Jack Absolute (37 page)

He shed the remainder of his clothes as she watched. Soon he was clad only in a shirt that reached to just above his knees.

‘I discovered you fishing once dressed in just such a way,’ she said, softly.

He went slowly to her, stepping between her opening arms, bending to lift her, arms behind her knees at her back. Their lips
met again as he carried her to the bed.

In midnight and noontime dreams, he had done this a thousand times. Yet the reality of her skin, her strong, long legs, her
small, full breasts, that cascade of golden hair half-concealing them like a veil, all this, and secrets unimagined, proved
dreams to be the poor imitation they were. He took his time, kissing everywhere he had always wanted to kiss, leaving little
untouched by lips or tongue or fingers. She responded, tentatively at first, increasingly bold, going where his moans led
her, as hers led him, until the heat grew too hot for them both, could only be taken off in one last way. Remnants of clothes
fell away and they were joined.

The snow, newly falling, had built a deep lining in the leaded frames of the window before they parted.

*

It was not unusual for Jack to experience some sadness after lovemaking. He understood, from friends, fellow officers, that
he was not alone in this – though Até mocked him relentlessly when he’d been unwise enough to confess it. It was usual, though,
for the sadness to be general, to have no specific cause. Something to do with endings perhaps, of a wish fulfilled that could
be wished no more.

This time the reason was plain, lay in his arms within the tangle of blankets, sheets and pillows that he had fashioned into
a nest on the floor near the fire. His back rested against the bedstead, one bare foot exposed to the little flame that remained
in the grate. Her fingers lightly traced the patterns of the Mohawk tattoos on his chest and shoulders, ran down the leaf
wreathes, followed the jaws of a wolf.

It was her voice that put a question to his thoughts. ‘What now, Jack?’

‘What now, indeed.’

She pulled away, looked up at him, without words, the blanket over her back making a cave within which he stared at her hair,
her face, her glowing body.

‘I presume we are not to be disturbed by your mother.’

‘I think it unlikely as she is in Massachusetts.’

‘Not sick then?’

‘In fierce health when last I heard.’

He smiled. ‘I invented an invalid aunt once, in Bath. Had to spend all sorts of time tending her. Or rather, going to her
rooms and slipping down a secret stair that no one knew of. I grew fond of her. Was ever so sad when she recovered and moved
back to Truro.’

She laughed and he joined her, both enjoying the moment. Until a new question came to him. ‘Wait. Does that mean your father—’

‘No. He truly is loyal to the Crown. I cozened him as I cozened you in that. It has given me much grief.’

Once questions came they came not in single spies but in battalions, no matter how awkward. ‘And André? Is he also your lover?’

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, shook her head.

‘But you encourage him?’

She sighed. ‘Jack, he is Howe’s intelligence as you were Burgoyne’s.’

‘So that’s why you made love to me?’ The tone of the question was half jest, half not.

‘No. Your usefulness in that regard ended with Burgoyne’s surrender.’

The cold way she said it – an item of commerce. It made him laugh again.

‘Well, I am sorry if I am no longer useful to you, madam.’

‘Nay, sir,’ she said, rising above him, throwing back the blanket, ‘now did I say that?’

Afterwards, he could sit no more. He dressed and she watched him, from the bed now. The sadness had returned to blend with
his confusion.

‘You have not answered my question, Jack.’

He pulled on one boot. ‘Which was?’

‘What now?’

He pulled on the other boot, sat to tie his stock. ‘What would you have?’

She considered him. ‘We have discovered that I am a patriot. We have noted that you have your doubts as to the rightness of
your cause. Is there not … some room there?’

He finished tying, put his hands on his thighs. ‘You would have me be a traitor.’ It was not a question.

