Daphne du Maurier - Frenchmans Creek
She smiled back at him; she did not answer. Someone knocked at the door, and when the Frenchman called "Enter" one of his men came in, bearing a great bowl of soup upon a tray. It smelt rich and good The hot steam rose in the air. The man proceeded to lay the table, spreading a white cloth on the farther end. He went to a locker in the bulkhead and brought out a bottle of wine. Dona watched. The smell of the soup was very tempting, and she was hungry. The wine looked cool, in its slim bottle. The man withdrew, and looking up she saw that the master of the ship was watching her, with laughter in his eyes. "Will you have some?" he said. She nodded, feeling foolish once again: why did he read her thoughts? And he fetched another plate and spoon, and another glass from the cupboard. Then he pulled up two chairs to the table. She saw that there was new bread too, freshly baked in the French fashion, the crust dark and brown, and little pats of very yellow butter.
They ate their meal in silence, and then he poured out the wine. It was cold and clear, and not too sweet And all the while she kept thinking how like a dream it was, a remembered dream that she had had once; a quiet, familiar thing, a dream she recognised.
"I have done this before," she thought, "this is not the first time." Yet that was absurd, for of course it was the first time, and he was a stranger to her. She wondered what hour it was. The children would have returned from their picnic, Prue would be putting them to bed. They would run and knock upon her door and she would not answer. "It does not matter," she thought, "I don't care," and she went on drinking her wine, looking at the bird pictures on the bulkhead, and now and again stealing a glance at him when she knew that his head was turned from her.
Then he reached out an arm towards a tobacco-jar on a shelf, and began to shake the mixture into his hand. It was close cut, very dark and brown. And suddenly, the truth striking at her like a blow, she saw the tobacco-jar in her bedroom, and the volume of French poetry, with the drawing of a sea-gull on the title-page. She saw William running to the belt of trees - William - his master, his master who made voyages from place to place - whose life was one continual escape. She got up from her chair, staring at him.
"Good God!" she said.
He looked up. "What is the matter?"
"It's you," she said, "you who left the tobacco-jar in my bedroom, and the volume of Ronsard. It's you have been sleeping in my bed."
He smiled at her, amused at her choice of words, smiling too at her astonishment, her confusion and dismay.
"Did I leave them there?" he said. "I had forgotten. How very remiss and careless of William not to have noticed."
"It was for you that William stayed at Navron," she said; "it was for your sake that he sent the servants away. All these months, while we were in London, you have been at Navron."
"No," he said, "not continually. From time to time, when it suited my plans. And in the winter, you know, it can be damp here in the creek. It made a change, a luxurious change, to seek the comfort of your bedroom. Somehow, I always felt you would not mind."
He went on looking at her, and always that glimmer of secret amusement in his eyes.
"I consulted your portrait, you know," he said. "I addressed myself to it several times. 'My lady,' I said (for I was most subservient), 'would you grant a very weary Frenchman the courtesy of your bed?' And it seemed to me that you bowed gracefully, and gave me permission. Sometimes you even smiled."
"It was very wrong of you," she said, "very irregular."
"I know," he said.
"Besides being dangerous."
"That was the fun of it."
"And if I had known for one moment…"
"What would you have done?"
"I should have come down to Navron at once."
"And then?"
"I should have barred the house. I should have dismissed William. I should have set a watch on the estate."
"All that?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe you."
"Why not?"
"Because when I lay in your bed, looking up at your portrait on the wall, that was not how you behaved."
"How did I behave?"
"Very differently."
'What did I do?"
"Many things."
What sort of things?"
"You joined my ship's company, for one thing. You signed your name amongst the faithful. You were the first, and the last woman, to do so."
And saying this, he rose from the table, and went to a drawer, and fetched out a book. This he opened, and on the page she saw the words La Mouette, followed by a string of names. Edmond Vacquier… Jules Thomas… Pierre Blanc… Luc Dumont… and so on. And he reached then for his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and handed it to her.
"Well?" he said, "what about it?"
She took it from him, balancing it in her hand a moment, as though weighing the question, and she did not know whether it was the thought of Harry in London, yawning over his cards, or Godolphin with his bulbous eyes, or the good soup she had taken and the wine she had drunk, making her drowsy and warm, and a little careless, like a butterfly in the sun, or whether it was because he was standing there beside her, but she looked up at him, laughing suddenly, and signed her name in the centre of the page, beneath the others, Dona St. Columb.
"And now you must go back, your children will wonder what has happened to you," he said.
"Yes," she said.
He led the way out of his cabin, and on to the deck. He leant over the rail, and called down to the men amidships.
"First you must be introduced," he said, and he called out an order, in the Breton patois she could not understand, and in a moment his company assembled themselves, glancing up at her in curiosity.
