Chapter Twenty #2
Jack has been watching the sails come down. Now he looks at Harry. “How do you mean?”
“Have a look, Captain. I think they’ll suit our purpose.”
A shiver runs through the ship as the sails catch the wind. Isabel follows Jack into the cabin. A set of documents sits on top of the desk tied with a yellow silk ribbon and kept in place by the weight of the inkwell. Next to it is a parcel wrapped in cream muslin.
“But this is extraordinary,” says Jack, inspecting the papers by the light of the lantern.
“Is everything in order?” she asks softly, taking care not to get any of the crusted blood from her hands on the parcel.
“How did you get these?”
“Harriet,” she says.
Jack laughs. “Lady Darby got these for us? With Sir Hugh’s seal?”
“She helped me cut my hair, too.” She opens the muslin wrapper. Folded up inside is Mrs. Dowling’s wedding shawl with a note on top. In flourishes and curls, it reads:
Dear Isabel,
I expect you may have need of this. I wish you both every happiness. That you may always live outside your walled garden.
With love from your friend,
H. A.
P.S. I found this letter when I folded your dress. As it is unopened, I thought I’d best include it.
She places the muslin cloth holding the shawl on Jack’s desk, careful not to touch the wool, and lifts the note.
Underneath is a small envelope, the paper creamy and textured, stamped Roscoff.
She breaks the wax seal and withdraws the letter.
Jack is still examining the ship’s license.
She turns away from him, and by the light of the moon falling in through the skylight, reads:
My dear Mrs. Henley,
As promised, I write to you regarding your possible family, the Du Ponts.
While I have yet to gain intelligence about any living relatives or the family’s estate, I have come across the most curious of stories.
Numerous people have told it to me; there are some variations in their telling, but in the main it is this:
Long ago, in the time of Tristan and Iseult, it is said there was a woman who formed a union with a merman.
A child sprang from this union and was called Du Pont, for she formed a bridge between our world and that of merfolk.
According to the tale, the child’s descendants possess the ability to transform into merfolk at will or in times of great need—the stories vary on this point—but if they keep to their aquatic form too long, they find themselves unable to change back.
One member of the family, a Jean-Jacques Du Pont, who lived until 1712, is buried in the cathedral of Saint-Pol-de-Léon.
I have visited Monsieur Du Pont’s grave and found an image of a merman carved in the stone.
I hope you won’t think me fanciful in relating this tale to you. It is but a story, and in this age of reason appears unlikely to be true. However, as Captain Carlyon mentioned the Sea Bucca in connection to your appearance in Cornwall, I felt it too great a coincidence to ignore.
I hope you will visit Roscoff again soon. I shall be glad to show you the cathedral if you like.
With warmest regards,
your friend, Lucie Cuvelier
She lowers the letter, the phrase in times of great need revolving in her mind.
Outside, the water of the cove laps at the hull of the ship.
She has but to think of it to feel it: the sea’s cool embrace, the underwater breathing, the swish of a tail.
Memories drift closer until she can touch them.
They’re memories she did not know she possessed.
A raging sea and a fear so deep not even the voice crying out for her can mitigate it.
It’s a voice she knows well, crying a name she hasn’t heard in years: Aurélie.
Then the suck of the water, cold and dark around her.
Everything is calm. The storm still rages above, but under the surface she’s safe.
The fear leaves her. Her dress is a sail, a veil.
It blooms around her. There’s a flash of scales and someone is saying, Aurélie, it is time to swim.
Hands push her back up to the surface. She doesn’t want to go, but they insist.
Don’t leave me, she says in words made of water.
The voice flows, ebbs, swirls: I must find your maman.
Did her father speak the words or the sea itself?
The ocean breathes deeply. It’s about to spit her out, back into the place where things are hard and harsh and bright.
I want to go home, she says, but the voice of the sea answers: swim, my child.
“What have you got there?” Jack, behind her, a hand on her shoulder.
She folds the letter and shoves it into the pocket of her breeches. She turns to him, smiles. “Nothing.”
The memories hold her, but Jack is here, holding her, too.
Reaching for her hand, he catches sight of the cuts. “My God, Isabel.” He takes both her hands in his and inspects the palms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“There wasn’t time. And it’s fine, the cuts aren’t deep. See? The blood has already dried.”
“I wish Rowell was here to take a look at them.”
“It doesn’t hurt. Not much, anyway. I could always see a doctor in France, if need be. That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?”
“If you like. We can go anywhere. With these papers, we can pull into any port. Where would you like to go?”
“Anywhere, with you.”
He smiles and kisses her. She says, “How is your head?”
