Mesdames — messieurs — prétez-moi l'oreille, je vous prie. Je m'appelle Ernestine, et je suis née ici à Mireille —
Eh, and now why are you laughing, grand malin? I have not your skill at tall tales; give me leave, then, to tell this in my own way, as I was taught. This is our story, and if you will not write it then I must...Viens. Je t'embrasse. So — and now go, dear heart. Take Jeannot with you, out into the sun... and leave me to my pen and paper, to make what shift I may.
...And now at least I can work in peace. I have not yet found the trick of this, I fear. Of late, it is accounts and lading bills to which my pen has become accustomed, and I do not quite know any longer how I should begin...
So. I will start again, as my governess taught me when I was myself but a child, younger than my Jeannot there. And if it makes me sound a child in your ears, then I beg pardon, and hope soon to improve.... I was born, then, here on this island of Martinique that was once the richest territory in all of France; but in these days we are sadly declined and are mere poor provincials, with fashions three years behind Paris, and the plantations dwindling year by year.
Here I was born, on this same plantation of Mireille where now I sit once more in my father's study and struggle to shape my thoughts.... My father was Thierry de Roncourt — a name not without resonance in the history of our island — and my mother, his wife of many years, Adèle. I was their only child, and they wished at first, I think, for a boy, giving me this name Ernestine which I have carried with an ill grace through the years.
It was Emile who first called me L'Aiglonne, the Young Eagle. It was a joke between us at first, and a harsh one, for it played upon this great beak-like nose I have from my father. When I was fourteen years of age, I would bathe it in orange-water every night, and weep in the morning to see in my glass that it had not shrunk.... The Indian workers here call my father 'Old Hawk-face' when they think he cannot hear, and imagine he does not know of it. But in truth it is a nickname we use among ourselves in the house, for it is given in affection, and makes him laugh. And thus it was with Emile and me, for what had been a boy's rough humour soon became a proud title, and at last a love-name between us. It was that name he called on, the night he died, and I would not have wished any other...
But I run ahead of myself. Emile is more in my thoughts now of late than since the year of the hurricane — the year our son was two years old.... It is no betrayal, I think, for me to love again. I have been five years a widow, and never felt the blessing of the dead so closely upon me as this summer. Emile himself would have opened his heart to this man, even as my father and my son have done...
But still I am ahead of myself! Know, then, that at nineteen years of age I was wed, to this same Emile de la Tour who had been my childhood friend. My father, I think, had long hoped for the match; but he would not have forced me if I was unwilling. Of that, however, there was no question. My heart had been given without hesitation since I was ten years old, and he a lordly fourteen.
Of happy years there is little, as ever, to tell. Emile was young, but he had already ships and a thriving trade of his own, and though he had no fortune by birth he had begun to build a fine inheritance for his son. We lived in the city of St-Pierre itself, in the arms of old Mont Pelée, and from the windows of our chamber we could glimpse the masts of our ships coming in.... Jehan was born in the first year of our marriage, to such pride and delight one would almost have thought my father himself took credit for the event. I confess I must have been more distraught by the birth than I had thought, for they tell me that when the child was placed in my arms, I thanked God on his behalf that he he had not fallen heir to my father's nose, and then begged for him to be taken away....
It may be true. I was so tired that morning that I will take no oath on what I may not have said or done. But if Jeannot was not at once beloved in his first moments, then in the years that came after he was repaid full-fold. In memory, now, every day seems gilded in sunlight, though storms there must have been. We three were always together, save when Emile must needs himself take some short voyage; but in his absence, the house seemed empty and sad indeed, and Jehan and I would find a ready welcome with my parents at Mireille, on the slopes above Sainte-Marie.
When the end came, it was without warning. That was a mercy, perhaps; but in those first days, afterwards, I would have given ten years of my life to have had time to prepare — to have said goodbye....
It was a night of high wind, such as we often have here. Not quite as yet a hurricane, although later, they say, when that same wind struck the Americas, they reckoned it as such. Emile had gone down to the quays, for there was a ship newly in and all not yet stored under cover. And by God's will, if such it was, on that one night by chance a block came free from the rigging of some other ship, and was dashed down by the wind upon the quay where my husband stood, and struck him down so that the skull was broken; and of it he died, two hours later, on that same rain-washed quayside in my arms.
