The Moonlight Mistress (8 page)

He said, “You must get up. Your ship leaves in an hour.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly six.” Pascal tugged, and she sat up, swinging her
legs over the edge of the bed in a tangle of crumpled skirt and petticoats. She spotted her stockings draped tidily over the fireplace screen, her shoes set beneath. “I’ll go with you to the dock,” he said in a tone that permitted no argument. “My aunt has made you sandwiches. She is sorry she could not brush out your clothing for you.”

“It’s too late for mere brushing to do any good. Please thank her for me,” Lucilla said. “I need to wash my face.”

Pascal bent and kissed her, briefly but not chastely. “Come downstairs when you’re ready to go.”

Lucilla barely had time to thank her hosts before, smiling, they bustled her and Pascal out the door. He walked quickly, this time carrying her carpetbag for her while she kept her hand around his biceps, careful not to stray toward his bruises, which he had not shown to his family.

“You’ll see your father, won’t you?” she asked.

“After you’ve gone,” he said. He led her past a boatbuilder’s shed and toward a row of ships, their railings crowded with passengers. “This one,” he said, and stopped at the foot of the gangway.

“Already,” she said, foolishly.

He set down her carpetbag, took off his hat and dug in his jacket pocket. He held up three wrapped chocolates, then slipped them into her skirt pocket with a stealthy caress. “I will find you when this war is ended.”

Lucilla tipped up her chin, trying to send her sudden impending tears back into her head. She wasn’t so brave when it came down to it. She wanted to fling herself into his arms and beg him never to leave her, like someone in a cheap novel. “I’ve enjoyed our time together. I’ll miss you.”

“Don’t speak as if you’ll never see me again.” Pascal ducked
beneath her hat brim and kissed her, long and lusciously. Her knees turned to water, and she clutched at his jacket until he pulled away and slapped his hat back on his head.
“Au revoir.”

“Goodbye,” she said. She picked up her carpetbag and turned away. All the long walk up the gangplank, she did not look back.

ON THE FIFTH DAY AFTER HER ESCAPE FROM THE cage, the wolf decided she had finally outrun all pursuit. She stopped to lick at the dried blood on her wounded shoulder before she slept, to allow herself to heal. She waited for twilight that evening before she moved on, and did the same on many subsequent nights, covering perhaps twenty kilometers without ceasing her steady lope, unless she found water; then she would stop to drink and clean herself. Traveling as she did through fields of grain and vegetables, devouring field mice, only clean dirt clung to her pelage’s stiff hair, but she had become fastidious since her escape.

She not only swam in any suitable water she encountered, but rolled vigorously in sand or against rough rocks, whatever she could find. The stench of him lingered, no matter what she did, and to the wolf an illusory stink was as real as the ground beneath her paws. She took to scrubbing her muzzle in the grass when the taint overpowered her. That helped, or at least provided a distraction from her mother’s never-ceasing
voice in her mind: “You must not attack a human. It’s forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden.”

The weather grew steadily warmer and the days longer. The farther she ran, the more her mother’s voice faded, submerged in the wolf’s mundane concerns. The air of freedom smelled sweet as a fresh kill.

Only once did memory return. Weary of hunting mouthfuls of mouse, one evening she hunted hare, successfully predicting its zigzag dash and seizing its quivering body in her jaws. Blood spurted into her mouth, over her tongue, and it was a man’s blood flowing down, soaking her ruff as she gripped his hip in panic and anger, too weak and fearful to let go and rip instead at his tender belly. The shock of memory almost forced her to change. When she came back to herself, she found the hare’s mangled corpse lying at her feet, but could not summon any appetite for it. She left it for the smaller predators of the fields and went hungry that night, running until she forgot all but the raw-rubbed skin on the bottom of her paws.

After dawn each day, she denned in hedges or ditches, nuzzling her way beneath brush and leaves or whatever cover she could locate. This might have been easier with human hands, but she was reluctant to change, lest anyone see her. And…she did not want to see her human form again. Not yet. It didn’t matter that she bore no scars. That form was bizarre to her, unlikely, and, oddly, she felt as if it had betrayed her. Absurd, when as a human she was also herself; but as a wolf she had never cowered in quite the same way, or yielded to dominance. Her human form was small, pale, weak. It had nothing to offer her today, or tomorrow, or any day after that. Besides, when in wolf form, it was difficult to think too
many days ahead. As far as she was concerned, she might remain on four legs forever. So long as she reached home, what did it matter which form she held? This one was as good as any other.

