The Romantic Armchair Traveller

Portugal: Marrying The Royal Marine by Carla Kelly

Carla Kelly’s Marrying The Royal Marine presented a mess of problems for me, and I struggled quite ridiculously to finish it. Had this Regency historical romance been the first book I read by the author I suspect it may have remained the last.

 

1812. The illegitimate daughter of a national war hero, eighteen-year old Polly Brandon has felt unwanted all her life. Her newfound sisters are loving but married and have their own lives. Hoping to be of service in the army hospital in Oporto where her brother-in-law is chief surgeon, she is billeted aboard a navy frigate bound for war-torn Portugal. When she falls violently seasick the task of caring for her is assumed by the only other passenger - a man.

Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Philippe d’Anvers of the Royal Marines is voyaging out to the troops in the Peninsular war on an information-gathering mission. As he looks after Polly he begins to see beyond her spectacles, and she beyond his handsome looks, and they become friends. But once in Portugal their responsibilities and uncertainties about the other person’s affections conspire to separate them. Until they meet by chance during a dangerous trip upriver to retrieve patients - and their capture by the enemy forces the pair to invent a marriage to protect each other.

 

The setup of Marrying The Royal Marine assumes familiarity with the two previous romances in the trilogy. I have read the first, Marrying The Captain, but not the second, The Surgeon’s Lady, which meant not only that some of the references in Marrying The Royal Marine puzzled me, but also, since scant clues are provided, that I never figured out exactly how or when Polly had been reunited with her sisters. As it turned out, this missing background was the least of my issues.

For a love story to hold credibility for me when either of the parties is very young and the age difference is significant, I have to believe that the younger person possesses a good dose of independence and intelligence, and that this is what draws the older person to him/her. Jane Eyre is a classic example: the heroine’s trials and tribulations have matured her beyond her years and her passionate nature is combined with a strong, independent, gifted spirit. Joanna in Here Be Dragons by Sharon Penman is allowed to mature before the marriage is consummated, and the road to that point (and beyond it) is realistically thorny.

Marrying The Royal Marine is not quite a May-December romance, but at the age of 37, Hugh is nineteen years older than eighteen-year old Polly. By the end of their sea voyage he has decided that he wants her to “mother his children” (page 88). Now, during much of this trip Polly has been ill and helpless. Hugh has had to both wash her and help her dress. Once she recovers sufficiently to go up on deck, she is still too weak to do much beyond lounging in a canvas chair. He comforts her when she fears the ship will sink in bad weather and teaches her how to walk and retain her balance aboard a rolling ship. In all this, he is kind and does his best to put her at ease. He could have done no better had he been a doctor or a relative.

He is not, however, a doctor or a relative. Yet even after Polly has recovered, he presumes to cup her cheek, chuck her chin, button the back of her dress, push up the spectacles on her nose. Nobody, including Polly, seems to see anything improper in this intimacy.

In an era when the touch of an ungloved hand breached the boundaries of propriety unless the persons involved shared long familiarity, Hugh and Polly's forced interactions behind closed doors should put them in an awkward position. To offer succour to a person in need is expected; for Hugh to unbidden continue touching a woman to whom he is not engaged, is asking for her reputation to be ruined. Fortunately for the two, it never occurs to the crew on board the frigate to so much as send a wondering glance in their direction. Every last British soldier is nobly compassionate and innocent of a single ungentlemanly thought. Or do they consider Polly a child?

If Polly had been shown to be Hugh’s equal in some way during the voyage, or even if she had directly solicited his touch, the historical unlikelihood of their obliviousness to social etiquette would have bothered me less; Regencylandia is amply peopled by characters who behave according to modern standards. But throughout most of the book Polly is shown as someone in dire need of protection, weak and defenseless. With the steep age gap added, and little explanation of exactly how and why Hugh’s care-giving has developed into a wish to father her children – “Maybe it was the wistful way Polly Brandon had spoken of snapdragons” (p. 66) – the imbalance in their relationship leaned toward the unhealthy for me from the beginning.

