Upon A Starlit Tide

13. Uncomfortable Conversations

13

Uncomfortable Conversations

The clang of the ship’s bell woke Luce far too soon. She blinked, rolled over and was brutally assaulted by the sunlight streaming through her open curtains.

‘Damn my soul,’ she groaned, burying her face in a pillow.

The bell continued its violence, sounding six times more before it fell into blessed silence. Luce cracked an eye. The sun, her enemy, was too bright for it to be the morning watch. The forenoon, then.

She had slept the entire morning.

Veronique’s sleepy voice wafted across the hall, followed by Charlotte’s low reply. Unbidden, the events of the previous day came back to Luce in a rush: the ball and the witch-boat and Luce’s slipper, falling like water through Morgan’s hands. His gentle grip on her stockinged calves. Their near kiss. Of course I remember. The tide-woman’s kindness, and her strange, confusing words. I know what it is to cry and have no one but the sea there to listen. Luce’s ruined gown floating mournfully in the shallows, and Charlotte’s cold carelessness as she arranged her own beautiful dress.

Luce knew her sister could be jealous. Difficult. Even so, the wound her betrayal had caused seemed fresh and painful as ever. Unable to bear it another moment, Luce climbed from her bed, threw on a peignoir, and padded to Veronique’s room.

Her sisters glanced up as she appeared in the doorway, but did not halt their conversation.

‘I look as though I am a thousand years old,’ Veronique said, seated before her dressing table. She turned her face this way and that, frowning at her reflection. ‘I do not understand why balls must go all night. Surely three in the morning would suffice?’

‘Don’t be a goose, Vee. That was when the fun was just beginning.’ Charlotte lounged on a chaise longue. Her soft brown hair was loose, her freckles stark across her nose.

‘Was it?’ Luce came into the room and sank into a velvet-covered armchair.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, throwing an arm over her eyes dramatically. ‘They served the most delicious supper. Outside, you know. There were hundreds of candles—you could see the Rance from the dance floor. It was breathtaking.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Luce said. ‘And the music?’

‘The usual,’ said Charlotte, still burrowed beneath her forearm. ‘Vivaldi, Bach. A little Purcell. Minuets, mostly. The occasional gavotte and cotillion. I danced so much my feet feel like I have stepped on knives all night.’

‘Really?’ Something in Luce’s tone made Veronique look up from her mirror for the first time. ‘It must be awful to feel such pain.’

‘It is. My head is throbbing, too, and my belly aches. The price we pay for all that good wine and food, I suppose.’

Veronique was still watching Luce in the mirror. ‘How are you feeling this morning, Luce?’

‘I am as well as can be expected.’

Charlotte removed her arm from over her face and gave Luce an appraising look. ‘You slept late,’ she remarked. ‘Anyone would think you actually enjoyed your evening at home.’

‘It is not as though I had a choice,’ Luce said frostily. If she had hoped that her sister might show signs of regret over her actions, she would be woefully disappointed.

‘You had a choice,’ Charlotte pointed out. ‘You could have borrowed one of my gowns, or Vee’s. Do not blame me because you were too proud to share.’

‘Too proud? ’ Luce gaped at her sister. ‘Is that why you think I’m upset?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Is that truly all you have to say, Charlotte?’

‘What more is there to say?’

‘You could apologise !’ Luce cried. ‘You could be gracious and brave enough to admit that taking the dress from Maman’s room was childish and wrong, and that you feel terrible about doing it!’

Charlotte sat slowly up on the chaise. ‘I didn’t take the gown, Lucinde,’ she said. ‘I would never do such a thing to you.

Indeed, I cannot believe you would even consider it.’

‘Then who did?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Do not look at me,’ Veronique said quickly, raising her palms. ‘ I had no reason to take it.’

Charlotte glowered at her. ‘And I did?’

‘Well, you did seem rather angry after the dress fitting,’ Veronique said with a shrug. ‘And you had barely been speaking to Luce...’

‘So you agree with her?’

‘... No,’ Veronique said thoughtfully. ‘No, I don’t. But I can see why Luce would blame you.’

Charlotte flopped back on the chaise longue with a weary sigh. ‘Believe what you want, the both of you. But I didn’t take the dress.’

Silence.

