14. Launches and Lessons
14
Launches and Lessons
It was as though every man, woman, and child in Saint-Malo had turned out to see the Lucinde greet the sea. They crowded the beach and clustered between the workshops, perched on piles of lumber and equipment. Children ran on the sand, shoes and hats discarded. The men of the dockyards perched high on the bones of the half-finished ships, chattering like the gulls. On the water, vessels of every size—from jolly-boats to frigates, their ratlines and footropes crowded with watching sailors—bobbed expectantly.
The day was fine, the sun warm, and the Lucinde, festooned with flags and flowers, gracefully awaited her debut. Behind her, across the harbour, the stone battlements of Saint-Malo wavered, as beautiful as a mirage.
Luce held her breath as the priests completed the blessings. The larger the ship, the greater the risk of mishap on its rapid, backward slide into the water, and she knew that most of the people assembled secretly hoped for the spectacle and excitement of disaster. A fouled slipway, perhaps, or a dramatic sideways topple. The ship might survive the launch, but then list, or take on water, or crash into another vessel.
The possibilities were endless.
She clutched her father’s arm as the men knocked aside the shores and stanchions holding the Lucinde in place. The slipway had been liberally coated with soap and tallow before the tide rose, and the vessel began to slide at once with alarming speed, entering the water moments later with a mighty splash that soaked the onlookers on the nearest ships and boats. As the Lucinde settled back into the water, all those who had hoped for her shocking, embarrassing demise gave a deafening cheer, waving their hats and clapping.
‘She made it,’ Jean-Baptiste crowed, kissing Luce’s cheek. ‘She made it.’
‘Of course she did.’ Luce sagged against him with relief. Even without her masts and rigging—they would be added later, along with her guns and ammunition—the Lucinde was magnificent. ‘How could she not?’
‘May we go soon, Maman?’ Veronique sounded infinitely bored. ‘It’s hot here. And dirty.’
‘You may wait in the carriage, if the dockyard is not to your liking,’ Gratienne told her. She glanced around, wrinkled her nose. ‘Where is your sister?’
Luce, who had seen Charlotte moving through the crowds in the moments before the launch, her hand resting on Gabriel Daumard’s arm, said nothing. Luce liked the young tutor; he was intelligent. Kind. Why shouldn’t her sister steal a little time in his company, if it made her happy?
‘I have no idea,’ Veronique said, with an irritable wave of her fan. ‘Come, Maman. She will find us at the carriage easily enough.’
‘Would you like to go aboard?’ Jean-Baptiste asked Luce, when they were alone.
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
They were not the only ones. The decks of the Lucinde were crowded with admirers. The scents of tar and fresh timber were strong, even with the breeze kicking over the harbour.
‘Another beauty for your fleet, Jean-Baptiste,’ Monsieur Fontaine-Roux said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘The luck of the lion,’ Jean-Baptiste said, with a grin.
‘What will you do with her?’
Jean-Baptiste glanced at Luce. ‘We have not yet decided.’
‘I had great success in the African trade before the war,’ Monsieur Fontaine-Roux said. He looked around at the Lucinde thoughtfully. ‘She is the perfect size for a slaver.’
Luce stared at him, appalled. It was no secret that many of the shipowners of Saint-Malo invested in the trade of people as well as goods. They would leave port loaded with textiles, guns, ammunition, and sail to the Slave Coast of Africa, where they would trade the items for people, taking them to the French colonies in the Caribbean—Martinique or Saint-Domingue—to be sold to the owners of sugar and indigo plantations. The ships then returned to Bretagne loaded with sugar, coffee, and indigo. The entire, loathsome trip took a year, more or less.
‘Risky, but highly profitable,’ Monsieur Fontaine-Roux said. ‘With the right crew, and the right captain.’
Bones, who had once worked a slave ship— once, he had said significantly, being more than enough—had described its horrors to Luce. The vessels were cramped, rough, and rife with disease as well as unspeakable cruelty and sorrow. A good slaver captain was generally agreed to be one who used violence to keep his ‘cargo’ in check, without damaging it.
Popular opinion held that the slave trade was beneficial for the very people it abused, those who were stolen from their homes and forced into a life of servitude, because it enabled the light of a Christian God to shine upon their souls. Privately, Luce thought that reasoning simply a means of helping slavers, investor and shipowners sleep at night. Both Samuel and Bones, who avoided any interaction with captains and shipowners in the trade, agreed.
