Île de Domaine - French Caribbean, Spring 1792

There he stood, every inch the dashing French lieutenant – straight out of a tale of adventure and gallantry – his chin sharp as a sabre’s edge, his nose smooth and polished like carved mahogany. The relentless West Indies heat had already left its mark, darkening his skin to a fine bronze and giving it a glossy sheen. With his pipe clenched between his teeth, the young Lieutenant loitered by the gate, a shadowy figure in his dark blue coat, the gold buttons catching the last light of the day.

As I strolled through the herb garden, I happily gathered thyme, basil, and chives for supper while keeping a sly eye on the dark-haired officer nearby. I feigned interest in the foliage or perhaps the sky while noting his every move. With my basket brimming, I turned back toward the house, my steps crunching on the gravel path as I approached the gate where Lieutenant Labroche lingered. Our eyes met, and his smile sent a warm flush to my cheeks.

“Bonsoir, Lieutenant Labroche,” I said, my tone perfectly measured, my demeanour impeccably proper.

“And to you, Mademoiselle Cadoville,” the Lieutenant replied. His gaze drifted past me, fixing on the storm clouds advancing over the horizon, threatening to smother the sunset. “I expect they’ll be over us within the hour.”

“We can be thankful you’re not at sea then,” I said, crinkling my lips with a faint smile, though I swiftly wiped it away and cleared my throat when his gaze returned to mine. “Might we have the pleasure of your company for supper tonight, Lieutenant? It’s a long ride back to Sainte-Marie, and with those storm clouds closing in, I’d rather you savour a glass of wine than spend the evening wringing out your uniform.”

Lieutenant Labroche peered deep into my eyes and snorted softly, a faint blush betraying his efforts to mask his more tender inclinations. His buttons gleamed like freshly minted coins, and each one marked with an anchor – a fitting emblem for a man so firmly anchored to duty.

“How very touching,” he murmured, licking his dry lips, no doubt parched from the salty air. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the evening without my company,” he added with a hint of regret. “My fellow officers expect me at the card table, as does your brother, for that matter.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” I replied, concealing my disappointment.

“Soon, I expect,” he said with a confident smile. “Your dear brother will owe me a brandy after I thrash him at cards tonight.” He clicked his tongue and gazed thoughtfully at the ocean. “However, my ship, La Nation, is anchored in the bay. Should you find yourself in Sainte-Marie, I’d be delighted to show it to you. And if your duties allow, perhaps some refreshments at the Café Quiberon?”

My belly fluttered like moths around a flame at the thought of being alone with Lieutenant Labroche. Was it proper for a young lady like me to accept his invitation? After all, gossip spreads like wildfire, especially in this infernal heat.

“Chaperoned, of course,” I murmured, dipping my chin with just the right touch of coyness.

“Of course,” Lieutenant Labroche nodded assuredly, but anyone observing from the window would have noticed the glint of mischief in his eyes as he went to mumble, “Although I’m sure there’s nothing improper in an officer treating a young woman to a coffee in a well-frequented establishment.”

“Indeed, but eyes have a tendency to pry and lips to whisper, Lieutenant…” I said, biting my tongue and looking at the silhouettes whipping behind the house’s amber-lit windows. Returning my focus to him, his eyes quickly veered away from my lips, sparking a most delightful sensation within me. “I shall see if I can find someone to accompany us. Until then –” The horizon rumbled with thunder, and the sky darkened with brooding clouds. “I shan’t delay you, Lieutenant.”

I climbed the steps to the house, savouring his gaze. Inside, the kitchen’s hot, sticky air enveloped me, carrying the scent of fish. Pallets laden with wrinkly cod and herring, bathed in salt, lined the shadows of the far wall. A young negro boy tended to the hearth’s roaring flames beside an ebony-skinned woman chopping vegetables on the table. I handed her the basket of herbs with a polite nod, endeavouring to treat them a little better than Mamma, who had a tendency to bark at them like they were rabid dogs.

I headed to my room, the backstairs creaking beneath me, and lit a candle from a lantern in the corridor. My dress was soaked with sweat and rough as I peeled it from my sun-blemished skin. I emptied my wash bowl of dead flies and filled it with water from a jug by my bedside, enough to pool in my palms and wash the sweat and grime from my pointy cheeks, neck, and shoulders and rub the thick brown locks of hempen-like hair that swung down my shoulders. Ships’ lanterns moved across the horizon beyond my window, no doubt carrying coffee, sugar, and cotton to the better half of the world.

