Sweet Piracy (3 page)

“Isn’t she always?” Estelle asked, and turned into the dim interior.

The tutor got to his feet. “I am desolate to leave you, Mademoiselles, but one must place duty before pleasure,
n’est-ce pas
? I go to prepare a lesson worthy of young M’sieur Theo.
A tout à I’heure.”

His bow was a masterpiece of style. Watching him walk away, Caroline reflected that manners and a stylish bow were two things that should not, in this society, be undervalued.

Leaning back in her chair with a sigh, she tucked wisps of soft blonde hair into the chignon coiled on the nape of her neck. At times she wondered if she were accomplishing as much as the tutor. It was not easy to handle the volatile Estelle and still remain on terms of friendship with her. The girl’s mother made little attempt to control her, and her father was more likely to laugh and cosset her with bonbons and almond dragées than to establish any kind of discipline. A part of that could be traced to their expectation during the girl’s adolescence of losing their eldest daughter to the cloister, but a far greater portion stemmed from Estelle’s intelligence and high temper. It was impossible to tell what she would take into her head to do next. Only a few weeks ago she had declared her intention of going upon the stage, and had irritated all their nerves by striking dramatic poses at inopportune moments.

She had the looks for it, classical features, a straight, upright bearing, enormous black eyes, and a cloud of hair so dark it had a blue-black sheen. Such a thing was impossible, however. The theater was the milieu of the demimonde. It was unthinkable that Estelle should join their company.

Caroline had thought that ambition forgotten until a few moments before when Estelle had displayed her unusual talent for committing lines to memory. It was to be hoped that the arrival of the Marquis would push all such foolish ideas to the back of her mind, and come spring, a suitable
parti
could be found who could oust them completely.

Amélie was a different child altogether, Caroline thought, letting her gaze drift to where Estelle’s sister sat diligently plying her needle. The wonder of it was that she had ever found the courage to tell the Mother Superior at the convent where she was a novice that she lacked the vocation to become a nun. It was this momentous decision which had set in motion the Great Adventure, as Estelle liked to term it.

When the letter had come from Amélie asking to be allowed to come home, Madame Delacroix had been within weeks of
accouchement
. She could neither travel to France to fetch her daughter nor would she allow her husband to leave her side for that purpose. Caroline had been dispatched to chaperone Amélie on the homeward voyage.

In the fall of 1814, the war with Britain had seemed stalemated. Except for skirmishes far away near the Canadian border, there was little fighting and much talk of a peace by negotiation.

Taking ship from New Orleans was not difficult, nor did it seem particularly dangerous. The voyage was smooth and uneventful. They had not so much as a glimpse of the infamous British blockade which had stifled trade in recent years, nor of the privateers set by the United States to combat it.

Two weeks in France sufficed to cut Amélie’s ties there. The girl was happy, excited at the prospect of seeing her family again. Her leave-taking from the nunnery in the north of France where she had spent the past three years was amicable, though she could not prevent a few tears from falling as they drove away in their carriage.

The problem arose when it came time to arrange their passage to New Orleans. There was not a ship destined for North America in the harbor at Le Havre, and none was expected for a se’nnight. Caroline was for settling down to wait, but Amélie, after so many years away from her family, was anxious for the reunion. She had set her heart on being with them for Christmas, and, though she did not make a fuss, it was plain that her disappointment would be deep if that proved impossible. Accordingly they removed to the port of Calais. Here, too, they met nothing except delay.

In the end, their best plan appeared to be to cross the channel to England, and from there take a British vessel sailing for Havana via the West Indies. There was a steady stream of traffic plying between that Spanish port and New Orleans. Finding a ship homeward-bound should be no problem.

Doubts about this circuitous route plagued Caroline from the moment the plans were made. Once in England her hesitations were reinforced by the tales of the unofficial blockade of British shipping by America’s legal pirates. Not even the Irish Channel, the British Channel, or the Bay of Biscay was safe from them, according to one report. Still, the war was nearing its end. The danger was not so great as in the past. The thought of retracing their route back to France was too wearisome to be borne.
Papa
and
Maman
and all the little ones waited in New Orleans. They turned their faces toward home and set sail within a week of landing at Dover.

It was not a pleasant voyage. Gray days of lashing rain and high seas followed one behind the other. Confined to a small airless cabin, tending Amélie who had fallen prey to seasickness, Caroline found it hard to keep her doubts from transforming themselves into a dismal premonition of disaster. Then, eleven days out from England, it ceased to be necessary to try.

They were awakened in a pink-tinged dawn by the boom of a cannon. The British merchantman carried no guns or armaments. She was no match for the sleek ship with the lines of a Baltimore clipper which had put a shot across her bow.

From the porthole Caroline and Amélie watched as the privateer moved in for the kill. Seeing the great, black, spread-winged bird of prey which served as a figurehead and the proud name emblazoned on her side,
Aiglon Noir
, the
Black Eagle
, they could hardly be blamed for expecting the worst.

If the captain and crew of the merchantman resisted in any way, there was no indication of it. The sound of grappling hooks being set, the grinding of the ships’ hulls together, the triumphant sound of the boarding privateers had a nightmarish quality.