‘I would rather,’ she declared, ‘see the Lucinde at the bottom of the Manche. If you’ll excuse me, Papa.’
She made her way back along the deck, keenly aware that both her father and Monsieur Fontaine-Roux were watching her go, the latter frowning in disapproval, the former hiding a smile.
Luce climbed carefully up the narrow stairs to the quarter deck. It was quieter there, the freshly planked passageways and cabins deserted. In the captain’s quarters the large windows were bright with sky and water, the distant shape of Saint-Malo hazy through the glass. The spacious cabin was empty, but would soon contain a large desk and table, bookshelves, and storage for maps and equipment. The urge to see it completed, to imagine her own belongings there and in the adjoining berth, was an ache in Luce’s chest.
‘There you are.’ Morgan stood in the doorway. ‘I saw you come down here from the deck. I hope you don’t mind my following.’
‘Of course not.’
Why was he here? Alone on the beach with you? Samuel’s rage—his worry, Luce now realised—came sharply back to her. She looked again at Morgan’s black eyes, tried to read what lingered, hidden, in their depths.
I would never lie to you. I only wonder if Monsieur de Chatelaine can say the same.
‘What are you doing down here?’ Morgan asked.
‘Nothing, really.’ She reached out to touch the fresh paint coating the window frame. ‘Just imagining.’
‘Imagining.’ He smiled as he stepped farther into the room. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘My books will go here.’ She pointed to the empty shelves. ‘My seashells and feathers, here.’
‘I see.’
‘Navigational equipment and maps here, of course.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Desk, table...’ She moved through the cabin, painting her dreams to life with her hands.
‘There is one problem with all of this, of course,’ Morgan said.
‘There is?’
‘Well, this is the captain’s quarters. So if you were to live here, you would be sharing the space with him.’
Luce sighed. ‘It is only a dream, Morgan.’
‘What if it didn’t have to be?’
He had removed his tricorn, and was leaning against the paneling, watching her.
‘I want to marry you, Lucinde,’ he said. ‘I want to go where you go. Sail where you sail. If we were together, all of this could be ours. I could captain the Lucinde. You could live in these rooms with me. Sail with me.’ He pushed off from the wall, strode toward her. ‘I know it’s fast. I know we have only just met. But I don’t care. I can see your dreams. They are the same as mine.’
Could this truly be happening? Luce’s heartbeat was like thunder in her ears. The sun was filtering through the windows, catching on the angles of Morgan’s face, illuminating hints of red in his dark hair. He was so beautiful it hurt. And his words, his words... She could see the life they were weaving for her. I can see your dreams. They are the same as mine.
He took her hand, skimmed her palm with his lips. ‘Besides,’ he whispered, leaving a trail of delicious warmth over the inside of her wrist, ‘I cannot deny there has been something between us since the morning after the storm. Can you?’
Luce’s heart beat even faster, if such a thing were possible. I kissed you because I could not help it, Lucinde. She remembered the heat of his touch through her stocking, the hunger in his dark eyes. Fire and silk.
All this time, she had thought she had stolen Morgan from the sea; plucked him out of its cruel arms and back to shore, to life. But what if she had been wrong? What if the sea had wanted her to have him?
‘We could build something together, you and I,’ Morgan whispered, his fingertips leaving Luce’s wrist and stroking her jaw. ‘With your ship and my stone, we could be unstoppable.’
Luce frowned as the spell he had woven around her shattered. ‘ Your stone?’ she repeated. ‘I—I thought you said the Dauphin ’s stone had been stolen.’
He laughed a little, wounded. ‘Is that all you can say? I have just bared my heart to you, and all you can think of is ballast?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Luce said, carefully. ‘But... surely we cannot make plans—marriage or otherwise—without it?’
‘Have no fear,’ Morgan said grimly. ‘The trap has been set. It is only a matter of time.’
Luce’s heart quickened for an entirely different reason. ‘You... know who has the stone?’
‘Not yet. But I will, soon enough. And when I do, you can be certain they will regret stealing from me.’
Luce slid out of his arms.