When the full moon came, she dared not run. She heard her mother’s voice again, sensed her mother’s human hands on her puppy fur as she gently told tales of the wolves who’d gone out in the light of the moon, been seen, and been killed.

“You must hide, little one. Hide when the light is too bright. We are only safe here, on our own lands.”

She denned on the edges of a forest, too skittish to go deeper into the dense, cagelike trees and too afraid to lie in the open without concealment. She tried to sleep the night through, to pass the time, but sleep came only in shallow snatches, her legs twitching as if to continue running, so she woke even more weary than she’d been before. At dawn, she found water, then fell truly asleep.

Perhaps her body sensed the trees close around her. She dreamed of being held immobile in a wooden chute, claws scrabbling frantically at the floor while bullets slammed into her haunches, bursts of numbness blossoming into hot, ripping agony. She snarled and yelped, trying to curl in on herself, but there was no refuge, and her blood slowly soaked through the layers of her golden pelage, her strangled whimpers of pain erupting into howls that wrenched and tore into human screams. In her dreams, the change was pain like snapping bones and she jolted into another place, another time. She heard her leg bone creak and twist and pop while she fought uselessly against crisscrossing, pinching leather straps, growling through her bound, bleeding muzzle, while her captor cursed
her and smacked her nose, annoyed that she would not hold still. Across the room, the others watched and growled.

She could not bear to sleep among the trees after that endless night. She trusted cornfields, open and predictable, to hide her from view, but sometimes even the spaced green rows seemed to whisper behind her and close in over her head, leaving her no escape but a panicked burst of speed under the white light of the revealing moon.

She had traveled forever. One evening, when she’d slept next to a road, she woke to the stench of tobacco and man. The wise course would be to remain hidden. Instead, she sprang free of concealment and into the road, hackles raised.

He stopped. He spoke.

Her upper lip quivered and lifted, a growl tremoring forth from her belly.
Run
, she thought. If he ran, she would chase. If he ran, he would be prey. Rage and revulsion fought each other in her belly. She imagined hot blood gushing into her mouth and the slick tenderness of meat beneath his hide.

He spoke again, a question. His voice trembled, but he didn’t move. He smelled old, like—

He would be easy prey if he ran. She could bring him down alone. She did not need to bite. She need only protect herself. But if he tried to bind her…

Hesitantly, he took one step toward her, muttering nonsense. “Good dog…My, you’re large. Where do you live? Good dog, good dog…”

She would not hunt prey that approached her. Also, he stank, but his words weren’t what she’d expected. A thread of familiarity crept into her ears and gradually she identified the feeling.

He spoke Flemish.

She cringed. She was home, might have been home for
days. She should be overjoyed, but she cringed. She had almost attacked a fellow Belgian.

The man stopped speaking. He wore sandals. She could smell the mud on his trousers, the wine he’d drunk and the pipe he’d smoked. She smelled no weapon and sensed no bitter tang of contempt. A farmer, probably. Not a threat. Slowly, she backed away, strained whimpers replacing her growl. As soon as she could control herself, she turned tail and fled.

Almost full, the moon glowed fat and brilliant, illuminating her path and clearly marking her retreat to any observers, but she could not stop herself from running, not even retreating to the edge of the road for many kilometers.

Thirst eventually brought her up short. She yawned nervously from a queer sense of pursuit, though the road was deserted. She could smell a village nearby. She could smell bricks and thatch, stoves and fireplaces, and the bodies of humans and horses, dogs and cats, chickens and goats and pigs. Like a promise, she also smelled the first hints of baking bread. Soon it would be dawn.

She staggered to the ditch and there, without quite willing it, she changed form. It must have been a long time since she’d been human. Her muscles wrenched painfully as she thrashed, her head slamming into the dirt. She felt as if her spine was being ripped from her back and her yelp twisted to a strangled cry. She fell naked in the ditch, panting, her hair tangled around her, her face streaked with tears of agony.

Growling, she dug her fingers into the dirt and ripped loose handfuls of grass and flowers, flinging them from her with all her strength. That was not enough. She clawed at her own skin, her weak pale flesh, but her ripped nails could not damage
enough to release her rage. She tried to change form again, but exhaustion and her disordered feelings prevented her. That final effort sucked the last of her strength and she collapsed to the ground, shaking with a roil of human and animal rage. She could not stop weeping until after the sun rose.

