Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France by Amanda McCabe

Author:Amanda McCabe [McCabe, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2016-11-07T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

That night, when Madame Monsard was safely asleep and Monsieur Harcourt was having his after-dinner brandy in the dining room, I was alone in my chamber, and I took out the first volume of Monsieur Monsard's diary purloined from the east wing. I settled in to read by my fire, my shawl drawn close around my shoulders against the chilly evening.

It was not easy to make out his words. His handwriting was small and cramped, slanting across the page as if he wrote hurriedly in a faint light. But once I deciphered it, he told a most fascinating tale of a place so different from the cold, gray-winter of the Norman cliffs outside my window. I was soon lost amid warm sunlight slanting through emerald-like palm leaves, shimmering white sands, and the beat of drums in the dusty night. The sweet, heavy scent of flowers, the poetry of a new music, the taste of pungent fruit.

It has been a week now since I arrived at my new posting, after a journey much longer and more treacherous than I anticipated. I miss Madeline very much, and look at her portrait often, yet she feels a world away. Almost as if we were already parted by death and dwell in different universes. I write to her, but do not know when she will see my words or I hers. I hope she lives happily at Pierpont and has made it her own home.

Though I do think of that house, the house of my ancestors, it already no longer seems like home. My new dwelling is beautiful beyond anything that could be imagined. The flowers that bloom everywhere and fall upon the paths smell so sweet, and the sun is always bright. The fruits and fish of my dinners are like the most delectable ambrosia. I find myself falling under a lovely, lulling spell, especially at night when the warm sea breezes carry that scent of flowers through my windows, and I hear the beat of drums from the hills.

I wonder what they do there so late at night, what that music means. Pierre, my secretary, who has been here for a long time, says I must pay it no attention, that many things here have nothing to do with us and we must ignore it if we don't want to imperil ourselves.

Imperil ourselves in what way I cannot imagine. The few islanders I have met so far are friendly and curious. I hope to learn much more from them about this amazing place, for it fascinates me.

At sunset yesterday, I glimpsed one of the islanders standing at the end of the beach. For an instant, I was sure I was asleep, dreaming, for I have never imagined such beauty. She was tall and slender as a palm leaf, with waving dark hair to her knees and a glowing smile. But when I tried to go to her, to speak to her, she vanished. The next morning, I found a bouquet of local flowers on my doorstep.

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