Authors: Madeline Evering
A short time later the carriage
pulled up at the house of William Gibson. Like that of M. duMont, the Gibson
estate was an imposing structure of Colonial style: a wide verandah flanked the
house on all sides, its roof held aloft by massive columns; a wealth of windows
lined the front wall, taking in the splendor of the sea view; and surrounding
all were carefully manicured lawns and gardens that forced their English order
on the wild Jamaican landscape. Even at a quick glance, Catherine could see how
the great house gave testament to her father’s wealth and determination.
Catherine alighted from the carriage with
undisguised relief and entered the house in advance of William Gibson and M.
duMont. The front door opened onto a massive foyer dressed in paneled mahogany
and marble tiles, in the center of which sat a round table with an exquisite
arrangement of flowers. Catherine stepped forward and touched the petals of one
exotic bloom, instinctively leaning forward to catch its scent. To her
surprise, the beautiful flower was completely devoid of odor: “
All show and
no substance
” Catherine murmured to herself, thinking that the same could
be said of the house that she was to now call home. Every element of the room
that met her eye had been chosen solely for its price, not for any reasons of
affection or comfort. It was a startlingly beautiful space but it offered its
inhabitants little in the way of welcome.
Feeling a sudden chill run down her
spine, Catherine instinctively turned around; inches away stood M. duMont. He
removed his top hat, laid it on the table, and then placed one hand against the
table near Catherine’s hip. He leaned forward with casual familiarity leaving Catherine
no avenue of escape. “You admire the flowers, Miss Gibson” duMont said in a
wicked drawl. He reached forward with his free hand as though to touch her
cheek. Catherine flinched involuntarily and at the last moment duMont
redirected the hand to a scarlet blossom instead. “Might I say that, lovely as
they are, they cannot match your own beauty?” At this, duMont’s eyes swept over
Catherine’s body in frank appraisal once more before finally returning to meet
her gaze. He was so close Catherine could feel his exhalations fanning her
cheek. Drawing on her fierce courage Catherine boldly met duMont’s gaze, only
to find a mocking response in their glittering depths. Catherine felt naked and
vulnerable in the presence of this stranger who felt an obvious right of
ownership over her. As her father entered the room, Catherine turned to him desperately
seeking some sort of paternal protection: “Father, I beg your forgiveness but I
feel I must go to my room at once. I… I am quite tired from my journey and wish
to rest before seeing the rest of the house.” William Gibson looked from his trapped
daughter to duMont with careless humor. At last he gave a slight grunt of
laughter and acceded to her request. “You may go,” he said as though dismissing
an errant servant, “But make sure you are down here well in time for lunch. M.
duMont and I have business to discuss until then but you are expected to
entertain at table.”
Anger heightened the flame of color
in Catherine’s cheeks at this callous dismissal. Her father barked a quick
order and a native servant came forward to wait in anxious attendance. Catherine
expected duMont to step aside now but he made no effort to move whatsoever.
After a long, awkward moment Catherine recognized there was no other option but
to slide past his unyielding form. She shuddered at the unwelcome contact as
her body necessarily brushed against his. Mortified beyond belief, Catherine
retreated without further word to either man, following the servant upstairs in
search of her room.
