Book Seven

MARTINIQUE
1720 C.E.

Brigitte Bellefontaine had a secret.

It involved forbidden love with a dark-eyed rogue, and as she sat at her vanity table, brushing out her hair and removing her cosmetics, she tried not to think of it, for with each passing day, the guilty burden of the secret grew.

A rude sound brought her out of her thoughts. She looked at her husband reflected in the glass behind her. Henri. Sprawled on the bed and snoring. Drunk again.

Brigitte sighed. There was nothing worse than a Frenchman who could not hold his wine.

And he had promised. Tonight, after their guests left, he said, he was going to treat her to a special evening under the stars. “Just like the old days, ma cherie, when we were young lovers.” And then the guests had arrived, and the party had gotten underway, and the wine had poured and poured. And now Henri was flat on his back on the bed, wig askew, his waistcoat stained with samples from the evening’s menu: fried codfish fritters and crepes dripping with melted chocolate.

Brigitte set her hairbrush down and gazed wistfully at the piece of jewelry she had worn for the party: a stunning brooch of white gold with a blue crystal at its center surrounded by diamonds and sapphires. The Star of Cathay, that had been so full of romantic promise back in her naive youth.

The Star of Cathay was supposed to bring love and romance into the life of the wearer. Hadn’t the gypsy foretold as much? And it had delivered…for a while. On Brigitte’s wedding night—Henri (the man who now snored on the bed) had been a magnificent lover, and seventeen-year-old Brigitte had thought she had died and gone to heaven. But now, twenty years and seven children later, she had all but given up on ever knowing true passion again. Henri was a good man, but he no longer had fire in him. And Brigitte yearned for fire.

Too restless to sleep, she rose and went to the doors that opened onto a balcony off the bedroom. Stepping out into the tropical night redolent with the perfumes of frangipani and mimosa, she closed her eyes and pictured him—not Henri but the dark-eyed stranger, tall and noble, of aristocratic features and bearing, impeccably dressed, expert swordsman and roguish lover. He would appear suddenly, unexpectedly, when she was in her garden, or watching the exotic fish in the lagoon, materializing out of the sultry day like the storm clouds that came upon the island swiftly and darkly, drench Martinique with a torrid shower, then dissipate, move on and be only a memory. He was like that. And his lovemaking was like a tropical storm—fierce, steamy, irresistible. The mere thought of him sent tremors through her body.

Unfortunately, he didn’t exist.

Brigitte thought she would go insane if she never experienced romance and passion again. But how was it ever to happen? It was unthinkable that she should enter into an affair with one of the local colonists. She had her reputation, and her husband’s, to think of. And as there was no one else, she had resorted to a fantasy lover, a devilish gentleman of her imagination whose name changed according to her mood and the story. Usually he was French, perhaps called Pierre or Jacques, and he came to the island just for one day, meeting her in the grotto where they made passionate love all afternoon, and as he sailed away he promised someday to return, a promise that fed her soul and kept her alive.

Her fantasies served not only to bring love into her life, but to recapture her youth as well, for in them Brigitte was young and slender and beautiful again, turning men’s heads as she had done long ago. Unfortunately, although these fantasies gave her pleasure, they also riddled her with guilt. Brigitte was a good Catholic and believed, as the priests preached, that a sinful deed committed in the heart was as good as being committed in the flesh. Having lustful thoughts outside the bounds of marriage was a sin. If she imagined making love to one of the colonists, then it would be adultery. But was it adultery if the lover did not exist?

She set her eyes to the distant horizon, identifiable only by its absence of stars. Brilliant night sky above, black forbidding ocean below. And beyond…Paris. Four thousand miles away, where her friends, family, and children lived in a world so different from the West Indies that they might as well live on the moon.

Brigitte wished she could have gone with her children. She didn’t miss the cold or the crowding of Paris, but she longed for the cultural and social life. Born into nobility, she had known the company of kings and queens and the finest of French society. She missed the plays of Molie`re and Racine, and the spectacles of La Comédie Francaise, those glorious days when the Sun King lavished money on the arts. But what plays were being staged now? Who was the latest wit? What were the ladies wearing at court? The colonists on Martinique relied on mail from home for all their news, and sometimes it came late or not at all, due to the vagaries of the seas, weather, and pirates. Three years ago they had learned that their great king, Louis XIV, was dead—and had been dead for two years! Now his great-grandson, Louis XV, a boy of ten, was on the French throne.

A night breeze came up, stirring palm fronds and the giant leaves of banana plants, ruffling the muslin folds of Brigitte’s peignoir. As the breeze brushed her bare skin like a lover’s sigh, she felt her ache deepen. And it frightened her. She felt weak and vulnerable. Sending the children away was something all the colonists did, to make sure they grew up as ladies and gentlemen. So Brigitte had sent her lively brood to her sister in Paris for proper schooling in deportment and etiquette. But now that she had done it, she missed them greatly. She had too much time, sunlight, tropical perfumes, and balmy tradewinds on her hands. Henri had the sugarcane fields, the refinery, and the rum distillery to distract him. But with the children gone, and servants to take care of everything else, what else was there for a lady of these islands to do? Brigitte was an avid reader but even that pastime, of late, was reflecting her growing discontent, for her taste ran to pairs of tragic lovers: two French like herself, Heloise and Abelard; two Italians, young but no less tragic, Romeo and Juliet; two English, of long ago, Tristram and Isolde; and a Roman soldier and a Greek queen, Antony and Cleopatra. She devoured these sad, romantic tales as her friends devoured luscious fruits and rum. There was no better sadness, she thought, than sweet sadness. In her private fantasy, she and her lover must live apart, and the delicious ache it conveyed to her heart kept her sighing through sultry afternoons.

She tried to convince herself that dreams were so much more satisfying than reality. Besides, dreams were safe whereas reality could be fraught with peril. Despite Martinique being a tropical Eden, it had its dangers—from sudden, destructive storms, from Mt. Pelée threatening to erupt, from fevers and exotic diseases, and from that worst of dangers: pirates. Only this evening at dinner, when the talk wasn’t about the cost of rum and slaves, the conversation had turned to pirates and, lately, one in particular—an English dog named Christopher Kent. One of her guests, a pineapple grower, had suffered a loss to Kent just days earlier when Kent’s schooner, Bold Ranger, attacked the man’s merchant vessel, boarded her, threw the crew overboard and made off with a fortune in gold coin. No one knew what Kent looked like, although the few survivors of his attacks had said he was very tall and looked like the devil.

The night suddenly exploded with shouts from the slave quarters—men wagering on mongoose-and-snake fights. Like the whispering tradewinds and rustling palms, it was the sound of the island calling to her. It made Brigitte think of the native people who had lived here long ago, the Indians with their drums and nakedness, living as God had created them, like Adam and Eve. Their spirits were still here—in the trees and streams and mist-shrouded mountain peaks. New primitives were here now, too, from Africa; more naked people with drums, who filled the nights with their primeval beat and rhythms, chanting and dancing in the firelight.

