The island seemed oddly deserted, the usual smoke and steam from the cannery absent and the workers’ houses shuttered and silent. Cutter put the Goose down in the bay, looking around in some confusion. No-one came to greet them at the dock, and Corky had to scramble out of the nose hatch to secure the plane. Bon Chance stepped cautiously onto the jetty and frowned. A dog was rooting around a pile of abandoned boxes, but it scampered away when Jack trotted across to say hello. Cutter followed the Frenchman onto the island with equal caution. The entire place felt as if it were about to explode.
"Wait with the Goose," Bon Chance ordered Corky quietly, drawing a wary nod from the burly mechanic. "Bring my bag if I send Jack for it."
Pilot and Magistrate walked up the shallow steps towards the main house with the distinct impression that a thousand eyes were fixed on their shoulders. A curtain twitched in one of the smaller buildings and a door creaked, drawing Cutter'’ attention with anxious alarm. He shivered, sensing the tension that filled the air, the sense of expectation and fear that whispered around them. "I don’t like this," he muttered, eliciting a look of agreement from his company.
Bon Chance reached down and unclipped the strap that restrained his revolver, his fingers slipping the safety free with practised ease. The pilot registered the gesture and followed suit, licking his lips as his mouth went dry. Ahead of him the Frenchman put out his hand and pushed at the main door of the house. It opened easily.
A noise behind them spun them both, two loaded guns focusing on the alarmed figure that had crept to join them: a worker, frozen in startled fear. The two men exchanged a glance and then Bon Chance lowered his revolver and slid it back into its holster. "Well?" he asked, his expression demanding the required explanation. The native worker swallowed hard, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting all hell to let loose any moment.
"It’s not safe here," the man said anxiously. "You shouldn’t have come. Go, now. He’ll be back any moment."
"Crawcour?" the Frenchman queried as if it confirmed all his suspicions. The man nodded uneasily. "What has happened?" Cutter let loose a tight breath and lowered his own weapon, turning to cast a vigilant eye over the open space around them.
The worker echoed the pilot’s glance, his face nervous and uncomfortable. "Mons Crawcour - he likes to drink. That is all. It makes him angry. He takes his gun and ... go. It will pass; it has before. There is no reasoning with him while the drink is in his blood. But he only hurts those who get in his way. Those who ..." He caught back his words as if he had said too much, stepping back with fearful steps. "Leave - or hide," he pleaded. "Don’t let him see you." He turned and ran, seeking the safety of the nearest building and slamming the door firmly behind him. The two men exchanged a grim glance.
"Those who ... what?" Cutter asked suspiciously.
Bon Chance’s expression dropped into anxious comprehension. "Madelaine" he realised bleakly. He turned and strode into the house. Cutter paused to jerk his head at Jack and the dog pattered through the doorway, his ears alert and his nose darting from side to side. The pilot followed slowly, taking frequent glances over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure exactly what might happen, but whatever Crawcour was up to it was bad enough to keep an entire island’s population behind closed doors.
The interior of the house was quiet as the grave. A number of doors led off the reception hall, one a corridor that led towards the guest wing. That was an unlikely place to look; while Jack nosed around the polished floor, Bon Chance chose an archway that would take him further into the depths of the building and Cutter paused to glance into the nearest sideroom. Within, the remains of a radio lay scattered across the floor, its carcass torn from its mountings by considerable force. The pilot winced and moved on.
Jack whuffed with decision and ran after the Frenchman, catching up to lead the way into an airy lounge area. Open French windows revealed a view of the bay beyond a filmy curtaining of net which billowed lightly in the breeze. The dog ran forward and scraped at a closed door, whining a little as he did so. Bon Chance glanced once at the patio behind the curtaining, then strode across to open the door that had drawn the dog’s attention.
Madelaine sat huddled on the edge of her low bed, rocking backwards and forwards in undirected distress. She looked up as the door opened, her eyes written with anxious fear. It gave way to almost tangible relief as she recognised the figure that awaited her. "Louie? Oh, Louie ..." She levered her swollen body upright and went to him, moving in what would have been a desperate run had she not been so ungainly. He met her halfway, wrapping her in his arms with reassuring strength. She clung to him, weeping and shaking with reaction. "I’m so afraid ..."
"Ssh," he quietened her, stroking her hair and cradling her gently. His eyes were grim but he let none of the anger that boiled inside him reach his voice. "It’s all right now. Everything is going to be all right."
"Non," she breathed, the sound almost a moan. "You shouldn’t have come. He’s going to kill you. He told me he would. He made me call you ... you have to go. Go, now!"
"We will," he promised, guiding her towards the door as he spoke. "Jack brought me. We can leave in the Goose, straight away."