The bedroom set aside for Catherine was
found at the end of a long corridor in the upper storey. The room, like those
below, had been impeccably furnished. A well-appointed dressing table sat
at-the-ready, an ornate chaise lounge angled under one of the room’s many
windows, and a large mahogany four-poster bed commanded much of one wall in the
spacious room. With a bitter laugh, Catherine thought how small, in comparison,
was her berth onboard the
HMS Triton
. “Smaller, but much more pleasing”
Catherine thought wistfully. Despite the difficulties of the sea-journey, and
the volatile encounters with Captain Knight, Catherine found herself longing to
be back onboard once more. In a moment of self-pity, Catherine crossed the
polished floor and sat at the room’s writing desk in search of paper and
pencil. Immediately she began to make a series of quick sketches of the
Triton
and its crew. In rapid succession the images formed under her talented hand:
pictures of Tom and of her uncle, the view through the rigging of the main
mast, the carved lines of the rail on the quarter deck. With feverish urgency
Catherine sought to recapture familiar scenes and friends, as though drawing
them might conjure them into being here at her father’s house. Much later,
Catherine finally slowed her frantic drawing. She was astonished at how many
pages she had covered. As she looked at each sheet anew, Catherine found a recurring
image in some corner of almost every page; Captain John Knight. Here, he stood
in command at the ship’s wheel; there he bent his head in earnest conversation
with one of the crew; in another, he looked back from the page with his deep
penetrating gaze. Catherine’s hands shook as she held the images. The thought
of Knight’s strength and certainty brought Catherine both comfort and dismay. Unsettled
by the feelings they evoked, she took a deep breath, then quickly shuffled the
papers and stored them in an interior desk drawer. The somber
click
as
Catherine closed the desk echoed with finality in the large space. “He is not
here” Catherine said aloud with bitter conviction, “I must take command
myself.” Drawing deep on her inner strength, Catherine turned away with
composure and left the room to rejoin her father and M. duMont.
The large grandfather clock began to
chime the hour as Catherine reached the bottom of the grand staircase. Moving cautiously
forward, she looked with curiosity at the main rooms to get a sense of her new
home. Catherine found little that surprised or pleased her in her survey but
quelled such feelings with a new-found strength. If this was to be her fate she
must make the best of a bad situation – nothing would be gained from wallowing
in self-pity. Catherine drew herself up further and moved bravely on to the
dining room where she was to meet her father and his associate. As she entered,
she was surprised to find the dining room empty. Catherine paused a moment and
found she could hear the voices of the two men carrying through the room’s
French doors from where they sat on the verandah. Although Catherine could not
make out their words, there was something in the tone of the two men that
arrested her attention. Stealthily, Catherine moved nearer the open doors, the
soft rustle of her cotton gown the only sound as she crossed the room.
“You are certain the bastards won’t
speak?” Catherine heard her father say with passion. His question received a low,
mirthless chuckle from duMont. “My friend,” duMont intoned with mocking
contempt, “You worry too much. My countrymen will not betray you in this
matter…” “Will not betray
me
” Gibson spluttered indignantly, “I believe
you mean they will not betray
us!
We are in this thing together” he finished
angrily. Again, Catherine heard duMont’s short, contemptuous laugh: “No, M.
Gibson, I mean they will not betray
you.
As far as France is concerned I have had no hand in this matter whatsoever. If you have been so
careless as to implicate yourself with these French sailors, then you are of
course at the mercy of the English navy on your own.” Catherine’s eyes widened
in alarm: Her father implicated in some way with the French sailors Captain
Knight had captured? Could such a thing be possible? Her mind raced back to the
time of the ship’s capture, to the supper conversation where she suspected her
uncle Matthews and Captain Knight shared some hidden knowledge about the French
corvette. Had they uncovered information about her father’s involvement? Catherine
searched her memory for details of that conversation – and of the one she had
overheard on the carriage ride this morning. She strove to uncover the truth of
the matter but there were too many blanks. Catherine’s reverie was broken by
the sudden sound of a glass crashing and breaking with violence. “You bastard!”
her father said with venom. “You arrogant French bastard! If you think for one
minute that I will take the brunt of this then you are mistaken.”
A long pause followed William
Gibson’s speech and Catherine held her breath anxiously. She leaned closer to
the opening, fearing detection but determined to hear whatever came next. At
last, the sound of duMont’s voice came once more, but this time there was no
trace of mirth; “Let me make myself clear,
monsieur
. I have taken every
precaution to ensure our endeavor is not detected – and I did so with the full
support and assurances of my government. If, in your greed and haste you failed
to make the necessary
arrangements
with our French captain, then I am
afraid it will not go well for you – with either the French or the English.