In the gray light of dawn, she crept toward the village, slinking in and out of any cover she found. Dogs silenced and retreated from her at a single commanding look, and a farmer headed for the nearby tobacco fields did not notice a single unmoving shadow behind a rosebush. She crept on bare, callused feet into a laundry shed and there found two dresses, still redolent of their human owner and too large for her slight form. She took one anyway and struggled into it, wrinkling her nose at the human stench, then crept out again. She stole bread from a windowsill, tore off half the loaf, then returned the other half, driven by some distant impulse of human behavior.

Inside the house, people were talking with great vehemence. She had to concentrate to make sense of the human speech at first. They were outraged, and fearful. Some terrible event had taken place.

She didn’t piece everything together until she heard the word
war
. German soldiers had invaded Belgium without cause?

She fled with her breakfast, walking down the dirt road in the yellow light of day.

First, she would go home—the desire to hide in her own forest was so overwhelming it frightened her. If she did that, she feared, she might never emerge. It would not be a bad life, except that then Kauz would have won. That, she would not allow. And now there was this other problem, of the invasion. How dare they? And what could she do about it?
Who knew what power Kauz would gain if his country succeeded in their conquest?

She would go home, and recover her strength. Then she would find Kauz again. And she would rip out his throat.

LUCILLA ARRIVED HOME IN KENT TO THE FERVENT embraces of her mother, and a more formal though no less heartfelt embrace from her father, who’d thought her trip to Germany a bad idea in the first place. Her brother had been called up to his regiment already, though no one yet knew when or if Crispin would be shipped to France. It was likely he’d have a brief leave before that happened, but no one was sure of anything.

Her house was strewn with dismembered newspapers as her family attempted to piece together scraps of information about the war—everything from the text of threatening diplomatic letters to the movement of men and ships—into a logical whole. Neighbors went in and out, sharing news and gossip and speculation, littering every table with teacups and saucers covered in crumbs. Finding out what was happening was the crux of every conversation. Lucilla felt no urgency on this point, as she was now sure war would happen. Her discussions with others on the ship from Le Havre and on the
train to Kent had made that clear to her. Europe was a powder keg, and fuses had been lit all over. It was only a matter of time. She went to the hospital where she normally worked and inquired about the requirements for nurses willing to travel to France. With her surgical experience and maturity, she was told, she would be accepted with alacrity.

She informed her family that she was traveling to London as soon as possible to see Clara Lockie, a friend from university who now served as an administrator for the Red Cross. Ignoring her mother’s increasingly loud demands for further details, she climbed upstairs to her room and shut the door. She would need her carpetbag, which she had never unpacked after her journey from Germany. It sat on the corner rug. She drew a decisive breath and popped it open. On top lay the map Pascal had drawn, and her medical kit in its own case. She didn’t need to unbuckle the leather straps to know that she would need to replace her bandages and refill the jar of wound salve before she traveled again. And she remembered that she had no more condoms. She and Pascal had seen to that. She contemplated acquiring a new stock of them. They were still valuable bribes, and perhaps she would meet some other man, a doctor or army officer, who took her fancy. She closed her eyes but would not allow herself to shy away from considering the idea. The rest of her life might stretch very long, and she was losing her fortitude against loneliness. Even as a paragon of moral rectitude, she would never be allowed to freely work and study as men did. With the world bent on destruction, she had little reason to stick to propriety.

The remnants of her glassware were padded with dirty laundry about which she had forgotten. She swore and carefully unwrapped each piece, setting it on her writing desk.
She found the remains of a tin of acid drops that had gone sticky, and cut her finger on a bit of broken glass she’d missed. Her laboratory notebooks lay in the bottom of the carpetbag; she stacked them neatly on a shelf, as her mind was too turbulent for that sort of work. It looked as if a page had come loose, she realized as she lifted the bag to set it on her bed. She drew out the single sheet, at first thinking it blank, but then saw the penciled, back-slanted words:
16 Rue du Canotage
. An address. She’d never seen the handwriting before, but knew it for Pascal’s. Had he dropped this slip of paper? A memory tugged at her of walking along a pier in Le Havre, and a warehouse with its address painted on the wall in flaking white letters. He’d told her that his father lived on that street, and two of his brothers. Pascal had no need to write down an address on the Rue du Canotage for himself. He’d written it down for her.

Lucilla wept. It was, she thought afterward as she lay emptied atop her bed, a reaction to everything that had happened to her in the past weeks. It had nothing to do with her momentary desire to seize notepaper and write to Pascal. His family lived at that address. He did not. Anything sent there might never reach him. He would not really want her to write. He might have met someone else already. She was a fool.