The crack beneath the door to Uncle Stefano’s study flickered with an amber glow. Yet, before I could grasp the handle, a young ebony girl emerged, dishevelled and barefoot, shooting me a sheepish smile before darting away. Somewhat bewildered by this encounter, I went inside to find Uncle Stefano lounging in a chair, clad in only breeches and a loose-fitting shirt. His unkempt hair cascaded wildly, and he met my gaze, visibly breathless.

“Paoletta!” His face lit up as though something wonderful had just happened. “You must excuse me! Young Agnés there – she was just giving me a massage. After a long day talking business with such dry, tedious drones, it’s just what a fellow needs,” he said, wearily shifting around in his seat. “Now, this old chair,” he carried on, gesturing to the carved faces and rosebuds along its arms. “Would you believe it used to belong to the Vicomte de Rochambeau? He gifted it to his favourite major, who bequeathed it to his wife, who gave it to her favourite mulatto, who just sold it to me because he blew all his cash on women and rum. Goodness me! The stories this old thing could tell!”

“Uncle, could I ask you for something?” I interrupted eagerly – Uncle Stefano could talk until dawn. I closed the door behind me and tottered over to him, his eyes flickering with wonder. “Will you be my chaperone?”

Uncle Stefano raised an eyebrow, puckering his lips into a smirk.

“Who would be the lucky fellow?”

“Lieutenant Labroche, Florian’s friend,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “He wants to see me in Sainte-Marie.”

Uncle Stefano leaned forward, his palms planted on either side of the old Vicomte’s chair.

“Does he, indeed?” he said, his voice bubbling with intrigue. “And what does young Pierre have in mind?”

“I believe he wants to show me his ship,” I replied, aiming to appear innocent-intentioned, but Uncle Stefano leaned back, dubiously steepling his fingers.

“I suspect you’ll meet his fellow officers, trying to show you off a little prematurely, perhaps.”

“Or perhaps he values their opinion,” I replied, undeterred. “After all, I hear it’s not unusual to see a well-dressed woman on the deck of a ship,” I muttered and pressed him for an answer, but Uncle Stefano had already delved into another one of his stories.

“I knew a girl in Venice once, a tiny little thing, approaching sixteen – like you – married a sailor. I remember they cut the cake with his sword, a quaint thing to do; one hoped he had cleaned it well first, of course.” Then Uncle Stefano looked back at me, scratching his cheek, and pricked up a solitary eyebrow. “Pierre Labroche – good family, big house in Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, as I recall. Tell me, Mademoiselle, do you love this man?”

My face flushed with burning spices.

“Love,” I snorted, looking away, “such a strong word. I admit I’m drawn to him like a sailor to the sea. He’s charming. He’s handsome, intriguing…” I stopped before I got carried away and ran my fingers through my tough ringlets of hair. “He may take me home,” I mused, with a glimmer of hope flickering somewhere in my soul. After all, hope was all one had.

“Home, Goodness me!” Uncle Stefano tipped his head back to the ceiling. “Now, there is a notion,” he said pensively and pondered the view outside. The sun’s glow had largely gone, with just the black clouds over the sea. Uncle Stefano looked back at me with a twinkle in his eyes. “You may inform Lieutenant Labroche that I shall be your chaperone,” he declared with a roguish smile. “And you can trust me to be discreet, which I suspect is why you’re asking me and not your mother?”

A wave of relief rushed over me as I eagerly thought of telling Lieutenant Labroche the good news. Yet, I couldn’t shake the fear of what Mamma and Papa would say – they would surely be upset if they found out I was even considering such a bold request.

“Are you staying for supper?” I asked, thanking him again.

“I’m afraid not, my dear. I’ve urgent business to attend to,” he replied regretfully, but I knew my Uncle like a cat knew its claws. A merry soul who made me laugh until my cheeks hurt when I was a girl, but now I knew him to be as slippery as an eel.

“Is that to say you’re at the card table with Florian and Pierre tonight, too?” I probed mischievously as a good niece should, but Uncle Stefano merely smirked and refused to confirm or deny. “I hope you’ll help Florian. Mammawill stop his allowance if he keeps losing money hand over fist.”

“What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t defend my nephew’s purse?!” he said theatrically, to which I responded with nothing more than a suitably sceptical glare. “Don’t worry, amore; I’ll make sure Florian doesn’t stumble home penniless. Now, go help your Mamma prepare supper.”

As I turned to leave Uncle Stefano’s study, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, giving me a start. The storm clouds were advancing like a dark army over the shore.