Cutter appeared in the doorway as he said it, confirming the statement with an anxious grin. "Did you find ...?" His expression deepened into tight horror. "Oh, my god." His reaction was understandable - even half hidden in the Frenchman’s arms, Madelaine’s condition was undisguisable. Her face and arms were patterned with bruises; a swollen lip and a vicious cut above her eye added to the picture of her distress. Her hair was lank and uncombed and she was wrapped in no more than a simple shift, its fabric stained and torn. The pilot stared at the two of them in incomprehension, finding his friend’s expression carved from granite and ice. "Did he ...? The bastard!" Cutter exclaimed, visibly shaken. "Is she all right?"
Bon Chance shook his head in quiet denial. "We are leaving, Jake. Madelaine cannot stay here any longer."
Jack barked in sudden alarm. Cutter turned, alerted by it, but only had time to raise one arm in a futile gesture of protection before the full weight of a bamboo and cane chair impacted against him. He tumbled in through the doorway, splintered wood accompanying his fall, rolled over once with a groan and then lay still, blood beginning to ooze from his temple. Madelaine gave a small cry of terror and buried her face in her companion’s shoulder. Gerald Crawcour stood framed in the doorway, his eyes wild and the menacing length of a shotgun resting easily in one hand.
Bon Chance had dropped his own hand towards the butt of his revolver, but he was hampered by the woman’s desperate hold on him. His eyes locked with those of the enraged figure in the doorway and, very carefully, he drew the gun from its holster with his fingertips and tossed it away onto the bed.
"That was sensible," Crawcour growled, a sneer creeping onto his face as he realised he had the upper hand. He stepped forward over the unconscious pilot and stared at the tableaux of his pregnant wife clinging to another man. Jack growled unhappily and crept round to nose at his master. Cutter didn’t move, and Crawcour ignored both of them.
"How touching," he drawling derisively. "The bitch and her besotted lover - come to spirit her away from me, Bon Chance? Come to steal her, the way you’ve stolen everything else on this island?" There was a slur in his angry words that betrayed his state far better than the scent of whisky that he had brought with him. His eyes held no hint of reason - just an irrational fury that challenged argument and threatened undirected violence.
Bon Chance’s own anger was under tighter control. It smouldered coldly behind his eyes and set his expression into calculated lines of stone. Had he truly been caught en flagrante by a cuckolded husband (a situation he had generally managed to avoid, on the whole) he might have counted on reason and rapid dissemblance to come to his aid; but the present situation didn’t fit that particular picture at all, no matter how Crawcour might wish it to. He wasn’t even certain that the man deserved an answer to his lurid accusation, so great was the contempt that he felt for him at that moment. The unstable gleam in his accuser'’ eyes, coupled with the highly lethal length of the gun, indicated that he react with caution. His concern wasn’t for himself so much as for the other lives that his actions would affect - for Cutter, sprawled wounded and defenceless at the madman’s feet; for Madelaine, clinging to him with abject terror - and for her child, the most vulnerable of them all.
"Let her be, Crawcour," he sad softly. "Surely you have hurt her enough." Madelaine’s anxious grip tightened at his words. She was weeping silently, too distraught to stop.
"She won’t learn," her husband growled. "She defies me. Deceives me. She’s a cruel and wanton woman, without respect, without shame. She is my wife, and I will treat her as I see fit!" He took another step forward and Madelaine shrank behind her protector with a frightened gasp.
"You have no right," Bon Chance said tightly, biting back his anger with difficulty. "No right to abuse her; no right to even threaten her, let alone the child she carries."
"No right?" Crawcour was a tower of rage. "She’s my wife! And she will obey me. Will submit to me, whether she likes it or not. As for you ..." The muzzle of the gun swung up to hover menacingly inches from its intended victim’s stomach. "You have encouraged her from the beginning. You have conspired with her to deny me this estate and you accepted from her what was rightfully mine. Did you laugh about me, Bon Chance? While she made love to you, did you mock me? Did you?" Each question jabbed the gun forward, forcing the pair of them backwards a step at a time.
"Madelaine has been faithful to you, Crawcour," Bon Chance responded tightly. "She has kept her vow to honour you - which is more than you have done."
"Liar!" the man hissed. "I know. I know all about it, and no-one will condemn me when I act to preserve my tarnished honour. She’s my wife. She’s mine. Who will blame me if I strike down her lover when I find them together? When he was going to take her from me?" Behind him, Cutter was stirring groggily, responding to Jack’s insistent attentions.
"A crime of passion is still accounted as a crime," Bon Chance pointed out, his voice cold. He was trying to push Madelaine away from him, to get her away from the line of the gun and, after brief bewilderment, she let go to step cautiously aside. "The French court takes murder very seriously. You would go to the guillotine - or worse. Jealousy has taken too many men to fester in the penal colonies. You would not like it there, I can assure you."
"Don’t try sweet words on me." Crawcour was contemptuous. "You won’t talk yourself out of this. Madelaine will support me. Won’t you, Madelaine?" There was violent threat in that appeal, a threat that tightened the cold knot of fury in Bon Chance’s heart. Madelaine glanced from one man to the other and back again.
