CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

JAN JOUBERTSGAT

Saturday, 1st March 1862

Isabelle paused to catch her breath, leaving Louise’s words hanging in the air. Maya offered her cup and Isabelle took a sip of wine. She felt light-headed, giddy from the experience of being taken into the heart of Louise’s world over two centuries before. When she looked at Xavier’s face, she could see he felt the same.

‘I’m not sure how much you know of your – our – ancestors’ first years here . . .’

She left the question unfinished. It was possible that Xavier knew nothing of the feud between the Joubert and the Vidal families.

‘I know that Théodore Barenton, from whom I am directly descended, was the first owner of the wine farm La Justice. Théodore spoke of Louise Joubert and Gilles Barenton as his parents, though his blood father was in fact Phillipe Vidal. I also know that Vidal, from whom I inherited the streak of white in my hair, was not a good man.’

Isabelle nodded, relieved that she was not about to shatter any illusions or destroy the reputation of someone Xavier had long revered.

‘The feud between the two families began during the Wars of Religion which tore France apart in the sixteenth century. Suzanne Joubert, Louise’s first cousin twice removed, came to the Cape in the winter of 1688 in search of Louise and Gilles.’

Xavier nodded.

‘Suzanne found Théodore, as you know. She gave him Louise’s prison diary to read and he showed her this in return.’ Isabelle patted the diary retrieved from beneath the bridge. ‘Later, once she had found asylum in England, she wrote down what she remembered. I have those notebooks in London. But there were gaps, times when she skates over what had happened – the circumstances of Théodore’s birth, Phillipe’s death. I’m not altogether sure why.’

‘Maybe it was too private?’ suggested Xavier.

‘Or Théodore asked her to keep his confidence,’ Isabelle said. ‘That Gilles gave birth, we know. That Phillipe was the father, we know. But how that came about . . .’

For a moment, they were silent.

‘What happened to Suzanne?’ asked Maya.

‘The ship on which she was sailing back to Amsterdam, the Gouw, was wrecked off the Lizard Peninsula in Cornwall in 1629. She was one of few to survive. Fortunately, she had given Louise’s prison diary – and, indeed, her own precious dagger – into the safekeeping of the captain and his chest was washed up on the beach. But all her writings from the Cape were lost, however, hence her having to write her reflections from memory. Suzanne found her way to London. In time, she fell in love and married another Huguenot refugee, William Lepard.’

‘And so here you are,’ Xavier said.

Isabelle smiled. ‘All the oldest sons in our family have the Christian name William. They were men of faith, but most joined the Anglican Church rather than worship within Huguenot communities. My own dear father was a parish priest.’

‘He did not wish to come with you?’ Maya asked.

‘I regret to say he passed away last year. Both of my brothers were lost in the Crimean War. It broke his heart.’

Maya instinctively drew her daughter to her. ‘I am sorry.’

Isabelle smiled wistfully. ‘I still find myself saving snippets of information to tell him, forgetting he is gone. He would be so proud of me having come this far.’

She gathered her thoughts and returned to the diary on her lap. ‘The next entry is written two days later, the ninth of May 1622, when it seems that Louise’s and Gilles’ plan is to be put into effect.’

Isabelle began to read again, translating the text as she went:

‘These have been the longest hours of my life. Phillipe never leaves my side, and will not allow me alone with Gilles. It is not that he forbids it, but rather that he is always there: talking, asking questions, insinuating and casting a shadow over everything that is said and done. Reminding me constantly, without ever saying as much, that I owe my life to him.

‘Today, of all things, he presented me with my dagger with the emerald at its hilt. It was confiscated by the court in Gran Canaria and I thought it lost for ever. Now, it seems Phillipe had it all along. Of course, I had no choice but to thank him – and, in truth, I was delighted to have it in my possession again – but it is typical that he would have held back returning it to increase my sense of gratitude and of debt. It is a power play.

‘Well, I have his measure and know that everything he does, he does only for himself. At first I gave him the benefit of the doubt, now I check every action for an ulterior motive. So, I thanked him courteously enough, but coolly. I refused to give him the pleasure of showing my genuine delight. That, needless to say, put him in an ill humour.

‘I am watching the sky, praying that the wind will turn and that the Old Moon can sail on the next tide. Only when Phillipe is gone, will I be able to breathe easily again.’