19 September 17—

Dearest Suzanne,

I am uncertain whether the cool air last night above decks was the best medicine for my illness, for I am feeling somewhat weaker today. In any case, we are nearing our destination and should be there soon, God-willing, unless another storm throws us off track. I still have had no reply, to any of my letters, and can only assume it is difficult for me to reach you through mail.

Shall I return to the awful point in my narrative that left me vulnerable and quite alone with my grief and shame in Tortuga? Let me assure you, cousin, that the narrative has reached its lowest point and will continue to rise, however slowly and imperceptibly, until you find me here, almost home. Feel not grief then or anxiety, nor attempt to impose judgment on my next actions, which may seem contradictory and strange.

Monsieur of the Navy, the dissolute officer who had just won—by my own admission—my attentions had, as I wrote yesterday, stolen away, apparently without any regard for what he had left behind. Hurtful as this is to one's vanity, especially, as you may well reflect, to one who spent much of her life under the admiring gaze of men, it should have left me relieved. He was not going to follow through with the contract, for whatever reason, and I would still be free to make my fortune. And yet, as I am sure has not escaped your notice, I no longer had any avenue to that end aside from indiscriminately selling my body for a few pieces of eight—or to pawn my mother's crucifix. You will appreciate, Suzanne, the symbolic dilemma there: to give up my religion and the love of my mother, who had given me the cross before her death and long before I had ever thought of taking a career on the stage.

Unlike M. le Marchand, who had scorned my charms utterly, I had seen Monsieur of the Navy evince an interest in me, so there was reason to believe he would be sympathetic to my plight, after he had heard the particulars, and might be amenable to some mutually beneficial arrangement. Also, and let this observation be not shared among strangers (it being the kind of thing one speaks of only to a relative of the same sex), I found myself intrigued by the green eyes that promised so much and said so little. With this in mind, I scanned the tavern and discovered that the officer had gone to the bar, where he was pouring from a heavy tankard. He drank immoderately. I was not certain that he saw me at first. "Permit me, Monsieur, but what you won along with the money . . ."

He slammed down his mug. "I don't buy and sell people like chattel."

I decided then to appeal to his attentions for the fair sex, by gently touching the cuff of his coat, for I saw then that he was still honorable. "But I'm yours, to do with as you please . . ." A sudden appalling thought occurred to me, for this you find often enough with theatre folk. "Unless women are not to your—?"

He took another gulp of the drink, removing my hand from his sleeve. He peered down at me, squinting. "Are you tall, willowy with chestnut brown hair, striking brown eyes, a girl of little more than twenty?" For this I had no answer. Monsieur of the Navy was in love, and the bitterness with which he spoke immediately suggested he was spurned. "No, you are not," he said, "so do not bother me." He looked darkly into his drink. "Whores are only ever whores, and for that reason do not interest me."

I confess myself at a loss, Suzanne, for even with my talents of theatrical seduction, if a man of that caliber had his determination fixed on something, he was either to get it or to be mortally disappointed. There is little in consoling that kind of devotion. At that moment, M. le Marchand, who had come himself to the bar for more drink, noted me. I could see at once that the drink had not improved his mood. With the petty anger of a drunk, he pointed at me and said, "You wicked French harlot . . . You're a cheat, you are."

Monsieur of the Navy glanced down at him and then at me, taking a long draught. I attempted my best to look humble and respectable. "Monsieur, I assure you—"

Suddenly I felt the free hand of Monsieur of the Navy encircling my wrist, tightly. He held up my arm. "How much do you want for her? Apparently, by her own insistence, I own her." He grinned sarcastically at me. "I'll sell her to you."

The situation was rapidly becoming unconscionable. It was one thing to seek the protection of a man to whom one felt an allure, another to be sold hatefully. "Sir, I—"

The merchantman looked highly offended and yet too stupefied to say anything (a feat, I assure you). Monsieur of the Navy pushed me toward him, shouting now, "Come now, how much is she worth? Two pieces of eight? One?" I blushed for shame. He strode out toward the center of the tavern, still pinioning my wrist, roaring with bitterness borne of despair, "I'll open the bid up to anyone. How much for a French tart?"

Physical resistance would avail me nothing. "Would you treat your brown-eyed lady in such a manner?"

At this he did look down at me and seemed to mark me. He had awoken considerable interest in the onlookers, though, and they began to crowd around. The embarrassed merchant sputtered, "You misunderstand my meaning, sir. I have no appetites for such . . . fare. I meant only to punish her for the insolence of sitting down at our card table."