‘If you insist,’ Luce said wearily, getting to her feet.

‘I do.’ Charlotte threw her arm over her eyes again. ‘I suggest you speak to the domestiques.’

Luce remembered Nanette’s horror when she discovered the dress was gone. ‘It was not the domestiques,’ she said firmly.

‘Then I don’t know what else to tell you.’

‘Well, if that uncomfortable conversation is finally over,’ Veronique said, opening a little pot of face cream while she watched Charlotte slyly in the mirror, ‘I suggest we begin another one. Tell me, Charlotte, how many times you danced with our very own Monsieur Daumard last night?’

‘What do you mean, Vee?’ Charlotte did not remove her arm, but there was a definite edge to her tone. Luce, remembering what she had seen in the gardens at Le Loup Blanc, sat back down.

‘You know precisely what I mean,’ Veronique said, applying the cream to her cheeks. ‘You danced together so many times I thought you might have gotten your fan stuck on his coat buttons.’

‘ Vee! ’ Charlotte removed her arm and sat up once more, throwing her sister a furious glare. ‘You must not speak so!’

‘Why shouldn’t I? You did dance with him often. Too often, truth be told.’ Veronique smoothed the last of the cream over her skin. ‘They’ll be whispering about you all over Saint-Malo this morning.’

‘Not as much as they will be talking about Morgan de Chatelaine and that mysterious woman,’ Charlotte countered.

‘Which woman?’ Luce asked, innocently.

Charlotte smirked. ‘Oh, just some woman,’ she said blithely, watching Veronique’s reflection in the mirror. ‘She was masked, like us all, but even so you could tell she was beautiful. And did I mention her gown? I have never seen anything like it. Black, it was, and yet it shone like the stars. Her hair was black too, and she wore the most beautiful slippers. Silver, they were.’

‘They were not,’ Veronique said, too quickly. ‘They were clear. Like... like glass.’

‘ Glass slippers?’ Charlotte made a face. ‘Surely not! Why, they would crack in a moment! It is impossible.’

‘They were made of glass,’ Veronique insisted. ‘I heard them clicking on the dance floor. I heard them plain as day.’ She tapped one impeccably-shaped fingernail on the dressing table. Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Just like that.’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘In any case, I have never seen shoes like them. Clearly Monsieur de Chatelaine had not, either. He could not take his eyes off that dark-haired woman. Danced at least three dances with her and did not leave her side all night.’

‘He danced with others, as well.’ Veronique scowled. ‘Including me !’

‘He was smitten with this woman, whoever she is,’ Charlotte told Luce confidentially, ignoring her sister. ‘My word upon it.’ She collapsed back on the chaise longue with a satisfied whump. ‘Goodness,’ Luce said. Charlotte’s words had set a ringing in her heart, a thrill of delight through her body.

‘Well, I heard Maman speaking most highly of you to the Vicomte de Talhou?t-Foix,’ Veronique told Charlotte smugly. ‘He seemed inclined to listen, too. I would not be surprised if he called upon you this week.’

‘Ugh.’ It was Charlotte’s turn to scowl. ‘He is three times my age and his breath smells! Maman insisted I dance with him, too. Why must she thrust us into the path of such men?’

‘Because he is a vicomte, obviously.’

‘He is a bore! I would sooner marry one of the laquais.’

The tension between the sisters evaporated as all three of them burst into giggles.

‘Charlotte, how can you say such things?’ Veronique said, wiping her eyes. ‘Truly, I am astonished!’

‘I mean it!’ Charlotte declared. ‘St. Jean would do nicely, I think. You must agree he is the most handsome of the four.’

Veronique turned on her seat to face her. ‘Nanette would certainly agree with you,’ she said slyly. ‘Why, just yesterday I saw her kissing him on the servants’ stairs!’

‘You did not !’ Charlotte hissed.

‘There was no mistaking it,’ Veronique said sagely.

Luce tensed. She had been aware of Nanette’s dalliance with the laquais for some time, but had been careful to keep the knowledge to herself. Such secrecy was not without its benefits. As Luce’s chambermaid, Nanette could not help but notice things like sandy petticoats and sea-dampened hair, or comings and goings at odd hours of the day. The two women had long ago come to a quiet understanding, guarding each other’s secrets as closely as they guarded their own.

