The thought of Guadeloupe had triggered another memory from the past, from even earlier in the war when Kydd and he had been part of the ill-fated assault that had been thrown back when revolutionaries had landed and wreaked a bloody revenge. They had escaped, along with any royalists who could. Among them had been the gentle and wistful Louise Vernou.
The last he had seen of her was here in Antigua, at St John’s. Presuming she was still here, could she have kept up some form of connection with her family or friends in Guadeloupe? It was worth a try, at least to gather information or even clues. For all he knew, it might develop – a secret correspondence with those on the island in a position to know, trusted by reason of being her family?
Kydd accepted his arrival with well-concealed surprise. He was staying in a country villa within sight of the light-yellow-brick church and the well-remembered harbour. ‘Why, Nicholas, you’re joining me for the season?’
‘For some reason, dear fellow, I feel restless, not to say out of sorts. I’m persuaded a change of air from that to be found in the bowels of a frigate will answer.’ He had determined that he would tell Kydd nothing until he had his proof.
‘Then do consider this your home while you’re in the north, m’ friend.’
The next day, on the pretext of taking the air, Renzi set out. It could not have been easier. Recalling that Louise Vernou had taught French to English officers in the past, he enquired at the admiral’s headquarters and found a list of teachers. Among them was her name.
Memories flooded back: he and Kydd had been billeted on the family and grown close. Then, when the revolutionaries had triumphed, he had escaped Guadeloupe in a merchant brig with her, leaving Kydd with the last defenders. On the way they had been mauled by a hurricane but had made St John’s and then had parted.
He remembered her gentle smile, quiet dignity and old-fashioned politeness, which had stayed even as the insanity of revolution and bloodshed had reached out to engulf her world.
Her teaching rooms were near the waterfront, a small but tidy house with a neat garden, her sign discreetly in the front window. As he walked to the door he paused, hearing a sturdy masculine voice chanting irregular verbs, then soft encouragement from her.
For a long moment he remained standing there, unwilling to have the memory of years stripped away to a harder present.
The chanting stopped, there was a murmur of voices and the door opened to let out a young redcoat officer, who flashed an embarrassed smile at Renzi and left quickly.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, M’sieur?’ Louise Vernou asked softly.
She had hardly changed. She was wearing a modest but elegant blue dress, and the touch of grey in her hair he’d remembered had barely advanced. That direct, almost intimate gaze held his without recognition.
She waited politely.
‘Madame Louise Vernou, I believe,’ he said gently, in French.
It came to her then. Her hand flew to her lips, and her eyes opened wide. ‘Mon Dieu – can it be …? It is! M’sieur Renzi!’
She swayed for a moment before Renzi caught the glitter of tears. Then, with a sob, she flung herself at him.
He let the emotion spend itself, holding her slight body tenderly as she connected once again with the fearful events of years before.
She pulled away, dabbing her eyes. ‘I do apologise,’ she said in English. ‘I forget your country does not value the open expression of feeling as do we. Please to come in, M’sieur.’
As soon as he entered Renzi caught the same subtle fragrance that he had first met when he and Kydd had shared a bedroom that had belonged to her. It touched him; the madness of war had spared this gentle soul.
‘Tea?’ she enquired, her voice tight with emotion.
They sat side by side in the drawing room while the maid brought refreshments.
Louise looked at him intently, then said quietly, ‘You never were the simple sailor, Mr Renzi, were you? What do you now?’
‘Je vais vous expliquer a un autre moment,’ he answered. Her English was greatly improved but his French was better.
She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if I want to know the answer, but could you tell me this? What became of the young sailor, Tom Kydd, your friend? He gave up his own place in the boat for me,’ she added, with a catch in her throat. ‘Such a fine man and true.’
‘You may not believe me if I told you, Madame.’
‘Do, please!’
‘In English Harbour dockyard there lies a smart frigate, her name L’Aurore. Her commander is … Captain Thomas Kydd.’
‘Vraiment? Quelle merveille!’ she squealed, her hands working together. ‘What happened? You must tell me.’
‘Dear Madame, I rather feel that it were better told within the civilities of a dinner perhaps. Do you-’
‘This very evening. It shall be here, and I will prepare it myself. Do you object, sir, if it were we two alone?’ she added, with a coy smile in her eyes.
The fish was exquisitely cooked in a delicate sauce and the little dining room touchingly feminine with its carefully chosen pieces and faultlessly draped hangings in the soft gold of the candlelight.
Their converse was intelligent and attentive; they relished the courtly exchanges, the courteous deferences and gallantries of the old order.
Renzi recounted the epic adventures that had led to Kydd’s rise to eminence in his profession and his own calling of scholar, while Louise told a poignant tale of being wrenched from her homeland, her brother’s suffering under the guillotine and her quiet waiting existence in exile.
It called for a vin d’honneur and a promise that she would be allowed to meet Kydd once again at the earliest opportunity – and then Renzi knew it could not be put off any further.
‘Louise, ma chere, what do you know of the current perils that face us in the Caribbean as we dine together here so elegantly?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Surely the tyrant is now vanquished in these parts. He makes imperial decrees as he struts in the Tuileries, but they cannot affect us here, not with your great navy that prevails over all.’
Renzi let his expression sadden. ‘Dear lady, there has recently arisen a threat that is even now wreaking ruin all over the Caribbean. I would not trouble to mention it, save it is causing the gravest anxiety to Captain Kydd and his fellow officers. It is such a scourge as bears on all our spirits.’
‘How can this be, Nicholas?’
It was easily told, the ruinous losses, all unexplained – then, after he had extracted a promise of secrecy, the probability that it was the result of a clandestine naval operation by numerous small craft, which had to be centred and directed from French territory.
‘And you believe this to be in Guadeloupe?’ she asked shrewdly.
‘Just so.’
‘Then …’ she began uncertainly.
‘Louise, do you have family still in Pointe-a-Pitre? Or friends you may still talk with in other parts of the island?’
‘You want to learn if anything is known of this port de guerre there,’ she replied quickly. ‘And I have to tell you that, no, to communicate with them, ce n’est pas possible.’
‘There is no way you can get word to them?’
‘I know why you ask, and if it were possible I would try, but you must understand this war is like no other. Revolutionaries and islanders both live together in suspicion and hatred, and if by any means I could get through to any in Guadeloupe they would pay for it with their lives.’
There was no way forward – except one. Even before he spoke Renzi despised himself. ‘Louise … this leaves only one alternative. To land someone on the shores of Guadeloupe to see if such a base exists.’
Her eyes on him were still and luminous.
‘I wish with all my heart it could be me,’ he said, ‘but I am known to them and would not survive to bring back the information.’