However,” he continued, a trace of sardonic humor returning to his voice, “If
you were to offer me a suitable prize then I may be able to wield some
influence, to shield you from any… unpleasantness.” This time it was Gibson’s
laugh that carried through to Catherine from the verandah: “You needn’t worry”
her father said carelessly. “You protect me in this matter and the girl is
yours.”
Catherine jerked backward, blanching
with fear. So, she was to be given to duMont. Even though she suspected such a
thing would come to pass, to hear the words spoken out loud was still a shock.
The horror of it filled Catherine with revulsion – to be considered of so
little worth that her father would sell her to ensure the protection of some
wicked enterprise. Her every instinct told her to run, to seek asylum anywhere
but here, but Catherine knew that the seriousness of this matter was much
greater than her own personal danger. Captain Knight had grave concerns about
the French corvette’s activities; he had led his men into a fierce battle to
find out its secrets. Men had fought – some to the death – to protect England from this threat. Now, Catherine may have stumbled upon the truth of what the French
ship represented. Catherine ignored her fears; she knew what she must do. With
great aplomb, she fixed an enormous smile on her face and stepped fearlessly
through the door to face the two men.
“Father! M. duMont!” Catherine said
with a graciousness she did not feel. The two men started at her interruption
but duMont quickly masked his surprise with practiced ease. The lean, golden
stranger rose from his seat and moved proprietarily towards Catherine; this
time, Catherine did not flinch nor move away. She forced a sweet, steady smile
to her face, completely at odds with the inner revulsion she felt at this man’s
presence. “It would seem,
Mademoiselle
, that you are much more settled?”
duMont said quizzically, noting the sharp contrast to her earlier behavior.
“Indeed,” Catherine responded brightly, “I believe a good rest was in order. I
feel quite myself again” she finished with false enthusiasm. Philippe duMont
continued to search her face with curiosity but Catherine held fast under his
scrutiny. “Shall I ring for dinner, Father, or have you already done so?” she
asked with daughterly duty. Gibson also regarded his daughter with some
surprise but chose to accept the change without much thought. “All is ready” he
said in his brusque manner. “We dine immediately.” With that, Catherine graciously
accepted duMont’s offered arm and allowed herself to be led into dinner, and
into the greatest of danger.
In the ensuing days in the stately
home overlooking the sea, Catherine Gibson transformed from an ordinary young
woman into an extremely capable spy. In the presence of her father and duMont she
behaved with womanly generosity, gratifying their great egos with her
attentiveness and admiration. In their absence, Catherine cast off her disguise
and became once more an independent woman of great intellect and skill,
determined to discover the truth about her father’s secret.
Each day when William Gibson left on
business, Catherine quickly made her way to his private study. There in secret,
she poured through financial ledgers and business correspondence seeking some
clue as to the mystery of the French ship. Catherine found many examples of her
father’s harsh and dishonest business dealings, but beyond that she found no
evidence of collusion with the French. “There must be something more” she said
aloud as she settled in a leather chair with one of his recent account books.
She flipped carefully through the pages, looking for a name or business that
seemed out of place. The only thing she found that struck her as a bit unusual
was a hefty entry labeled “Dock.” To Catherine’s knowledge, such an exorbitant
sum was well beyond what would be required to build or repair her father’s
private dock – a simple affair situated at the water’s edge near the north end
of the estate. Catherine scanned through another series of entries but
something kept bringing her back to the ‘Dock’ entry. She read the details more
carefully and then went to her father’s files where he kept receipts for his
business. Catherine sorted through the pile until she found what she was
looking for – a curiously vague receipt for building materials – with the same
enormous price tag. Of greater interest, however, was the name of the supplier
–
Les Enterprises duMont
. Catherine’s mind filled with possibilities –
could this be the connection she sought? There was no way to get further
information through her father without raising suspicion but there might be
another way. Catherine quickly returned everything to order, making sure
nothing was out of place. Then she swiftly left the study to prepare for her
mission.