‘You won’t tell anyone, surely?’ Luce asked. Such behavior would be more than enough to warrant Nanette’s immediate dismissal.

‘Of course not,’ Veronique said. ‘I like Nanette.’

‘I certainly won’t say anything,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘Nanette’s the only one who knows how to curl my hair the way I like it. Where is she, anyway? I’m hungry.’

As though she had heard her name, Nanette appeared with a tray bearing porcelain cups, a silver pot, and a plate of pastries.

‘We shall need another cup for Luce, Nanette,’ Veronique told the maid. ‘And more pastries, too. Are there any more of those little caramel ones Olivier made yesterday?’

‘I did love those shoes,’ Charlotte said thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if I can get a pair made in Saint-Malo?’

Veronique’s reply was sullen. ‘Try Paris, Cee.’

The question of who had destroyed the blue dress haunted Luce for days. Despite her earlier misgivings, she believed her sister. Who, then, had taken it? There was, quite simply, no reasonable explanation for what had happened.

She was soon too busy to give the matter much thought. Between her lessons with Monsieur Daumard—who remained as pleasant and professional as ever, even when Charlotte happened to pass through the room in which he and Luce or Veronique were working—and helping her father plan the imminent launch of the Lucinde, there was barely time to steal away to the cove. Even so, she managed it, rising early day after day and waiting near the groac’h’s cave.

She had never dared approach the tide-woman’s dwelling before. However, it seemed only fair that Luce make an effort to thank the fae properly for her help on the evening of the ball, and to return her beautiful silver hand mirror. (There was also, of course, every possibility that the groac’h knew who had thrown the blue dress into the Manche.) Day after day Luce waited near the tide-woman’s cave, watching for her little witch-boat on the water and thinking of Morgan de Chatelaine. His black eyes, his wicked smile. The feel of his body pressed against the folds of her skirts as he removed the sea-glass slippers. I would choose someone who longed for adventure as much as I. Someone who would sail beside me, toward distant shores, without fear, or doubt. Someone... brave.

Day after day she waited, and day after day the groac’h did not appear. At last, Luce left the mirror on the rocks near the cave, her questions unanswered.

Though she never admitted it to herself, there was someone else Luce watched for at the cove. She had seen no sign of Samuel, or Bones and the Dove, since the night before the ball, and could only surmise that they had gone on a run to Dorset. The hurt and shame Luce felt whenever she thought of what had happened in the woods— we can’t do this, Luce —warred with her worry that Samuel had been caught up in something dangerous—plucked from the sea by a revenue clipper and thrown into a filthy cell in Poole or Portsmouth, perhaps, or detained by the City Guard in Saint-Malo for his connection to black market stone. Despite her lingering embarrassment, she hoped, fervently, that he was well.

One evening a week after the ball, Luce threw her coat over her woolen dress and went down to the cove once more. Her father had gone to Saint-Malo to see to one of his ships, while her mother and sisters were dining with the Fontaine-Roux at their nearby malouinière. Luce had shrugged out of her coat and tricorn, and was watching the water, half expecting to see the Dove scrape onto the sand and Samuel come loping toward her, when footsteps crunched upon the cliff above. She turned.

It was not Samuel, but Morgan de Chatelaine—incongruous in frock coat, breeches and shining riding boots—scrambling down the path. Above him, at the edge of the woods, Luce made out the pale shape of a grey horse in the twilight.

‘Good evening, Mademoiselle Léon.’

‘Good evening, monsieur.’

Oh, but he was handsome. Treacherously so. One glance from those dark eyes, one smile, and Luce felt as though all that tethered her to the world had frayed, and that she was drifting, rudderless.

‘I wanted to see you again,’ Morgan said.

She gestured to the cliffs. ‘Clearly.’

A slow grin. ‘My family is dining with the Fontaine-Roux tonight.’

‘As are mine.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. When I saw that you were not with them, I made my excuses and rode straight here. I hope you don’t mind. I thought, after the storm.... Well. I hoped I might find you here.’

She nodded, suddenly shy.

‘My family have been pestering me relentlessly, desperate to know who I danced with so often at the ball. I did as you asked and refrained from telling them your name.’

‘Thank you.’