The air felt heavy, reminding Brigitte that this was the start of hurricane season. She went back inside, closed the double doors, and then went to her vanity table to restore the Star of Cathay to its locked box. The blue crystal had, over the years, become symbolic of the blue seas that surrounded her, the blue sky that covered her. And when she looked into its diamond-dust heart she saw fire and passion. Her passion. Trapped, struggling to get free.

She went to the bed and pulled off her husband’s boots. Henri was smiling in his sleep. She sighed again. He wasn’t a bad man, just an unconscious one. As she slipped between the sheets next to him, she closed her eyes and, although her secret fantasies riddled her with guilt, she once again conjured up the image of him, her fantasy lover. When she drifted off to sleep she began to dream, and in the dream he reached for her.

 

Henri Bellefontaine was not unaware of his wife’s recent discontent. After all, she no longer had the children to occupy her time. Henri, on the other hand, had the plantation to run. Bellefontaine grew sugar and exported rum, with side interests in the growing and exporting of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, which were in great demand in Europe for use in cooking, perfumes, and medicines. Therefore Henri Bellefontaine was very rich, but he was also very busy. But what did Brigitte have? Fancying himself a loving and attentive husband, but mistaking entirely the cause of her frequent sighs and restlessness (homesickness, he thought, and missing their children), he had come up with what he thought was the perfect remedy.

He bought her a telescope.

It stood on a special rooftop platform, a handsome brass spyglass imported from Holland, fixed to a tripod with a complete 360-degree view of the island and beyond. Henri congratulated himself on his brilliance. Brigitte would no longer feel so remote and isolated for the lens brought the world to her fingertips: the horizon, with France—and their children—just over its edge; islands closer in (patches of emerald green floating on hyacinth blue); Martinique’s busy harbors and waterfront settlements with ships coming and going; and finally the seawalls and battlements, narrow lanes and alleyways, and rooftops rising in layers into the hills.

The gesture had touched Brigitte, for Henri was a dear man and his heart was in the right place. And it wasn’t as though he had brought her to the most godforsaken place on earth. After all, Martinique was the cultural center of the French Antilles, a rich, aristocratic island famous for its gracious living as well as for its lush, tropical vegetation, deep gorges, and towering cliffs. Their own home was a magnificent plantation perched on a spur on the slopes of Mt. Pelée, a volcano that periodically shot up steam and made the ground rumble, as if to remind the humans below of their mortality. The house was designed in typical Creole style with the main rooms on the bottom floor and the bedrooms upstairs. Surrounding it were green lawns like fabulous carpets, bordered by palm trees whose fronds rustled in the tradewinds. Brigitte loved her tropical home, and she loved Martinique. Nobody knew for certain why the island was named so. Some said it was derived from an Indian name that meant “flowers,” some said it was named for St. Martin. But Brigitte Bellefontaine, with her romantic heart, believed that when Columbus discovered it and found the island so fantastically beautiful, he named it for a woman he secretly loved.

It had become Brigitte’s habit to climb daily to her special rooftop aerie at sunset, her favorite time of the day when work ceased and the evening entertainments began; a time also when changes came over the Caribbean, the luminous sky giving way to a black, star-splashed firmament. Brigitte would give instructions to her kitchen slaves for the evening meal, then she would take a long, languorous bath, put on her underclothes and petticoats, slip into her gauzy peignoir and climb to the roof to watch the sun make its spectacular exit from the world.

As she sipped a small glass of rum, Brigitte kept her eye to the spyglass, sweeping the sea and the bay, the mountains and the clouds, the small fishing villages, and she thought of the coming evening. There would be no guests tonight as it was Sunday. It would be just her and Henri. Would he stay with her, or would the island and its seductions call to him, in the form of gambling in Saint-Pierre? When Henri woke that morning to realize he had fallen asleep before fulfilling his promise, he had been repentant. “Ma chere! Ma puce! I am not worthy of thee.” Then he had given her a peck on the cheek and, dressed in his riding clothes, had headed out to inspect the sugarcane fields.

Brigitte saw lights going on in the harbor town, doorways being flung open to the sunset, little boats bringing hungry visitors from anchored ships. She could almost hear the music and laughter, smell the cooking aromas, see the smiles of the people. Circling the glass away from the settlement, she scanned the rich green mountain peaks and ridges rising and falling like ocean waves, tropical jungles ranging in every hue of green known to the human eye. And now to the east, away from the crimson sky, to the quiet, windward side of the island with its pristine beaches and lime-green lagoons and hidden coves—

She stopped. Masts? Furled sails?

She focused the lens, bringing the ship into clarity, and peered hard. It had to be an American schooner, judging by the two masts and narrow hull, and the fact that it had to have a shallow draft to be able to navigate through shoal waters and into such a tiny cove.

Brigitte frowned. Why was it anchored there?

She moved the glass slightly, up the main mast, along spars and rigging until she saw the flag.

A pirate ship! There was no mistaking the ensign, what the French wryly called the joli rouge—“pretty red”—and the English, the Jolly Roger. Usually they featured skulls and crossbones; this one was designed with a cutlass dripping blood.

“Mon Dieu!” Brigitte whispered. She knew what ship it was—Bold Ranger—belonging to the bloodthirsty Christopher Kent. She could see no crew on board.

She began to tremble. Where were they? She had heard of Kent’s method—to strike swiftly and brutally. To attack and ravish and be gone before the victims could defend themselves.

Frantically she peered through the glass, scanning the hills between the cove and the plantation, a distance of two miles. Henri and his men were somewhere in all that green, inspecting the sugarcane crop, but she could not find them.

Christopher Kent was every colonist’s nightmare. He was one of those buccaneers who did not restrict himself to attacking ships, but made bold attacks on land as well. All plantation owners kept their fortunes hidden somewhere on their estates. It was the only way of guaranteeing its security. Kent knew this. He would come in the night, catch the hapless victims unaware and force them to divulge the location of their gold. Usually by torture.

“Please God,” she whispered with a mouth gone suddenly dry. “Let them not be coming this way.”

And then she saw them—pirates, making their way up the hillside, prodding overseers and slaves through the sugarcane fields. Henri, knocked from his horse—

“Colette, fetch my musket!” She knew she couldn’t hit anything at this range, but perhaps she could fire warning shots. She wondered if the soldiers at the fortress were aware of the pirates. She doubted it. The church bells would be clanging out a warning, and cannons would be firing. Kent had crept up along the windward side of the island and sneaked into the small cove. Two ridges hid the plateau where Bellefontaine sprawled on many acres. The pirates could strike, do their lethal work silently and swiftly, and depart like ghosts, leaving only corpses and a smoldering ruin. It would be at least a day before the soldiers knew what had happened, and by then Kent’s ship would be far out to sea.