***

The dining room swirled with the odour of spices and burnt fish, entangled with the smell of chives and damp wood. Papa sat at the table, his shirt wrinkled and patched with sweat. He clumsily attempted to slice a piece of Gruyère cheese, the flickering candlelight shimmering on his chubby cheeks. Across from him, Florian sat lost in thought, puffing away on his pipe. Mamma stood at the head of the table, weary-eyed and scrutinising the arrangement of silver and plates with an air of dissatisfaction. And Agnés, now dressed more appropriately, approached with a decanter of red wine, keeping her gaze on the tip of her nose.

“Goblets, girl! Goblets!” Mamma snapped at her, prompting her to fill our glasses as though it were the last thing she would do in life. “And fetch us some water from the well. Send the boy. My throat is as dry as old leather.”

The dining room was built of salvaged beams and timbers, painted white and scratched with graffiti of forgotten sailors. The table, adorned with magical vines and muses, was petit enough for an intimate family gathering, though its chairs a mismatched array – two curved, three with armrests, one plain. Glinting cutlery, too, and all silver, though some were short and decorated, while others were long and as plain as bone.

“Good Lord, what’s that?” Papa asked with a mouthful of Gruyère, his gaze flicking to the tricolour rosette that Florian had just slid across the table to me. “What have you got one of those for?!”

Indeed, I was curious, too, holding the pretty but provocative little adornment between my fingers. Papa’s anger was just; the very people donning them were the reason we were languishing on the other side of the world. Mamma and Papa didn’t tolerate them in the house. Only the previous week, they had caned the cook’s boy, Félicien, for fastening one to his hat.

“It’s for Paoletta,” he said, a sly grin twisting his lips. “She’ll need it when she’s with Pierre.” Papa paused mid-chew and shot me a glare that could curdle milk while Mamma’s eyes darted between us like a startled sparrow. Florian looked back at me and arched his mouth. “Oh, was that a secret?” Evidently, Pierre Labroche had shared a word or two with Florian before trotting back to Sainte-Marie.

“Meeting Labroche!?” Papa exclaimed, his voice taut with suspicion. “What’s all this nonsense?”

My cheeks flushed as I cleared my throat and fixed my attention on anything and everything around him – everything, that is, except his eyes.

“Oh, it’s a whirlwind in a thimble, Papa,” I said, keeping my words light. “He just offered to show me around his ship.”

Papa’s eyebrows stood to attention. “That’s young Labroche’s idea of wooing, is it?” he snorted.

“It’s hardly wooing, Papa.” I rolled my eyes. “I’d just like to see his ship –”

But Papa wasn’t done, narrowing his scowl and tormenting me further. “A musty old hulk riddled with weevils?”

Mamma, never one to miss an opportunity to voice her thoughts, fanned herself dramatically and cast a languid glance toward the ceiling. “I fail to see the appeal of ships,” she mused, her lip curling in disdain as she flung open the shutters to a stifling breeze. “I prefer solid ground beneath my feet, thank you very much.”

Papa held his inquisitive stare though he pursed his lips in amusement.

“I promise we won’t go below deck, Papa,” I said, licking my dry lips, “and besides, who said anything about it being romantic?”

Mamma raised her chin, her eyes gleaming like freshly polished silver coins. She rested her elbows on the table and leaned in, a mischievous smile dancing on her lips.

“Your cheeks did, my dear,” she said with a sly smile, her eyes sparkling as brightly as the amethysts around her neck. Even Florian and Papa couldn’t conceal their laughter at my discomfort. “They’re glowing so much I’m sure we could dispense with the candles.”

A hot sensation flooded my cheeks. Indeed, it wasn’t proper for a girl of my upbringing to make her thoughts so blatant. A young woman of my upbringing kept her composure. Emotions are like wild stallions, as Mamma always said; keep them under a tight rein in public, lest they trample upon the delicate sensibilities of polite society. Papa shifted his gaze to the small rosette resting on the table again, furrowing his brow.

“You never said Pierre was a Revolutionary, Florian,” he grumbled.

“He’s not,” my brother retorted. “But he is a Lieutenant in the Revolution’s navy.” Papa scoffed at Florian’s feeble reasoning. “Paoletta will just have to play her part.”

“She most certainly will not!” Mamma snapped, her voice slicing through the still air. She snatched the rosette from Papa’s hand and hurled it into the fire behind us. “That’s the last one of those I’ll have in here,” she grumbled. Florian, well aware it was futile to argue, merely rolled his eyes and stayed silent as Mamma lit her pipe, sending a thick white plume swirling between us. “When were you going to ask me to accompany you?” She said, turning her scowl on me.