A flicker of a smile as he looked at her. ‘This is where I washed up, isn’t it?’ he said, glancing around. ‘Where you saved me.’

‘Yes.’ She gestured to the water’s edge. ‘It was just over there.’

He looked at the damp sand, the clear, calm water, rippling gently, and a shadow passed over his face.

‘What happened that night, Morgan?’ Luce asked quietly. ‘Your father said the Dauphin carried no storm-stone. But I—I saw it in your pockets that day. I emptied them, in truth; it was the only way I could get you to shore.’

Morgan looked out over the water. Swallowed. ‘The Dauphin did carry stone,’ he said. ‘Good stone, too. My father bade me lie about it to keep the salvagers away.’ His expression darkened. ‘Those vultures catch the mere scent of a wreck and they’ll swoop in to pick the bones.’

Luce kept her face carefully calm. ‘But how did the Dauphin go down?’ she asked. ‘If you had the stone—good stone—she should have prevailed...’

‘I made some... poor decisions.’

‘Oh,’ Luce said, realising what he meant. Storm-stone ballast, like all storm-stone, was not infallible. The finest stone in the world would not keep a ship from sinking if an inexperienced captain or pilot took the wheel, as it were, into their own hands.

‘I blame myself entirely for what occurred,’ Morgan said. ‘I was arrogant. Foolish.’ He shook his head again. ‘All those men. All those families. Lost because of me.’

‘The weather was treacherous that night...’

‘You are kind.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘My father has recompensed each of the families generously, and if any of them should have need, they know they can call upon our family. My father did it gladly, but even so... I had hoped to make it right with him, somehow. The Dauphin was gone, but the stone could still be saved; I knew that finding it would go a long way toward earning his forgiveness. We found the ship a week after she went down. A total wreck, of course. But when our men searched the hull, they found it empty. The stone had already been salvaged. Stolen .’

Morgan ran a hand through his hair, long dark strands breaking loose from the ribbon tying it at his nape. ‘That stone was worth five of the Dauphin, ’ he said darkly. ‘If I could have saved it, I might have had a chance of redeeming myself.’ He glanced at her. ‘I don’t have to tell you how precious storm-stone is. It gets harder and harder to find every year. The Dauphin ’s ballast was part of my father’s most prized stock. He is furious with me. Even now he will barely speak to me.’

An oily heaviness settled in Luce’s chest. Guilt, she realised. She had led Samuel to the wreck. Had helped him take the stone. Pick the bones . What was worse, the entirety of the Dauphin’s storm-stone was, at that very moment, only steps away in the sea-cave. She could feel its presence prickling against her face and neck. She could see the cave’s entrance, disguised by shadows and rocks, over Morgan’s shoulder.

‘What will you do?’ she asked softly.

‘What I must: find the stone. I cannot see another way of winning back my father’s favor. He has left its recovery entirely in my hands. Another means, he says, of testing my suitability.’

‘Suitability for what?’

‘For being a de Chatelaine, of course,’ he said bitterly. ‘What else? I cannot let my father down again, Lucinde. I have already made inquiries. Saint-Malo is a small place, when all is said and done. People talk, even storm divers. I’ll find the stone soon enough. And then I’ll see that justice is served to those who stole it from me.’

Luce’s mouth went dry. It was taking every shred of willpower she possessed not to look at the narrow opening in the cliffs where the storm-stone lay hidden.

‘But enough of such things,’ Morgan said, reaching for her hand. ‘I hear your new ship is to be launched.’

‘Yes. In two days. We’re going to Saint-Malo tomorrow so we can be there, and then staying for the Blessing of the Sea.’

The Blessing was one of the most important of Saint-Malo’s annual celebrations. It always began with a mass in the cathedral, after which the priests led the townsfolk in a grand procession down to the quay. There, they blessed each and every Malouin ship—the fishing fleet, the corsairs, the frigates and the smaller merchant vessels—asking for prosperity and safe passage for the coming year.

‘Then I shall see you there,’ Morgan said.

‘You shall.’

He glanced regretfully at the sky. ‘I had best get back before I’m missed.’

Luce nodded, forced herself to relinquish his hand. ‘You had best go, then.’

‘Yes.’ But he lingered, and lingered, dragging his fingertips from hers as he started up the beach.

