Caribbean Reign

Chapter 1: Lady of Paradise — Catherine’s Perspective

Sunlight sprawls out over the grey-white beach, coating each grain in a pearl-like sheen.

The rest is less poetic.

Burnt necks and spoilt fruit are commonplace in the Spanish market, and the boiling sun provides little cover. My skin has darkened two shades already. Maman will not be pleased.

I find refuge under the stall of a merchant, a gently aging craftswoman. Above our heads hangs a hand-painted sign that has been decorated with long-stemmed flowers. The merchant’s table is bare. Either the sign of a good day of business or a poor one indeed.

“Buenas tardes, señora,” I say.

“Buenas tardes, señorita.”

The woman’s mouth moves with fuller r’s and rounder sounds. I try to commit her pronunciations to memory. I curtsey deeply. She only stares. Her narrowed eyes question the servant’s dress upon my fair form.

Can she sense the French blood that courses through my veins? Our island, Saint-Michel, has been split down the middle – or less than the middle, to hear the Spaniards tell it. The families Navarro and de Guînes have been feuding for the past half-century, one trying to claim glory for Spain and the other for France.

Once, we sought to bridge the divide with marriage. My eldest aunt, Valentine Marie Elisabeth de Guînes, was sent in white silk to the Navarro patriarch.

They sent her body back in a coffin.

There is a reason that nothing is exchanged between our estates. No business is permitted to pass between borders. Even goodwill is discouraged from conspiring against one’s sense of loyalty.

However, for the time being, I am exempt from the embargo. My thick, chestnut hair has pinned securely under a bonnet, my best ruby necklace offered as bribe to my lady’s maid, Ana. Catherine Eleanor Margarite de Guînes has been banished, and in her stead, stands only a servant girl running errands for her mistress.

The merchant reaches under the counter and retrieves a statuette of two dancers. The circular base clacks on the wooden surface.

“Beautiful dancers for a beautiful girl. Only two reales.”

“Gracias, señora.”

The dancers have been carved with passionate strokes; their motion fossilized in clay. The female dancer teeters on a pointed toe, completely engulfed in painted fabric. Her hand rests upon her partner’s shoulder. The gentleman holds her, head held high, back straight as an arrow. Though they remain a respectable distance apart, his eyes are filled with longing.

I try to imagine my betrothed in such a manner: his powdered wig cutting through a crowded banquet hall, my frame weighed down by a magnificent Parisian creation. Wandering through a molasses of socialites, the layers of fine silk graze my ankles. Around us, a dance begins. It’s a minuet that jolts the ballroom into action. I stumble. The velvet toe of my slipper snags on the floorboards. Benjamin catches me in his arms and yet, I see only a reflection in his empty blue eyes.

Dear Catherine, my fiancé writes in his letters. You are Aphrodite incarnate. Your face, a moonbeam upon the echoes of my heart.

I must be the most unloved moonbeam in all human history. Despite his broad declarations of love, Monsieur Dupré is far more interested in his turnip garden than his soon-to-be bride. Of course, this is of little consequence to my parents. They have chosen a placid gentleman for their willful daughter. A wet towel for a Persian rug. It shall be a slow death, and unfortunately, not even one to occur dans la Ville Lumière.

While I contemplate my eventual demise, a small hand weaves its way around my purse strings. The pouch falls with a soft jingle. A boy of twelve, maybe thirteen, races off into the crowd. Before I can lay hands on him, he disappears in the labyrinth of stalls. Under normal circumstances, a prickly chaperone would warn me not to soil my dress. However, Ana’s uniform, a starched apron and sturdy laces, has been crafted for tight corridors. I lift my skirts to give chase. In my haste, I rattle the merchant’s stand and land uneasily.

The open-air bazaar has carts and merchandise tumbling into its narrow corridors. Madness closes in around me. My route is dictated by the crates and limbs pressed against each other. And yet, the market possesses the upper and lower classes, dark and light, alike. Ladies with feathers in their hair are followed by wide-eyed girls with parasols. Baskets swing from both tattered and well-kept sleeves. A pair of men locked in the heat of negotiation slide a gold piece back and forth.