‘I would have you follow your heart.’ She clutched the
blanket tight to her neck, came towards him down the bed. ‘You are America’s friend, not its enemy. Yes, you have doubts about
our cause, the hypocrisy of slavery, fears for your Native brothers. I share many of them. But do you not see that we will
deal with those once we have our freedom? We will disagree and bicker and resolve as families must. It matters not that all
Colonists agree on everything now – for what we do agree on is a principle. Such a principle! It is enshrined in our Declaration
of Independence – the right to the pursuit of happiness.’ She stared above him for a moment, then laughed. ‘Happiness! When,
in the history of the world, has that ever been a universal aspiration? When has it not been reserved only for the wealthy,
backed by tyrannous power? We will make it something that every person can seek, no matter how lowly born.’

Jack sighed. ‘My fear, Louisa, is that, in seeking happiness for yourselves, you would coerce others into providing it for
you.’

She reached a hand out to him. ‘No, Jack. This is a new world we strive to make now, based on new principles. I have heard
you speak with passion on just such freedoms. You talked of your own mother’s quest for them. Why deny your truths, your blood?’

‘You do not know what you ask of me.’ He rose, lifted his red coat, held it towards her. ‘You would have me deny other truths,
different blood. Bring dishonour to this uniform. To the name of Absolute. Give up that name, abandon my estates, my father.
You would have me break faith with General Burgoyne.’ He was squeezing the material hard between his fingers. ‘I swore him
an oath to see you dead, “Diomedes”.’ He shrugged into the jacket. ‘You are asking me to give up my life.’

‘One life! You have another. I saw you in the forest, saw how you love this land. And you have another name – for are
you not Daganoweda of the Mohawk? There are estates here, greater than the whole of Cornwall, waiting for a man such as you
to claim them. And as for family, you could start a new one … here.’ She pressed her fist into her chest.

He stared at her, her words resounding inside him. He had to get away, to consider answers for all this. They would be hard
to find, while too many questions kept coming.

‘I followed you and André to that lodging house.’

She clutched the sheet tighter to her. ‘When? Tonight?’

He nodded. ‘He wore a black cloak.’

‘That … that was not André. It was another agent.’

‘Cato?’

Her eyes narrowed for a tiny moment, and Jack only saw it because he was studying her so closely. Then she looked puzzled
and said, ‘Who?’

‘Come, Louisa! That first message I decoded in Quebec. It was meant for Diomedes. You! And no doubt you did receive one of
the other two messages for your number – 642 is clear in your diary. But the message also talked of your superior, whose orders
you would obey. Is the man in the black cloak Cato?’

She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Does it matter? You know I cannot tell you his real name. Will not … until you
have decided what you are going to do.’

He considered her, then nodded, reached for his sword belt, buckled it, put on his greatcoat. With his hat in his hand, he
turned to her, to the question on her face.

‘I need time to think on all this. And tomorrow night – no, tonight, we perform a play.’

He startled her with that. ‘You would still do that. Now? After—’

‘It is one more day, Louisa. One more night. The world will keep turning without our guidance. Nations will not be formed
or enslaved by our lack of action. If we were to
disappear now … suspicion would be upon us.’ He smiled. ‘And maybe I am enough of an actor after all to want the play to go
on. Even this one. So let us lose ourselves in the drama and let us decide our future afterwards.’ She made to speak but he
overrode her. ‘I will do nothing, report nothing until we have decided … together. I give you my word. And you know that,
whatever my other failings, I always keep my word.’

She studied him, then nodded. ‘I do. Till tonight then and the end of the play.’

‘Till tonight.’ He did not go near her again; he knew if he did he would not be able to leave. He went through the door, down
the stairs, out the front door. Enough snow had fallen to hide his prints from the night before. With a sigh, he began to
make new ones – back to his lodgings, on to his future.

‘Am not
I
a lover; aye, and a romantic one too?’

A roar rose at the words. It was extraordinary what people found to laugh at. Yet André had warned them before the performance
that the audience would have dined and drank heartily before crowding into the small auditorium to be entertained. And since
The Rivals
was a cunning and proven piece of craft, they had come prepared to be amused by it, to leave outside the cruel winds and
the threat of Rebel raids – they had been growing ever bolder in their assaults – and lose themselves in the comedy. Each
entrance was cheered, every exit applauded, demands made for especially good lines or bits of business to be repeated. It
was intoxicating, Jack had to admit. He had only experienced it before t’other side of the footlights and had found it pleasing
enough there. Now he was learning what various player friends had tried to tell him – to be the focus of all that attention,
the centre of that vortex of power, to shape and direct it … well, it was akin to drunkenness on the finest champagne. Or
very much like being in the first passion of love, making it easy to forget anything else.

