Authors: Vanessa Royall
The scent again, with its beckoning lure to lust and degradation, all but overpowered her, but Selena fought it off. She looked everywhere, going over each of the hundreds of garments here, but found not a trace of sovereigns or jewels.
What she did discover, to her initial bewilderment, was the symbol of an eye sewn somewhere upon every article of clothing.
Also, in new thread, in hurried, irregular stitching, there was a small embroidered cross.
Selena stood there in the dressing room, staring at her image in Yolanda’s gigantic mirror, wondering.
The mirror—not the mirror itself but its power of reflection—catapulted Selena to the conclusion that came to her there.
Yolanda, born, raised, and trained in a world where magic was as elemental as breathing, obviously feared both Martha Marguerite’s ring and Selena’s cross. Thus she had sought, by stitching those symbols into the fabric of her garments, to ward off their presumed powers, to guard herself from anticipated assaults.
The shrunken heads, the phallic tower, the candles: these meant nothing. Yolanda was a girl who lived in terrible fear.
Selena believed that her cross represented no threat to anyone. But if Yolanda was afraid of the eye-shaped ring, she might have good reason.
And that would mean Martha Marguerite was the truly dangerous person here at Hidden Harbor!
If so, Selena had approached and consorted with an apparently cultured, obviously intelligent woman who might be far more threatening than the simple, superstitious Yolanda Fee could ever hope to be.
Selena held this theory for three full days, until she found a time to steal into Martha’s suite and discover, in every garment the woman owned, a tiny, embroidered, five-pointed star.
Checkmate. She still had no idea whom to trust, if anyone.
But she did not find the jewels in Martha Marguerite’s rooms either.
“I’ve been waiting for the chance to ask you this,” whispered the older woman one afternoon on the veranda, where she and Selena were having tea and hoping to catch sight of the
Liberté
on the horizon. “How went your expedition?”
“There are more things on heaven and earth,” Selena replied, “than I dreamt of in my suspicions.”
Martha gave her young guest an odd look, but said nothing.
A month went by, and then another, yet Jean Beaumain did not return. Winter arrived, blessing St. Crique Isle with splendid warm weather by day and with cool, gorgeous nights for sleep. Yolanda, growing fretful at her master’s absence, traveled to Haiti for a fortnight, but returned to Hidden Harbor sullen and unapproachable. Martha Marguerite received, via Port-au-Prince, a long letter from her family’s Parisian attorney advising her that a certain Uncle Pierre, who had been in charge of familial affairs, had died of pneumonia. Decisions had to be made, he said, especially in the light of a rising revolutionary
animus
against the titled nobility. Martha ought to come to Paris, he pleaded, at first opportunity. The woman fretted over the matter at breakfast, luncheon, tea, and dinner. Selena’s usually generous supply of sympathy waned; she began to take many of her meals alone.
She, too, had decisions to make, a pressure that increased with each day that Jean remained away. So, early in April, she had Campanale and several other servants take her to Port-au-Prince aboard the sloop. Once there, she learned that a Spanish freighter was due to arrive any day from Venezuela, en route to New York. Selena no longer had the slightest idea if Royce was in New York—or even if he was alive, for that matter—but at least she had friends there who might know of his whereabouts and who would give her comfort and shelter.
The main problem was that she hadn’t a cent to her name. Damn the soul of whoever had taken those jewels! Damn the jewels anyway! And damn Jean too for being away so long!
But in truth, she’d begun to fear for his life.
Campanale suggested that she attempt to sell or pawn her gold cross, but Selena would not hear of it, besides which the amount it might bring would not suffice to take her to America. Just when she’d decided to inquire after a loan of money, word came that
the Spanish vessel had been destroyed in a hurricane off the Tortugas. There would not be another ship to New York for two months.
Thus, it was back to Hidden Harbor for Selena, but not before reading a story in an English newspaper—six months old—that reported Lord Sean Bloodwell’s arrival in Paris to take up his duties in the diplomatic corps. He had been received by the French monarch, Louis XVI.