It does not help that Polly is the romance version of a Disney heroine. From her first moments in Oporto (now Porto), children and distrustful young rape victims (casualties of French war atrocities) flock to her like the animals in the forest to Snow White. When she is enlisted for solitary night duty in the the hospital wing where the rape victims reside, she is immediately able to soothe their nightmares and calm them back to sleep with “her tender sympathy” (page 109) without any prior instruction or experience. Moreover, the matter of Polly’s illegitimacy seems to serve no plot purpose other than to make her doubt a man like Hugh would want her as wife. Hugh dismisses any thought of her birth being an issue from his head the moment it occurs to him.

As for Hugh, his full name was a source of a distraction for me. When I learned that the hero of Marrying The Royal Marine is called Hugh Philippe Junot, I was intrigued yet not very pleasantly amused. Intrigued, because a British officer with a French name in a story that plays out in the midst of the Napoleonic Wars raises the possibility of interesting internal conflicts; perhaps torn loyalties of some sort? Indeed, there is a justifiable plot reason for naming him thus, although it is a decidedly unexciting one. I was also unpleasantly amused. Deliberately or not, “Philippe Junot” evokes associations to the relationship between the young Princess Caroline of Monaco and a seventeen years older Frenchman by the name of, yes, Philippe Junot. (This much-gossiped-about marriage lasted two years.)

Speaking of the Napoleonic Wars. The brutish conduct of French troops during the Peninsular War has been documented, and Kelly exploits this for Marrying The Royal Marine. In her description of the violence of war and its consequences not only for the fighting troops but the women and children of occupied areas, she enters territory few currently writing historical romance writers have dared explore. It brings blood-soaked realism and plenty of emotional drama to the story, and Marrying The Royal Marine is, I think, the stronger for it.

Yet there is a glaring discrepancy in the general portrayal of the French versus the British (the Portuguese play only a supporting role in the story) that diminished Kelly’s accomplishment for me. For more than half the novel the word “French” rarely appears without appendages such as "murderous" or "raping"; and once French characters enter the story, they live down to history with gusto. By contrast, the British are depicted as honourable, brave, and self-sacrificing to the last man. There is not a hint anywhere, as the war is discussed, that would indicate rueful awareness that British soldiers might ever, somewhere, have committed similar offenses. In an early nineteenth-century teenage girl such as Polly this naivety is understandable, but in a veteran officer from an expanding colonial power it smacks of double standards or obtuseness, especially after he has regaled Polly with stories of his campaigns in India. By the time glimpses of redemption began to be seen in one of the French characters I had lost so much patience with the overall black and white characterisations that I no longer cared much.

Incidentally, up until page 167, the point at which I started skimming, nobody had bothered ruminating on the fact that neither the British nor the French do, in fact, belong in Portugal. (The Portuguese, on their part, were in the same period colonising Brazil.) Historically, the Portuguese were forced to remind the British of this when, after peace had been concluded and the French had withdrawn from the country, the British decided to remain as administrators. The Portuguese kicked them out eight years after the events described in Marrying The Royal Marine – a rebellion which started in Oporto.

Finally, when an author decides to pinpoint a specific location for his or her story, it helps me enormously as a reader to immerse myself in the setting if I receive some descriptions of scenery. Unfortunately, all I got were building names and Portuguese words paired with trite declarations like “the view of Oporto took his breath away” and “I have never seen anything so magnificent” and “the canyon was breathtaking in its wild beauty”. The army hospital of Oporto is situated in a convent, and one nun in particular becomes a prominent supporting character, but since not even the Order was specified, I was unable to visualize her person clearly (her face, yes). Social customs of the Portuguese are not entered into other than in connection with the attitude toward rape victims. For any idea of what Oporto may have looked like, other than the presence of the River Douro, I had to look up photographs. One of the rare descriptions is of an old chapel (page 96), which contains an error that conflates several centuries of mediaeval history : “[...] incense-darkened ceiling, low and decidedly pre-gothic. What did they pray about then? Polly asked herself. The Black Death?”