“No need,” I said, endeavouring to appear nonchalant. “Uncle Stefano has agreed to be my chaperone.”

Mamma and Papa groaned with contempt.

“Stefano?!” she cried, burying her face in her hands with an exasperated sigh. “You may as well ask a goat to guard the lettuce patch!”

“Maybe you should chaperone Uncle Stefano, Mamma,” Florian snickered, popping a chunk of Papa’s Gruyère in his mouth. But Mamma shot him a menacing glare, a glare that only Italian mothers could do, twisting Florian’s smirk into a half-swallowed chuckle. He pressed on, undeterred. “Pierre is the perfect gentleman, Mamma. He’s been nothing but courteous and respectful to Paoletta.” Yet Mamma’s maternal scepticism remained as stubborn as a mule in a mud puddle – steadfast and unmoving.

“It’s true, Mamma,” I attempted to reassure her. “He’s from a good family in Paris – Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin. We’ve lots of friends there!” Still, Mamma merely rolled her eyes, the hearth crackling behind her as the clammy wind swept through the shutters.

“I doubt Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin bears any resemblance to how we remember it,” Papa grumbled, his tone plain. “And Paris is not the safest place to be for anyone these days.”

“There’s talk of war in Paris now,” Florian added, absently chewing on his thumbnail.

His words struck me like a cold gust of wind, leaving a sharp ache in the pit of my belly. I had heard rumours of war before, but they were just rumours; they had no reason to be true. The Bastille had fallen three years prior, and nothing had happened since then.

“That’s absurd!” said Mamma, throwing cold water on Florian’s claims. “Where did you hear that? Was it Uncle Stefano? Do remember he gets his news from drunks and harlots.”

“It’s true,” Florian insisted, my flesh prickling with dread as I listened. “New arrivals at the Café Quiberon – it’s all they talk about.”

Mamma’s face hardened as she scoured his forlorn gaze for the truth.

“Nonsense – we’re far from France,” she remarked, her tone intended to soothe us as if to assert that we were but a trifling speck on the farthest reaches of the world.

“But what if it does reach us?” I asked nonetheless, my arms wrapping anxiously around me.

“It shan’t!” Mamma said firmly and gave my hand a tight squeeze. She swallowed hard and stared at the air and dust swirling in the candle’s glow before her nose. “But if it should, we won’t get involved in anything that doesn’t concern us. We’re not French. This isn’t our revolution. We’re not fighting anybody.”

“Have you forgotten Britain and Spain, chérie?” Papa said, looking at Mamma sternly. “They’ll be on us like wolves in a henhouse if France goes to war with Austria. What do you propose we do when British frigates swarm the bay?”

My heart sank. War? It seemed impossible. Yet, it was as if a dark, ominous cloud had crept up on us, shrouding everything in its path. War could stop us from ever going home again. We’d be stranded in this godforsaken place, far from everything we knew and loved. My skin simmered, and my throat swelled as I pondered such horrible thoughts.

“Paoletta, amore, go and find out where that water has got to,” Mamma said, her voice clipped with impatience.

I found Agnés just beyond the kitchen threshold, her brow adorned with beads of sweat as she wrestled with jugs of water in either hand. The scent of herring sizzling in a skillet mingled with the aroma of a plump chicken turning over a crackling fire in a rich and spicy fog. Yet, a curious stillness gripped Agnés, her attention held by whatever lurked at the bottom of the tiny timber passage to the pantry.

Following her gaze, I saw Uncle Stefano, half-buried in the shadows, slobbering all over another young, dark-skinned girl, his hands racing to capture as much of her skin as possible. The repugnant sight froze my skin. Each wet smack of his chapped lips grated on my senses, turning my head to the hearth’s flames, but the vile image was already seared into my mind’s eye. With a sour mouth, I ushered poor Agnés to the dining room, desperate to shield her from my Uncle’s lechery. She placed the water on the table with an obedient nod to Mamma and made to leave, but something outside had ensnared her attention.

My belly jolted as a black mass, scarcely larger than a fist, shot through the window and landed with a jarring thud upon the table. It rolled between the plates, hissing and sparking with an unnerving vitality. A profound silence engulfed us, the room fading into a ghostly blur. An icy dread gripped my insides as I clung to the door frame. Papa’s eyes widened in unfeigned horror. Mamma drew a sharp breath, poised to scream. Then, with a blinding flash, the world was plunged into darkness.