Of the grief that followed, I will not write, for some things are not to be told. But with Emile died our world, such as it had been, and I was left alone in the darkness of my loss, with a child barely old enough to speak, and a merchant house whose demands could not be denied. I had offers enough to sell, when the news became known, and some would have taken the young widow's hand along with her ships, in perhaps unseemly haste; but Emile's work was all that remained to me of our life together, and I set myself to learn it in his place as quickly as might be, filling my days with such business cares that the emptiness in my heart had no space to overwhelm me. We had spoken more together of these matters than many a husband and wife, for since earliest youth Emile had been accustomed to trust my judgement, and the concerns of trade were not altogether new. I do not think I could have done it, else. But Emile's factor was accustomed to come to me for orders in his master's stead, and in those first months I leaned greatly upon his knowledge and upon that of others in the company, and was not cheated.
I make no doubt I was the talk of the Bourse, and of many ill-mannered tongues in town — the Widow La Tour, deprived at once of her wits and of her man, run wild with a dream to hold the company in her own right! But from that, at least, I was shielded by the numbness that shrouded me; and when at last my darkness began to lift, I was no longer a nine-days'-wonder, but accepted as the owner of a merchant house like any other, and the warehouses of La Tour were changed on their lips as often as not — by no will of my own — to those of L'Aiglonne.
For so they called me, the men of my company, in jest and in pride — no longer the Widow but the She-Eagle in truth, soaring above adversity, fierce in defence of her own. Those were not golden years that followed, but they were good. Jehan was no child now in the arms of his nurses, but a sturdy boy who grew monthly more like his father, though with a sadly wilful spirit I fear was none of gentle Emile's but all my own. He was often at Mireille, though I could seldom now spare the time, and learned there to don the grave demeanour suited to one who was heir to two fortunes — that of his grandfather, such as remained, and his own.
For under my care, the company had prospered. Trade was good in that time, and since the freedom of the slaves the merchants were kings, with former slaves and their children among them. All the wealth of the island flowed through St-Pierre, and some through our hands, and our quays were as full as our counting-houses — and all this by law would pass to Jehan when he was of age. It was an inheritance of which his father could have been proud. It was, in this time of which I am to write, more of a burden than either of us had dreamed.
For I have yet to reach the true start of this tale I have set myself; and I fear I am proving but a poor hand at such an account. In striving to set down all that might bear upon our life from the beginning, I have left out a part of Emile's history which was to prove the most important of all as a pretext for all that followed.... But of that in its proper place — which, since the timely recounting of it has been missed, must perforce be later, when it was brought afresh to my own recall.
Picture, then, all that has passed as a prologue. The wild story that has turned my life in its grasp began in truth on one day at the start of this year, when a certain Danilo von Schelstein and friend came strolling in at my door...
I knew him for a foreigner by his accent before ever we met. Pure Parisian French, floating in at the open door to my parlour, such as we poor Creoles rarely hear — with the faintest betraying touch of the Balkans. His tutor had been very good, but not quite good enough. My father used to say that nothing but trouble ever comes from the Balkans. Perhaps I should have listened to him more closely... and then again, perhaps I and my son would have died if I had.
From where I sat, I could hear the stranger asking for Emile. That in itself was enough to halt my work. No-one had come to us asking for Emile in almost three years... and he was questioning the badge there over the door — a foolish eagle-emblem from the years of the Empire, presented to me as a jest by the younger clerks and accepted in the same spirit — and demanding if this were indeed the Maison de la Tour, or if he had found his way to the wrong quay. I rose to my feet, gathering my sober skirts, and went out to take a hand in dealing with this audacious stranger. It was thus that I first set eyes upon Danik of Ruritania.
"16, Quai Grand-Cabri," I told him sharply. "And this is the House of L'Aiglonne, and you deal with me, monsieur. Emile de la Tour is five years dead..."
He was tall and fair, a fairness such as we never see here in the Windward Isles, reddened already slightly by the sun. It was a long face, a little horse-like, with a nose to equal my own, and his mother herself could not have called it handsome in repose; but the lines about his wide mouth and his eyes spoke of laughter, and even when shadowed in a puzzled frown, the clear grey eyes themselves held a disarming twinkle that was all his own.
He was looking at me now with curiosity, and I knew well enough what he could see. A tall, dark, hawk-faced woman, too tall and too forward for many men's liking, lacking only six or seven centimetres of his own height. Guarded, impatient eyes that startled me sometimes in the mirror with the heat of their challenge. A sober costume that might have passed at first glance for that of a governess or lady's-maid, if it were not for the quality of the cloth — I am not a woman who has ever believed in peacocking her wares, though I wear the dark reds and golds that best set off my colouring when I have occasion to wear a fine gown. I have jewels, too, of a quality to make the Mogul stare. But I do not wear them to the office.
He had never met Emile, it seemed. He had a letter of introduction, still sealed, from a mutual friend in Lombardy, recommending one Count Danik of Ruritania to my husband's attention and assuring Emile that the aforesaid Danik was both trustworthy and diligent in any commission he might be asked to undertake. I did not know this Lombard merchant, but I trusted his judgement — and Emile's. It had occurred to me that Count Danik might be the answer to a prayer.