After this litany of complaints it should be obvious to anyone who has not yet expired from apoplectic outrage (the author has acquired an iconic status among many romance readers) that I and Marrying The Royal Marine failed to connect on any level. Although One Good Turn is one of my favourite Regencies, and Carla Kelly’s compassionate characters and touching tales of redemption have resonated deeply with me in the past, I have come to see that my tastes align only randomly with her writing. I regret that this was not one of those times.

Egypt: Mr. Impossible by Loretta Chase

Mr. Impossible is the first and only book by Loretta Chase that I have read. I chose it based on the setting and the popularity of the author, not knowing, since the cover makes no mention of the fact, that it was part of a series. What I also did not realise was that Mr. Impossible is the regency historical romance version of The Mummy with the paranormal element excised. I thoroughly enjoyed the film. This book? Well, the Egyptian locales kept me engaged long enough to finish it...

 

1821. When widow Daphne Pembroke negotiates the release of reckless trouble-maker Rupert Carsington from a Cairo gaol, it is on the understanding that he will help her locate her missing brother, Miles. Upon returning to her lodgings with Rupert, she discovers that a certain papyrus for which Miles had paid an extortionate amount of money has been stolen.

The search leads the pair on a dangerous journey up the Nile. Unknown enemies will do anything to solve the riddle of the papyrus, which Miles was abducted to decipher; it is believed to hold the clue to the location of a royal tomb of fabulous wealth. Rupert quickly discovers what only close friends know: the family scholar is not Miles, but Daphne. And if she was not so enamoured of hieroglyphs and irritated at Rupert's behaviour, she might in turn discover that he is actually quite good-looking. And strong. And refreshingly appreciative of both her fine figure and her superior intellect.

 

After a catchy opening scene the first chapter of Mr. Impossible slides into a morass of back story, information dumping, and internal monologue from which the story only intermittently recovers. At times I wondered whether the author ran out of time before getting the details into proper shape. The uneven pace and lumpy storytelling put me in mind of an advanced draft which has been fleshed out with internal monologue and research results but has not received a final polish.

Another major problem for me was the mystery. The author interwove the action and romance strands tightly and interestingly, but thereby built up expectations that were unravelled by a surprisingly anti-climactic resolution to the actual mystery. After all the high-energy chasing around the country, the reason for the drama fizzles into nothingness.

Moreover, after a hurried last chapter the scene shifts abruptly to England for the epilogue. In it there is no explanation of what the transition involved for the various characters. That the loose ends included the fates of Rupert and Daphne’s adopted Egyptian “family” made me doubly annoyed when the last pages turned out to be devoted to Rupert’s family, not the hero and heroine. The ending of Mr. Impossible typifies why I normally avoid books that are part of a series.

For me, the saving grace of both prose and dialogue was the humour, largely thanks to the happy-go-lucky character of Rupert. Drawing emotional reactions from the prim Daphne becomes his chief delight, and so he deliberately tries to exceed her lowest expectations about his intellectual capacities. After all, she has told him that he is to provide the brawn, she the brain. Unfortunately, while his wit makes for entertaining reading, it also undercuts the endlessly repeated assertions about Daphne’s “formidable brain”. This is one of those novels in which the heroine is a purported genius but in which education is confused with intelligence.

Unlike Rupert, however, of whose background there is barely a hint, leaving much about his deeper character motivations unexplained, Daphne’s portrayal includes a sympathy-inducing history. Like Dorothea Brooke (Middlemarch), Daphne married an older scholar in the expectation that she would learn from him, study alongside him, and help him in his work. Instead, she was firmly shut out and told to occupy herself with women’s business. It has affected her self-esteem, and she continues to wear mourning to protect herself from a world that does not understand or approve of her. She pours all her passion into her study of Egyptian writing and its secrets.