"Please, Gerald," she pleaded. "Listen to him. I have been true, I swear it. Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want me to ..."
"Whore!" Crawcour’s hand went out, striking his wife across the face and sending her spinning onto the bed. "Scarlet woman! Repent your sinning and don’t plead for the devil that led you astray!"
It was enough. Anger ignited white hot behind Bon Chance’s eyes. His hand snaked out, turning aside the muzzle of the gun and he moved like lightning, twisting so that the heel of his other palm slammed full force into his opponent’s stomach. The gun went off. Crawcour doubled over, then came up with a roar. He let the gun tumble from his grip and launched himself forward, driving his whole weight at his opponent; they went backwards together, the older man’s shoulders impacting against the wall with an audible crack.
It was not an honourable contest, but a desperate struggle in which fingers clawed and knees and elbows were used to strike with full force. Bon Chance had the advantage of speed and co-ordination, his opponent depending on sheer strength and weight; had the burly surveyor not been so drunk as to ignore the simple matter of pain the fight might have been over in short seconds. As it was, the first impact of directed violence, normally counted on to at least wind if not disable an opponent, failed to do more than enrage the already berserk man. Calculated skill gave way to desperation as Crawcour pressed home his advantage of size.
A twist of shoulders that redirected pressure into sideways movement gave the smaller man a momentary breathing space; the surveyor slammed his own bulk into the wall. He came back madder than ever, toppling the two of them straight through a small table that splintered under the impact. Bon Chance rolled as they went down, trying to avoid being pinned under his opponent’s weight; they tumbled over several times, neither gaining benefit of grip or leverage. Somewhere, Jack was barking wildly.
Bruised and not a little disorientated, Bon Chance focused his attention on the need to conclude matters as quickly as he could. One hand sought Crawcour’s throat, tightening there with deliberate pressure; the other held off the clawing hand that reached for his eyes. The surveyor grunted angrily, twisting over so that his full weight pressed down to imprison his opponent. His knee jerked up and then twisted, grinding into the smaller man’s groin and stomach. The pain was unmistakably savage and sent its victim’s head spinning. His grip relaxed involuntarily, allowing Crawcour to pin his arm and shoulder to the floor. The surveyor pushed aside his other hand and rammed his forearm up under his rival’s chin. He paused for a moment’s grin of victory, then pressed down with murderous intent.
The world spun, even as Bon Chance struggled to be free. He could not breath, could not escape the merciless grip. Distantly he heard thunder over the roaring in his ears, then, somehow, the pressure at his throat was gone and Crawcour was no more than a limp weight lying over him. He lay dazed for a moment, the event not making sense, his vision swimming. Somewhere he found the strength to lever the slack body away, and lift himself up a little groggily. Madelaine was staring at him, her swollen body hunched on the bed, the still smoking revolver in her hands.
"Oh my god." On the far side of the room, Cutter had crawled unsteadily to his feet. He was leaning in the doorframe, one hand tentatively raised to the trickle of blood that stained his temple, and he was staring with bleary bemusement at the sight in front of him. "Louie? Are you okay?"
Bon Chance glanced from Madelaine’s shocked expression to his friend’s wounded face and then back again before easing himself carefully from the floor. He was labouring a little for breath, but he pushed consideration of his own abuses to one side in order to deal with more important matters. Carefully, he reached out and removed his revolver from the woman’s nerveless fingers. "I will live, mon ami. What of you?"
The pilot shook his head n an attempt to clear his vision, then obviously regretted the action. "I think I might be okay once I stop seeing double. Is he ...?"
"Dead? Oui. Quite efficiently." He had put the gun to once side and placed his hand gently over Madelaine’s quivering shoulder. With the other he careful turned her dazed eyes towards him and away from the sprawled corpse on the floor. "Madelaine?" he questioned softly.
Her gaze focused slowly and then she seemed to come back to herself in a rush. She gasped and collapsed into his arms, where she shook uncontrollably. "Mon dieu," she managed. "I didn’t know what else to do. I thought he was going to kill you ..."
"Ssh," he comforted her. "It is over. You are safe now. He cannot hurt you any more." She clung to him, and he disentangled himself reluctantly. "Madelaine," he murmured, "I am not going to leave you. But Jake is hurt, and I must see ..."
She nodded, gulping in desperate breaths to steady herself before huddling back onto the support of the bed. His hand lingered on her shoulder a moment longer, then he turned and limped across the room. Cutter watched him come, the pilot’s face stark white and his body swaying despite his efforts to remain upright.
"Mon dieu," the Frenchman considered as he reached him. "You must sit down."
The American’s lips quirked into a distant smile. "What on? He used the chair to brain me!"