"You should have thought about that when you agreed to let her play. Or perhaps your greed then outweighed your scruples."

M. le Marchand could only stammer indignantly, "Are you insulting me?"

"When one has no honor to impugn …" Monsieur of the Navy said wistfully, taking another drink and letting go of my arm. He turned back to the bar. M. le Marchand appeared not to have understood his sarcasm, for he took the insult at face-value. He laid his arm on the shoulder of the officer, a sure request for a fight. "You don't want to fight me," the officer muttered into his drink.

Instinct struck me then, and I cried, "Attention!" before M. le Marchand's weighty punch could strike its mark. It never did, for Monsieur of the Navy then spun around and delivered to the merchant a buffet that sent him reeling. As soon as others rose to defend the merchant—the men of Tortuga dearly love a fight, over any other diversion—he had drawn his sword and, even inebriated, he was more than a match for anyone in the room. At last, with the tavern floor littered with the prone shapes of his opponents, broken chairs and bottles flung about like confetti, Monsieur of the Navy replaced his sword in his scabbard. Then he fell on his face.

I had read of men who fought on like lions unabated even after serious, nay, mortal injury, to finally fall when the threat was subdued. But I had never seen a drunk man fight like a sober one and then collapse into a puddle of his own vomit. The matron, I suppose, of the place had rightly been upset over the conflict and saw its instigator senseless amongst his victims. She turned to me and asked, "Is this your man?"

I thought the truth here better than any embroidery. "He won me in a card game!"

She looked me up and down and said with a practicality natural to her profession, "Then he's yours. Take him outside. Caused havoc, made a bloody mess—dirtied my floors, he has . . ."

Extraordinarily, he who I had taken for my protector was now under my protection! And to leave him then might have proved fatal to him. For a moment I did look longingly at his pockets, where the fortune that should have rightfully been mine waited; others in the tavern evidently had the same notions. By sheer physical effort I managed to roll him over, so that at least I could be certain he was breathing. He was. I reached then into his pocket and withdrew a few coins. "Here," I said to the nearest covetous neighbor, "help me take him outside, and this you shall have." Evidently it was enough of an enticement. My soul, I suspect, was no longer in danger of broaching the Eighth Commandment, but materially I had passed by a great opportunity. Let any man tell you now that actresses are so morally corrupt they cannot be given Christian burial.

I was helped then to move the officer to the verandah of the tavern, a little out of the way of busybodies and drunkards, and I brought out too a chair, into which my assistant helped me prop up the unconscious officer. Not much later, the heavens opened up with rain. Fortunately the verandah was covered a little by an overhang of banana leaves. As for myself, I crouched behind the chair—I, who had entertained hundreds in the Hôtel de Bourbon and had crouched for no man. How long would he be out? I wondered. When he did wake, would he shove me rudely aside again or abuse me? I remembered that I had the room in the inn for one day more, without additional payment. Even if he woke in a reasonable amount of time, he would need somewhere to recover.

He did wake. He gave me a glance that spoke of confusion. "What are you still doing here?"

I managed to say, "You're ill," before he began to hack violently. He turned his head and threw up on the ground. Remembering, myself, the awkwardness of being sick aboard ship, I was moved by genuine sympathy to take out my handkerchief. "Here." He grabbed it rudely and wiped his mouth. "You would have drowned in your own vomit if I hadn't stayed with you," I pointed out. I did not expect a response. He turned, his watery eyes at last focusing. Was it gratitude I saw? It was still raining, but we couldn't stay outside the tavern any longer. I took his arm and stood up. "Come on."

Monsieur of the Navy got reluctantly out of the chair. He wobbled a bit, then seemed to recover himself and tried not to lean on my arm. I began to pull him along and still with reluctance, he followed. "Where are we going?"

"I have a room at an inn," I replied, not certain it was wise to reveal any of the particulars to him at this time. We were both soaked in the rain, but the further we went, the faster he walked, the more he seemed to gain mastery of himself. He was broodingly silent. I hoped now that at least my conduct had endeared me to him. "You didn't hand me off to that man," I noted, with gratitude. He looked at me blankly. "My name is Lucie—"

"No names," he snapped. I started. "A man doesn't need to know the name of his whore." I took a deep breath, to keep myself from saying something unbecoming. Suzanne, I imagine you laugh, that I should have any self-control. Perhaps I didn't reply because he was heavy on my shoulder again. We had reached the inn, and I took the officer up the stairs to the tiny room I had shared until recently with Mr Garrick. I helped Monsieur of the Navy into the one chair in the room and went to sit on the floor.