Fun-loving Rupert, whose fondest ambition besides helping Daphne is to “get her naked”, is well-matched with Daphne. His relaxed attitude to life and his earnest admiration of her intellect and courage begin to soften Daphne, and in consequence her confidence grows and her talents blossom. After the over-emphasis on his physicality, it was a nice surprise to learn that he actually possesses an artistic talent, too; in my mind, this helped form an intellectual bridge that strengthens their emotional attachment. Although the love scenes did not move me, I very much liked that Daphne, whose husband was repulsed by her sexual longings, takes the initiative with Rupert, and that he enjoys this.

As for the depiction of Egypt, as is common the emphasis in Mr. Impossible, too, is on antiquities and the past, not on contemporary society. Locals form a dim, stereotypical mass who are referenced to highlight Rupert’s ethics, for example, or to provide comic relief. Political commentary is confined to mentions of negative views of Europeans and a strongly critical attitude toward the Ottoman rulers of the country. Still, Mr. Impossible is far from a wallpaper historical, and while I learnt little about contemporary culture I rather enjoyed the cruise along the Nile, and the visits to places such as Saqqara.

So, did Mr. Impossible persuade me to read another romance from the author’s backlist? No. Still, I saw enough of the qualities that so many readers love about Loretta Chase’s books that I remain open to future possibilities. If the setting she chooses is as fascinating as the one in Mr. Impossible, I may very well pick up that story.

Excerpt

(Berkley Sensation, 2005, page 123-4):

"She found treasure enough for her, though, deep in the bowels of the pyramid.

The chamber was all and more that Signor Segato had promised. Upon the dark blue painted ceiling gleamed golden stars. Turquoise-colored tiles covered the walls. But most wondrous of all was the doorframe. Above it and along the sides were hieroglyphs, beautifully cut in low relief.

A repeated motif adorned the sides. A falcon wearing the pharaoh's crown stood upon a rectangular pedestal divided into two squares. The top square contained three signs: at top, the hatchet that signified a god; beneath this, the almond shape that she'd decided must be the r sound; and under it a sign less familiar: a rattle, insect, flower, or musical instrument, she couldn't be sure. Four vertical sections divided the bottom square. Did these signify pillars? she wondered. Doors?

'Is that the god Horus?' came Mr. Carsington's deep voice from behind her.

The voice went straight down her spine and up again. In self-defense, she adopted her pedantic mode. 'So it appears,' she said. 'The sign below him is the one Dr. Young interprets to mean god. As you see, Horus wears a pharaoh's crown. The kings were believed to be gods. Perhaps this one was closely associated with Horus.'

'The signora can read the ancient writing?' Signor Segato asked.

'Ah, no,' Mr. Carsington said quickly. 'She has read a little Greek, though.'

'Herodotus,' Daphne said quickly.

She really must learn to keep her hieroglyphic speculations to herself. As Noxley had remarked, the Egyptians loved to talk, and news traveled swiftly."

Teaser Tuesday: The Man In The Brown Suit by Agatha Christie

Teaser Tuesday is a weekly bookish meme, hosted by Miz B of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following:

 

• Grab your current read
• Open to a random page
• Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
• Be careful not to include spoilers! (Make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away. You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
• Share the title and author, too, so that other Teaser Tuesday participants can add the book to their TBR lists if they like your teasers!

My teaser

From The Man In The Brown Suit by Agatha Christie (Triad Grafton, 1986, page 51):

"My histrionic talents had been wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and said: 'Come out at once, please,' in an acid voice."