The frown that creased Bon Chance’s features was one of affectionate exasperation. He caught the pilot’s shoulder and guided him to the padded sofa in the outer room. The damage was tender and Cutter winced as careful fingers considered the extent of it. "I do not think he has managed to crack that stubborn skull of yours, mon ami, but even so you have been badly concussed. You must rest and do nothing for a while."
"Sounds good to me," Cutter breathed, letting himself be settled into the cushions without protest. "Is Madelaine going to be okay?"
The Frenchman’s eyes were bleak. "I do not know. She has been badly treated, and ..." A gasp from the other room interrupted him. He paused only to halt Cutter’s own instinctive reaction to that cry before he turned and ran, back to the huddled woman and her frightened eyes.
"The baby," she moaned, her hands curling protectively over her swollen stomach. "I think the baby is coming ..."
If anyone had ever thought to doubt Bon Chance’s ability to respond to a crisis, they would have had no cause to question it on this particular occasion. The gasped announcement, a terrified cry for help that added to the pressing needs of the situation, sent him into an efficient overdrive that firmly negated any possibility of his even considering his own minor discomforts. He confirmed Madelaine’s suspicion of her condition with a rapid examination, determining that, while imminent, the child’s demanding entry to the world was not about to happen in the next few minutes. He reassured her gently, making sure she was as comfortable as he could make her, before striding to the front of the house to issue rapid orders to the workers and their women who had been drawn there by the sound of gunfire.
Within what seemed a remarkably short space of time, the corpse of Gerald Crawcour had been removed and Cutter was settled into a guest room bed. The pilot protested a little at the attention, but more from habit than intent. Corky hovered anxiously beside him, cradling Jack in his arms; Bon Chance left the mechanic to take care of their mutual friend and returned to more pressing matters in the master bedroom. On his way there he summoned hot water, clean sheets and the local midwife - finding when he did so that there was one, but she was three islands away and unlikely to return before morning. He greeted the news with a resigned sigh and asked for a volunteer instead, his request being answered by a young woman who was engaged as one of Madelaine’s housemaids. The Frenchman eyed her archly and, seeing she met the intimidating look with one of determination, nodded his approval of the choice. He sent her to organise the hot water and returned to his patient as swiftly as he could.
She had been quivering with anxiety when he returned, but some of the tension slipped away from her as he came to sit on the edge of the bed. She endured the professional attention he paid to her pulse, then caught tightly at his hand as yet another contraction shuddered through her. He did not protest the imposition but reached to stroke her cheek with the gentlest of touches; after a while she relaxed a little further and some of the fear went out of her eyes.
When the promised water arrived, he sent the maid for a number of other things they would need; outside, dusk was beginning to gather and he disentangled himself from Madelaine’s grip to draw the curtains and light the lamps. Once that was done he fetched the shallow bowl and flannel from the dresser and poured out a measure of water from the jug, bringing it all back to the bedside table. She made no protest as he bent to gently clean the battered lines of her face, but she caught at his hands as they moved down to the fastening of her dress.
"Don’t," she begged him. "There’s no need ..."
"Who is the doctor, and whom the patient?" he asked firmly, backing the question with a wry smile. She held his hands a moment longer, then let her grip fall away.
"You’re not a doctor at all," she pouted, then began to cry.
"Oh, Madelaine." He abandoned the flannel in the bowl and gathered her up instead, feeling the sobs wrack through her. She clung to him with distraught desperation. "It is all right. Everything will be all right."
"Non," she moaned. "It’s not right. It can’t be. He made me bring you here. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised ... I can still feel his hands ... he threatened to hurt the baby ..."
He held her closer, rocking her a little to convey comfort while he grimaced a moment of anger at the indifferent ceiling. "It is over, Madelaine. He cannot hurt you any more. Forget him. Think of what you carry. Of the innocence you bring into the world."
"I was a fool," she sobbed into his shoulder. "I’ve destroyed everything. I gave him all my trust ... brought him into this bed ... Paul’s bed. And for that he - mon dieu, I feel so filthy, inside. How can you even bear to touch me?"
His hold on her tightened instinctively at the question. "Don’t be so foolish, ma cherie. You are not responsible for his madness. You are his victim, not what he accused you of. Let him go."
"I’m afraid," she admitted brokenly. She looked up at the pattern of bruising that was beginning to purple his face and her hand slid up to brush his cheek with exaggerated care. "He hurt you too, didn’t he?" she breathed, guilt heavy in her voice. "You never hurt me, Louie. Never. I used you. I used you and I was too ashamed of my own need to bring you here while I did so. But you understood. You never wanted more than I could give you. I tried to do all the right things, didn’t I? I thought Gerald cared for me. I shared Paul’s bed with him, where I never dared to bring you - and he betrayed me when you never had." She drew in a gasp as yet another contraction shivered through her. "I was so wrong. How can I face this child, knowing what I did was so wrong?"
