Excitement flooded Renzi. The overall objective was clear: to find the genuine base and bring back proof so persuasive it would be impossible to ignore. Then he would be vindicated. Triangulating from known positions of the losses to pinpoint it had proved inconclusive. But as he reflected on his earlier conclusion about the degree of risk and unreliability of setting up a covert naval base in a dominion out of their direct control, he realised that, if this was to be accepted, the converse must therefore be true: the only safe location was on French sovereign territory and, if that was so, the odds shortened considerably.
There were only two islands of significance still in French hands, Guadeloupe and Martinique. Putting aside all other concerns, it narrowed the search immensely – he had only to reconnoitre those.
He’d start with Guadeloupe, so conveniently close and— What was he thinking? He was known, a marked man. There was no way he could move about enemy territory even in some form of disguise: he’d likely be recognised on the spot.
His hopes died. If he could not get the proof there was no point in going on.
In despair he slumped back. But then …
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.