Frenchmans Creek - Daphne du Maurier

"Yes, but you are not."

"Were I in his shoes I would never have permitted you to travel west, alone. Women, without their husbands, have been known to lose their heads."

"Only their heads?"

"I repeat, they have been known to lose their heads in a moment of crisis. You think yourself brave enough now, no doubt, but if you came face to face with a pirate I dare swear you would shiver and swoon, like the rest of your sex."

"I would certainly shiver."

"I could not say much in front of my wife, her nerves are very bad at the moment, but one or two ugly rumours have come to my ears, and Eustick's also."

"What sort of rumours?"

"Women - er - distressed, and so on."

"Distressed about what?"

"The country people are dumb, they give nothing away. But it looks to us as if some of the women in the hamlets hereabouts have suffered at the hands of these damned scoundrels."

"Is it not rather unwise to probe into the matter?"

"Why so?"

"You may find they did not suffer at all, but on the contrary, enjoyed themselves immensely. Drive on, will you, William?" And bowing and smiling from her open carriage the Lady St. Columb waved her gloved hand to Lord Godolphin.

Down the long avenue they sped, past the peacocks on the smooth lawns, and the deer in the park, and so out on to the highway, and Dona, taking off her hat and fanning herself with it, glanced up at William's stiff back and laughed silently.

"William, I have behaved very badly."

"So I gathered, my lady."

"It was exceedingly hot in Lord Godolphin's house, and his lady had all the windows shut."

"Very trying, my lady."

"And I found none of the company particularly to my taste."

"No, my lady."

"And for two pins I would have said something perfectly terrible."

"Just as well you had no pins upon you, my lady."

"There was a man called Eustick, and another called Penrose."

"Yes, my lady."

"I disliked both equally."

"Yes, my lady."

"The fact of the matter is, William, these people are beginning to wake up. There was much talk of piracy."

"I overheard his lordship just now, my lady."

"Talk also of plans of capture, of banding themselves together, of hangings from the tallest tree. And they have their suspicions of the river."

"I knew it was only a matter of time, my lady."

"Do you think your master is aware of the danger?"

"I rather think so, my lady."

"And yet he continues to anchor in the creek."

"Yes, my lady."

"He has been here nearly a month. Does he always stay as long as this?"

"No, my lady."

"What is his usual visit?"

"Five or six days, my lady."

"The time has gone very quickly. Possibly he does not realise he has been here so long."

"Possibly not."

"I am becoming quite knowledgeable about birds, William."

"So I have noticed, my lady."

"I am beginning to recognise the many differences in song, and the variations in flight, William."

"Indeed, my lady."

"Also I am quite an expert with rod and line."

"That I have also observed, my lady."

"Your master is an excellent instructor."

"So it would appear, my lady."

"It is rather strange, is it not, William, that before I came to Navron I thought very little about birds, and even less of fishing?"

"It is rather strange, my lady."

"I suppose that - that the desire to know about these things was always present, but lying dormant, if you understand what I mean."

"I understand your meaning perfectly, my lady."

"It is difficult for a woman to acquire knowledge of birds and of fishing alone, don't you think?"

"Almost impossible, my lady."

"An instructor is really necessary."

"Quite imperative, my lady."

"But of course the instructor must be sympathetic."

"That is important, my lady."

"And fond of - imparting his knowledge to his pupil."

"That goes without saying, my lady."

"And possibly, through the pupil, the instructor's own knowledge becomes more perfect. He gains something he did not have before. In a sense, they learn from one another."

"You have put the matter in a nutshell, my lady."

Dear William, he was most companionable. He always understood. It was like having a confessor who never reproved or condemned.

"What story did you tell at Navron, William?"

"I said that you were staying to dine at his lordship's, and would be late, my lady."

"And where will you stable the horses?"

"That is all arranged for. I have friends at Gweek, my lady."

"To whom you have also spun a story?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And where shall I change my gown?"

"I thought your ladyship would not be averse to changing behind a tree."

"How very considerate of you, William. Have you chosen the tree?"

"I have gone so far as to mark one down, my lady."

The road turned sharply to the left, and they were beside the river once again. The gleam of water shimmered between the trees. William pulled the horses to a standstill. He paused a moment, then put his hand to his mouth and gave a sea-gull's cry. It was echoed immediately from the river bank, just out of sight, and the servant turned to his mistress.

"He is waiting for you, my lady."

Dona pulled out an old gown from behind the cushion in the carriage, and threw it over her arm. "Which is the tree you mean, William?"

"The wide one, my lady, the oak with the spreading branches."

"Do you think me mad, William?"

"Shall we say - not entirely sane, my lady?"

"It is rather a lovely feeling, William."

"So I have always understood, my lady."

