ Morgan agreed. ‘I have heard sailors sing that song. I had no idea it could be so beautiful. Your mother did not exaggerate, mademoiselle.’

Luce bowed her head to avoid not Morgan’s eyes, but Charlotte’s. Of all three Léon sisters, only Charlotte was indisposed to music. There had been some ill-fated attempts at the harpsichord in her youth, quickly abandoned when her sisters’ talents bloomed. It grated on Charlotte like rough fabric against bare skin. She tried to keep it hidden, but whenever Luce or Veronique played, it sharpened her gaze, embittering her pretty face.

‘This talk of music reminds me...’ Madame de Chatelaine gestured to her laquais, waiting with Jean-Jacques and Jean-Pierre near the door. ‘Antoine, would you bring it here, please?’

‘It’ was an envelope of creamy, expensive paper. One word, Léon, flowed boldly across its face.

‘I know this is most unusual,’ Madame de Chatelaine said, as Gratienne opened the envelope, ‘and that etiquette dictates that I send your invitation with the rest next week. However, I could think of no better way to thank you for what you have done for my son.’

‘Oh, a ball!’ Veronique exclaimed, clapping in delight as she read over her mother’s shoulder. ‘To welcome Monsieur Morgan de Chatelaine home. And it’s to be at Le Loup Blanc, no less!’

Madame de Chatelaine smiled. ‘Like you, we have retired to our country home early this season.’

‘Are we truly the first to receive an invitation?’

‘Indeed! You shall have the chance to see the seamstress and the tailor—and all before the rest of the invitations have been sent! Perhaps you will even have time to have something made in Paris.’

‘My wife has been planning this little soirée of hers for weeks,’ Monsieur de Chatelaine said fondly. ‘I do believe she was more concerned about canceling her plans than Morgan’s safety when first she heard the Dauphin had gone down.’

Madame de Chatelaine slapped her husband with her fan.

‘Oh, Maman,’ Charlotte said, ‘do read the invitation to us!’

Gratienne did as her daughter bid. ‘Castro and Camille de Chatelaine are delighted to invite you to a masquerade ball...’

As she read, Charlotte rose and joined Veronique at the back of the chaise longue. They leaned over Gratienne’s shoulders, reading along with her and using every fiber of restraint not to snatch the missive from their mother’s hands and devour it, ink and all.

‘A masque,’ Veronique sighed, when Gratienne had finished. ‘How elegant. ’

Luce, who had been listening to the proceedings with a sense of growing dread, straightened on her stool. A masque would be very different to a regular reception. Faces would be covered, identities hidden. A person who was uncomfortable at large gatherings could remain at the edges of things, confident in their anonymity. No one would question why they chose to refrain from dancing. No one would think to look pityingly at their unfashionable shoes and twisted feet. They would be hidden. Safe.

Unbidden, her fingers moved upon the harp strings in a sweet, excited trill.

‘Can we expect a dance with you, Monsieur de Chatelaine?’ Veronique asked.

‘Of course,’ Morgan said gallantly. ‘I would be honoured, Mademoiselle Léon.’ He tilted his head to include Charlotte and Luce. ‘I should be very happy to dance with each of you.’

‘Don’t bother promising Lucinde,’ Charlotte said bluntly. ‘Our sister never attends such events.’

‘Oh?’ His black gaze caught Luce’s, held it. ‘Well. That is a shame.’

‘I have not yet decided,’ Luce said truthfully. Emboldened by his smile, she rose from the protection of the harp. ‘Although, if I did attend, I imagine I might have an opportunity to ask about your time in Cádiz. Is it true there are now almost a hundred and sixty towers overlooking the water there?’

Morgan smiled in surprise as she approached. ‘There are many towers, yes. Although I must admit I have never stopped to count them.’

‘And what of the new cathedral? How does it progress?’

‘Well, I believe, though slowly. They say it will be Cádiz’s crowning glory, but it’s the bay that is, in my humble opinion, the city’s greatest treasure.’

‘You mean the Isla de León,’ Luce said, nodding. ‘I understand it offers remarkable shelter.’

‘That it does, yes.’ His face fell, and Luce wondered if he was thinking of his lost ship, his drowned crew.

Madame de Chatelaine seemed to have the same thought. ‘I believe it is time we said our farewells,’ she said, rising.

Gratienne was on her feet. ‘Are you certain? You are more than welcome to join us for dinner...’

