Daphne du Maurier - Frenchmans Creek

"It was very wrong of you," she said, "very irregular."

"I know," he said.

"Besides being dangerous."

"That was the fun of it."

"And if I had known for one moment…"

"What would you have done?"

"I should have come down to Navron at once."

"And then?"

"I should have barred the house. I should have dismissed William. I should have set a watch on the estate."

"All that?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because when I lay in your bed, looking up at your portrait on the wall, that was not how you behaved."

"How did I behave?"

"Very differently."

'What did I do?"

"Many things."

What sort of things?"

"You joined my ship's company, for one thing. You signed your name amongst the faithful. You were the first, and the last woman, to do so."

And saying this, he rose from the table, and went to a drawer, and fetched out a book. This he opened, and on the page she saw the words La Mouette, followed by a string of names. Edmond Vacquier… Jules Thomas… Pierre Blanc… Luc Dumont… and so on. And he reached then for his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and handed it to her.

"Well?" he said, "what about it?"

She took it from him, balancing it in her hand a moment, as though weighing the question, and she did not know whether it was the thought of Harry in London, yawning over his cards, or Godolphin with his bulbous eyes, or the good soup she had taken and the wine she had drunk, making her drowsy and warm, and a little careless, like a butterfly in the sun, or whether it was because he was standing there beside her, but she looked up at him, laughing suddenly, and signed her name in the centre of the page, beneath the others, Dona St. Columb.

"And now you must go back, your children will wonder what has happened to you," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He led the way out of his cabin, and on to the deck. He leant over the rail, and called down to the men amidships.

"First you must be introduced," he said, and he called out an order, in the Breton patois she could not understand, and in a moment his company assembled themselves, glancing up at her in curiosity.

"I am going to tell them that from henceforth you come to the creek unchallenged," he said; "that you are free to come and go as you please. The creek is yours. The ship is yours. You are one of us." He spoke to them briefly, and then one by one they came up to her, and bowed, and kissed her hand, and she laughed back at them, saying, "Thank you" - and there was a madness about, a frivolity, like a dream under the sun. Below, in the water, one of the men waited for her in the boat. She climbed the bulwark, and swung herself over the side onto the ladder. The Frenchman did not help her. He leant against the bulwark and watched her.

"And Navron House?" he said. "Is it barred and bolted, is William to be dismissed?"

"No," she said.

"I must return your call, then," he said, "as a matter of courtesy."

"Of course."

"What is the correct hour? In the afternoon, I believe, between three and four, and you offer me a dish of tea?"

She looked at him, laughing, and shook her head.

"No," she said, "that is for Lord Godolphin and the gentry. Pirates do not call upon ladies in the afternoon. They come stealthily, by night, knocking upon a window - and the lady of the manor, fearful for her safety, gives him supper, by candlelight."

"As you will," he said, "tomorrow then, at ten o'clock?"

"Yes," she said.

"Good night."

"Good night."

He went on standing against the bulwark watching her, as she was pulled ashore in the little boat. The sun had gone behind the trees, and the creek was in shadow. The last of the ebb had run away from the flats, and the water was still. A curlew called once, out of sight, round the bend of the river. The ship, with its bold colouring, its raking masts, looked remote, unreal, a thing of fantasy. She turned, and sped through the trees towards the house, smiling guiltily to herself, like a child hugging a secret.

When she came to the house she saw that William was standing by the window of the salon, making a pretence of putting the room in order, but she knew at once he had been watching for her.

She would not tell him immediately, for the fun of teasing him, and coming into the room, casting her kerchief from her head, she said, "I have been walking, William, my head is better."

"So I observe, my lady," he said, his eyes upon her.

"I walked by the river, where it is quiet and cool."

"Indeed, my lady."

"I had no knowledge of the creek before. It is enchanting, like a fairy-tale. A good hiding-place, William, for fugitives like myself."

"Very probably, my lady."

"And my Lord Godolphin, did you see him?"

"His lordship was not at home, my lady. I bade his servant give your flowers and the message to his lady."

"Thank you, William." She paused a moment, pretending to arrange the sprigs of lilac in their vase, and then, "Oh, William, before I forget. I am giving a small supper party tomorrow night. The hour is rather late, ten o'clock."

"Very well, my lady. How many will you be?"

"Only two, William. Myself and one other - a gentleman."

"Yes, my lady."

"The gentleman will be coming on foot, so there is no need for the groom to stay up and mind a horse."

"No, my lady."

"Can you cook, William?"

"I am not entirely ignorant of the art, my lady."

"Then you shall send the servants to bed, and cook supper for the gentleman and myself, William."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you need not mention the visit to anyone in the house, William."

"No, my lady."

"In fact, William, I propose to behave outrageously."

"So it would seem, my lady."

"And you are dreadfully shocked, William?"

"No, my lady."

"Why not, William?"

"Because nothing you or my master ever did could possibly shock me, my lady."

And at this she burst out laughing, and clasped her hands together.