“What is it, madame?” the young black woman said breathlessly as she came up the narrow stairway, clumsily handling the long firearm. Colette was a third-generation African slave. She had been born on Martinique, as had her mother, but her grandmother had been brought from Africa along with thousands of others to work the sugar and tobacco fields for the French colonists.

“Send Hercule to the fortress,” Brigitte began, trying to site the pirates without the aid of the glass. But the sun had finally dipped below the horizon and the light was dying. “Tell him to run, Colette! Tell him there are pirates—”

And then, through the glass, she saw him, Christopher Kent, a tall, forbidding figure dressed all in black. He wore tight breeches and a long coat, the shining gold buttons of his waistcoat flashing in the final rays of the sun. His face was shaded by the broad brim of his tricorn hat, a generous white plume ruffling in the breeze. When he turned and his face came partially into the light, she realized with a shock that he made her think of the phantom lover of her fantasies.

Brigitte’s mind worked rapidly. The fortress was ten miles away, over mountainous terrain, and night would fall, plunging jungle and trails into utter blackness long before a runner could even get a good start. The pirates had lit torches, which now burned brightly in the descending dusk, and the flames were making steady snakelike progress up the hill.

Taking a last look at Kent through the glass—he was barely visible now in the swiftly dying day, a phantom figure striding through lush vegetation, like a conqueror—Brigitte said, “Never mind,” and set the musket aside.

“But madame,” Colette wailed. “Pirates! We must warn everyone!”

“Hush,” Brigitte said as she made her way back down the stairs and into her bedroom. “Tell no one, Colette!” The situation suddenly called for another strategy. But it also required a cool head.

She possessed one beautiful gown that she had never worn. It had come with her from France twenty years ago, a very special dress that she had planned to wear when they celebrated the king’s birthday. But she had gotten pregnant during the voyage to Martinique and after the birth of that first child, she hadn’t been able to fit into the gown. She had gotten pregnant again and the cycle continued until she had given up ever wearing the gown. And anyway, there was a new king now, one whom she didn’t even know.

The silk overdress was a dazzling summer pink, the stomacher embroidered in rich scarlet and cardinal hues, with the underskirt a contrasting sun-yellow, as was the fashion back then, when gowns were meant to blind and colors were to be as shocking and contrasting as possible. It looked very much like a tropical sunset: the gold sun blazing against a blushing sky. She had had the waist let out after the birth of her seventh child so that it finally fit (with help from a tight corset) but by then the gown was hopelessly out of date. Such an elaborate, ponderous style had gone out of fashion upon the death of Louis XIV. How could she possibly wear it? And so the gown had become a symbol, of faded youth and missed opportunities, and just the sight of it reminded her of young passions and stolen kisses in summer gardens.

Her heart pounded as she lifted the gown from its storage chest and gave orders to a very flustered Colette. It was difficult to hurry with such a complicated outfit—the corsets and skirts and panniers, and all the lacings and hooks, and with Colette so terrified she was ready to bolt. Brigitte herself was gripped with fear, but she kept Kent’s image in the forefront of her mind—a dark, menacing figure. As she held her breath while Colette tightened the last of the laces, Brigitte did a rapid mental calculation: the pirates would be at the edge of the distillery now. The road from there to the main house was half a mile.

Finally she looked at herself in the glass. But she frowned at her reflection. Although the dress was dazzling, she herself still looked old and plump. Kent would hardly give her a second look. And then she remembered the Star of Cathay. With trembling fingers she fastened the brooch to the lowest point of her décolletage, so that the diamonds and sapphires gave the appearance of the blue crystal having fluttered like a butterfly and landed quivering on her exposed bosom.

The transformation was instantaneous. A new woman stood before her in the looking glass. The crystal did indeed possess magic! Brigitte Bellefontaine was young, slender, and beautiful again.

Before she went downstairs, she took Colette’s hands in a firm grip and said, “Now listen to me. We are about to have unexpected visitors. Do not be afraid. Do not try to run away.”

“But, madame—”

“Colette! Listen carefully, for you must do exactly as I say…”

Before she left the bedroom, she took a final look at herself in the mirror and smiled with grim approval. Glancing at the musket leaning against the wall she thought, Sometimes a gown is better than a gun.

 

Although over a hundred slaves worked on Bellefontaine—in the fields, in the sugar refinery and rum distillery—it only took a handful of men with pistols and muskets to keep them all frightened and compliant. As Brigitte made her way through the main living room of her house, she heard the stamping of feet outside, the growled commands, the occasional sound of a whip. The female slaves, whose work was concentrated on the master’s family, house, vegetable gardens and hen yards, came running at the sight of their men stumbling at pistol and sword point into the main yard. They immediately sent up wails of lament. House servants rushed to the windows and cowered there, looking out with big frightened eyes.

Brigitte paused to compose herself. She could barely breathe. Outside she heard screams and shouts and gunfire. But she waited behind the closed front door, calming herself, an actress awaiting her grand entrance. Holding herself in check, for her impulse was to run, she held back for another long minute and then reached for the door, drew it slowly open.

The pirates were a frightening sight with their arsenal of weapons: muskets, blunderbusses, cutlasses, daggers, and pistols. Some even brandished boarding axes meant for hacking at nets and rigging. They numbered fifty, Brigitte guessed, and were dressed in an array of rags and tatters, with long filthy hair and mismatched boots. Against the backdrop of blazing torches they resembled, or so Brigitte thought, Satan’s army of imps and demons.

Henri was tied up in ropes, and had been pushed to his knees. Brigitte had to steel herself against running to him.

The veranda was arrayed in masses of climbing flowers, all colors of the rainbow, and the pillars were thick with green vines. The combined perfume was rich and heady while the last of a few industrious bees buzzed about the blossoms. Framed thus, as if on a theater stage, Brigitte did not say a word, but stood there until, one by one, the men fell silent and stared.

Captain Kent had just reached the bottom step when he realized everyone had fallen silent. He turned and looked up. Now, in the dusky gloom and by lantern light, Brigitte saw his features more clearly: they were sharp and hard. Kent was wearing a long black coat, generously cut, nearly reaching his ankles. It was richly embroidered with silk and gold thread, and the buttons were shining gold. His breeches were black, and he wore spotless white stockings and well-shined shoes with gold buckles. White ruffles frothed at his throat and wrists. Beneath his wide-brimmed tricorn hat he wore no wig but had his own long hair tied back in a ponytail with side curls over his ears, in the very latest fashion. Every inch the fine gentleman, Brigitte thought, as if he had arrived to attend an opera instead of ransack a house.

When his eyes met hers, a startling thought came suddenly to her mind: Back in the fortune-teller’s tent on the grounds of Versailles, a big celebration for the king’s birthday with actors and jugglers and a carnival. The old Gypsy saying to sixteen-year-old Brigitte, “This blue stone possesses tremendous fire. You see? It is trapped inside. One day this fire will be released and it will consume you. In love. In passion. In a man’s arms. A man who will make such love to you that you will nearly die of ecstasy.”

