Chapter 49
He had the direction of the inn where Jacques Martin was staying, or had been.
Schiavi, without being asked, had assured Max that the tale of him leaving on the next day’s tide was but another part of the poetic licence the writer had allowed himself; it made a good ending, full of pathos, like to make a reader of delicate sensibility shed tears.
Perhaps the clever old man knew that when it came to it, he, Max, could not help but seek him out. He’d looked for a father before among such men, obsessively and always without success, and the Italian knew it. How could he resist this last desperate chance?
He strode through the busy London streets to the inn, which was a thriving coaching establishment in a respectable enough street in Holborn.
It was a couple of miles only; the exercise helped calm his restless spirit a little.
He’d be cautious, and not enquire for the man he sought, or otherwise draw undue attention to himself.
All sorts of people passed through a coaching inn, and nobody noticed them unless they caused a bustle.
He wouldn’t. There’d be a taproom; he’d have a peaceful drink, as anyone might, and look about him warily.
It was quiet just now, in the middle of the evening, no stages having recently arrived or being due to leave.
There were only two or three weathered men standing at the bar, conversing in low tones, coachmen perhaps, and a similar number of assorted characters seated at tables, eating the solid fare the place offered, minding their business.
One of them was the kind of man he’d seen in the streets over the years, the kind of man who’d snag his eye, always, and make him wonder.
A man of colour. He was the right age, or appeared to be, tall and well-made.
He looked up from his pie, caught Max’s eye, and nodded, almost as if he’d been expecting to see him, or waiting, even.
Mr Severin experienced a moment of sudden disorientation, but with an effort of will he pushed past it, forced his feet to move.
When Max approached a little closer, the man said calmly, ‘I wondered if you’d come.’ He was speaking Matinik. Of course he was.
Max sat down opposite him. He didn’t introduce himself; there seemed no need. ‘I thought I might as well. The name Celestine, which came from you, I assume, captured my attention and made me wonder.’
‘Poor Celestine,’ Martin said soberly. ‘I didn’t know her very well, just met her once or twice. My attention was elsewhere, you could say. But I believe she’d have been happy to claim you as hers, if she’d thought it would help you. Make you safer. She seemed like a good woman.’
‘She was. The best.’ Max was having a little difficulty getting the words out.
His companion forked a piece of meat, and chewed and swallowed, then said, ‘Oh – I have something for you. Saves me sending it back, when it might easily go astray.’ He reached into his pocket and took out money – quite a large sum – which he set down and pushed across the table.
‘I don’t need it or want it, but it seemed better to let the odd old man think I did.
People trust greed, I’ve found; they think they understand it. ’
It was everything he’d been given, to the last shilling, Max guessed, though he wasn’t inclined to count it. He didn’t pick it up, or push it back. ‘How did he find you?’
‘I found him, in point of fact. I heard he was looking; there aren’t so many of us here, you know, so word gets about. It’s funny. He has no idea how well he succeeded in his task.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that; you never know, with him. Was it true, what you said, about your life… since?’
‘About the navy? Yes, more or less, that’s where I’ve been, but it wouldn’t have made any difference, would it?
She was never going to marry me, live with me in some shack, spend her days gutting fish and singing you lullabies.
Not her. And even if she’d wanted to, they wouldn’t have let her – they had other plans for her.
God knows what her family would have done to me if they’d caught me.
I wasn’t so much pressed as volunteered, surprising them with my enthusiasm.
It seemed safer.’ A pause. ‘You have her eyes. I hadn’t realised.
Very distinctive – they shook me for a moment, when I saw them.
Took me back across the years. Dangerous. ’
‘Not any more, I hope. Thanks to you.’ There was a great deal to say, in some ways, and in others very little.
‘It’s the first thing I’ve ever done for you, son.
About time, really. I abandoned her, and you.
You don’t need to tell me that. It hasn’t sat well with me, all these years.
But I’ve told myself – maybe it’s been easy to do so, but it could still be true all the same – that the best thing I could do for her was keep my mouth firmly shut.