"Ssh." He stroked the tumble of hair from her eyes, then leant to kiss her, a light butterfly of lips that brushed forehead and either cheek, a reassurance more sincere than any words might have been. "Don’t lie to yourself, Madelaine. You are too beautiful and precious for that. You made a mistake, that is all. You were fooled by his facade. We were all fooled by it. But it is over. Finished. You are about to bring a new life into this world - an innocent life, untouched by what has been. The most beautiful thing a woman can ever do. You have always been a loving mother; you can be strong, I know you can."
The serving girl chose that moment to make her reappearance carrying a loaded tray; she looked a little taken aback by the way her mistress clung so tightly to her companion. Bon Chance glanced over his shoulder, recognising the concern on the native woman’s face. "Leave it," he requested gently. "I will call you when I need you."
She nodded anxiously, laying the tray on the table, then left, looking back as she did so. The Frenchman waited until the door closed again before he gently lowered his charge back to the bed.
"I don’t know how to be strong any more," Madelaine said plaintively. "I’m so afraid. What if he has hurt what I carry? What if I am to destroy that, too?"
"Your fear will not help, cherie," he advised her sympathetically. "Put it away from you - it has no place in your heart." He carefully completed the unfastening of her buttons so that he could ease the shapeless shift from her form. Beneath it she was completely naked, her body marked as badly as her face, only her swollen belly unblemished in the dim electric light. His eyes tightened with inner anger but he did not let it into either his expression or his voice. "You must want this child more than anything in your whole life." There was doubt in his mind as he said it - how could she want this baby when it was the child of a man who had done so badly by her?
"Oh, I do," she breathed with unexpected certainty. "More than anything, now."
He bathed her gently, making each soft motion of his hand as much caress as it was purposeful. She made no complaint at it, simply enduring each shiver of pain as it came and went, the bitter reminders of abuse overwhelmed by the inner protests of imminent labour. When he had finished, he draped her in clean cotton and helped her to take some tablets he extracted from his medical supplies. He hoped they would be enough to help her relax and face what was to come, not daring to offer her anything stronger. When she pushed away the empty glass, he refilled it with the wine he had requested and took a long, deep swallow - it was going to be a long night.
He sat with her for all the hours it took, wiping the sweat from her body and reassuring her with murmured words and gentle touches. She was not new to this painful process of labour, but she was weak and unsettled, shifting her body as discomfort claimed her and weeping tears that had no reason behind them. When she needed to stand, or walk, he was there to support her; and when the worst of it began, he was there to hold her as she was consumed by the effort and the pain. Despite that, despite the fire of the child’s birth - or perhaps even because of it - each hour that passed seemed to strengthen her will and determination. It was as if the pain that she endured was somehow a penance for the fault she saw in herself, burning away her guilt to leave only an overwhelming desire not to fail her child the way she had failed herself. In the end it was Paul’s name she carried on her lips; she spoke of him softly, begging forgiveness and reaffirming her love.
It was not an easy birth. Madelaine screamed and swore as she fought to expel the child. But she was in confident hands and eventually she lay exhausted, listening to the first cry of her new-born son as he struggled for breath. Bon Chance lifted the baby, still with its cord intact, and laid it, bloody and struggling, to her breast. The child was small but perfectly formed, and it relaxed against its mother’s warmth with a quiet gurgle of relief.
"Congratulations," he told her with a tired smile. "It’s a boy."
"I know." Her own smile was radiant as she wrapped protective arms over her precious burden. "Who taught you to be such a good midwife?"
"Necessity," he answered, tying off the child’s cord and sending the servant girl to dispose of the afterbirth. "And a lot of practice with horses. They don’t scream so much," he added, looking down at the mother and her son with genuine pleasure at the sight.
She laughed softly, then sighed. "Oh, mon dieu, but I must be a sight."
He shook his head, bending to kiss her forehead and then, almost as an afterthought, that of the child. "Right now," he decided softly, "you are one of the most beautiful women in the world."
She caught at his hand and held it very tightly. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you - for everything. I will be all right now."
"I know." He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his eyes held by the miracle she cradled in her arms. "We must get you and this young man of yours cleaned up and settled for some sleep. You need it."
"So do you," she answered wearily. "Will we leave tomorrow?"
"Leave?" He was thrown by the question, since it made no sense for her to ask it.
"Leave. Surely you will have to take me somewhere when you arrest me."
"Arrest ... Madelaine, what are you talking about? Why ever would I have to do that?"
She closed her eyes, letting her hold on his hand slip away. "Because I killed my husband. You said yourself that a crime of passion was still a crime."
He stared at her in total disbelief for a moment, then began to laugh. "Oh, Madelaine," he chuckled, bending over to kiss her affectionately on the cheek. "Gerald Crawcour was killed while attempting to commit a murder - and the murder of an official of the French government in the pursuit of his duty, at that. Probably while resisting arrest," he considered, turning the thought over in his mind. "He was guilty of assault and threatening behaviour, not to mention the possibility of conspiring to defraud ..."