Clasping her hands tightly before her, Brigitte glided forward to the edge of the veranda, as gracefully and without fear as she could, and said softly, “Welcome to my home, m’sieu.”

He stared. Then he smiled. And the way he looked her up and down—she knew that just an hour ago he would not have looked at her in that way. But she was beautiful now, because of the magic in the blue crystal. It had cast a spell and transformed her.

“Milady,” he said, removing his hat with a flourish and extending one leg forward as he bowed.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet so still and silent were the gathered men that everyone heard. “We offer you the hospitality of our home.”

Brigitte silently thanked God that she and her sisters had had an English tutor when they were girls, for her father had believed in his children having a well-rounded education in order that they may move in all the best and most cultured circles. Her sister had then married an English baron and had moved to Britain, so that for the past twenty years Brigitte had written letters to her nieces and nephews in English—thank God for that, too. While she was not expert at the language, she could make herself understood.

Kent’s eyebrows arched. “Hospitality! We won’t be staying, mistress. We’ve come for the gold and then we’ll be on our way.”

Several yards away, her husband, having been knocked to his knees, shouted, “Save yourself, Brigitte!”

She moistened her lips. “To refuse hospitality is rude, m’sieu. And I had heard you were a gentleman.”

He smiled. “So you know who I am then,” he said.

“You are Captain Christopher Kent.”

“And you aren’t afraid of me?”

“I am,” she said in as matter-of-fact tone as she could, but her heart beat in fear. “But regardless of who you are, sir, or your intention here, it is the custom among my class to offer hospitality to the visitor.”

His laugh was short and dry. “You think a few victuals will save your gold?”

She lifted her chin. “You mistake my intention, sir. You may have our gold since there is obviously no way I can stop you. But I had thought that as a gentleman you would understand the rules of civilized behavior.”

His dark eyes flickered and she knew she had touched a sensitive spot. Pirate or not, Christopher Kent believed in his heart that he was a gentleman. Why else would he dress so when the rest of his men dressed like animals? “I have six sucking piglets, ready to be cooked,” she added.

He put his hands on his hips and said with a laugh, “Well this is a new trick!”

While some of the men laughed with him, one of them, older than Kent, with long gray hair twisted into a nest of braids and a cancer growing on the side of his nose, stepped up and said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, how might ye be preparin’ them piggies?”

Brigitte refused to acknowledge the man. She continued to address Kent: “I cook them with cloves and garlic, capers and oregano, accompanied by hot bread soaked in garlic gravy, herbed goat cheese and a cold ginger soup. Mango tarts covered in chocolate sauce for dessert.”

“And what’s to drink?” the brute said sharply.

“French wine and brandy,” she said to Kent.

The man rubbed the good side of his nose and said to his captain, “It might not be a bad idea, Chris. We ain’t had a good meal since God knows when.”

“And let the soldiers catch us with our guard down? Don’t you see it’s a trick, Mr. Phipps?”

“I don’t think the soldiers know we’re here, Chris. But I can check.” He added more quietly, “And I don’t think it’s a trick. The lady’s bargaining is what. Thinks we’ll show mercy.”

Kent gave this some thought. And while he did, Brigitte drew in a deep breath, causing the blue-crystal brooch on her bosom to flash its blue fire.

As she had intended, it caught Kent’s eye. He took one look at the white breast and gave a signal to Phipps, who in turn sent two men clambering up trees as lookouts. Then Kent gave another signal and a mob of his men rushed forward, thundered up the veranda steps, past Brigitte and into the house.

She used all her self-control to ignore the sounds of ransacking and vandalism within. Her home meant nothing in this moment; all her precious furniture and pottery, draperies and jewelry. The pirates could have it all.

Mr. Phipps came back to report: “The lookouts report that everything’s quiet, no hue and cry has been raised, it’s business as usual down at the harbor. What about that feast, Chris?”

Kent went up the steps and drew close to Brigitte. She could barely breathe as she looked up at him, for he towered over her. “How do I know you will not poison us?” he said. “I have been deceived by a beautiful woman before.”

She caught her breath. He had called her beautiful! “An understandable caution, m’sieu. Then let your own men do the slaughtering and the spitting, and let them oversee the making of the sauces and bastings, and have my slaves taste everything that is prepared.”

She saw the dark currents in his eyes as he assessed what was surely an unexpected situation. “I hope you do not take me for a fool,” he said softly.

Their eyes met and held.

The moment stretched; Brigitte caught her breath. This was the crucial moment. And then Kent relaxed, his lips curled in a smile and he said, “Very well, we eat!”

His men cheered and Kent, inclining himself toward Brigitte, said, “Now to the matter of business. Where is the gold, mistress, or shall we wring it from your husband?”

Recalling tales she had heard of Kent, how his men had strung up plantation owners by the wrists in the hot midday sun until they told where their fortune was hidden, she said, “Please do not hurt my husband. If you promise not to harm him, I shall take you to the treasure.”

 

Making certain first that the roasting pits were being prepared and that her kitchen slaves understood their assignments, reassuring them that as long as everyone cooperated they would be safe, Brigitte led Kent and a handful of his men from the main yard down a flagstone path, one of many walkways scattered in this tropical paradise, leading to gardens and cottages, as well as to the sugar refinery and rum distillery, and, beyond that, the slaves’ quarters. Brigitte walked ahead of her “guests” with a graceful glide learned long ago in girlhood, her voluminous pink and yellow skirts skimming along the path as if no human legs propelled them beneath. It was a walk she had perfected on the grounds of Versailles to catch the flirtatious attention of young men; she used it now to guide thieves to a treasure.

They reached a clearing in the lush growth and saw before them a vision that made even these rough men goggle with wonder. It was a gazebo, seemingly spun of starlight, white and shimmering in the night. Brigitte graciously stepped to one side, as if about to serve tea. “There,” she said, pointing to the floor of the structure. “Beneath those boards.”

Standing their blazing torches into the ground, the men rushed forward, axes going at the boards with a great splintering and tearing. They ripped up the floor and hauled out the chests hidden beneath. Brigitte stood wordlessly as the men dragged their booty back to the compound where a bonfire had been lit, fueled, she noticed, by furniture from the house. By the light of the flames, the plunderers pried open the chests and gave a great shout when they saw the gold coins, for coins were what pirates preferred most.

That was clearly the signal for the celebration to get underway, for from out of nowhere a fiddle was produced and someone began a lively jig. Others had broken into the distillery and were rolling giant oak barrels of rum up the path. Female slaves began going nervously through the mob of men with wine bottles and cups, while on the other side of the fire the roasting pits were already singeing the pigs on spits. Brigitte saw her husband and the other captives being prodded into the pig pen, where they were pushed into the muck while their tormentors howled with laughter.

Somewhere during the rough march from the sugarcane fields, Henri had lost his magnificent wig. Large and richly black it had been, with carefully tiered curls rising high on his head and cascading down his back and over his shoulders. Newcomers to the island remarked that such wigs were now out of date, but Henri didn’t care. He held to old traditions, which dictated that a gentleman must look his best at all times, and so he wore his wigs no matter what the weather or what task he was about. But it had been knocked from his head and now he was bareheaded, his graying hair standing up in tufts as the pirates poked and kicked him and made fun of him.