"One is absurdly happy for no reason - rather like a butterfly."

"Exactly, my lady."

"What do you know of the habits of butterflies?"

Dona turned, and William's master stood before her, his hands busy with a line which he was knotting, and which he slipped through the eye of a hook, breaking the loose end between his teeth.

"You walk very silently," she said.

"A habit of long practice."

"I was merely making an observation to William."

"About butterflies I gather. And what makes you so sure of their happiness?"

"One has only to look at them."

"Their fashion of dancing in the sun you mean?"

"Yes."

"And you feel like doing the same?"

"Yes."

"You had better change your gown then. Ladies of the manor who drink tea with Lord Godolphin know nothing of butterflies. I will wait for you in the boat. The river is alive with fish." He turned his back on her, and went off again to the river bank, and Dona, sheltered by the spreading oak, stripped herself of her silk gown, and put on the other, laughing to herself, while her ringlets escaped from the clasp that held them, and fell forward over her face. When she was ready she gave her silk gown to William, who was standing with face averted by his horses' heads.

"We shall go down river with the tide, William, and I will walk up to Navron from the creek."

"Very good, my lady."

"I shall be in the avenue shortly after ten o'clock, William."

"Yes, my lady."

"And you can drive me to the house as though we were just returning from Lord Godolphin's."

"Yes, my lady."

"What are you smiling at?"

"I was not aware, my lady, that my features were in any way relaxed."

"You are a liar. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, my lady."

She lifted her old muslin gown above her ankles, tightening the sash at her waist to keep it in place, and then ran barefoot through the trees to the boat that was waiting beneath the bank.

CHAPTER IX

The Frenchman was fixing the worm onto the line, and looked up with a smile. "You have not been long." "I had no mirror to delay me." "You understand now," he said, "how simple life becomes when things like mirrors are forgotten." She stepped down into the boat beside him. -

"Let me fix the worm on the hook," she said. He gave her the line, and taking the long paddles he pushed down stream, watching her as she sat in the bows of the boat. She frowned, concentrating on her task, and because the worm wriggled she jabbed her fingers with the hook. She swore under her breath, and glancing up, saw that he was laughing at her.

"I cannot do it," she said, angrily, "why must a woman be so useless at these things?"

"I will do it for you directly," he said, "when we are farther down stream."

"But that is beside the point," she said. "I wish to do it myself. I will not be beaten."

He did not answer, but began whistling softly to himself, and because he took his eye from her, watching a bird flying overhead, saying nothing to her, she settled once again to her task, and presently cried out in triumph, "I have done it, look, I have done it," and held up her line for him to see.

"Very good," he said, "you are making progress," and resting on the paddles, he let the boat drift with the tide.

Presently, when they had gone some distance, he reached for a large stone under her feet, and fastening this to a long length of rope he threw it overboard, so that they came to anchor, and they sat there together, she in the bows of the boat and he on the centre thwart, each with a fishing-line.

There was a faint ripple on the water, and down with the ebbing tide came little wisps of grass, and a fallen leaf or two. It was very still. The thin wet line between Dona's fingers pulled gently with the tide, and now and again, from impatience, she pulled it in to examine the hook, but the worm remained untouched, save for a dark ribbon of seaweed that clung to the end of the line. "You are letting it touch the bottom," he said. She pulled in a length or so, watching him out of the tail of her eye, and when she saw that he did not criticise her method of fishing, or intrude upon her in any way, but continued with his own fishing, quietly content, she let the length of line slip once more between her fingers, and began to consider the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the shape of his hands. He had been drawing as usual, while he waited for her, she supposed, for in the stern of the boat, under some fishing tackle, was a sheet of paper, bedraggled now and wet, and a rough sketch of a flight of sanderling, rising from the mud.

She thought of the drawing he had made of her, a day or so ago, and how different it was from that first one he had done, the one he had torn in fragments, for the new drawing had caught her in a laughing mood, leaning over the rail of the ship and watching the comic Pierre Blanc sing one of his outrageous songs, and later he had nailed it up on the bulkhead of his cabin, over the fireplace, scrawling the date at the bottom of the paper.

"Why do you not tear it up, like you did the first?" she had asked.

"Because this is the mood I would capture, and remember," he had said.

"As being more fitting to a member of the crew of La Mouette?"

"Perhaps," he answered, but he would say nothing more. And here he was now, forgetful of his drawing, intent only upon this business of fishing, while only a few miles away there were men who planned his capture, his death, and even at this moment possibly the servants of Eustick, and Penrose, and Godolphin were asking questions along the coast, and in the scattered hamlets of the countryside.

"What is the matter?" he said quietly, breaking in upon her thoughts. "Do you not want to fish any more?"