No, she was doubly a fool. She shouldn’t lie to herself to make this easier. She and Pascal had shared true companionship, not just sex, and if she saw him again, he wouldn’t turn her away. But that was the difficult part. She couldn’t count on seeing him again, and aim her whole life toward that goal, for who knew what would come of it? She was no longer a young girl to moon over imaginary futures that would solve all her problems. Having a man would not give her the deep, sustain
ing happiness that intellectual fulfillment provided her. Chemistry was a lover who would never forsake nor destroy her.

Still, she would miss the sex, and even more so, the physical intimacy. Her body ached for Pascal, even now.

Crispin returned home the following day. Lucilla met him at the door, and at first she could only stare. He wore crisp khaki service dress, and his curly hair was cropped and nearly hidden beneath his uniform cap. His usually open and pleasant face was tense and worried, but he relaxed when he saw her.

“Hello, Luce. I’m so glad you made it home.”

She flung herself into his arms, holding him so tightly he was forced to drop his rucksack. After a time, she broke free, kissed him and said, “I thought I might not get to see you again.”

“I’ve twenty-four hours,” he said, chucking her lightly beneath the chin, then smoothing back her hair, which had become mussed in their embrace. “Is Mum home?”

“Gone to the Osbournes’. She’ll be back in a few hours. The pater’s upstairs.”

“I’ll do the pretty, then we’ll go down the pub, all right? I’m starving.”

Half a dozen friends stopped them on their walk to the pub, but Crispin put them all off with a few words. Lucilla’s heart went into her throat each time she looked at him. He was so young, only twenty-three. She could still easily remember rocking him in his cradle as a baby.

The publican wouldn’t let him pay for his pint, nor Lucilla’s decorous bottle of fizzy lemonade. They sat outside, at their favorite outdoor table under the oak tree, and drank for a few minutes in silence, watching a pair of mongrels chase each other beside the dusty lane. At last, Crispin took off his cap and tossed it onto the table before wiping his forehead on his
sleeve. “Bloody uniforms are too hot,” he said. “I don’t like these new boots, either. They’ll take weeks to break in.”

“Do you think you’ll have weeks?” she asked.

After a small pause, he shook his head.

“Right, then. I’m going to find work as a nurse. They’ll be in need of them.”

Crispin’s cheeks colored. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“I don’t expect we’ll be able to see each other very often,” she said, “but I’d rather be there than trapped here at home. And I certainly can’t return to the Institute. I fear I can never return there again.”

“Perhaps after the war’s over—”

“And when will that be?” she asked. “No, I’ve burned my bridges there.”

Crispin sipped his pint, then wiped the foam from his lip. “So…I haven’t really time to cajole the story from you. I was expecting I’d have to go to Whitehall and beg them to send someone after you. My captain even said he would give me leave, and find some business to send Lieutenant Meyer with me.”

Lucilla said, “I thought I’d be trapped there, as well, once the trains stopped running. But I found help.” To her horror, she felt heat rising in her cheeks.

“What sort of help?”

Perhaps it would do her good to speak of it, as an event long over and gone. Taking another fortifying sip of lemonade, Lucilla began with “There was another foreigner at the Institute, a Frenchman,” and went all the way through to “and he put me on a ship across the channel.” By the time she’d finished, the sun had moved halfway across the pub’s yard, and Crispin had munched his way through an enormous plate of fish and chips.

“I can see why he didn’t go with you,” Crispin said. “He’ll be called up soon enough. Do you have his address?”

“I don’t plan to use it,” she said. “He might have been Lizzy’s age, no more. That’s only thirty. I’m forty-two. We live in different countries, speak different languages.”

“You said he spoke English.”

“Well, he does, but—”

“And you’re going back to France.”

“Well, yes, but not to see—” She drank more lemonade. “I have a career, Crispin.”

Grimly, he said, “Sure, but no one will hire you. You said Monsieur Fournier works for the French government. Things might be better in France. Maybe he can get you a position. Sometimes all it takes is a sponsor.”

“He won’t want to see me again.”

“That might be true, but…” He took another sip of his pint. Tentatively, he said, “You sounded happy when you talked about him. Very happy. That isn’t something to ignore.”

She looked down at her hands. “It was pleasant to converse with another scientist who didn’t consider me the equivalent of a trained circus dog.”

“Isn’t that worth searching out?”

“Oh, Crispin. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

The ship carrying the regiment to France was at least cooler than the troop train had been. Crispin settled his men and wandered the deck, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching Lieutenant Meyer, who sat by the railing scribbling in a notebook and humming to himself, writing music as he always did. When Meyer didn’t look up, Crispin leaned his back on the railing, a few feet down, and alternated staring
out to sea with keeping an eye on the men, so it wasn’t so much like standing alone. He could review their names while he was at it.