One of Agatha Christie's earliest novels, The Man In The Brown Suit is as much a hot-blooded romance as it is a humorous mystery. Long a favourite of mine, I suspect it will appeal greatly to other fans of Elizabeth Peters, too, specifically those who love the Vicky Bliss series and Peters's stand-alone gothics. It features an enormously likeable heroine who in the course of a murder investigation spends her last money on an adventurous ocean voyage to South Africa, where she hopes to start a new life. Nonstop action, humour, an intriguing plot, eccentric characters, an alpha-male hero, and beautiful African settings add up to bliss for a romantic armchair traveller.

(Note, the cover I have posted above is not that of my edition, which is so horrid I could not stomach putting it up here!)

 

Feel free to post a link to your own Tuesday Teaser!

Venezuela: His Wicked Kiss by Gaelen Foley

 

1818. In her father’s small research camp in Venezuela’s steamy Orinoco delta, Eden Farraday longs for society balls and, above all, a love match. Her daydreams brighten into hope when a timber crew captained by an Englishman shows up on the river. But England holds painful memories for her father, and the visitor, Jack Knight, is on a secret mission on behalf of Venezuelan revolutionaries. Dr. Farraday’s Australian assistant, too, has other plans for Eden. Her plea to be allowed to sail back home is refused.  Desperate, she takes fate into her own hands and stows away on Jack’s ship.

 

The first four chapters of Gaelen Foley’s His Wicked Kiss take place in the remote jungles of Venezuela, and were a hugely enjoyable part of the book for me. The remarkable setting thrives under Foley’s lush prose, saturating the story with richly detailed atmosphere. The characters have well-rounded personalities that create crackling energy in their interactions. Eden shares the traits of the typical Foley heroine in that she is a supremely beautiful, young innocent, but in the research camp she demonstrates both toughness and competence,  charming me with her scientific bent. Unfortunately, the closer she gets to the England she idolizes, however, the more she begins to leave her warmth and independence, her spark, behind.

A great deal of this book is spent aboard the hero’s ship.  This is where the relationship between Jack and Eden begins to develop, and they have some lovely scenes together as friendship deepens into more. Nevertheless, I grew a bit restless. Having read a few shipboard stories back to back, I am realising that protracted confinement aboard a seafaring vessel generally fails to engage me beyond the vague interest of novelty plus the small hope that we might dock at an exotic port. Now I know why I never quite could convince myself to settle down and read the by all accounts excellent Patrick O’Brien. I have to admit to skimming at one point.

Ireland, in which some passionate encounters take place before the final arrival in England, is a complete blank – we get to see, smell, taste nothing beyond a castle bedroom. The England of His Wicked Kiss is a generic place restricted to family reunions and a few vaguely sketched society events among the same interiors one plods through in regency after regency. (No wonder the regulars at Almack’s are always described as jaded or yawning.) I looked back at that vivid opening and its promising unpredictability with a wistful sigh. It didn’t help that the last quarter of the book dwelled on resentment and frustrations. I only perked up because of a suspenseful finale.

Based on my reading of five of her romances, Gaelen Foley specializes in over-the-top-fairytale-passion-gone-wild romance. Although this type of storytelling rarely clicks with me, Princess and Lord Of Ice did earn places on my keeper shelves, which is why every now and then I take a cautious peek at Foley’s offerings. His Wicked Kiss has a big plot and brims with the author’s trademark passion. If Eden and Jack had remained in South America or Jamaica (Jack’s home base) I like to think that the book could have joined my two keepers. The epilogue works as a nice nod to what could have been if Foley had kept the story in “the New World”. But that is merely this reader’s dream, and neither here nor there.

Excerpt

(Ballantine Books mass market paperback, 2006, p.46):

 

“Jack led the way, stalking down the rustic hemp-and-plank boardwalk, which was raised some inches over the forest floor.

Behind them, the blazing tropical sun came back out over the river, burning off the temporary coolness from the rain. The broad leaves above still dripped, however, as they entered the netherworld gloom of the emerald jungle.