The side of the other ship blocked the porthole of the cabin, leaving it dim. At the sound of feet pounding along the companionway, Caroline snatched up the small pistol, a parting gift from her uncle when she had left his house to make her own way, one she always carried with her. Her mouth set in a grim line, she stationed herself behind the door.

Still in her nightgown of virginal white, Amélie dropped to her knees beside the narrow bunk, with her hair spread in disarray upon her shoulders. She presented an angelic picture, but Caroline could not feel that the privateers would be suitably moved by it.

They could hear other cabins being entered and searched. The footsteps, the jovial shouts and called orders, drew nearer. Amélie’s fingers clenched convulsively on her rosary, while Caroline gripped the wood-grained butt of her pistol, glancing one last time at the priming. The voices and footsteps paused in the corridor outside the cabin. The lock was tried. Then came a splintering crash and the door flew open, swinging on its hinges to bound off the cabin wall.

Caroline sidestepped, halting in the center of the tiny cabin. In the brief moment of quiet she heard Amélie’s soft sigh as she fell forward in merciful unconsciousness. She had no time to look to her. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, black-bearded in the Spanish style, detached himself from the group gathered beyond the opening and stepped over the threshold.

The man carried himself with an easy air of command though his dress was casual. He wore a white shirt of cheap muslin without the decency of a cravat or shirt studs to hold it closed. His breeches were tucked into knee boots with wide revers. The red sash at his waist held a brace of pistols and a wicked-looking knife with a curved blade. He wore his dark hair long, tied back with a sealskin bag. In his sun-bronzed face, his eyes were narrowed, obscuring their color behind a screen of womanishly long lashes, though there was nothing soft about him. His presence in the small cabin was overwhelming, and, as he advanced, Caroline took an involuntary step backward, coming up against the edge of the bunks.

“Stay where you are!” she said, steadying the pistol with both hands on the target of the man’s broad chest. “Stop right there, or I will fire.”

“Put down the pistol and you will not be harmed. I give you my word as Captain of the
Black Eagle.
”

He spoke in English in deference to her as a passenger on an English ship, though his speech held a French inflection. Whatever the accent, his words carried conviction. Caroline might have believed him if the men behind him had not been edging forward, a strained waiting in their stance. Somewhere in the back of the group a man laughed, an ugly sound in the tense silence.

Caroline was hideously aware of the trembling in her arms and lower limbs. It was an effort to unclench her teeth enough to speak. “You broke down the door merely to inform us of that, I suppose?”

“A mistake. This is war. One does not often find women on the seas.” His tone was conciliatory. Caroline wavered, and he made his second mistake. He eased forward.

“I warn you—” she began, then had time for no more as with a swordsman’s catlike grace he lunged at her. Instinctively she brought the pistol to bear, pressed the trigger.

The explosion was deafening. The recoil shuddered through her, throwing her off balance for a moment. Acrid blue smoke filled the room, making her eyes water.

Then the pistol was wrenched from her nerveless fingers. As her vision cleared, Caroline found the Captain of the
Black Eagle
perilously close, almost against her as he clung with one hand to the upright of the bunk above her head. Blood splattered his shirt, spreading in an ever-widening patch from a wound low in his side.

A grim smile crossed his bearded face. “Clear the cabin,” he said over his shoulder. “Post a guard outside this door.”

Caroline had an instant in which to ream the complete helplessness of her position, and then as the men departed and the room grew quiet, she received the full attention of the Captain.

His speech was slower than before and had a forced sound. “As I said, you will not be harmed. I claim this ship as a prize according to the rules of the sea and the letter of marque and reprisal granted me by the President of the United States. It will be manned by my men and sailed to the nearest American port. From there you should be able to find your way to your destination. Do I make myself clear?”

Swallowing with difficulty, Caroline nodded.

“Neither you, nor your companion,” he went on with a glance at Amélie lying with her eyes closed half across the bunk, “have anything to fear from my men, though I have posted a guard to insure your protection.”

“Your wound — shouldn’t you — summon help?” Caroline whispered.

“Your concern is touching,” he said with the ghost of a laugh.

Caroline compressed her lips into a line, aware of an absurd desire to cry. Sheer nerves, she told herself fiercely, or the effect of the smoke.

“No, no, don’t frown so,” he said. “I will live. Who knows? Perhaps you will have the chance to try your skill with firearms another time. If it will ease your conscience, however, I will claim a forfeit.”

Before she could move, he used the butt of her pistol to tip her chin upward. His lips came down on hers in a firm demand, lingering for an instant to taste the sweetness of an infinitesimal response before her hands came up to push with all her strength against his chest.

He stepped back, a shuttered look coming down over his face as he inclined his head in a polite bow. Turning on his heel, he strode from the cabin, though he moved with a certain stiffness, holding his right arm to his side.

Her mind in a turmoil, Caroline stood unmoving as the cabin door closed behind him. It was a relief when Amélie stirred, diverting her thoughts, requiring her complete attention.

It was Amélie who broke her absorption once more.

“Mam’zelle?” she said, her gentle voice insistent. “Mam’zelle, it is
Maman’s
personal maid.
Maman
requires your presence.”

“I beg your pardon, I must have been woolgathering,” Caroline murmured apologetically with a quick glance to the stately Negro woman waiting in the doorway. Rising, she went quickly into the house.

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