"Oh, William, my solemn William, then you guessed all the time! How did you know, how could you tell?"

"There was something about your walk, as you entered just now, my lady, that gave you away. And your eyes were - if I may say so without giving offence - very much alive. And coming as you did from the direction of the river I put two and two together, as it were, and said to myself: 'It has happened. They have met at last.' "

"Why 'at last,' William?"

"Because, my lady, I am a fatalist by nature, and I have always known that, sooner or later, the meeting was bound to come about."

"Although I am a lady of the manor, married and respectable, with two children, and your master a lawless Frenchman, and a pirate?"

"In spite of all those things, my lady."

"It is very wrong, William. I am acting against the interests of my country. I could be imprisoned for it."

"Yes, my lady."

But this time he hid his smile no longer, his small button mouth relaxed, and she knew he would no longer be inscrutable and silent, but was her friend, her ally, and she could trust him to the last.

"Do you approve of your master's profession, William?" she said.

"Approve and disapprove are two words that are not in my vocabulary, my lady. Piracy suits my master, and that is all there is to it. His ship is his kingdom, he comes and goes as he pleases, and no man can command him. He is a law unto himself."

"Would it not be possible to be free, to do as he pleases, and yet not be a pirate?"

"My master thinks not, my lady. He has it that those who live a normal life, in this world of ours, are forced into habits, into customs, into a rule of life that eventually kills all initiative, all spontaneity. A man becomes a cog in the wheel, part of a system. But because a pirate is a rebel, and an outcast, he escapes from the world. He is without ties, without man-made principles."

"He has the time, in fact, to be himself."

"Yes, my lady."

"And the idea that piracy is wrong, that does not worry him?"

"He robs those who can afford to be robbed, my lady. He gives away much of what he takes. The poorer people in Brittany benefit very often. No, the moral issue does not concern him."

"He is not married, I suppose?"

"No, my lady. Marriage and piracy do not go together."

"What if his wife should love the sea?"

"Women are apt to obey the laws of nature, my lady, and produce babies."

"Ah! very true, William."

"And women who produce babies have a liking for their own fireside, they no longer want to roam. So a man is faced at once with a choice. He must either stay at home and be bored, or go away and be miserable. He is lost in either case. No, to be really free, a man must sail alone."

"That is your master's philosophy?"

"Yes, my lady."

"I wish I were a man, William."

"Why so, my lady?"

"Because I too would find my ship, and go forth, a law unto myself."

As she spoke there came a loud cry from upstairs, followed by a wail, and the sound of Prue's scolding voice. Dona smiled, and shook her head.

"Your master is right, William," she said, "we are all cogs in a wheel, and mothers most especially. It is only the pirates who are free." And she went upstairs to her children, to soothe them, and wipe away their tears.

That night, as she lay in bed, she reached for the volume of Ronsard on the table by her side, and thought how strange it was that the Frenchman had lain there, his head upon her pillow, this same volume in his hands, his pipe of tobacco in his mouth. She pictured him laying aside the book when he had read enough, even as she did now, and blowing out the candle, and then turning on his side to sleep. She wondered if he slept now, in that cool, quiet cabin of his ship, with the water lapping against the side, the creek itself mysterious and hushed. Or whether he lay on his back as she did, eyes open in the darkness and sleep far distant, brooding on the future, his hands behind his head.

Next morning, when she leant from her bedroom and felt the sun on her face, and saw the clear bright sky with a sharp gloss about it because of the east wind, her first thought was for the ship in the creek. Then she remembered how snug was the anchorage, tucked away in the valley, shrouded by the trees, and how they could scarce have knowledge there of the turbulent tide ripping up the parent river, the short waves curling, while the steep seas at the mouth of the estuary reared and broke themselves into spray.

She remembered the evening that was to come, and the supper party, and began to smile, with all the guilty excitement of a conspirator. The day itself seemed like a prelude, a foretaste of things to come, and she wandered out into the garden to cut flowers, although those in the house were not yet faded.

The cutting of flowers was a peaceful thing, soothing to her unquiet mind, and the very sensation of touching the petals, fingering the long green stalks, laying them in a basket, and later placing them one by one in the vases that William had filled for her, banished her first restlessness. William too was a conspirator. She had observed him in the dining-hall, cleaning the silver, and he had glanced up at her in understanding, for she knew why he worked with such ardour.

"Let us do full justice to Navron," she said; "bring out all the silver, William, and light every candle. And we will use that dinner service with the rose border - that is shut away for banquets." It was exciting, it was amusing - she fetched the dinner service herself and washed the plates, dusty with disuse, and she made a little decoration in the centre of the table with the young buds of fresh-cut roses. Then she and William descended together to the cellar, and peered by candle-light at the cobweb-covered bottles, and he brought forth a wine greatly prized by his master, which they had not known was there. They exchanged smiles, they whispered furtively, and Dona felt all the lovely wickedness of a child who does something wrong, something forbidden, and chokes with secret laughter behind his parent's back.