‘You have flattered me greatly with your offer, Morgan,’ she said. ‘In truth, it’s overwhelming. And there is much for me to consider...’
‘Of course. Please, take as much time as you need.’ He crossed to the cabin door, pausing to look back at her. ‘I will say nothing of this to anyone until you have made your choice.’
It was the middle of May, and the sun’s heat relatively mild, but Saint-Malo was already working itself up to an impressive stench. A latrine by the sea, Samuel called it, and it was hard to disagree. The trick to avoiding the worst of it was to venture out of doors in the early morning or late in the evening, when a veil of cool, fresh air was wont to draw itself over the city. With this in mind, Luce spent the next morning in the town house with Monsieur Daumard. The family had returned to the city for a few days only, to attend the Lucinde ’s launch and the Blessing of the Sea, and all three of the sisters’ lessons were continuing as planned. Today, however, it was Luce who was playing the tutor. Monsieur Daumard had developed a keen geological interest in storm-stone, and was eager to learn more about its properties.
‘So what you’re saying,’ he said doubtfully, gesturing to the three granite samples on the desk in the smallest of the town house’s three salons, ‘is that the storm-stone’—he pointed to the middle piece, its grey undulations rippling with telltale shards of lightning—‘is different to these others because it is somehow imbued with the magic of the... the Fae Folk? Seamaids and tide-women and... and korrigans , and such?’
‘Yes,’ Luce replied. ‘Although... all three of these samples are storm-stone.’
He frowned. ‘They are?’
‘Mm-hmm.’ She pointed to the middle piece. ‘This one is obvious—see how it glitters. But this one’—she pointed to the piece on the left—‘is of better quality.’
‘Better? It looks like ordinary granite to me.’
‘Storm-stone is like any stone. No one piece, no one quarry, is the same. You can tell this one by its sound.’ Luce picked up the stone, offering it to Gabriel. ‘Listen. Do you hear thunder?’
He pressed the granite to his ear, concentrating. ‘I do!’ he exclaimed, grinning. ‘It is like holding a shell to your ear and hearing the sea.’
Luce returned his smile. ‘Precisely.’
‘Extraordinary.’ Gabriel replaced the stone and pointed to the third sample. It was the least impressive, its texture a homely grey. ‘What of this one?’ He raised it to his ear, looked at Luce questioningly. ‘I don’t hear anything. And it does not sparkle like the others.’
‘And yet, it is the most powerful.’ Luce took the stone from him, hefted it in her palm. ‘This is Léon storm-stone. Straight from my father’s ballast stores, if I’m not mistaken.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘He was kind enough to offer me some samples for our lesson.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘Well, my lesson. Tell me, how did you recognise it?’
‘There is an energy to it. A very faint rumbling, the kind you feel in your bones when thunder is nearby.’
He hefted the stone in his palm. ‘I don’t feel anything.’
‘Not everyone can.’ She considered telling him about the prickle, and decided against it.
‘Do you feel it now?’ he asked.
‘Of course. This entire house is made of the finest storm-stone.’
‘There must be some scientific reason for all of this, though.’ He looked sidelong at her. ‘You don’t truly believe that the fairies are the only source of the stone’s power?’
‘Why shouldn’t I believe it? I have seen nothing to suggest otherwise.’
‘But, fairies, Mademoiselle Lucinde?’ He raised his brows meaningfully. ‘I would be laughed out of Paris if I were to suggest such a thing.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Charlotte swept into the salon. ‘And who is laughing?’
At the sight of her, the tutor’s face, his whole body, lit up.
‘Monsieur Daumard does not believe in the Fae Folk,’ Luce said, watching her sister’s reaction carefully. ‘Or that they are the reason we have storm-stone.’
‘I thought you were more intelligent than that, Monsieur Daumard,’ Charlotte said, stopping at the harpsichord and throwing him a smile. ‘Everyone knows how storm-stone is made.’
‘And how, pray tell, is it made?’
Charlotte tinkered a few notes. ‘By the Fae, of course.’
He grinned. ‘By the korrigans?’
‘ Yes, by the korrigans. Among others. Houle fairies, tide-crones, cave wights. What you call them hardly matters. What matters is that they live in sea-caves up and down this coast—and out on the Storm Islands, of course—and that their very presence changes, for want of a better word, the nature of the granite.’