‘I would not want to impose upon you any further, Gratienne. And, despite what he would like us to believe, my son needs rest.’ She smiled warmly. ‘Particularly if he intends to dance with all three of your daughters.’

‘Of course.’

Farewells were made, gratitude expressed, and wishes for Morgan’s continued recovery proclaimed. Morgan’s eyes found Luce’s among the bustle. One last, heart-thudding smile.

‘Oh, may we have new gowns, Papa?’ Veronique cried as soon as Jean-Jacques had closed the door behind the departing guests. ‘Please?’

‘Of course.’ Jean-Baptiste smiled indulgently. ‘You will each have something new. And shoes, ribbons, fans—whatever you like.’

‘We shall need masks,’ Charlotte said practically, taking the invitation from the chaise longue and raking over every word.

‘I had planned to return to the city today,’ Jean-Baptiste said. ‘I shall ride there at once. I’ve just received a new delivery from Lyon; you shall have your choice of the finest silks in France!’

Veronique clapped her hands in delight, and Charlotte turned to her mother, insisting that she, not Veronique, should have first pick of the textiles.

‘Don’t be silly, Charlotte.’ Gratienne sighed in irritation. ‘There will be plenty for everyone.’

‘What would you like me to bring you, ma chérie?’ Jean-Baptiste asked Veronique.

‘I want whatever’s fashionable, Papa. Whatever they’re wearing in Paris!’

‘I will do my best.’ Jean-Baptiste turned to Charlotte. ‘And you, my Charlotte?’

‘Perhaps pink silk, Papa? Or pale blue?’

‘Pink and light blue it shall be.’ Jean-Baptiste gestured to St. Jean. ‘Have éliott saddle four horses, St. Jean. One for you, another to carry the fabrics, and one more for Lucinde.’

Luce, still thinking of Morgan’s last, secret smile, looked up. ‘For me, Papa?’

‘Indeed. We have business at the dockyard.’

She returned his grin; they were going to see the Lucinde.

‘The dockyard?’ Gratienne repeated, with a frown. ‘At Trichet? My dear, is there time?’

‘Plenty.’ Jean-Baptiste kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘We shall be back before supper.’

He strode from the salon, eager for the saddle and his ship.

‘It isn’t fair,’ Charlotte announced. ‘Now Luce will have first choice of the silks.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Luce assured her.

‘Of course you don’t. You don’t care about anything you’re supposed to. Look at how you behaved just now with Monsieur de Chatelaine. Did you really ask him how many towers there are in Cádiz? And why do you insist on dressing like that? You look like a governess.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘I think it was better when you didn’t join us when we had visitors.’

‘Don’t be unkind, Cee,’ Veronique said mildly. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter what Luce says to Morgan de Chatelaine. It is I, not she, who will be engaged to him by summer’s end. Just see if I’m wrong.’

She said it plainly, casually; certain in the knowledge that the weapons she had been honing her entire life—beauty, elegance, talent—would make it so. All the hours of practice, of learning how to dance, to sing, to speak courteously, to hold a cup daintily, to dress her hair, manage servants, write beautifully, order the week’s menu, and entertain guests had one purpose, and one purpose alone: to find the perfect husband.

What else could there be, for a Léon daughter? For any daughter? They could not attend university or be apprenticed in Cádiz, take up administrative positions in Paris or devote their lives to the study of science or music or navigation, or any of the many things a son might have done. The best they could hope for was the freedom that marriage would offer—if sleeping late, spending hours dressing and attending endless rounds of visits, afternoon teas, and suppers— between bearing children, of course—could be called freedom.

Sometimes Luce wondered if her sisters felt as she did. If they would choose a different path for themselves, a different kind of life, if they could. If they did, they certainly never said so. Now, as Veronique leaned dreamily on the salon door, watching through the vestibule windows as the de Chatelaine carriage turned gracefully in the yard, Luce wondered what her sister’s idea of the perfect husband might be. Luce had always imagined him to be one of the oldest sons of the Saint-Malo shipping families, those fortunate ones who were set to inherit the bulk of their fathers’ fortunes. Or a tall aristocrat from Paris, perhaps, willing to ignore Jean-Baptiste’s merchant roots for Gratienne’s noble bloodline, the Léon wealth, and Veronique’s beauty. A charming stranger with grand houses, sleek horses, and the means to frost her sister with jewels.

He was not a youngest son, with storm-dark hair.

He did not come from the sea.