As the little one-sailed sloop glided slowly out of Port-au-Prince, it passed on the port side an inbound British frigate, the HMS
Prince William
, named for one of the royal sons. Its sails were ripped through and there were more great, jagged holes in its hull. Obviously there’d been a battle at sea. Since the
Prince William
was British, Selena wished the damn thing had been sent to the bottom.
But when they arrived back at Hidden Harbor, Selena’s spirits, heretofore bleak, soared immediately.
The sleek
Liberté
, intact and unscathed, lay at anchor, and Jean Beaumain himself was waving from the veranda. He embraced her when she joined him up at the house with sufficient enthusiasm to flare the ever-present fires of animosity in Yolanda’s sultry eyes, to put a quick look of concern on Martha Marguerite’s face. He had been telling them of his adventures and now over brandy he regaled Selena as well.
“When we reached Cuba,” he said, “I did some trading in Havana that turned a small profit, but I also learned of a prospective deal in silver that was abrew down in Caracas. So of course we set sail for Venezuela immediately…”
He looks wonderful
, thought Selena, watching Jean as he lounged cavalierly in the veranda chair. He was deeply tanned, and the sun had turned his blond hair almost to a white-silver hue. His eyes were sparklingly blue, and every inch of him was lean, honed.
“…Once in Caracas, I was informed that a lode of silver had been discovered and was being mined somewhere in the Amazonian basin. We proceeded to Brazil where I managed to buy, at a very good price, some of the best ore. I brought it back to Caracas, made a deal, and ladies, I must tell you that it was one of the best! I could retire now for the rest of my life.
“If I chose to do so,” he added, grinning.
Martha betrayed nothing by her expression, but Yolanda Fee looked discomfited, almost hurt. Clearly, she
wanted
Jean to cease his wandering and remain at Hidden Harbor with her.
Selena, for her part, said only that she was happy to see him safe and home. She wanted to get him alone for a long talk, but decided to wait for a time that would not further arouse the hostility of the other women.
When Jean had finished relating his adventures, Martha chimed in with her news from France, adding the urgent plea that he take her there as soon as possible.
“I will think it over,” he allowed. “I myself will not set foot on French soil until I have done with Chamorro, but if you must go back, you must.”
This satisfied Martha Marguerite, although it caused Yolanda to leave the veranda in a sloe-eyed huff.
Jean paid no attention. “Now I am going to bathe for a long, long time,” he announced, rising, “and then we shall dine.”
“And how did you fare in Port-au-Prince, my dear?” inquired Martha, when Jean had gone inside to his ablutions.
“Not so well,” Selena admitted. “Not so well.”
Martha got up and left too, leaving Selena with Rafael, who came from the ship looking fit and happy.
“You’ve had a successful trip?”
“One of the best, Selena.” He sat down with her, helped himself to a mug of brandy, and lowered his voice. “I saw your Royce Campbell in Caracas,” he said.
Selena’s heart skipped several beats. “You
saw
him?”
“In truth, I spoke to him. I told him you were here. But Jean does not know about this. He is in love with you, as you know, and I did not wish to upset him.”
“What did Royce say?”
“That he would sail here for you. In fact, I was somewhat surprised to see you. Campbell left Venezuela a week before we did. He ought to have arrived here by now.”
“You’re sure you told him how to reach Hidden Harbor?”
“Yes. Precisely. I drew him a map. He was very happy when he learned that you were safe. But, Selena—”
“Yes?”
“Are you…are you
really sure
about that man?”
“Of course I am! Why would you ask such a question?”
“I get the feeling, Selena, that he is involved in something very complicated and very dangerous. At every port, things seem to be going on just beneath the surface. It is nothing that one can put a finger on, but the feeling is there, and Campbell seems to be a part of whatever is happening.”
This was information Selena did not wish to treat. She would discuss it with Royce when they were together again.
But she did mention the hapless LaValle from Port-de-Paix.
“I cannot say I am surprised.” Rafael nodded. “Now that man was something of a scoundrel—”
And Royce
dealt
with him!
Selena brooded.
“—and in the end scoundrels always meet such fates. Well, I suppose it is better than dying in one’s bed. Now
that
is ignominy for you!”
They both laughed. “Ending up as a shrunken head on a pagan altar is not exactly noble, either,” said Selena.
