“Oh, Lucy. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. I find you an impenetrable enigma. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. White rang the bell. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. The tropical dawn is swift. She had not gone by the name Lucy during those years but instead had called herself “Mary Lucia Iovelli”.
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