‘There you are, my dear. Did you sleep?’ Marianne passed Ella a basket of bread, as Caroline did the rounds, pouring treacle-dark coffee into small rounded bowls for each of them and topping up the rich-smelling brew with hot, creamy milk. More accustomed to a bowl of porridge and tea served in genteel cups and saucers, Ella paused, unsure how to proceed. She followed suit, gingerly, as Marianne picked up her bowl with both hands and sipped from it. The coffee was delicious and invigorating, as was eating breakfast outside in the heady sea air. Christophe tore his bread into chunks which he dipped into his coffee bowl, but Ella followed Caroline’s example and spread hers thickly with white butter and cherry jam.
‘So today we’ll take you out in Bijou,’ said Christophe, in between mouthfuls. ‘Have you ever sailed before?’
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘Don’t worry. She’s a beauty, and easy to sail. We’ll teach you.’
‘I’m worried that you might spoil your pretty clothes though,’ Marianne said, smiling kindly. ‘Caroline, could you lend Ella something of yours? And we must get you a pair of espadrilles from the market this weekend. They are perfect for the beach and the boat.’
An hour later, Christophe nodded approvingly as he helped Ella climb into the little rowing dinghy which he held steady in the water against the side of a rough slip-way. Bare-footed, holding the sandals that she’d just slipped off, she took the hand he was holding out to her and stepped down into the small wooden tender that would ferry them out to where Bijou, a pretty daysailer, bobbed on her mooring. ‘You look almost French in those clothes,’ he said with a smile, only releasing her hand once she was safely settled on one of the wooden seats. She had changed into a loose navy blue top, striped with white, and a pair of cotton shorts that Caroline had lent her. Her hair was tied back from her face with a navy ribbon, which fluttered in the breeze.
Ella smiled back at him, her new outfit lending her a feeling of relaxed confidence. Speaking a different language, wearing different clothes and setting out on an altogether new experience all combined to heighten her new-found sensation of freedom; the liberty to be someone entirely other than her Edinburgh self.
Christophe reached up to take the picnic basket and a capacious, leather-handled straw bag full of towels and jumpers that Caroline was passing down to him. He helped his sister into the dinghy in her turn and then set the oars in the rowlocks, pushed off from the slip-way and turned the bow towards Bijou’s mooring.
Once on board the sailing boat, Ella felt awkward and clumsy. The other two busied themselves with easy assurance, readying the yacht and stowing the picnic in the tiny cabin below decks. Bijou really was a beautiful boat, her lines sleek and elegant, her deck made of oiled teak and the boards of her clinker-built flanks pristine under their coat of white paint.
‘She’s an original, there’s no other boat exactly like her,’ Christophe explained with some pride. ‘Grand-père had her specially built, ten years ago. Maman inherited her, along with the house, when he died. She’s been coming to the Île de Ré since she was an infant. It was Grand-père who taught us all how to sail. But Papa doesn’t really enjoy the sea, and Maman would rather spend her time tending to her beloved garden, so I’m looking after Bijou now.’
Caroline cast off from the mooring buoy and, as Christophe drew the tiller towards him, Bijou turned her bow towards the open sea and the wind caught her sails. They edged out slowly at first, picking their way between the other boats that were moored in the shelter of the harbour, until they were clear. Ella felt the wind pick up suddenly, making her hair-ribbon flutter against the nape of her neck.
Then, all at once, they were flying.
Sparkling wavelets, their crests speckled with white, rose up playfully before them, sending up a shower of fine sea-spray as Bijou’s bow ploughed through them. A kittiwake, white as blown cherry-blossom against the dizzying blue of the sky, soared on an updraught, its ink-tipped wings wide-spread, and Ella felt her heart soar with it, transported by the sense of exhilaration and pure, unadulterated joy that suddenly surged through her body. She tipped her head back to follow the gull’s flight and then closed her eyes for a moment, letting the rays of the sun caress her face, all thoughts of sun-hats and freckles completely forgotten now.
Christophe steered them on a long reach that took them south from the island. Settling back against the transom of the boat, he nudged his sister. ‘Look, Caroline, I think our guest is enjoying herself.’
Ella beamed back at the two of them. ‘It’s terrific! It feels as if we’re flying through the water.’
Christophe nodded. ‘I always think of it as a dance. The ocean is a formidable partner. Today, her mood is gay and upbeat – see, she’s wearing sequins. We’re dancing a quickstep. Some days she’s gentler, more romantic, dressed in silk, and then it’s a waltz. Occasionally, she can be moody though. When she dances a paso doble or a tango, full of anger and passion, we must be careful and use all Bijou’s skills to match her.’
Caroline laughed. ‘And when she turns into a whirling dervish, when it’s really blowing a gale, then we leave her to dance alone. She may be a dancer, but she’s a powerful one. In this case, she is definitely the one who leads.’
‘Get ready to tack,’ ordered Christophe, shading his eyes with one hand.
Caroline loosened the jib sheet and motioned to Ella. ‘When he says “ready about”, we hunker down like this to let the boom swing across. You don’t want to get hit on the head by it.’
Ella followed Caroline’s lead, scrambling under the boom and across to the port side, and Bijou changed direction, pointing landward once more so that the low line of the island’s dunes was ahead of them again. The sun’s rays warmed Ella’s back now, permeating the soft cotton of her top. Her skin glowed with the warmth and the wind and the exhilaration of the sea-spray that filled the air each time another wavelet rose up to meet Bijou’s prow.
Thinking about Caroline’s words, Ella felt a shiver ripple through her, despite the sun’s warmth. The sea was a benign, playful dance partner today, but the small wooden boat seemed suddenly vulnerable as it skimmed across the ocean. Beneath the sparkling surface, the water was mysterious and dark, fathoms deep with powerful, unseen currents.
How silly, she thought, to have such dark thoughts on a day like this. A day filled with sunlight and beauty and youth and freedom. The wind whipped a strand from her long ponytail across her mouth and she shook her head, to shake off both the hair and her thoughts. She stretched one arm out over the side of the boat, extending her fingers towards the waves’ lacy caps, the spray cooling her skin until goose pimples, like grains of golden sand, formed over its smooth surface.
She turned to look back at the frothy white train left by their wake and caught Christophe’s dark gaze fixed upon her. Like the ocean, his eyes seemed to have hidden depths, sparkling with inner light one moment, suddenly stormy the next. She felt her cheeks flush, but met his gaze steadily with her own. In that moment, she sensed something powerful between them, last night’s moment of connection transforming itself into a surge as strong as the pull of the tide. She knew, instinctively, that there could be no point in trying to swim against it. Like a force of nature, it was something far beyond anything she’d experienced before, something she knew she would not have the power to fight even if she’d wanted to. And she discovered she didn’t want to at all.