Rafael was mystified. “What do you mean?”
She told him about Yolanda’s primitive chamber.
“You’re jesting,” he exclaimed. “You’ve been listening to too many stories about Haitian black magic.”
“No!” she said, getting up and taking his hand. “Come along and I’ll show you.”
She pulled him along to the end of the veranda, gesturing toward the garden outside Yolanda’s quarters. “Have a look at that!” she challenged.
“So?” he asked, puzzled.
Couldn’t he
see?
She turned toward the garden.
It was immaculately manicured, just like the one outside her own rose-tinted chamber. The grass was clipped level and short. Plants and flowers stood placidly in their perfectly tended beds.
This must be how people feel when they begin to lose their minds
, Selena thought. “Well, come and see something else,” she ordered, pulling Rafael along with her over the veranda railing. So eager was she to prove the validity of what she’d seen, she didn’t even care if anyone saw them crossing the lawn and approaching Yolanda’s French doors.
“What am I supposed to say?” Rafael asked in bewilderment as she bade him look through the glass into Yolanda’s strange room.
“What? Isn’t it obvious?”
Selena herself peered inside.
And saw only a room like her own, except painted in a light shade of becoming blue. Yolanda was sitting on her bed, pouring a glass of rum. She saw them and came over, opening the doors.
“Yes?”
“I was…we were just…admiring your garden,” Selena faltered.
The Haitian permitted herself a slow smile. “Come in and join me in a drink?”
“No. No, thank you.”
“Selena, are you sure you’re all right?” Rafael inquired solicitously when they were back on the veranda.
“I don’t know,” replied Selena. “I guess I just don’t know.”
Oh, Royce! Get here soon!
Darkness had fallen. Dinner time drew near, and Selena was seated before the mirror in her room, brushing her hair. Slowly, methodically, she brushed and brushed. The very mindlessness of this grooming ritual had a calming effect, of which she was badly in need, and the thin silk chemise she wore felt cool and luxurious on her skin. Across the back of her chair lay the gown she would wear, a sea-green velvet dress with dark-green piping. It covered both breasts, but not too completely. She hoped Jean would like it.
On the inside of the hem, minutes earlier, she had stitched an eye, a cross, and a small five-pointed star.
“When in Rome…” she murmured. “What is happening to me? Here I am, a modern woman, bereft of superstitions, apparently beginning to believe in dark forces. And yet I
know
what I saw in Yolanda’s room!”
The black image of that terra-cotta phallus with its many-faceted glitter stood out as clearly in her mind as Coldstream Castle. She vividly recalled the shrunken heads. And Yolanda’s evocative scent was as real here at Hidden Harbor as it had been aboard the
Liberté
.
“I am
not
dreaming!” she said aloud. “I am
not
going mad!”
“I certainly hope not,” said Jean Beaumain, slipping into her room.
Embarrassed, she started to get to her feet, but he crossed the room quickly, grinning, and took her into his arms. He wore a
loose-fitting white shirt and scarlet breeches, and smelled of brandy and soap.
“Jean…” she said, but his kiss cut off a half-formed, complicated thought, which combined her pleasure at seeing him again, a concern that he still wanted her as much as before, and a need to tell him what had transpired since his departure.
Moreover, it felt good—God, did it ever feel good—to be kissed and held again. She decided to let herself go with the kiss a little, to enjoy it fully, but that decision, once made, weakened her resolve when it came time to decide to stop. So she didn’t decide. And then he was kissing her harder, pressing against her, bursting with strength and hard need. She was not even aware that he had pulled the flimsy chemise down over her shoulders until she felt his hands on her breasts, gentle and sure. Need rose in her like a pillar of fire, and she clung to him, her eyes closed, still kissing him, as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. He did not remove the shirt covering his scars, but somehow his breeches were off, her chemise was on the floor, and he was inside her as far as could be. The love was like a sudden summer storm raging out of a clear sky. Selena felt the first ripples of approaching ecstasy like warning droplets of rain, and before she could move or take shelter, the storm broke savagely all around, tremendous in its fury, spent itself in violent jolts of power, leaving both of them drenched and shuddering in the afterglow.