Brigitte dug her fingernails into her palms and kept her composure. She wanted to grab one of the burning torches and run into the crowd of pirates, bludgeoning them as she went.

But in the next instant Kent was looking at her, and she remembered her resolve, and that this night was going to be her only chance.

“Hm,” he said, studying her in the flickering torchlight. “What makes you so unafraid, I wonder?”

His comment startled her. Could he not see the pulse galloping at her throat, the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her hands? “I am not unafraid,” she said, and it was the truth. But what she was afraid of was another question.

“When you came out of your house you did not seem surprised to see us. You appeared almost to have been expecting us.”

She pointed to the roof of the house. “On that platform there is a spyglass. I watched your progress from the beach.”

He stared at it with great interest. “I would like to see this glass.”

She nodded and led the way. They passed through the yard where the piglets turned on spits cut from branches, and Kent’s men were happily at work draining the rum casks. Atop two very tall palm trees, lookouts with spyglasses kept watch on the fortress and the town of Saint-Pierre. At the slightest sign of military movement, they could give the signal and Kent and his men would vanish. Brigitte prayed that no such signal would be given.

The house had been thoroughly pillaged, with pottery smashed on the polished wooden floors, furniture overturned, silver-and goldware heaped in a pile by the door, ready to be carted off. Brigitte wordlessly led Kent through to the rear garden, where purple orchids and orange bougainvillea mingled with scarlet hibiscus and pale pink oleander. She preceded him up the narrow staircase, her back straight, her head held high, as if she were giving royalty a tour of her home. But she was aware of the sharp cutlass that hung from his waist, the pistol and dagger tucked into his belt. The space between her shoulder blades crept with fear. She felt as if she were being followed by a wild animal, like the black jaguar the governor kept in a cage in his home.

When they reached the rooftop and its curious platform with a low guardrail, they saw that the full moon was starting to rise. They also had a good view of the compound below, where Brigitte’s terrified slaves were cooking under the watchful eyes of Kent’s men, being made to taste everything as they went along. Even the basting used on the piglets was tasted first.

At the sound of so much music, Brigitte gave Kent a curious look. He smiled. “We’re a lucky crew, for we’ve musicians among us. It’s every pirate ship that hopes for at least a piper and a fiddler.” He nodded as he leaned on the rail and watched the festivities below. “I’ve a good crew.” Phipps, the man with the many pigtails, was the quartermaster—the strong man of the ship, the ship’s magistrate and punisher of minor offenses. He was also responsible for the selection and division of the plunder. There was Jeremy, the sailing master in charge of navigation, and Mulligan the boatswain, Jack the gunner, Obadiah the sailmaker, Luke the carpenter. They even had a ship’s surgeon, although he was fairly useless in tropical waters where the main causes of death were the incurable yellow fever, malaria and dysentery. His main job was amputations.

Brigitte showed Kent the glass and noticed that he had to bend low to peer through it, he was so tall. She also sensed a body of great physical strength beneath the long coat and breeches. The French colonists, with slaves to do all the work and such abundance of food and drink, were a soft lot; men who had forgotten the sport of dueling and riding. But she suspected that Christopher Kent was held together with strong muscle and sinew.

Kent looked through the glass and then, satisfied that no soldiers had been dispatched from the distant fort, he straightened and turned his attention to his perplexing hostess. His eyes went to the brooch on her breast and he said, “Now there’s a fair piece.”

“It is a famous stone, m’sieu, called the Star of Cathay. It was created in faraway China by a wizard who, the legend goes, created it to win a lady’s heart. It is supposed to bring love and romance to whoever possesses it.”

He smiled and reached for it.

She put her hand over it protectively. He mustn’t have it yet! She needed to be beautiful, for just a while longer. If he took it now, her beauty would go with it and her plan would fail. “I shall give it to you as a gift when you leave.”

He laughed and his gaze lingered on her hand, which protected not only the brooch but her breast as well. “And to what are you referring when you say you shall give it to me as a gift? The brooch or the treasure beneath?”

She tried not to look away, but instead met his bold gaze challenge for challenge. “Is this the way you treat the women on the island where you live?”

He shifted his eyes to the distant horizon and seemed to consider answering her. Finally he said, “I don’t live on an island. I have a plantation in the American colony of Virginia.”

Her shock was apparent. “You live among civilized people?”

“It is in fact those so-called civilized people,” he said with a wry smile, “who support my privateering. After all, plunder is only plunder until it can be sold. Without buyers there would be no reason for piracy.”

“I do not understand.”

“It’s the Americans who buy my goods. In England, pirates are treated mercilessly, but in America we are given protection in their ports, even hospitality. It is the Americans who provision my ship and find buyers for my treasures, for a commission, of course. So the Americans get rich along with me.”

She frowned. “It is unthinkable.”

“It’s politics. By supporting buccaneers like myself, Americans are striking a blow against British rule, a struggle that is growing stronger and more bitter with time. The English made this rule called the Navigation Act, which stipulates that no goods can be imported into England’s colonies except in English ships manned by English crews. The Americans don’t think this is fair, so they circumvent British law whenever they can.”

“And so my lovely candlesticks and my mother’s china…”

“Will most likely end up on a mantel in Boston.”

As he began to unscrew the telescope, Brigitte said, “But that was a gift from my husband!”

He laughed as he hefted the brass instrument in his hand. “Sentimental man, your husband.”

“You would not understand, m’sieu,” she said with indignation.

“I understand that women prefer gifts of beauty or romantic meaning, but a telescope?”

“It is more than a mere spyglass, m’sieu. It is an instrument of power.”

“How so?”

“I saw you, didn’t I? And you were unaware of me.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That is true. You saw us coming and we were unaware. But you did not raise the alarm. Most curious.”

He walked to the stairway and indicated she should precede him. So Brigitte descended to the landing below and led the way into the main living room where, to her surprise, Kent swept his hat from his head and demanded something to drink. His hair was deepest black without a shadow of gray or silver, yet she placed his age nearer forty than thirty, for his face, when seen close up, was lined with the creases of life and weather.

Refusing a bottle of wine that was already open and insisting she fetch one that was still sealed, Kent went out onto the veranda where he conferred briefly with Mr. Phipps. Coming back inside, he said to Brigitte, “Still nothing unusual going on at the fort or in the town. We continue to go undetected.”

Through the transparent panes of the front window, she could see the moon continuing to rise and shed light on the compound where Kent’s men were getting loud and some of her slave women were being encouraged to be friendly. They hadn’t started eating yet, but smoke and cooking aromas filled the air.

Kent looked at the portrait over the fireplace—a pastoral scene depicting Henri and Brigitte Bellefontaine seated beneath a spreading oak tree, with their children gathered around them. When Kent commented on the young Bellefontaines, and their fortuitous resemblance to their mother instead of their father, Brigitte said, “They mean the world to me. My children are my life.”