A woman with a sweat-soaked shawl coiled around her neck turns over merchandise carefully. Instinct tells me that she is a traveler from my side of the island. Despite the ban on Spanish association, there are many who commit treacheries in the name of spice. It was one of our own vendors’ carts that brought me, unknowingly, to this market. There is no loyalty greater than the French kitchen.

A thick man calls out from behind his stall, “Señorita, give this a taste!”

He holds up a clear jar. Two halves of yellow fruit bob in a salty brine. “Best pickled mangoes in all of San Miguel!”

The shop owner across the row shakes her head, “Señorita, do not put that garbage anywhere near your mouth. Have this instead.”

She dangles a steaming piece of fried pastry. Even in the heat, the vapors entice. Unfortunately, there can be no Spanish delights without my purse, and my stiff, brown attire eliminates the option of purchasing goods on credit.

The end of the stalls is marked by a steep descent toward the rolling ocean.

The thief is nowhere to be found. I stand at the edge, observing the luxuriant, blue waves. Seagrass snakes its way into the gap between my soles and Ana’s ill-fitting sandals. I’ve often watched the whirring tides from our balconies, but to be so close is magnificent. Only for the preservation of my complexion am I not rolling in the sand.

Further down the shore, I hear a murmur of activity and the clang of blades.

Two men face off with blunted rapiers. A circle has formed around them. They heave with breath, occasionally darting their sightline to the crowd for encouragement.

Clang. Thud. Clang.

Their boots land uneasily on the sand. The stocky leather is tasked with catching their momentum gone awry. Bare feet would prove a wiser choice, and the heat might make them lighter on their feet.

The difference in the fighters’ sizes frames the fight as one between David and Goliath. A number of hands trade coins as the bout looks to be going one way, and then swiftly, the other. I notice lots of blade contact between these duelists and not much skill. Still, I join in with a clap and a shout when appropriate.

They are energetic men. The short one punches from the hilt, rendering the tip of his weapon useless. His opponent responds to the jabs with a wide, whipping motion. His parries nearly result in his own disarmament.

“Terza! Terza!”

A man on the opposite side of the circle shouts blade positions. With angry beads of sweat running down his temples, he attempts to rescue the bout from an unfavorable outcome. I imagine such dark attire to be rather discomforting in the sunlight. He dons a black tailcoat trimmed in gold.

Perhaps it is part of an advisor’s job to look intimidating. His champion appears to be the one striking wildly, long arms and no idea how to use them.

The advisor curses as a blade lands near his champion’s ear.

If men were not so averse to taking advice from a woman, I would offer my assistance. My education in swordsmanship was carefully tended to until Maman decided that a lady was better suited to the study of a musical instrument. Where I once enjoyed the soft harmonies of piano, I now loathe its feeble tones with every fiber of my being.

A small head appears on the fringes of the circle.

I follow the gaps between heads and shoulders until I see a familiar form relieving a man of his flask. My purse dangles at his waist.

As I reach for the strings, a meaty hand clamps down on my wrist. The hand is connected to a thick beard and long coat decorated with meaningless brass pins.

“Señorita, come with me, por favor.”

“Excusa?”

He does not reply, my favor remains unconsidered. Instead, the constable pulls me straight through the circle, pinching my wrist and pushing aside any spectators in his way. There is no room for protest. He dwarfs me in size, both height and width. The taller duelist nearly lances the constable in the back.

If only the timing had been better.

We trudge up the sandy hill, through the labyrinth of merchants. We pause at the old craftswoman’s stall. She cups a handful of painted clay. The clay has been decimated into broken fragments. I recognize one as a part of the female dancer’s gown. The male dancer’s leg has been reduced to a stub.

The merchant jabs the leg in my direction. “That is the one who stole from me!”

The constable waits for my response. The statuettes must have fallen during the chaos. I faintly recall their bumpy surface beneath my heel.

“Perdón, señora. Stealing was never my intent. It would be an honor to compensate you for the loss of your beautiful art.” I lower my head and hope that my drawing room Spanish is enough to soothe. The scene is starting to garner looks from the other vendors.

The old woman mutters to herself, “That’s the least you could do, you French hussy.”

I bite my lip and reach for my purse. My fingers grasp at the empty space. The thief is probably halfway through the market, drunk on rum and sweets.

“We are waiting, mademoiselle,” says the constable.