Mason was easy; he was half Negro, and the most accurate shot in the company. Lyton was the oldest, already going gray. Private Figgis always had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, whether it was lit or not; luckily, he also had a mole next to his nose, in case he ever lost the cigarette. Evans had curly dark hair much like Crispin’s own, and the remnants of a Welsh accent; Woods, the same age as Evans and usually in his company, looked at least five years younger. Cawley had hairy knuckles but was already going bald; Lincoln was also balding and generally wore a sour expression. Skuce was the best card player, aside from Hailey. After Meyer, Corporal Joyce was the best looking, though too muscular for Crispin’s taste, and Southey was another easy one, his hair the palest blond, with a graceful walk that reminded Crispin of the first boy who’d ever fucked him at school, Tobin Major.

Crispin shook himself. Dangerous to think of such things now. All that was past, gone. He might watch Meyer a bit, but he wasn’t going to
do
anything about it. He had no desire to end up jailed, or worse.

Pale and pudgy, and much tougher than he appeared, Lieutenant Smith of the fourth platoon was curled up asleep by the wheelhouse. Lieutenant Ashby crept over and ever so carefully placed a couple of empty wine bottles and a biscuit tin by his hand, so Figgis could take an incriminating photograph. Ashby could do that sort of thing and not lose the men’s respect over it; they’d only love him more for his pranks. Ashby was friends with Meyer, Crispin had learned. Ashby and Meyer had been neighbors since boyhood. That probably ex
plained the odd intuition he’d felt when he’d first seen them, standing together, Ashby’s grin seemingly telling Meyer secrets.

Crispin really needed to stop imposing his own preferences on other men.

Private Hailey’s appreciative eye on Meyer, for example, was likely the normal admiration of a young man for a well-dressed officer, particularly one much younger and handsomer than the captain whom Hailey served as batman. The only thing different about it was that, because Meyer was a Jew, most of the men focused their admiration on Ashby instead, even though he was far less handsome. Crispin admitted that Ashby did have an appealing energy about him, and a compelling presence, but to Crispin, he just wasn’t as…involved. Ashby was always just a little distant, as though he was thinking of two things at once. Meyer really cared about the men he commanded, and to Crispin that said a considerable amount about his personality.

Captain Wilks strode into sight then, and Hailey bounded to his feet like a pup sighting its master. Wilks was an enormous man in both height and girth, who often told the story of how he’d been unable to find a decent-size polo pony in all of Peshawar, until he’d befriended a Pathan horse trader through winning at jackstraws, and from then on had never suffered. He always avoided explaining why they’d been playing jackstraws instead of a more usual soldiers’ amusement; Crispin suspected the game had been more risqué. Hailey never seemed to tire of this story, no matter how the rest of the company rolled their eyes.

Wilks, in turn, clearly loved having someone to listen to him, far more than he cared about the state of his boots and buckles, and would regale them at any opportunity with tales
of hot plains and snowy mountains, of tigers and tame elephants and cows that freely wandered the city streets, and how he and three old men had hauled a cannon up a mountain with ropes, and how he’d once saved a child from a snake as big around as his thigh. Crispin wasn’t sure he believed that last one, but he wasn’t going to spoil it for anyone else by questioning it.

Hailey stepped over a few sleeping soldiers and saluted, and Captain Wilks handed him a sandwich. “Better eat that, son,” he said. “Never miss a chance to eat, sleep or piss.”

“Yes, sir,” Hailey said, grinning. “Do you need anything, sir? I altered that second jacket for you, and mended your shirts.”

“Maybe when the bullets start flying I’ll need some assistance,” Wilks said. “Until then, you just keep yourself out of trouble. When I was your age, you can’t imagine the hell I raised. Though you’re a good boy, I’ll give you that.”

Crispin didn’t have to imagine; Wilks had told everyone in the company, relishing every detail. It didn’t hurt that Wilks had grown up in India as well as later serving there, so even his boyhood scrapes involved monkeys and tigers and mongooses. Hailey said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Be off with you now.”

“Sir—” Hailey didn’t have to say anything else. Wilks clapped his shoulder with a huge, weathered hand.

“You’ll do fine, my brave lad,” he said. “But only if you eat your sandwich. If you can nick me a bottle of port from the colonel later on, there’s a crown in it for you. And check on old Hammerhead down in the hold, make sure he has a carrot.”