‘Making it resistant to bad weather,’ Gabriel finished. ‘Storms are much more than simple weather,’ Luce told him.
‘They can be an act of violence, or an attack. A castle may be stormed, for example, or a city.’
‘A storm can be emotional, too,’ Charlotte added. ‘An outpouring of temper, a commotion, a disagreement.’
‘Storm-stone protects against all of these,’ Luce said, nodding. ‘A city with storm-stone in its walls, like Saint-Malo, will never be breached. A ship carrying it as ballast will be safe from tempests, but also from mutiny and unrest among its crew.’
Monsieur Daumard looked between them. ‘You don’t truly believe this?’
‘Look around you, Gabriel,’ Charlotte said, and Luce’s gaze snapped to her sister’s face at the casual use of his first name. ‘Look at my father’s house, at this street, at this city. It was a fishing village once. Now it is one of the most powerful port cities in France, with trade connections all over the world.’
‘The Malouin corsairs are the bane of the English, amassing untold wealth, stealing countless ships,’ Luce said. ‘We should have weathered assault after assault for all that we have done, and yet the city has never been breached. You think the gentlemen of Saint-Malo have been blessed with such good fortune for nothing?’
‘Your father is a clever man,’ Monsieur Daumard said, with a shrug. ‘Daring, too. With great risk comes great reward.’
‘There is more to this than risk,’ Charlotte said firmly.
‘Perhaps we should visit one of these magical quarries,’ he mused. ‘See the fairies for ourselves. We could gather samples, take notes and sketches. Make a proper lesson of it.’
‘We can’t,’ Luce said.
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘Because there are no quarries,’ Charlotte told him. ‘Not anymore.’
Monsieur Daumard frowned. ‘Whyever not?’
‘Because most of the Fae have left Bretagne,’ Luce said quietly. ‘Sometime in the last thirty years they began to slip away. There was nothing to be done.’
‘That is...’ The tutor’s mouth twisted thoughtfully. ‘For some reason that makes me rather sad.’
‘It is sad,’ Luce agreed. ‘The quarries closed, and the shores fell silent. We still have the existing stocks of stone, of course. And the presence of the remaining Folk keeps it strong.’
‘Why do you think Papa insists the kitchen maids leave treats for the lutins at Le Bleu Sauvage?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Or the people in the city leave food and gifts outside the walls? They want the tide-crones or korrigans or mari-morgens—whatever is still about—to stay.’
‘Mari-morgens?’ Monsieur Daumard repeated. ‘You mean... seamaids?’
An image of that graceful webbed hand, fingertips outstretched in the specimen jar’s syrupy liquid as though it beckoned for help, wavered in Luce’s mind.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘Mari-morgens have legs, not tails. You should be wary if you ever see one, Gabriel. They will lure you into the waves with their sweet singing and tear you apart.’
‘There are no mari-morgens, or seamaids, in Bretagne anymore,’ Luce said, sliding a reproving glance at her sister. What was Charlotte about, addressing their tutor with such intimacy? ‘They left before the swell fae.’
‘Why?’
Luce shrugged. ‘No one knows. All that’s certain is that more of the Fae leave Bretagne every year, and when the last of them go there will be nothing, and no one, to strengthen the stone.’
There was a long, sad silence.
‘Whatever brought on this depressing conversation?’ Charlotte inquired.
‘We were talking about storm-stone,’ Monsieur Daumard said. ‘Mademoiselle Lucinde was explaining its properties. She surprised me by saying this very house is constructed of it. That you and she both can hear its presence in the walls.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Here, then,’ Charlotte left the harpsichord and went to the tutor’s side. ‘Let us see if we can remedy that.’
And then, as though it was nothing at all, Charlotte took Gabriel Daumard’s hand. Luce watched, breath held, as the young man got to his feet, allowing her sister to lead him to the nearest wall.
‘Beneath all of this,’ Charlotte said, waving at the wall paneling, the gilded sconces, the paintings, ‘there lies a wall of stone.’
‘Really?’ Monsieur Daumard’s eyes widened in mock disbelief. ‘I had no idea!’
Charlotte ignored that, lifting his hand and holding it to the paneling. ‘Close your eyes,’ she said softly. ‘Listen.’