And I have done, always. All these years, all through everything. ’
‘You’ve never been tempted?’ Max looked around the taproom, imagining, which was simple and terrifying enough. ‘Never been in a room, or on one of your ships, surrounded by men, drinking, or by whores, and thought to stand up and shout, I have a secret you won’t believe…?’
‘Never,’ his father said in level tones. ‘I don’t drink much, or otherwise indulge, for that very reason. I can do that for Rose, at least. Rose as she was.’
‘I met her,’ Max told him. It seemed important to say, though he didn’t know why.
‘I went to see her, near Paris, I expect you know where. It was crazy, but she wanted it, apparently, and so I went. She spoke fondly of you, of what she remembered, when I asked. But I wasn’t sure if she was spinning me a pretty tale to make me feel better.
Now I think maybe she wasn’t, and I’m happy to know it. ’
The older man smiled. He had a good smile. ‘When?’
‘Three years ago, or thereabouts.’
‘The peace – of course. How did she look?’
‘Beautiful. Rich. Tired.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s easy, for all the jewels and the rest of it.
Sweet Jesu, can you even begin to picture what it must be like, living with him all these years?
And all the more now, since there hasn’t been a child of his and isn’t all that likely to be.
She’s two and forty, same as me, more or less.
June, her birthday – I don’t have one, not so precise.
’ There was a little silence between them.
‘He’d have you dead, of course, in a heartbeat.
You know that. And her too, for that matter.
If I have helped prevent that, son, I’m glad. ’
‘You have. Thank you. I’m going to be able to get married, because of what you’ve done. Have a life of my own. I couldn’t risk it, before, you understand.’
His father reached out for his hand, and shook it, his clasp strong and warm, his palm callused, then raised his glass of ale in a toast. ‘Does she know, your girl?’
‘Her name is Allegra, and she knows everything. She’s Schiavi’s granddaughter; that’s how I met him. They have their own secrets.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
No arguing with that. ‘Are you really leaving?’
He finished his ale, set down the tankard.
‘Shipping out in a couple of days. Off to fight the bastard Bonaparte, you know.’ They shared a laugh; it really was amusing.
‘Heading east, I hear tell, right across the Mediterranean. Egypt. Never been. Africa. My shipmates tell me, Jack, you old bugger, you’ll feel right at home.
Joking, you know, as they think. I’m not so sure. ’
‘Do you know where your mother came from? Anything about her life?’ Max was hesitant, aware he might be trespassing, but if he didn’t ask now, he never would.
Martin shrugged. ‘I was quite small when she died. She was born on Martinique, herself. Her parents were the ones… brought. West Africa, I suppose. They were young and frightened, from all I heard tell. If their country or their people had a name, they might not know it, or remember it after all they went through. I saw my father once or twice; he was an Englishman, like the story said. Vicious bastard. He didn’t free me; his wife did.
Didn’t like looking at me, can’t imagine why.
He’s dead too, I’m glad to say. Saves me the trouble of doing it, and swinging for it.
Nothing for you there, son, on either side.
I won’t name him, won’t put it in your head where it’d fester.
I never had his name, never wanted it – made up my own, when they said I had to have one, in the navy.
You have a good name of your own, from people who cared for you.
Listen to me, because I may never tell you anything again – let all that go. ’
‘You’re right, I will.’
‘Good.’
He left soon after that, taking the money because his father wouldn’t, and insisted he did. ‘Buy your girl a present, son, if you like,’ he said with a rare touch of softness. ‘Something pretty. I never could do that for Rose. And now, of course…’ He said he would.
It wasn’t very likely that any of his friends, Gil or Tom or anyone else, would read a piece in a literary review – the idea made him smile as he walked home, his mind whirling – but someone who knew him would, sooner or later, surely.
The whole ton would be whispering about it fast enough.
A minor scandal, a three-day sensation, and a wonderful one, as far as he was concerned.
He wondered if anyone would have the temerity to approach him, to draw his attention to the story.
Didn’t know what he’d say if they did. I know, perhaps.
I have seen it. Suitably enigmatic. He certainly wasn’t going to deny it.
Not when it had given him his life back, and was going to give him Allegra.