"I am going to tell them that from henceforth you come to the creek unchallenged," he said; "that you are free to come and go as you please. The creek is yours. The ship is yours. You are one of us." He spoke to them briefly, and then one by one they came up to her, and bowed, and kissed her hand, and she laughed back at them, saying, "Thank you" - and there was a madness about, a frivolity, like a dream under the sun. Below, in the water, one of the men waited for her in the boat. She climbed the bulwark, and swung herself over the side onto the ladder. The Frenchman did not help her. He leant against the bulwark and watched her.
"And Navron House?" he said. "Is it barred and bolted, is William to be dismissed?"
"No," she said.
"I must return your call, then," he said, "as a matter of courtesy."
"Of course."
"What is the correct hour? In the afternoon, I believe, between three and four, and you offer me a dish of tea?"
She looked at him, laughing, and shook her head.
"No," she said, "that is for Lord Godolphin and the gentry. Pirates do not call upon ladies in the afternoon. They come stealthily, by night, knocking upon a window - and the lady of the manor, fearful for her safety, gives him supper, by candlelight."
"As you will," he said, "tomorrow then, at ten o'clock?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good night."
"Good night."
He went on standing against the bulwark watching her, as she was pulled ashore in the little boat. The sun had gone behind the trees, and the creek was in shadow. The last of the ebb had run away from the flats, and the water was still. A curlew called once, out of sight, round the bend of the river. The ship, with its bold colouring, its raking masts, looked remote, unreal, a thing of fantasy. She turned, and sped through the trees towards the house, smiling guiltily to herself, like a child hugging a secret.
CHAPTER VII
When she came to the house she saw that William was standing by the window of the salon, making a pretence of putting the room in order, but she knew at once he had been watching for her.
She would not tell him immediately, for the fun of teasing him, and coming into the room, casting her kerchief from her head, she said, "I have been walking, William, my head is better."
"So I observe, my lady," he said, his eyes upon her.
"I walked by the river, where it is quiet and cool."
"Indeed, my lady."
"I had no knowledge of the creek before. It is enchanting, like a fairy-tale. A good hiding-place, William, for fugitives like myself."
"Very probably, my lady."
"And my Lord Godolphin, did you see him?"
"His lordship was not at home, my lady. I bade his servant give your flowers and the message to his lady."
"Thank you, William." She paused a moment, pretending to arrange the sprigs of lilac in their vase, and then, "Oh, William, before I forget. I am giving a small supper party tomorrow night. The hour is rather late, ten o'clock."
"Very well, my lady. How many will you be?"
"Only two, William. Myself and one other - a gentleman."
"Yes, my lady."
"The gentleman will be coming on foot, so there is no need for the groom to stay up and mind a horse."
"No, my lady."
"Can you cook, William?"
"I am not entirely ignorant of the art, my lady."
"Then you shall send the servants to bed, and cook supper for the gentleman and myself, William."
"Yes, my lady."
"And you need not mention the visit to anyone in the house, William."
"No, my lady."
"In fact, William, I propose to behave outrageously."
"So it would seem, my lady."
"And you are dreadfully shocked, William?"
"No, my lady."
"Why not, William?"
"Because nothing you or my master ever did could possibly shock me, my lady."
And at this she burst out laughing, and clasped her hands together.
"Oh, William, my solemn William, then you guessed all the time! How did you know, how could you tell?"
"There was something about your walk, as you entered just now, my lady, that gave you away. And your eyes were - if I may say so without giving offence - very much alive. And coming as you did from the direction of the river I put two and two together, as it were, and said to myself: 'It has happened. They have met at last.' "
"Why 'at last,' William?"
"Because, my lady, I am a fatalist by nature, and I have always known that, sooner or later, the meeting was bound to come about."
"Although I am a lady of the manor, married and respectable, with two children, and your master a lawless Frenchman, and a pirate?"
"In spite of all those things, my lady."
"It is very wrong, William. I am acting against the interests of my country. I could be imprisoned for it."
"Yes, my lady."
But this time he hid his smile no longer, his small button mouth relaxed, and she knew he would no longer be inscrutable and silent, but was her friend, her ally, and she could trust him to the last.
"Do you approve of your master's profession, William?" she said.
"Approve and disapprove are two words that are not in my vocabulary, my lady. Piracy suits my master, and that is all there is to it. His ship is his kingdom, he comes and goes as he pleases, and no man can command him. He is a law unto himself."
"Would it not be possible to be free, to do as he pleases, and yet not be a pirate?"
"My master thinks not, my lady. He has it that those who live a normal life, in this world of ours, are forced into habits, into customs, into a rule of life that eventually kills all initiative, all spontaneity. A man becomes a cog in the wheel, part of a system. But because a pirate is a rebel, and an outcast, he escapes from the world. He is without ties, without man-made principles."