“Yet you sent them away.”

“A decision I regret.” She brought a tray with two glasses filled with brandy. Kent had her taste both before he selected one.

“You insult me,” she whispered.

“Milady, there are a thousand ways to kill a man, but poisoning is a woman’s art. And there are a thousand ways to poison. Shall we have a fire? The night grows chill.” Brigitte called for one of her slaves to build a fire in the fireplace and presently the flames were casting Christopher Kent’s tall shadow on the walls.

He tasted his brandy, watching her over the rim of his glass. “So your husband drags you to a godforsaken place where you can’t raise children.”

“My husband did not ‘drag’ me. We came here to build something. The Bellefontaines are an old and noble family, but the previous generation mishandled the fortune so there were no lands for my husband to inherit. He accepted an offer from the king to come here and help build the colony. In return, the land would be ours. Here is our real home, m’sieu, which we built for our children, for they will come back to Martinique. Their stay in Paris is only temporary, for their education. And that is why,” she added a little breathlessly, “I beg of you not to kill my husband. His children need their father.”

Kent looked out the window and saw Mr. Phipps watching as one of the women tasted a chunk of freshly baked bread before he himself had a bite. Everything was under control, nothing untoward. “Men like your husband,” Kent said presently in a dark, deadly tone, “men with wealth and power, need to be taught lessons.” He fell into a morose silence, his expression growing stormy and unreadable as he watched his men dance around the bonfire. Then he turned, as if suddenly remembering where he was, and said in a lighter tone, “Anyway, your husband’s fate is not up to me but to my men.”

“But surely you could order them—”

“You clearly do not understand the law of the high seas, milady. I might be captain of my crew, but we are a democratic ship, as are all pirate ships. What my men decide is theirs to do. I give no orders, nor do they take them. What happens is not my responsibility.”

He walked to the doors that stood open to the rear garden and, inhaling the night air, said, “What is that perfume?” It was a heady mixture of white jasmine, lily-of-the-valley, purple and pink freesia, lilac and honeysuckle.

“What pirate does take responsibility for his actions?” she said behind him.

He turned. “Madam, you know nothing of me, nor of the world I would wager. Think what you will. Why should I care?”

“So you blame the world for your ills?”

“What has the world ever done for me?”

“You kill for revenge, is that it? Even the innocent?”

“It is the law of survival. As the hawk kills the snake, as the snake kills the rat. Only the strong survive, I’ve learned that much.”

“But why do you pick on the French?”

“I pick on everyone. Mankind is my enemy. I make no distinction between English and French, Spanish or Arab. I am a free prince, madam, and have as much right to make war on the whole world as he who commands a navy upon the sea and an army upon the land.”

She turned away speechlessly. She saw the flowers in her garden standing as brightly in the moonlight as if it were day. She heard the enchanting calls of a nightbird. The island continued to sleep beneath the effulgent moon. There was no cannon-fire from the fort. No sign of ships, no torches being carried up the mountainside. And the lookouts in the palm trees had shouted no alarms. Below, tangy smoke and aromatic cooking filled the air, and drunken song and loud fiddle playing broken by high feminine laughter.

Kent fell silent and seemed to withdraw into himself.

“Strange,” he murmured after a length. “I have visited all of these islands these past years, I have trod their earth and drunk from their streams, I have anchored in their waters and tasted their fruits. Yet I have never actually seen these islands.”

She waited, and the night seemed to wait with her. She imagined all the exotic birds with their colorful plumage, all the tropical flowers with their succulent leaves and petals, the sparkling stars and fat, ivory moon, even the white breakers on the beach in the distance, she imagined that the entire universe had stopped for an instant to wait with her.

Kent said, “Yet I seem to be seeing them now. Martinique, at least. What magic is at work in this place?” His glance fell to the blue crystal at her breast. “ ’Tis a mysterious stone. The likes of which I have never seen before. Neither diamond nor sapphire. Like a blue topaz, but deeper and cloudier. And what lies at its heart? A cluster of stars, it appears.”

When he brought his eyes up to hers, he said quietly, “There is magic at work here, but is it the island? Or is it you, madam? What kind of enchantment do you cast upon me?” His brow furrowed and his look turned troubled. “My men and I should leave,” he said decisively. “It makes me nervous to stay too long in one place. We have been seduced, I suspect.”

Her heart jumped. He must not leave! “Your men haven’t eaten yet.”

“They can take the food with them.”

“The piglets are not quite done. And some of your men…” Her voice trailed off a the looked into the dense trees surrounding the house. Kent took her meaning: he, too, had seen some of his men sneaking off into the foliage with slave women.

Kent gave Brigitte another long, curious look. “Why are you not afraid of us?”

“But I am.”

“You said that, yet I cannot believe it. I have never seen a woman acting as you do. I am used to screaming, running, fainting. Or hiding behind their men. You are made of different stuff.” His eyes trailed from her face to her shoulders, bare and white in the moonlight. “But you shiver, madam. The night has grown cold.”

“At this altitude,” she said, breathlessly, as if the altitude were making it difficult to breathe, “the temperature drops at night even though we enjoy very warm days.”

Amusement danced in his eyes as he said, “And how do you keep warm at night?”

“Martinique has its warm places.”

He saw challenge in her eyes. And when she moved slightly, he caught the flash of blue fire at her bosom. Also a challenge? “Show me these warm places,” he said quietly.

 

As they passed through the smoky compound again, some of Kent’s men called merrily to him, making bawdy comments about the company he was keeping. By now they were cutting off chunks of bread for themselves, and hacking away at pineapples and coconuts. Brigitte noticed that they were using their own daggers instead of the kitchen knives provided by her slaves. She also noticed that Mr. Phipps had found the crate of brand new pewter goblets recently arrived from France, still in their packing straw, for it was from these the pirates drank, again to avoid the chance of being poisoned. In fact, they took no chances at all, but made sure that every onion, every pinch of pepper that went into the dishes was first tested on a human, and once the piglets were cooked, the men would hack at the meat with their own safe daggers.

But at least they were eating and drinking, which was what Brigitte had counted on, to keep them from bolting as soon as they had the gold. Once they were gone, she would never have a chance with Kent again.

Brigitte kept her head high and tried not to look in her husband’s direction as she led the pirate captain through the partying crowd, past the edge of the immaculate green lawn, and into cool, dense jungle foliage.

As soon as the thick leaves and fronds closed behind them, sound was muffled and a strange silence enfolded them. Behind her, Brigitte heard the sound of Kent’s cutlass being drawn from its scabbard. But she pressed forward on the trail barely visible in the moonlight. Overhead, a leafy canopy allowed only glimpses of the full moon; unseen creatures rustled underfoot, and golden eyes blinked in the darkness. Finally they came to the edge of the thick green growth and could hear up ahead a curious rushing sound.