She stopped him with the brush of her hand. "Is that how you will make your report?"
"That," he announced firmly, "is how it was. There will be no charges, I can assure you. Mon dieu," he went on, "a pregnant woman, terrified half out of her wits, reacting to stop a madman from completing his murderous aims ..." He shook his head at the recollection. "He struck Jake without provocation, and he would most certainly have killed me given the chance. There may have to be a hearing," he decided thoughtfully, "but you will not have to be there unless you feel up to it."
Madelaine relaxed back into the pillows, lifting one hand from her son to brush the bruised cheek of the man at her side. "Are you all right?" she asked, a hint of guilt creeping back into her voice as she realised that no-one had expressed that concern until now. He laughed, stifling a yawn as he did so.
"Madelaine," he assured her, "like you, I am bruised, battered, and unbowed. But I am in need of sleep, which is what I am going to look for as soon as you are sorted and I have looked in on my other patient." He glanced up, hearing the servant girl return, and got to his feet so as to assist with the bundle of towels and other things she had brought.
"Thank Jake for me," Madelaine requested, relinquishing her still bloodied son into the Frenchman’s care with reluctance.
"I will. But you will be able to do that for yourself soon. He may not be fit to fly in the morning, but ... even if he is, I could still stay for a while, if you wish?"
"No." Her answer was too quick, too certain. "Rather - I would like that very much. But you must not. Otherwise it might be said that his accusations were true."
He paused to look back at her, the child quiet in his arms. "I will do whatever you ask of me, Madelaine. But you must ask - if you have need of me."
"I will," she promised quietly.
"Now then, non petite," Bon Chance said in brighter tones, addressing himself to the baby. "Let us turn you into a human being, n’est ce pas? What should I call you, then?"
"Paul," Madelaine said sleepily as the native girl bent to clean the blood from her breasts. "Paul - Louie - Belvoir," she added, with measured emphasis on the final name of the three.
Bon Chance smiled down on the child with wry sympathy. "I am honoured," he said, lowering his new namesake into the waiting warmth of water. The child’s hands, like tiny starfish, grasped at his fingers, and wide dark eyes stared up at him with innocent trust. It was moments like this, the Frenchman considered wonderingly to himself, that made all the rest worthwhile.
The Goose returned to Boragora the following day with Corky at the controls and its pilot reduced to being a passenger for a change. Cutter had been introduced to the newest member of the Belvoir family before he left, Madelaine insisting in rousing herself to see them off, despite the frown Bon Chance found for her at the idea. The baby had been cooed over by the two Americans, both men overjoyed at the suggestion that they might care to act as godfathers to the child. The Frenchman had gone to fetch Father Doncleur, finding the man greatly relieved that Crawcour’s tyranny was finally over. The priest agreed to christen the child as requested, and departure was delayed while the little ceremony was conducted. Practically the entire island stood witness to it, which was more than could be said for Crawcour’s funeral. Madelaine refused to consider burying him on Mahoi and men were dispatched to take him to Tagataya by boat, buried in ice from the factory and spat upon by several of the natives employed for the job.
Bon Chance had made no comment over either decision, only pausing for a brief word with the estate overseers before they returned to work. He was limping even more than he had been the night before, the result of abused muscles reacting to a few bare hours of rest, but he concealed it well enough from both Madelaine and from Cutter, who therefore assumed that he had suffered few ill effects from the conflict the day before.
Back at the Monkey Bar, Gushie was waiting with anxiety and a request from Sarah to be collected at once. Cutter shook off the last of his headache and set off immediately, giving Corky cause to mutter about never having time to think. Jack barked an easy agreement to this, but pattered aboard the plane all the same. Bon Chance watched them go with a sigh, knowing only too well that Cutter would hear none of his good advice about looking out for himself and remembering the long term effects of concussion. Gushie heard the sigh, then noticed the bruises and frowned. He knew perfectly well that he was going to have to wait for Jake’s return before he heard more than the bare bones of the story and had to satisfy himself with the succinct report on Madelaine’s health that his associate felt willing to impart. He waited until the Frenchman had limped up to his room to change, then went to prepare a pot of steaming chocolate. It was waiting behind the bar when Bon Chance came down again, and he helped himself without comment, but the look he threw in his friend’s direction was both grateful and affectionate.
Gushie merely grinned to himself and wheeled back to work.
A month later the boat from Mahoi arrived at Boragora dock, disgorging several natives and Madelaine, her son cradled firmly in her arms. Cutter saw her arrive and dragged Corky off the wing of the Goose so as to go and greet her. Sarah beat them both to it, hugging Madelaine and then shyly asking to hold the child. Much to everyone’s surprise his mother happily agreed, placing the boy in their care while she attended to her business. Sarah was left with a broad grin on her face and the baby on her lap in the bar while Gushie went off in search of milk and Corky dangled a piece of string for the child to snatch at. Cutter was just as delighted at the turn of events; he watched Madelaine climb the short flight of stairs to the office and realised how well she looked. It was just as if the intervening months had never happened.