For some months past, our House had been losing merchandise from ships on a certain route, trading north among the islands. Where a cargo held goods from many merchants, it was always from ours that the losses came. Where a vessel held only goods from our own House, on occasion she would disappear from sight for good. The value of what was taken was not so great, but I could sense the malice of it, burning like a hot eye. Someone wished to attract my pique. Well, he had done so, and with a vengeance.
On our last ship sailing north I had sent one of my most trusted clerks as supercargo, with instructions to risk nothing but to ferret out what was going on. The ship had arrived, depleted. The supercargo had not — and nothing could be got from the crew, despite all my written entreaties, save a sullen silence of cupidity or fear. Until they again reached French soil, there was nothing I could do — and I did not think they were planning to return.
I hoped against hope that my clerk had been merely shanghaied and left destitute on the shore of some foreign port, with no means at hand to make his way back. But in my heart I believed I had most likely sent him to his death. He had a wife of twenty years' standing, and three bright young sons.
I did not as yet know my adversary; but I knew that between us it was war.
I would send no more of those faithful to me into danger. I would go myself. And I would not go unprepared. If the crews could not be trusted, then I would take those with me who could...
And it was at just such a point of resolution that I encountered Danik of Ruritania, in search of action, and hired him to be my guard. I could not travel on board his ship, for that would arouse suspicion. But both he and I would take passage, as I had done before, in the vessel that was to carry my next northward cargo... and his ship, the Avalanche, would have another task. If aught went ill, our lives might hang on it, his as well as mine, and for that reason I trusted the quiet man who would sail her, and who was always at Danik's side. That bond of loyalty was plain enough to see. If the Count's life depended on Osman's following orders, not one hair's-breadth of doubt would he incur.
I embarked in the freshness of one morning, leaving Jehan and most of the household asleep. Count Danik was already aboard. We had agreed to show no signs of acquaintance until we were well away from the land; I had begun of late to fear some spy among my own people, so remorseless and apt were the depredations upon my stock. It was not the first time, as I have said, that I had made such a voyage. Like Emile, I now travelled at times to negotiate new trade, or to close a contract in person with my Dutch or English partners; Paris frowns upon such dealings, but honest merchants, as they say, are hard to find, and this little sea of the Caribbean is small enough in all conscience without limiting our custom to the mother-country alone. I would not see these Indies of ours go the way of Spain.
For this journey, however, I had not advertised my plans. Even my own household knew only that I was on a journey, a pleasure-trip for all that I had said. Some of those that I trusted at the warehouse knew; and there was a wicker cage among my boxes which carried a homing bird that would bear a message of reassurance in case of need.
I had brought no maid. It was not only that I did not trust the girl's wagging tongue — every maid gossips at home, and mine are no exception — but that I would not expose her in ignorance to possible danger.
But danger was hard to believe in that bright and early hour, with the sun painting colour across the wide sea to the east. If I had proof of danger rather than misdeed, I would not have gone myself. I would have petitioned the Governor for aid. I had no proof, and only the absence of one humble clerk to bid me be wary. And it is hard to be wary in the beauty of our Antilles at dawn...
Later, sheltering in the stifling heat of the great cabin, or seeking relief in fleeting sail-shadows along the rail, it was easier to believe in an oppressive presence. Count Danik and I leaned together and exchanged notes; he did not care for the looks of the crew and captain, and no more did I. They were cowed and nervous, like an over-whipped slave, and about as safe to be trusted. I did not think they wished us harm of their own volition; indeed, to slay L'Aiglonne would be ruin to every man in the crew, even if their part in it were not known. But I would not rely on them not to betray us, and I was sure they had some fore-knowledge which they would not share.
I would not permit Danik to mount guard outside my cabin at night. But I did not disdain the warning cord which he contrived to introduce through a crack in the caulking, down into the narrow fastnesses of his own cabin below. The comfort of having a practised swordsman at a moment's call was not to be despised.
I was not, as it happened, incompetent myself with a sword, for Emile and I had run wild as children, and as his wife I had not neglected the art. But I did not carry weapons outside the fencing salle, still less on boarding a ship in public view — and Count Danik had no such scruple. Indeed, I had never seen him without his intricate blade. He claimed that it had been given to him by the court of a king alongside whom he had fought in battle, as a reward for the loss of his own. But I had learned already to take the Ruritanian's tales with a pinch of salt. Not one tenth of those wild adventures could have been true, this one least of all. Battles in our days are fought with cannon and bayonet, and kings do not take part.
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