Brigitte went first, and when Kent joined her, coming to an abrupt halt at her side, she heard his whispered oath. For they were both gazing at a sight beyond belief.

The lagoon was perhaps a hundred feet across, bordered by large smooth boulders, reedy shallows, grassy dunes, and a short stretch of sandy beach. It stood open to the sky so that the fat moon rode like a gold coin on the water’s surface, which rippled out in concentric circles from a most astonishing waterfall. It came from a geyser that bubbled up through rocks high overhead and cascaded in a froth of white foam and hot steam.

Sheathing his cutlass, for he realized no trap lay here, Kent stepped forward and swore again. “Never in my life have I seen such a place! ’Tis like a bathhouse in here! How is this water so hot?”

“It is heated by volcanic springs far below the ground,” Brigitte said, noticing that a fine perspiration had sprouted on his forehead. Here, in this sultry clime, wild orchids grew in profusion, and jade vines, flamingo flowers, many varieties of hibiscus, and fleshy succulents with tumescent stems.

Walking to the water’s edge, Kent put his hands on his hips and surveyed the astonishing scene. Already the torrid atmosphere was making the ends of his hair curl and beads of sweat to appear around his mouth. He removed his hat and then his long black coat, folding it carefully onto the ground. Brigitte saw how his white linen shirt had begun to cling to him in damp places, outlining muscles.

Kent rubbed his forehead in confusion. The hot mist and floral perfume were confounding his reason. This lush, verdant paradise had robbed him of logic and sanity. In all his life he had never been so seduced, nor ever thought he could be. He stared at his bewitching companion and again the glint of blue fire at her breast caught his eye. Was it the crystal that was casting the spell, or was it the woman? Or both?

He reached her in four strides and, taking her by the arms, said in a husky voice, “From the moment we arrived I had the feeling you wanted to keep us here. I suspected a trap. I thought you had sent runners to the fort. But there has been time now for soldiers to arrive, and my lookouts would have spotted them. You sent no message, did you?”

She shook her head.

“You wanted me to stay?”

She slowly nodded.

“Swear it. On everything you hold dear. Swear it is the truth that you wanted me to stay.”

“I swear it,” she whispered. “On the life of my children, I swear I wanted you to stay.” And it was the truth.

He pulled her to him and kissed her. They broke apart for only a moment, to catch a hasty breath, then he drew her to him again while the waterfall plunged and steamed, and the moon looked down with a dispassionate eye. Brigitte, surrendering to his kisses, thought of the gypsy fortune-teller of long ago and realized that the legend was true, the Star of Cathay did possess the powers of love and passion. Without it, she knew, this night would never have happened.

They lay upon the damp grass, exhausted. They had swum in the warm lagoon and embraced beneath the tumbling waterfall. Now Kent was murmuring, “You are magical and rare, like this blue gemstone, and just as beautiful. Come away with me, Brigitte. Live with me on my plantation in Virginia. I would make you very happy.”

He spoke for a while then of his home in America, and then he drifted off to sleep while Brigitte lay in his arms, looking up at the tropical moon as it made its relentless progress to the western horizon.

 

Kent awoke to the sound of birdcall. The sky was still black but the moon had set and dawn was not far off. He saw Brigitte standing at the water’s edge, as dressed as she could be without the help of a lady’s maid to do the laces.

Kent dressed silently, wrapped up in the wonder and magic of what had taken place. And as they took the trail back to the plantation and to reality, Kent knew two things: that he wanted to keep this woman, and that he was ravenously hungry.

Most of his men were sprawled around the dying bonfire, snoring, mouths agape. A few staggered about, moaning and retching. The women had vanished. Colette materialized suddenly, as if she had been awaiting her mistress’s return, bearing a platter of hot food and a mug of rum.

“She saved you some,” Brigitte said to Kent, taking the plate and handing it to him. “Otherwise, the bones have all been licked clean.”

Kent grinned as he lowered himself to the grass and crammed the succulent meat into his mouth. It had been cooked and seasoned to perfection. His men, when they sobered up, were going to swear they would never in their lives eat as well again.

He turned his face to the east, where paleness was starting to wash the horizon, and said, “We must set off soon. My ship is hidden, but still there is risk of discovery.”

Brigitte looked over at the animal pens where the men had been locked up. Most of them slept, having drunk their fill of rum which the women had brought to them. But they had had no food, under Colette’s strict orders, who had received her instructions from Brigitte. She saw Henri, still chained to the hen house, looking abject and miserable.

“Collect whatever you want to take with you as quickly as possible,” Kent was saying as he devoured the juicy piglet meat and washed it down with rum. “You won’t be needing much, darling, for I shall buy you all the gowns and jewels you want.”

Brigitte saw Colette by the veranda, watching, solemn eyes set in a black face. The young woman stood with her arms folded, as if the night’s events had not touched her.

The sky continued to pale and the surrounding rainforest broke out with monkey chatter and noisy birdsong. The last of the pirates collapsed to the ground, but Kent did not notice as he ran a bread crust around his plate to catch the last of the piglet juices. He spoke with his mouth full: “Are you not hungry, my love?”

She knelt beside him at last, her skirts billowing around her, and the colors of her gown resembled a sunrise—gold against pink. She said, “Martinique is known for its flowers, m’sieu. But even so, many of us brought favorite plants from home. Do you know the oleander?” She pointed to tall, leafy shrubs bearing pink blossoms. White stumps could be seen where branches had earlier been hacked off.

Kent sucked on the last piglet bone and then crunched the remaining piece of crackling skin. “Wait till you see the flowers in America, my dear.”

She pointed to the discarded spits beside the fire pits. “We cooked the piglets on those branches. I told Colette to make sure the bark was well stripped off before they were skewered into the meat.”

He took a long swig of rum and gave her a perplexed look. “What is all this to me?”

“The oleander is poisonous. Every bit of it.”

His look was blank.

“Your men are not sleeping, m’sieu, they are dead.” She gestured to Colette who, knowing what was expected of her, broke into a sprint. She went from man to man, to all the bodies sprawled in the yard, felt each on the neck briefly, and then moved on. When she was finished, she flashed her mistress a triumphant grin.

Kent blinked. “Dead? What are you talking about?” And then comprehension dawned on him just as dawn broke over the mountain peaks and shot spears of light across the plantation. Now he saw what he had not seen in the smoky light of predawn: that his men lay in unnatural positions, and that they were far too silent to be sleeping.

He shot to his feet, throwing down his plate and cup. “I don’t believe you. Every step of the cooking was supervised, every ingredient was tasted.”

“You think only of poison that comes from the outside and goes in. You never thought of poison from the inside going out. As the cooking proceeded, the sap from the oleander branches was released and spread through the flesh of the pig.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Look at your men.”

He slowly turned, blinking at the sight of bodies strewn in the pale light of dawn.

Her voice came to him through the lingering smoke of the bonfire: “You said there are a thousand ways to poison a man. You were wrong, m’sieu. There are a thousand and one. You did not know about the oleander.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “When did you decide to do it?”