Inside the office, Bon Chance was immersed in colonial legislation, frowning over obscure phraseology. He didn’t even look up as the door opened, muttering something about dealing with matters later if it wasn’t something urgent. His visitor walked softly to his side and giggled at his concentrated frown. The sound made him turn; then he was on his feet and embracing her with delight.
"Madelaine," he laughed, holding her shoulders and studying her carefully, "this time you come to my rescue, n’est ce pas? You are looking well."
"Merci," she smiled, returning his greeting with a warm kiss on either cheek. "So are you. What am I rescuing you from?"
"Tedium," he announced, waving her to a chair and regarding her with pleasure. "Something you manage to do with welcome regularity. How are you? And your daughters? And your son?" he added, a little warily.
She laughed at the questions, laying the inevitable ledgers on the desk. "I am fine," she said brightly. "Jeanette and Ellen are well - and Paul thrives like a fat duck in a barrelful of corn."
He grinned, returning to his chair. "He is a handful, then?" he suggested warmly, relieved to get such a positive response.
"What new-born child is not?" Her expression was radiant, her delight in her child obvious to any observer. "He keeps me awake at night, he deafens the servants, and he can be heard clear to the cannery and back."
"Crying?" Bon Chance’s tone expressed concern, and she shook her head with amusement.
"Laughing," she corrected with a grin. "He fills Mahoi with laughter. His - and my own," she added softly, the barest hint of past trauma surfacing in her eyes. "I would always have it so."
He smiled, reaching over to enfold her hand with his own. "A worthy ambition - for a worthy woman."
She chuckled, laying her free hand over his grip. "Away with all your flattery, Bon Chance," she chided. "It will not sway me on matters of business."
"I hope not," he acknowledged warmly. "Just so long as you want for nothing."
She considered him carefully, then blushed a little, understand what he might be prepared to offer should she ask it. "Nothing," she decided, although there was a clear reluctance to make it so final. "There is nothing I need. I have my friends, I have my daughters - and I have my son, who makes me whole. Sometimes I think that, perhaps, he was all I ever needed."
Bon Chance studied her, a shrewd look in his eyes. "Perhaps you are right," he said after a moment. "But if you ever need anything ..."
"I only have to ask," she smiled. "I know. But right now, all I want is an approval on my expenditures. I have contracts to fill, you know?"
He grinned and reached for the ledgers. "Of course," he said. "I recall co-signing the agreements."
They worked for an hour, finding an unspoken pleasure in the return to their comfortable arrangement. They made no effort to discuss past events, nor did they wish to. Madelaine's mind was turned firmly towards the future, and she worked as if the interruption of her marriage had never happened. Perhaps, he considered as he paused to digest the implications of one particular matter, she had buried it as deeply as the man responsible for her brief unhappiness. He doubted that she would ever trust another man in her life again, nor would he blame her for such a reaction. He understood only too well what it felt like to be betrayed. From that his mind drifted to consider the results of that particular event and the loss of the daughter he had known only so briefly in her life. For that he envied Madelaine, whose children were now the most precious things she possessed.
She made no comment on his sudden introspection, but packed the ledgers away very carefully. "You will come for the inspection next month?" she asked, and he nodded, bringing his mind back to present matters.
"Of course. I will look forward to it - and to seeing your son again."
"You don’t have to wait a month for that," she smiled. "I brought him with me. They are all spoiling him out there."
Sarah was enthralled by the tiny bundle that she had been entrusted with. Paul Belvoir was the happiest baby she could ever remember seeing. He smiled constantly, gurgling with delight at the faces that Corky pulled for him. He smelled of sweet milk and perfumed powder and his skin was a perfect pink beside the white shawl he was bundled in. The singer looked up and smiled as his mother came down the stairs, Bon Chance her attentive escort. Madelaine’s blonde curls were an odd contrast to the dark strands that clung to her child’s skull. Paul would be a dark haired child, slender boned and not at all like the muscular Crawcour either in looks or build.
Gushie handed Madelaine a glass of wine as she came to join their little group. Cutter glanced at Bon Chance over the heads of their company and the Frenchman smiled back with a nod of reassurance. Madelaine was fine, and the message brought a grin of pleasure to the pilot’s face.
"He’s beautiful, Madelaine," Sarah decided. "Just beautiful. You don’t ... well, feel uncomfortable with him, do you?" Her question was tentative, her eyes fixed on the angelic face of the child in her arms. "What with his father and all ..."
Madelaine’s response was a firm shake of her head. "Paul’s father ..." She smiled a little wryly, taking a sip from the glass in her hand. "Always was, and always will be, a gentleman, to me. What came after was another matter entirely."