Which reminded him …
What a stew this is
, Jack thought, staring out, his mind in three worlds at once. There was himself, Jack Absolute, playing the character Jack
Absolute, re-enacting a very partial view of an episode from his own past. There was the actor mouthing the lines, waiting
for the reaction. And somewhere shoved away behind these two, there was the spy who had compromised himself with an enemy
agent, worse, fallen in love with that agent – who was also his on-stage lover! And before the midnight bell tolled, a decision
must be made about that agent. One that would change many lives, his own not least, and could even affect the outcome of a
war.

A stew, indeed. While the audience still enjoyed his line, Jack looked out, let his gaze sweep over the entire house. It may
have been considerably smaller than Drury Lane, a mere five hundred crammed in, but it was its match in miniature, with the
open space of the pit crowded with benches, a gallery above, a box just encroaching upon the stage on each side. He looked
at the one Stage Left now, then looked swiftly away. General Howe, with his mistress, Mrs Loring, and several of his most
senior officers, occupied it. Suddenly it felt most peculiar to be observed in this role by his commanding officer when he,
and indeed the entire audience, believed that Jack was playing ‘himself’, and revelled in the fact. Unnerved, he turned to
the box Stage Right. André sat there, leaning forward, apparently more nervous than any of his players.

Jack spoke his next words straight to him. André had encouraged them to make direct contact with members of the audience.
Line delivered, he glanced to André’s right. There was another man there, leaning back, talking to someone behind him. His
face was in shadow but his hand was before him, thin, pale fingers moving ceaselessly across a cloak draped over the box’s
front. Heavy, blue-black, its hood was pointed and Jack recognized it instantly from the night before. Its wearer had escorted
Louisa to a lodging house where rooms could be rented for a shilling and a half.

His mind, so split before, now focused on one need – to learn the identity of the agent that Louisa had concealed from him,
Cato – and find out why that man was now sat next to John André. That identity could be a vital part of the decision he was
to make at play’s end.

Returning his mind reluctantly to the stage, he realized the other actor was staring at him peculiarly. He glanced into the
auditorium. The audience looked back expectantly and sudden heat surged through him, bringing sweat instantly to his forehead.
It was his line and he had not an idea what it was! He stared again at the man playing his servant, Fag, and shook his head
slightly. The fusilier lieutenant swallowed and spoke, repeating Jack’s cue.

‘Were I in your place, I should certainly drop his acquaintance.’

Yes
, Jack thought,
that’s your line. But what the devil’s mine?

And then he just said it and eternity ended, for somehow it was correct. Pushing the man aside, as per his stage directions,
he exited. He didn’t have long. A scenery change and then the first entrance of Sir Lucius O’Trigger. The actor playing him
had cut it very fine indeed and had only arrived at the theatre after the play began. Jack had not even met him yet; the man
would just have to stand still and say his lines. And of course, the climactic duel, that Jack had desired, could not now
take place.

But, as he left the stage and proceeded to the corridor that led to the Stage Right box, it was not actorly considerations
that preoccupied him. He was an agent again and an enemy spy, who wore a black cloak, who had been alone with Louisa in a
cheap lodging room, was ahead of him.

‘What are you doing here?’ hissed André, as Jack pushed open the door.

‘I need to be introduced to your friend,’ he said, stepping
in. André was between him and the seated figure whose face was still in shadow. But the man rose and spoke as he did.

‘Surely we need no introduction, Captain Absolute. For are we not old friends?’ said the Count von Schlaben.

If it was hard for Jack to find words on stage, it was worse now. Similar feelings came, a difficulty in breathing, a flush
to skin, a prickling of brow. He reached to grasp the back of André’s chair.