A delicate hush descended over the room. Luce all but blushed at the look that passed between her sister and Gabriel Daumard before the latter closed his eyes.
‘I hear nothing,’ he said, after several moments of concentration. He opened his eyes, bewildered. ‘Do you?’
Charlotte sighed. ‘That was terrible, Gabriel,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Try again.’
Luce, feeling more and more like an intruder, watched as they moved around each of the salon’s four walls, pausing to close their eyes and listen. Each time Monsieur Daumard was disappointed, and Charlotte offered him a new insult. Until they reached the final wall.
‘That’s strange,’ Charlotte said, pausing before a large painting hanging over a lacquered side table. ‘I don’t hear anything here, either.’
Luce frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Charlotte smoothed her hand over the oak paneling. ‘I can hear stone here...’ She swiped along the wall until she reached one corner. ‘And here.’ Leaving a point near the middle, she grazed her fingertips along the other side of the wall until she reached the opposite corner. ‘But there’s nothing here.’
‘Could it be an old doorway?’ Monsieur Daumard asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Charlotte said. ‘Papa bought the house from the Rivières when we girls were very young. There’s no telling what was done to it before then.’ She glanced at Luce. ‘Come then, Luce. Test your prickle.’
Monsieur Daumard looked bewildered. ‘Her... prickle?’
‘Luce didn’t tell you?’ Charlotte grinned. ‘Storm-stone makes her skin prickle.’
‘It does?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ Charlotte said, her eyes shining. ‘We’re not sure why.’
‘Hush, Cee,’ Luce said, stifling a giggle.
‘Fascinating,’ Monsieur Daumard muttered. He watched with scientific interest as Luce stepped up to her sister’s side, ran her own hand over the empty space.
‘I feel nothing,’ she said.
‘No prickle?’ Charlotte asked solemnly.
‘No prickle.’
‘Strange, indeed,’ Monsieur Daumard said. He seemed to realise just how close he had drifted to Charlotte, and stepped hastily away. ‘But not at all surprising in a house as large as this, I suppose. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I must oversee Mademoiselle Veronique’s harp practice.’ He smiled at both sisters. ‘Thank you both for your thorough instruction. If I ever come across a marimorgen, I will not hesitate to run.’
He bowed slightly and left the room.
‘He doesn’t believe a word of it, you know,’ Charlotte said. She traced her fingers over the granite samples the tutor had left. ‘Perhaps when he begins to hear the storm-stone himself he will change his mind. That’s what usually happens with newcomers.’
‘What are you doing, Cee?’
‘Hmm?’
‘The way you speak to him, look at him. The way you say his name—’
‘ Hush, Lucinde.’ Charlotte’s hand abandoned the samples and clamped hard over Luce’s own.
‘You’re not going to deny it?’
‘Deny what?’
‘That there is—’ Luce glanced around the salon, lowered her voice. ‘That there is something between you and Monsieur Daumard.’
‘How imaginative you are, Lucinde,’ Charlotte said tightly. ‘Anyone would think you read too much.’
‘I saw you with him,’ Luce said. ‘At the—at the launch. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I’ve no wish to hurt you, Cee, or see you hurt. I am only saying this because I am worried for you. And for him. Such a match—you know it cannot be. You are a Léon. He is a tutor.’
‘And what of it?’ Charlotte hissed. ‘Why should my name and his profession keep us apart? From the moment we met—when he stepped into the salon with that ridiculous measure—we knew that we were meant to be together. It’s as simple as that. And I’m not sorry for it, Luce. I won’t be. You’re not the only one in this family who longs for something more. Who longs to be free. Why shouldn’t I take happiness if it’s offered to me? Why should I deny it, deny him, and let Maman and Papa parcel me off like a prize mare?’
The words sparked against Luce’s soul; a sudden, nameless longing.
‘Gabriel loves me, and I love him,’ Charlotte said. ‘And I won’t give him up. Not for anyone.’
Luce stared at her sister as though she had never seen her before. ‘This is madness, Cee.’
‘I know.’ Charlotte smiled then, so radiantly that Luce felt any further protestations die on her tongue. ‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Luce.’
‘Of course,’ she said, squeezing her sister’s hand. ‘I won’t say a word.’