Sarah nodded understandingly, rocking the baby and going back to making faces at him. Beside her, Bon Chance glanced sharply over at Madelaine. An expression akin to startlement chased briefly over his eloquent features, a reaction that had Cutter grimacing with sympathy. The pilot’s conclusions were easy to comprehend, although totally erroneous. The Frenchman’s look had nothing to do with Gerald Crawcour, or even the recent events that had involved him. Instead, Madelaine’s words had sparked an echo of a memory that went back to the day when the whole matter might have been said to begin. The day she had announced her engagement, all those long months before. ‘You have always been a gentleman to me ...’ Her words might simply have been a coincidence, the matter of a turn of phrase, perhaps, but in that startled instant, he knew. The answer was so blindingly obvious that he wondered how he had managed to be so obtuse all this time. A number of minor puzzlements all clicked into place with that one realisation, throwing new light onto a great many things.
"Well," Sarah was saying brightly, "he doesn’t look a thing like ... you know ... does he?"
Bon Chance reached out a wary hand to stroke the child’s cheek. Chestnut brown eyes opened beneath their spill of dark hair and considered him with beguiling innocence. Unnoticed by any other of their company, Madelaine’s hand tightened around the stem of her glass and she bit warily at her bottom lip, as if aware she might have said one thing too many. The Frenchman glanced across at her, reading the sudden plea in her expression, the confirmation of the secret they now shared written clearly in her eyes. A tiny hand curled into his, trusting, gentle, undemanding, and his heart turned over in brilliant pain. He looked back at the child - at his son - and could not help the poignant twist that went with his smile.
"Non," he agreed softly, his heart screaming at him for what he had to do, for the propriety he must keep and the pain it might cost him for the rest of his life. "He is his mother’s son - no-one else’s."
Madelaine’s smile was painted with relief as she reached for her precious child. Sarah handed him over reluctantly. "I think he’s gorgeous," she was saying, quite unaware of the significance of the moment. "You’ll bring him back to see us as often as you can, won’t you?"
"Mais oui," Madelaine assured her, reaching over to buff Cutter’s cheek with warm familiarity. "How else can his godfathers spoil him?"
Cutter laughed, chucking the child under the chin. "You bet," he promised. He returned Madelaine’s kiss with affection. "What with me, Corky, Jack, and Louie over there, he’ll have more dads than he’ll know what to do with."
Bon Chance forced a laugh past the tightness of his throat. "Mon dieu, mon ami," he scolded softly, "that is the way rumours get started around here. Consider a lady’s reputation, n’est ce pas? Take care of yourself, Madelaine," he requested softly. She turned to embrace him with her free hand, planting a butterfly kiss on either cheek as she did so.
"Merci," she breathed, the word so soft it was little more than a sigh. "For everything."
He let her go, watching as she bid farewell to the rest of his company and walked out of his hotel, her son cradled against her; her son for now and forever. He knew how she had used him now, but somehow he felt no resentment for it. The secret they shared sat like a hot ember in his soul, warming despite the pain it might cost to keep it there.
Cutter found cause to wonder at the ironic smile Bon Chance wore as he turned back to the bar. "Profitable quarter?" he hazarded. The Frenchman threw him a strange look and then began to laugh.
"Oh, mon ami," he chucked, grinning at Gushie as he did so, "some days it is just good to be alive, n’est ce pas?" His hand drifted to stroke the curve of his neck and then he laughed again, shaking his head and reaching to start gathering up empty glasses. The pilot stared at him with a bemused smile.
"Now that’s what I like to see," Gushie remarked with a hint of satisfaction. "A man who’s content with the world."
"Mmm," Sarah agreed with a speculative gleam in her eye. "I wonder if now would be the right time to ask for the weekend off ..."
Bon Chance dropped his collection onto Gushie’s tray and fixed her with a hard stare. "With the Santiago docking Saturday morning?" he enquired sweetly. Sarah’s face fell as he held the question between them for a heartbeat or two, then he relaxed his face into quiet amusement. "Of course," he went on to say, "that doesn’t mean I will need you to work Sunday and Monday as well ... I’m quite sure Jake will not mind delaying his trip to Tagataya for another twenty four hours. Will you, mon ami?"
Cutter glowered at him, having had every intention of dropping into a poker game he knew about on the Saturday, but the annoyance didn’t last long. "Sure," he decided. "Why not?" It would be fun to have Sarah along on the flight, and he could always arrange a hand or two of poker with the crew of the Santiago.
"Thanks, Louie," Sarah grinned. "I appreciate it."
"I should think so," he noted a little archly, and then joined in the resultant laughter.
"A toast," Cutter proposed, lifting a half-empty glass from the bar beside him. "Life, weekends off ... and Madelaine. May she find all the joy in her son that she did not receive in her marriage."
"Amen to that," Gushie echoed. "Let’s hope he doesn’t take too much after his father."
And Bon Chance, with a somewhat wry grin at the idea, just had to agree with him.
Return to the Monkey Bar