"I'm not a whore, you know," I said quietly, wringing out the hem of my sopping and dirty gown. He raised an eyebrow. "I was an actress in the Comédie Française, this time last year playing Esther and Atalie1." He was staring, hazily in the dark. I got up and lit the one candle by tinder, leaving it on the small table that stood next to the chair. I sat down again. "But of course you are not familiar with French drama."

"On the contrary," he said suddenly. I looked up and waited. It was indeed rare for any Englishman to be interested in our French theatricals unless he was connected to the theatre. I very much doubted the English officer was. But I had been wrong before. "What else did you play in?" he asked.

Secretly, of course, I was delighted that he should ask about my dramatic career. "Psyché2, L'Idylle sur la Paix3 . . ."

He laughed! Such a harsh laugh, Suzanne, such bitterness! My husband never laughed like that and, believe me, he was a bitter man. "If that's true, why did you leave Paris?"

I attempted to maintain my dignity. "Why does any woman leave the stage?"

"You had a better offer—a man who would keep you."

His language was insufferably patronizing! "Yes, I had a patron."

He was about to speak when he began to cough again. I turned away, not wishing to see him vomit, but he recovered sufficiently to say, "And did he leave you here, this wonderful patron of yours?"

To tell the truth, Suzanne, I had not expected to be discussing my faithless husband with another so quickly and in such circumstances . . . "Yes, but not before he married me." That would surprise him!

"Why on Earth would he marry you?"

Taking off my shoes, I got to my feet and walked the length of the room in my grayed stockings. "I first met him—an Englishman named Garrick, if you want to know—in Paris when I was playing Phèdre4. He came often to the theatre. He was affectionate and persistent. I did become his mistress.

"He wanted exclusivity. So when he left for London, I went too. He procured for me small parts in the Drury Lane Theatre. Very small, you understand. Then he changed. He was always anxious, paranoid. He demanded all my time. He demanded I give up my work. He wanted me to marry him."

(Now you, my cousin, know that which I did not deign to write a few days ago. That is the sad affair of my marriage, quite truncated, but with brevity I think it improves somewhat.) The officer had been listening, at least it seemed to me, as I spoke these words.

"So you did." He meant that I did marry my patron.

"No, I refused him."

Wonder in his voice, yes, but still that bitterness. "Why?"

"The marriage would take me off the stage, and I was not yet ready to retire." I cleared my throat. "He was not Catholic. And I did not love him."

More laughter. He thumped the palm of his hand on the table; the light danced about the room. I was frightened for one moment that the candle would fall to the floor and we would go up in a blaze, but it stayed put. "You expect me to believe you would wait to marry for love?"

I turned to him, standing before the table. "When I first stepped foot on the stage, I vowed to myself I would be the mistress of any man I chose: he must be kind to me and provide me with security. But I would not marry until I loved."

He could not hold my gaze for long. He ran his fingernails over the grooves in the table. "But he was rich."

Mr Garrick had been rich, as I told you. "Yes."

"And that convinced you at long last."

Why, Suzanne, are we so often inclined to believe the worst of our fellow man? "No. Monsieur of the Navy, I do not know whether you are aware of the chapel at the edge of the Shoreditch and the Fleet, but marriages can be performed very cheap there. There is nothing to protect females from being given off to men of whom they do not approve."

There was sincere surprise and perhaps concern in his eyes—still green, amazingly so. Astonishing to find beauty in such strange places. "He drugged you and had you driven to the altar?"

I can scarcely believe, Suzanne, that the stoic quality I had instilled in so many of my roles would desert me at such a moment. I had told my story to this man whose name I did not even know as if reading a dry passage of The Times, that is to say, without its affecting me personally. His pronouncing it made my whole marriage seem that much more sordid and despicable. I thought of weeping. In my distress, I reverted to French, "Je vous adjure."

He did not seem to notice. "And still he left you?"

"With nothing." I whispered it, not really meaning to say it aloud, not looking at him. I looked up and caught his eye. He stared at me, and I at him, for a long moment, and I'm not sure that anything was actually communicated. It was merely a groping in the dark, for another human presence. One can be alone, even in the midst of people.

1 Both heroines of eponymous dramas by Racine, first staged in 1689 and 1691, respectively.

2 Molière tragi-comedy, first produced in 1671.

3 Molière and Jean-Baptiste Lully collaboration from 1685.

4 Another eponymous work by Racine (1677).