‘I will see you again soon,’ he promised. ‘You have my word, Lucinde Léon.’

‘I will hold you to it.’

He moved fast, so fast, covering the distance between them, catching her fingers and drawing her close.

‘I rather hope you do.’ He murmured the words, his mouth so close, so very close to Luce’s own that her breath, her heart, her entire body fluttered.

Then he pulled away with a grin.

‘Until we meet again.’

She watched, attempting, and failing, to collect herself, until he was no more than a cliff-top silhouette against the sky. When he was gone, she turned back to the water and saw the Dove coming in. Luce waved in greeting. Bones raised a hand in return, but Samuel did not respond. He was watching Morgan riding against the dusk, his face grim, his eyes hard.

‘I leave you for a few days,’ he said, ‘and the wolf comes prowling.’

The tide was low and falling with every exhalation, the lugger’s belly rasping against the shore. Samuel stowed the oars and leapt into the shallows, Bones close behind. As one, the two cousins hauled the boat up onto the beach.

‘Was that Morgan de Chatelaine?’ Samuel asked, wedging the anchor into the sand. It was clear from his tone that he knew precisely who Luce’s visitor was.

He sounded so unlike himself that Luce hesitated. ‘Does it matter if it was?’ she asked at last, glancing questioningly at Bones. ‘I know you don’t care for the de Chatelaines, but—’

‘Why was he here? Alone with you on the beach?’

Bones looked between them, brows so high they all but touched his hairline, before reaching into the boat and unloading several watertight bundles. Wools and textiles from England, Luce knew from a brief glance. They had made a run, then. Bones bundled the packs hastily in his arms and headed toward the cave. ‘I’ll see to these,’ he announced, throwing an apologetic glance at Luce as he passed. Good luck .

‘For heaven’s sake, Samuel,’ she said, when Bones had gone. ‘You and I are alone on this beach all the time and it never worried you.’

‘I am not him. ’ Samuel was watching her, his face uncharacteristically stony. ‘Is he calling on you, Luce? Is that what this is?’ Is it? She wasn’t entirely sure what Morgan was doing. Or what she was doing in return. He had danced with her more than anyone else at the ball. He had removed her slippers, run his hands up her legs in a way that still gave her shivers. He had kept her secrets. Ridden here specifically to see her. And he remembered, just as she did, that kiss right there on the sand.

‘What if he is?’ Luce demanded. There was a possessiveness in Samuel’s tone that she liked not at all. After all, hadn’t he pulled away from her, rejected her, in the woods? ‘I am allowed a suitor, am I not?’ The words lay unspoken between them, as baldly as if she had shouted them in his face: it is not as though you wanted me.

‘Not that suitor,’ Samuel all but spat. He was angry, truly angry, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

‘Would you prefer someone else, then?’

He swallowed. ‘I’d prefer anyone but him.’ He turned back to the Dove, heaved it higher onto the beach. ‘Mind your feet,’ he warned, as Luce stepped around the anchor.

‘Is that it, then?’ she asked. ‘“Mind your feet”?’

She watched him gather the remaining contraband against his chest, reach for his hat, his coat, his boots.

‘Samuel?’

He only strode up the beach to the cave. ‘I need to sleep, Luce,’ he said, not looking back. ‘We’ve been on the water all day. I’m hoping you won’t mind if we bed down in the cave.’

‘I do mind,’ she said, following him. ‘As a matter of fact.’

‘Of course you do,’ he muttered.

‘I want to know why you’re being like this.’

‘Being like what?’

‘So angry and harsh. I don’t deserve it, Samuel.’

‘No,’ he said, slowing. ‘I suppose you don’t.’

‘If anything Morgan should be angry, not you. After all, we stole the storm-stone from him ...’

‘The Dauphin was wrecked, the stone fair game.’ He stopped, turned to her. ‘It’s the law of the sea, Luce. You know it as well as I.’

‘He knows the wreck’s been salvaged, Samuel. He wants the stone back.’

‘Well, a man can want something as much as he likes. It doesn’t mean he’ll get it.’ He was angry again, striding for the cave. ‘And what I do—what we do—has never bothered you before.’

