Belle - Lesley Pearse [70]
There was less snow in this part of France, and it was more hilly than the place they’d come from, but it appeared to be just as sparsely populated, for she only saw the odd cottage here and there. Belle spotted a signpost at a crossroads, and saw the road they were taking led to Brest. She seemed to remember seeing that name on a map of France and she was sure it was up on the left-hand side, by the sea. She supposed they were to go on a ship from there.
She tried not to panic at the prospect of a long sea journey in mid-winter, and made herself daydream of finding a friendly sailor on the ship who could be persuaded to help her, if not to escape, at least to get a message to her mother and Mog. She accepted another lump of bread and cheese gratefully, smiling at the couple in the hope of winning their trust, but they did not reciprocate.
The carriage came to a stop in a harbour, and the door was opened by a tall man with cold blue eyes wearing a black greatcoat and a homburg hat. He stared at her for a few moments as if puzzled, then looked at the couple. ‘Je ne savais pas qu’elle était aussi jeune,’ he said.
Belle didn’t know what he’d said except for the word jeune – Lisette had used it sometimes and she knew it meant ‘young’ – so she surmised that as he looked puzzled he had said he hadn’t expected her to be so young.
The couple gabbled something back and shrugged their shoulders as if that had nothing to do with them.
‘You will come with me to the ship,’ he said to Belle in perfect English with just a slight French accent. He held out his hand to help her down. ‘My name is Etienne Carrera, you will call me Uncle Etienne all the time we are on the ship. I will tell anyone who asks that you are my brother’s daughter, brought up in England, and that I am taking you to my sister because your mother is dead. You understand?’
‘Yes, Uncle Etienne,’ Belle answered cheekily, hoping to disarm him because he looked grim-faced.
‘I would say before we take another step,’ he said, catching hold of her wrist in a grip that felt like a vice, his icy blue eyes boring right into her in a chilling manner, ‘that if you make a fuss, try to get anyone to help you escape, or anything else I don’t like, I will kill you.’
Belle’s blood ran cold, for she sensed he meant it.
It seemed the steamship was sailing to Cork in Ireland first, to pick up more passengers and to refuel, then on across the Atlantic to New York.
Etienne led Belle down a companionway on the ship, along a short corridor and then down more stairs to their cabin.
‘This is it,’ he said brusquely as he opened the door. Belle stepped into the tiny space, which was less than eighteen inches from the narrow bunk beds to the small porthole. Beneath the porthole was a foldaway washbasin, a narrow shelf and mirror above it. At the end of the bunks were a couple of hooks to hang up clothes and beneath the lower bunk was a cupboard for everything else.
Belle didn’t mind that it was so small, but she was horrified that she was to share it with Etienne.
‘There is no reason to fear me touching you,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘My job is to deliver you without sampling the merchandise. You can have the top bunk and pull the curtain across to give you privacy. I will only come back here to collect you for meals, to take you for some exercise and fresh air, and of course to sleep.’
He took from his shoulder her bag and his own. He handed Belle’s to her and put his own on the lower bunk. ‘I will leave you to settle in. We sail very soon. I’ll come for you when we are underway.’
He left the cabin then, locking her in behind him.
Two days later, as the ship left Cork with a great many more passengers, Belle stood at the porthole watching Ireland’s coastline grow smaller and smaller until she couldn’t see it any more, and the surprising thought occurred to her that she had already travelled much farther than either her mother or Mog had in their lifetime.
She wasn’t scared as she’d expected to be. She was bored, frustrated by being kept