“Fine, too.” He casts a glance at the skylight.
“I have some money left from the sale of the horses and there are the kegs of brandy we stored on the seabed when the Swallow gave chase, which I mean to retrieve. With that I can pay the crew, but I don’t know when I’ll be able to get hold of the profits from our most recent run.
” He kisses her again. “You don’t mind being a bit poor for a while longer, do you?
It’ll be like starting over from scratch. ”
“That’s not so bad, is it? It’s what I did when I came to Cornwall.”
He laughs. “And look where it got you. You have a day to make up your mind as to our destination. For now we can ride the northeasterly.”
“You’d truly let me choose?” She thinks of all the places La Pérouse described in his book.
But perhaps they should go to France before they go anywhere else, she thinks.
Perhaps she’ll be able to learn more about the Du Pont family and the story Lucie Cuvelier told in her letter.
In time, she’ll tell it to Jack, she thinks. For now, the memories are hers alone.
“You’ve more than earned the privilege.” Jack lifts her left hand to his mouth, not touching the cut, and lightly kisses her fingertips. “Isabel,” he says in the same wondering tone as when she first found him imprisoned on board the frigate.
The deck rolls under them as the ship pulls out of the cove. “You should be on deck,” she says. “And I should like to be, to see us get under way.”
“As long as I get to hold you,” he says.
Back on deck they stand in the stern of the ship, Jack’s arms wrapped around her waist, his chin in her hair. “Do you forgive me?” he says.
“For what happened with Lieutenant Sowerby? Yes.”
“For getting you involved in all of this. You said you didn’t want any trouble.”
She smiles. “I don’t mind it so much now.”
“You called me your fiancé to Sowerby. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Did you mean it?”
“I did. I should like to marry you, Jack, only let me have my freedom a little longer. Until then, may we not love each other as we are now?”
“As a man and a woman, you mean, rather than a man and his wife?”
“Yes. If you don’t find that strange.”
“I don’t see why not,” he says, kissing her hair. She hears the smile in his voice. “Listen. I’ve told you before, but I’ll make it a vow. I won’t curb your freedom when we wed.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Good. It’s important to me that you know it, Isabel.”
She half turns so she can kiss him, then says, “I wish Will was with us. I hope he’ll be all right.”
“Let’s hope Captain Hamer’s need for men is more pressing than for setting an example, so Will won’t face punishment for the escape attempt.
As for him being impressed into the service, it’s not what anyone would want—” He stops himself and says, “Not what most would want, I should say,” and she knows he’s thinking of George, who lived for the navy and died for it.
The thought doesn’t cut as much as it used to.
Her hand reaches for George’s Trafalgar medal, but she cannot find it.
Her fingers trail along her neck. The black ribbon is missing, too.
Her heart skips a beat as Jack says, “Will’s a good sailor.
If he keeps his head down, he should be fine. Who knows? He may make a career of it.”
“My medal,” she says, feeling under her shirt. “George’s medal.”
“What of it?”
“It’s gone. The ribbon must’ve broken.” She waits for the hurt, the hollow cutting, but it doesn’t come. She continues to feel horribly content.
Jack says, “I’m sorry, Isabel. I know how much it meant to you.”
“It’s fine.” Strangely, it is, more or less, as if with the ribbon breaking, her mooring line has been cut.
Quietly, Jack says, “When I was in the water, I could’ve sworn a mermaid came to me.
I saw her. She was beautiful like you, with streaming hair and eyes like yours and the same mad little freckles you’ve got all over you.
She had a tail of silver scales and her breath was like an ocean current.
I could’ve sworn she brought me to the surface. ”
She feels his breath against her hair. Laughter trickles from her. “You were unconscious,” she says. “How could you have seen her?”
“She was a vision, like you,” Jack says, kissing her again. He tightens his arms around her as if he never wants to let go. Laughing softly, he says, “Did I ever tell you, you’re the most stubborn creature I know? I can’t believe you came and got me off that ship.”
“What can I say?” she says. “I am my father’s daughter.”
“The admiral?” he says.
She smiles and says, “Perhaps.”
She leans back against him, her hands clasping his arms. She doesn’t feel the cuts now.
The open sea is dark silver in the light of the moon; the sky is awash with stars.
Behind them, Nelly’s Cove fades from sight, then the cliffs, then all of the land, until there is nothing left but this, a small ship on a boundless ocean, a sharp wind in the sails, and his arms, holding her until the night, too, is fading.
In the sound of the wind, in the rushing of the waves is a voice calling her.
Come home, it says, and she whispers back, so quietly only she can hear, I’m coming.