“From the moment I saw you through the spyglass. Before you and your men even reached the plantation. You were right all along, m’sieu. It was a trap. When I saw you coming up the hillside and I knew there was no time to send a warning to the fortress, I realized that our only hope lay in poisoning all of you. But that required you staying here. And the only way I could keep you here was by seducing you.”

“By God, woman, you did not seduce me! It was the other way round!”

She pointed to the discarded spits. “Those were already prepared before you even reached the plantation. Have you not wondered why I did not send a runner to the fort when I first saw you? True, the soldiers could not have come in time, but still did it not seem strange to you that I didn’t even try?”

He didn’t respond, but ran his hands over his perspiring face. He had gone shockingly white.

“I decided not to send a runner to the fort because the soldiers would have started out, and you would have spotted them, and you and your men would have made your escape. For my plan to work I needed you to stay here until the piglets were eaten. So I took a gamble.”

His look turned furious. “Then what we shared in the grotto meant nothing to you?”

“It meant something to me, m’sieu. It meant saving my husband’s life. It also meant saving my children’s legacy.” She pointed to the chests of gold coins his men had dug up from under the gazebo. “That gold belongs to my children. My husband built up that fortune to pass along to our sons and daughters. Did you think I would let you take it?”

He suddenly grabbed his head. “I don’t feel well.”

“It should hit you quickly. Unlike your men, you ate little else, just the meat. And you have had little to drink.”

“You aren’t seriously going to stand there and watch me die!”

“It is of your own doing,” she said without a trace of pity in her voice.

“You can say this…after what we had together? You enjoyed it!”

“Pretense, m’sieu. Your touch was vile.”

“Then you are nothing more than a whore.”

“No, m’sieu, I am simply a woman who will do anything to keep her family. Even sleep with a serpent.”

Sweat dripped from his forehead. “It was my mistake to take you for a lady.”

“It was your mistake to underestimate how far a woman will go to protect her family.”

He clutched his stomach and cried, “For the love of God!”

She watched him in cool detachment, as she might watch a pot come to boil. When she saw his color go from white to ash, and then a queer purple blush rose up from his neck, she said, “My slaves are already on their way to the fortress to alert the soldiers. It will not be long before they are here. But you will be dead by then.”

He reached for her. She stepped back and, as he fell, his fingers curled around the brooch, tearing her bodice. When he hit the ground, the blue crystal was clenched in his fist, its hues of magic and enchantment glinting between his fingers in the rising sun.

 

“Ma chou, you are the talk of the Antilles. You are a positive heroine!” They were getting ready for bed. Although they had just entertained guests for the evening, Henri had made a point of staying sober. And now he was looking at his wife with new love, and desire, in his eyes.

“Do you see the irony, Henri? If I had told you the true source of my discontent, you would never have bought me the telescope, and without the telescope that night would have gone quite differently.”

“Thank God, then, for my obtuseness.”

She climbed beneath the covers and blew out the candle. “Henri, I want to bring the children back from Paris. I know it isn’t done. Colonists don’t raise their children on the islands. But we shall be the first. We will import tutors, riding instructors, ladies of good quality to teach etiquette and deportment. Perhaps I shall establish a school. Yes, that is what we will do.”

He said, “Yes, ma chou,” deciding he was going to say yes to everything she asked for from now on, she was so enchanting.

He reached for her but she drew back. “What is it, ma chou?”

“You fell in love with me because I was beautiful. And then you saw how beautiful I was the night with Kent. But it was the Star of Cathay. It made me beautiful, and so I was able to distract Captain Kent long enough.” Henri had tactfully not enquired about what went on at the lagoon and, despite the disarray of her clothes the next morning (Brigitte had clearly fought off the scoundrel and successfully defended her honor), had convinced himself that his wife, being a clever conversationalist, had merely talked with the Englishman all night. Brigitte, of course, did not disabuse him of this notion.

“But you are beautiful,” he said. “No gemstone can make you so.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Very well.” He left the bed and came back a moment later. In the darkness she felt his fingers on the bodice of her nightdress. “What are you doing?”

“Making you beautiful. There. There is your blue crystal.”

And she felt its magic begin to work at once, the Star of Cathay, transforming her. She went happily into Henri’s embrace, feeling beautiful again, for what can work on a pirate can work just as well on a husband. And when their passion was spent, and Brigitte was deciding that life in Martinique was going to be paradise after all, Henri turned on the light to illuminate the ivory cameo he had pinned to her breast. The blue crystal was still in its box.

She laughed softly and reached for him again.

Interim

After the defeat of Christopher Kent, Martinique suffered no more pirate invasions, and the so-called golden age of piracy came to an end soon after when the navies of the world joined together to take back the seas. Henri and Brigitte lived to the ripe old ages of sixty and sixty-three respectively, leaving a legacy of wealth and honor to their children. Bellefontaine Plantation survived earthquakes, hurricanes, and a massive eruption of Mt. Pelée to become, in the present day, a popular tourist attraction where visitors are told by cheerful young tour guides the exciting tale of how Mr. and Mrs. Bellefontaine, armed only with a spyglass and a musket, managed to defeat a hundred bloodthirsty pirates in the course of a single night.

In 1760, Brigitte’s son, by then a dissolute old man suffering from gout and venereal disease, was in a poker game with a man named James Hamilton. All Bellefontaine had left was a blue crystal that had belonged to his mother. He had no idea of its worth, only that it had been known as the Star of Cathay. He lost the hand and possession of the crystal passed to James Hamilton, who gave it to his lady-love, Rachel, who bore him two sons out of wedlock on the island of Nevis, in the West Indies. Shortly after the family moved to the island of St. Croix, James Hamilton abandoned Rachel and the two boys, Alexander and James. Using the blue crystal as collateral, Rachel obtained a loan and opened a small shop in the main town, where James was apprenticed to a carpenter, and Alexander, eleven years old, took work as a clerk at the trading post. They prospered and Rachel was able to buy back the blue crystal, for sentimental reasons.

When the youngest son reached the age of seventeen, a local clergyman raised funds to send him away to school in New York. While studying at Kings College, Alexander Hamilton met and fell in love with Molly Prentice, the daughter of a Methodist minister. To Molly he pledged his eternal devotion, sealing his pledge with the gift of a blue crystal that his mother had given to him as a parting gift when he left the West Indies. Molly’s father, however, did not approve of his daughter’s relationship with an impoverished young man of dubious lineage, and packed her off to live with relatives in Boston, where she later fell in love with and married Cyrus Harding, giving him eight children. She never saw Hamilton again, but kept the crystal as a reminder of her first love, and when she heard of his death in a duel with a man named Aaron Burr, she could no longer bear to look at the crystal and so gave it as a wedding gift to her daughter, Hannah, a girl with mystical leanings who claimed to be able to communicate with the dead. The crystal, Hannah declared, was a great help in this regard.