The plants and young trees on either side of the walkway threatened to take it over, while countless lianas hung down from the branches above. Ahead, he saw a flicker of movement, pale swishing skirts. His male senses pricked up.

Light footfalls pattered closer, their rhythm vibrating toward him down the planks. A shy silence followed. He searched the greenery. Where was the little imp? Stopping at the lattice of a chest-high fan palm that arced across the path, he saw curious green eyes peeking at him through the pinnate fingers of the palm frond.”

The Caribbean: Captured by Beverly Jenkins

Beverly Jenkins's Captured is an adventure romance (pirate romance) set in the Caribbean during the American War of Independence. As the plot takes us from France to tropical seas, Cuba, and Savannah (Georgia), the sense of place varies from zero to so generic as to fit any similar climate - with one exception. The various shipboard settings are atmospheric and feel carefully researched.

 

1778. Ships remind Clare Sullivan of the horrors of her passage aboard a slaveship from Africa. On a return voyage from Europe in the service of her owner she can hardly wait to reach the port of Savannah. But when the frigate is boarded by pirates whose captain removes Clare onto their own ship she fears the worst part of an already hard life is about to begin.

 

The disinherited son of a French plantation owner and a freed slave, roguish Dominc LeVeq captains a schooner crewed by men of many races, from a Scottish doctor to a formerly enslaved member of the Cherokee nation, and the mini-universe they have created aboard the ship and on their Cuban island home near Jamaica is one of the novel’s treats. It is not only the hunt for profit that unites the crewmen but also their commitment to disrupt slave trafficking, each man having been directly affected in various ways by its brutality.

Although Dominic bosses Clare around the first day he has been smitten with her from the second he clapped eyes on her. Lust quickly deepens into admiration as he learns more about her, and soon he begins to plan for a solution to her problems. As for Clare, she is at first terrified and suspicious of her new captor, yet the very next day she is enjoying an orgasm in his lap. In fairness, one cannot accuse Clare of the usual TSTL behaviour in this. As an educated slave she has a clear sense of self and a realistic outlook on life. While appreciative of Dominic’s keen attentiveness and the taste of freedom aboard his ship, she knows she must return to to captivity in order to keep an eye on her children, who have been sold to a neighbouring property. The pirate ship offers a temporary respite from shackles, and once she realizes her first impression of Dominic was mistaken, she understandably decides - knowing she has neither the luxury of time for courtship nor the freedom to choose her own lover in the future - to snatch a little pleasure for herself while she can. Still, the extreme turnaround was too easy for me and at this point only my determination not to give up on a promising storyline too early kept me from tossing the book aside.

I'm glad I kept going. Beverly Jenkins writes with a gentle touch and creates a hero and heroine who are thoroughly sympathetic. Without neglecting the painful subject-matter she infuses her story with sweet romanticism: the romance is front and centre and no time is wasted on artificial conflict. While there is one blood-curdling episode toward the end the overall amount of suspense is trifling, which surprised me in view of the plot but did not trouble me as I was absorbed by the fascinating historical aspects instead. The immediacy of the first chapter pulled me into the story straightaway, the heroine’s situation captured my sympathy, and I felt the hero and heroine were beautifully matched for each other.

What did not work for me were some of the other characterizations, or rather the lack of them. While colour and nationality has no bearing on whether a person in this story is found to be good or evil, those who are good are all heroically good, and the antagonists are correspondingly one-dimensional. For example, no background is given for Clare’s owner, Violet, nor any explanation for her actions in regards to Clare. When Clare tells Dominic of how she conceived her children she simply says : “He was a stranger chosen by Violet from amongst her brother’s field slaves” and “A year after Benjamin was born, she chose another man, another stranger”. Why? The reason is not stated, so I can only assume it was done either a) to fetter Clare so tightly to her owners that she would never attempt escape, or b) to produce, without cost, more slaves. Are these actions supposed to illuminate particular callousness or cruelty on Violet’s behalf or are they typical of the slave-owning society she belongs to? Her eyes narrow when she looks at Clare and she says one should not give slaves ideas, but how do these things differentiate Violet from thousands of other slave owners? Violet seems to merely represent a useful type. Likewise, Dominic’s brother Eduard (who would sound more genuinely French if he were named Édouard) hates having a brother of a different race, but that is all we learn about his make-up. A Dutch slave trader is a cardboard villain who throws about phrases like “The next time we meet, LeVeq, plan to die.”