I fumble through my apron pocket, knowing full well that all I carry is my borrowed traveling papers.

“My deepest apologies, señora, but my coin purse appears to have been stolen. If you would be kind enough to wait until the next market day, I will happily return with the full amount.”

The merchant shakes her hands. “Next market day? These French thieves take everything from us!”

A few onlookers grumble in agreement.

“I didn’t steal anything. It was a simple mistake — ”

The constable interrupts me, “Señorita, it is the señora’s right to demand compensation. If you have destroyed an item for which you cannot pay, you have committed theft. Under Spanish law, I have no choice but to arrest you.”

For him, the choice seems to be simple. He unlatches a set of manacles from his belt and yanks my wrists in front of me.

“This is a lot of trouble over what I assure you is a misunderstanding. If you will allow me to contact my parents, I can retrieve the full amount. Double, if you so require.”

No response.

He shoves me forward. Tramping through the marketplace, I stumble to keep up with his large strides.

The villagers snicker behind us, “Another French thief who thinks they’re above the law!”

“Show her what we do to thieves on this side of San Miguel!”

Everything would be much easier if I were not in enemy territory. As we pass, the man with pickled mangoes spits at me. I have not even the words to describe the absurdity of my predicament.

A run-down carriage has been left near the road. Its crooked wheels sink into the sand, slumping into an early decay. A horse stout enough to be a donkey has been hitched to the front.

The padlock on the carriage door is removed, and I am prodded inside. Before closing the door, the constable places a hand on my rear. His fingers sink into the fabric, trying to capture the shape of my flesh. Not one soul in the entirety of my parents’ estate would even think of laying a hand on me.

Especially not Benjamin. Disappointed as I might have been about his decision not to relocate our new household to Paris, I certainly prefer my parents’ watchful eye to imprisonment.

“Behave, mademoiselle,” the constable says through greasy lips.

My violated rear settles on the carriage bench. The wooden slat is wide enough to lean against but too narrow to sit comfortably. There is a matching bench on the opposite side and a barred window so that others may revel in my misery. From the smell, I can tell that this carriage has carried a great assortment of riff-raff before me.

The horse-donkey nudges the wagon forward. I slide off the bench and land hard on my knees. My bonnet holds on with just a few pins.

As the beast trots up the dirt road, I almost bring myself to laughter. If Monsieur Dupré knew that his bride was stuck in the back of a police wagon, absorbing the leftover scents of Spanish prostitutes and pickpockets, he might lose interest entirely.

Not such a bad outcome, however, Maman would be furious.

I focus my attentions on a new appeal to sanity. If this officer of the law refuses to treat me with decency, then the magistrate will have to be the one to set me free. Even in the basest scenario, I can appeal to his sense of generosity, or rather, the generosity of my parents’ estate.

Then again, given my abhorrent treatment in Spanish custody, I might be better off concealing my hand. These Spaniards are more likely to succumb to extortion than to reason.

I could threaten our family fleet to blast their illegitimate settlement from existence.

Unfortunately, if we were able to wipe out the Spaniards, certainly, we would have done it already.

 

Chapter 2: Destruction of Property – Catherine’s Perspective

The carriage slams to a halt.

The constable fumbles with the door before yanking me out of the darkness. The sand has been replaced with yellowed stalks of grass and tiny rocks. No wonder this land has been allocated to the public jailhouse. Even the building, a long tube of barred windows, sinks into the ground.

I wince at the blinding sunlight. If all had gone according to plan, I would have been well on my way by now. A lovely last day of freedom had, a secret nestled between my stays.

Lord, deliver me into the inanity of marriage quilts and dull husbands.

Inside, the grim corridor of cells is cloaked in darkness, four on each side. The windows allow just enough light to give the impression of bodies. Their shadows stretch like ghouls in the torchlight. Men criminals on the right, women on the left. The men are packed in, nearly wall to door. The women are much scarcer, hovering around like specters tasting the first emptiness of death.

I cough to clear the putrid air from my lungs. Darkness obscures the source of the toxic vapors. None of these people look well. Bad humors emanate from nearly every corner.

The constable shoves me in front of his superior.

“You’re going to like this one,” he says.

His superior sits from a desk covered by the remnants of an oily midday meal. The paperwork interspersed amongst crumbs is full of information critical to many livelihoods. He wipes his hands on his trousers before rising to lock me away.