Luce had no answer for that. Up until now, the stone they found in wrecks had been just that—stone. Adrift, ownerless. But after speaking to Morgan, learning of his guilt, his pain...

‘Does it ever bother you?’ She had never thought to ask Samuel if he felt remorse for the things he did. Breaking rules, avoiding the law. ‘The stealing, I mean?’

‘Guilt is a luxury I can scarce afford.’ Samuel reached the cave, tossed his belonging onto the sand. Behind him, light glowed faintly from its depths—Bones had busied himself lighting Luce’s lanterns, storing the packages of English wool.

Samuel sighed wearily.

‘How well do you know de Chatelaine?’ he asked, gentler now. ‘How often have you met with him, I mean.’

‘What?’ Luce frowned, confused by the change of tack. ‘This was the first time he’d come here. Apart from when I found him after the storm, of course.’

‘Ah,’ Samuel said, disagreeably. ‘Of course. How could I forget?’

‘But we have met at the house, and the dockyard.’ She plowed on, uncertain. ‘And at Le Loup Blanc...’

‘That’s right. The grand and glorious ball. You actually went, then?’

Luce considered telling him everything—of the tide-woman’s help, the exquisite gown and shoes, the witch-boat. The hardness in his eyes stopped her.

‘I did. And, well, I very much enjoyed it, Samuel. The entire evening was like something from a story. We danced outside—’

He frowned. ‘ You danced?’

‘—and there were ice sculptures, and so many candles, and flowers...’

‘A ball from a story, eh? I never received my invitation. It must have gotten lost.’

Ordinarily Samuel’s jests made Luce laugh so hard her belly ached. But the way he spoke now, so angry and bitter, made her tense.

‘So that’s what you want, then, is it? Balls and flowers and ice sculptures.’ He gestured to the top of the cliffs. ‘Fine horses and frock coats.’

‘No,’ Luce said, hotly. ‘No, that’s not what I want. Not at all.’

No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she wondered if they were a lie. I rather hope you do. Morgan’s touch, his words, still glowed like embers.

‘It doesn’t seem that way.’

‘That’s not fair, Samuel. You are misjudging me. And Morgan, too. He—he is not what you think he is. He feels terribly about what happened to the Dauphin. ’

‘I’m sure he does,’ Samuel said wryly.

‘He is a person, the same as you and I. With... with thoughts, and feelings.’ She faltered, unable to withstand the look Samuel was giving her. ‘He cannot help that his family is wealthy.’

‘Indeed. It must be a terrible trial for him.’

She bristled. ‘He is just as trapped as the rest of us!’

‘I doubt that very much.’

‘He cares for me!’ Luce was truly angry now. How dare he speak to her this way?

‘The de Chatelaines care for no one but themselves,’ Samuel snarled, fast and hard, as though he could no longer contain himself. ‘I hear the stories, Luce. The talk. Castro and his sons have always been... wild. But Morgan’s exploits put them all to shame. He’s the talk of the docks, of the warehouses, of the taverns. He made quite the name for himself in Cádiz, by all accounts, and seems intent on making one here as well. From the moment he recovered from that wreck he has made it his purpose to conquer every brothel and bawd from Our Lady’s Gate to Saint-Servan.’

A heavy stone had settled upon Luce’s chest. ‘Why are you saying such things?’

‘Because they are true. Had I known he had set his sights upon you, I would have said them sooner.’

‘You cannot know if they are true. They could be merely stories, or speculation. It is not as though young gentlemen do not frequent such, such...’ She felt herself blush. ‘He would not be the first, is all I am saying.’

Samuel gaped at her. ‘You’re excusing such behavior?’

‘Of course not. But... for God’s sake, Samuel! Madame de Pompadour is at this very moment the most fashionable, the most desirable, woman in all of Paris—in all of France! The king’s mistress. ’ She shrugged. ‘Such things are to be expected, when men are of a certain...’ She fought to find a word that would not insult him.

She failed.

‘I see,’ Samuel hissed. ‘And I suppose the ribbon garters he is said to steal from his conquests do not concern you, either? Word is he has a collection so mighty it requires its own valet.’

‘You’re lying!’

‘I would never lie to you.’ Samuel bent wearily and picked up his things before heading into the cave. ‘I only wonder if Monsieur de Chatelaine can say the same.’