  Since I have no knowledge of ships and wanted an idea of what schooners and frigates look like, I went to the web for information. From pictures and from sites like Pirate’s Hold I gathered that schooners were swift but rather small and shallow, and “could carry up to 75 crew and mounted eight cannons and four swivel guns”, whereas frigates were fast and light, “suited to convoy duty and hunting pirates”, “carrying 24-38 guns on a single deck”. With this information in mind, and looking at pictures, I find it hard to imagine “a large four-poster bed”, a desk, a mahogany table, a wardrobe, several chairs, and a screen in Dominic's schooner cabin! Moreover, it appears he must have been an absolutely masterful captain to conquer the larger and better-armed ship where Clare was a passengenger. Yes, I know, he is the hero - but I wanted to learn how he did it, and that was not shown.  In the Author’s Note Jenkins provides a bibliography for further research into African-American mariners and revolutionaries, so I don’t doubt that she had sound reasons for the story decisions she made. I simply had hard time picturing these two points.

A question about etiquette. If a servant in a European household of this era were to address her mistress simply by her first name without the title, it would have been deemed presumptuous and grounds for dismissal. Even friends and acquaintances had to be sticklers with titles. Clare addresses her non-friendly mistress to that person’s face simply as ‘Violet’ (p. 265) without this being commented on, and this is also how she refers to her in other company. Was this an historical American practice or a Savannah custom, or is it a contemporary literary device?

Overall, the change that Capture’s plot and subject-matter offer from the common run of historicals is refreshing. For that reason, and for her likeable couple,I am curious about Jenkins’s next novel, Midnight, to be released this autumn.

Excerpt (Avon Books, October 2009, p, 127-8):

“A short while later with cannons booming to signal her arrival, the Marie entered its azure blue home harbor. A flotilla of small boats, canoes, and makeshift rafts came out to meet her, and each vessel was filled with waving and smiling men, women, and children. Most bore the kiss of Mother Africa on their skin, but a few were of other races. Clare, standing beside James, had never seen anything quite like it. One large canoe carried two drummers who were pounding out a syncopated greeting. Infected by the happiness she saw on all the faces, she asked, ‘Who are they?’

‘Family, friends, children, sweethearts.’

Some of the crewmen, spotting loved ones, dove off the side into the water and swam to meet them. Watching the crewmen reach the boats and be hauled up, only to be covered with hugs and kisses, increased her smile. More and more small vessels came alongside, and the crewmen lining the rail waved and shouted greetings in reply. While the celebratory homecoming continued, Clare took in the stately palm trees dotting the edges of the beach and, off in the distance, the verdant mountain standing against the cloudless sky. ‘So this is Cuba?’"

 

A book of related interest: For an idea of how easily the life of a woman like Clare could have turned out tragically, Claire de Duras’s Ourika (my edition is from The Modern Language Association Of America, 1994) tells of a fictional, highly-educated and intelligent Senegalese woman raised by an aristocratic family in 18^th century France. It is a very slim volume, the story itself a mere 47 pages, that was first published anonymously in 1823. But it packs an emotional punch that drives home Ourika’s impossible situation as she comes to realize that her education will never grant her access to the society she has been brought up to identify with. Although written by the (white) Duchesse de Durfort and Duras, “colonists on islands like Duras’s mother’s native Martinique were said to have been outraged by the novel’s publication” (Joan DeJean in her introduction).