At the third cell from the entrance, the jailor presses my face into bars, and with an elbow on my shoulder, reaches for a brass ring of keys.

“State your name.”

I inhale, ignoring the pulpiness of the air and the grains of sand stuck between my toes.

“My name is Catherine Eleanor Marguerite de Guînes of the great Guînes plantation. By unfortunate circumstance, I appear to have landed in your custody. My parents would be more than willing to compensate you for my safe return. I understand if it takes some time to organize the appropriate transportation -”

The jailor interrupts my plea with a backhand.

Instead of further retaliation, he leans against the bars, clutching the bulge of his stomach. Slowly, his choking laughter fills the jailhouse. The constable begins to laugh as well, distantly enough that I cannot imagine him to have heard the joke.

“I wasn’t aware that French heiresses did their own errands,” says the jailor.

His key scrapes the lock of my shackles, feeling for the metallic click of release. With a pop, my hands drop to my sides. I resist the urge to nurse my wounds or console the angry, red indentations on my wrists. It would serve me best to appear unaffected.

“I apologize for the appearance of this situation, but I assure you that this is all a misunderstanding. Any representative of the Guînes Estate would easily be able to confirm my identity.”

He grabs the back of my gown, lifting me to the balls of my feet.

“Isn’t it always a misunderstanding with you ladies? Hands up against the bars.”

He says “ladies” with the disdain that one might say “prostitute.” It would not be such a stretch of the imagination in this establishment. I raise my hands obediently and place them against the metal bars.

The jailor’s hand snakes around my waist. He feels for the edges of my stomacher and prods the flesh with his fingertips. Then, he ventures lower. His fingers slide against my skirts, eventually settling on my thighs. Even through the thick material, I feel the hand staking its claim.

“Señor!” I attempt to recoil, but his forearm lays pressure between my shoulder blades.

“Look at you! Tongue enough for two sets of teeth.”

After that, he is more adventurous.

The keys on his waist smack against each other as he lowers himself to the ground. Damp air rushes upwards as the edge of my skirts is lifted. The man is preening for a view of my undercarriage. I stand still as if a lack of movement could save me from his calloused hands. He rubs my ankles and then lets the fabric drop.

He reaches around my waist with the authority of a husband, but luckily, only rifles through my pockets.

I distract myself with the happenings of the cell in front of me. The floor of the room, which I hesitate to call a room, is covered in hay. Bolted to the wall is a bench with one occupant seated, a young, native woman. Scratches and squeaks rise up into the rafters. The woman has tucked her feet to her chest, unwilling to contend with such noises. She looks up at me, her brow buried in sadness.

The jailor spins me around, waving a piece of folded parchment.

“Any chance you wish to recant, Annalise?”

His breath is a stew of molding bread. I reach for the traveling papers, but he swats my hand away.

“I was only borrowing those. They belong to my maid.”

“We Spaniards are not illiterate, girl. Even I know enough Français to detect a liar.”

His spit lands on my cheek. If only he knew enough to detect the truth.

I wipe away his saliva with the back of my hand. “If you are certain that I am a slave, monsieur, should you not return me to my masters?”

The jailor pauses to think upon it. After a moment, he leans against the cell door. His pinky finger scrapes at the crumbs stuck between his molars.

“Look, girl, the way I see it, it would cost a small fortune to send you over the border.”

“My family would be willing to fund your efforts twice over.”

“As you’ve mentioned.”

The jailor’s plump fingers fall to his trouser buttons, and he reaches for me with his other hand. “Thing is, we don’t saddle up an envoy on the promise of payment. Now, if you had something else to offer — maybe then, I could put in a good word for you.”

I retreat until my ankles slam against the bars. My virtue is not a common man’s bargaining chip.

“I have nothing else, señor.”

Hunger leaks out of his grin. The cell door slides open with an angry creak. “Suit yourself, prisoner. We’ll see how you do in front of the magistrate.”

I hurry inside before he finds his hands upon my body.

The door locks with the key beyond my possession. If the jailor decides that he wants me, then he shall have me. There is little I can do to stop him; little I can do to clean up his mess. What kind of Frenchman would marry a girl deflowered by a dockyard Spaniard?