The Spy's Reward (18 page)

Anthony pictured Battista finding little half-chewed bits of paper smeared with gunpowder in Anthony's room. His servant would go straight to Eli Roth, and that would be the end of Anthony's plan.

It was a simple plan: Anthony had decided to enlist and go fight Bonaparte. He was very clear about it. He knew that part of what was driving him was the humiliating beating he had taken at Sisteron, but he knew, too, that he had other, better reasons. The perfumers of Grasse, hoping for the first time in over ten years to be able to export their wares, were a reason. His uncle Jacob, who had been isolated from the rest of the family for the simple reason that he lived in Paris, was another. And although Italy was not as closed off as France, Anthony had felt the strain of doing business in French-controlled territory more and more. When Bonaparte had abdicated last spring, it was as though a giant weight had been lifted from every Englishman in Europe.

His uncle was another reason. Anthony was still furious with Meyer. To hoodwink innocent companions and place their lives at risk seemed to him inexcusable, no matter what military advantage might be at stake. Enlisting was his way of showing his uncle that there were honorable ways of fighting Napoleon. When he had first approached Davis, who was the brother of a clerk at the bank, the older man had assumed Anthony wanted a berth as an officer. It had taken quite some time to convince him that a wealthy young man was prepared to become a private.

“The pay is only a shilling,” Davis had warned him. “We sleep on the ground, most nights. The food is full of weevils, if there is any at all. And enlisted men can be flogged.”

But Roth had refused to consider purchasing a commission. Not only was he quite certain that he would be a danger to his men if he held a command, but he was also unwilling to take a false name and pretend to be Christian, as his cousin James had done. No lies, he told himself. He conveniently ignored the deception involved in concealing from everyone in Eli Roth's household both his outings to Walworth and his larger purpose.

“Once more,” Anthony said now. “Last two rounds.”

Noah, who had closed up the watch, brightened and flipped up the lid again.

“Ready?” he asked the boy.

Noah nodded.

Concentrating fiercely, Anthony loaded and fired twice. The bullets went nowhere near the center of the target, but he didn't care. “Time?” he asked, panting and leaning on the musket.

“Two and one-half minutes,” announced Noah, peering at the watch in the fading light.

It would have to do for tonight. He was exhausted, and his mouth was acrid with the taste of gunpowder. He had not imagined how physically intimate the process of loading a musket was. Every shot was preceded by the horrifying act of putting a packetful of explosives in your mouth and ripping it open with your back teeth. Davis had told him that men who wanted to avoid conscription would sometimes knock out their molars to make themselves unfit for service.

The evening ended as it always did. Under Davis's strict supervision, he cleaned his gun, handed it to Noah in exchange for his watch, and then shook hands solemnly with his teacher.

“Thank you, Mr. Davis.”

“You are making very good progress, sir.”

For once Anthony actually believed him.

20

Abigail was seriously contemplating hiring a butler. Her house was not large, and up until recently she would not have imagined that she could need any more staff, but the vision of someone imposing who would tell callers that she was not at home was more appealing every day. Her downstairs maid had an exasperating tendency to admit visitors even after explicit instructions to the contrary, explaining afterwards that “it was just this once, ma'am, and Mrs. Herron did say that she was expected.”

Last year, the possession of a very marriageable daughter had transformed Abigail from an involuntary hermit into a semirespectable member of her community. There were still glances and whispers, but she no longer hesitated to appear in public or accept the invitations which began to arrive within a few weeks of Diana's taking up residence. She had regarded her new status as something temporary, a phantom that would vanish as soon as Diana accepted an offer; and had tried to be grateful, for her daughter's sake, as matrons who had ignored her for years suddenly included her in luncheons or teas. If she occasionally wanted to stand up and remind the circle of women placidly eating sweetmeats that she was still Abigail Hart, divorced adulteress, she suppressed the impulse.

Since her return from France the number of visitors had only increased. First, there was the predictable interest in her encounter (or near-encounter) with The Corsican Monster. Acquaintances stopped her on the street and begged for the story; complete strangers came to her little house in Goodman's Fields presenting their calling cards, with a few lines on the back citing the recommendation of a friend of a friend. Even her mother, through Leah, had demanded an account. Eventually the tale became old news, but in the meantime Diana had been acquiring a circle of admirers. There were three round-faced brothers, some connection of Joshua's, who called en masse and presented Diana with three exactly identical posies. A young man visiting from Amsterdam had prolonged his stay in London for Diana's sake—or so he told her. Anthony Roth called at least twice a week. There were also female visitors; her daughter had made the acquaintance of several girls her own age. When the knocker sounded these days it was usually Miss Hart who was requested.

Today was no exception. Rosie had just come up to tell her that Diana was entertaining some friends. “No need for you to go down, ma'am, for Mrs. Asher is with them,” she added. But Abigail, with an inward sigh, set down her half-finished letter and headed downstairs.

The voices came clearly up the staircase as she hurried down: girls' voices, one loud and confident, the other low and hesitant. She stopped, reconsidering her decision to join Diana. She knew those voices; Martha Woodley and her cousin Eleanor were here. Reminding herself sternly that these were her daughter's guests, Abigail summoned her best company smile and opened the door.

Fanny was embroidering over by the window, trying not to interfere with what she called “the young people.” The two visitors were on the sofa with Diana, all three girls in pastel muslins much more appropriate for the warm weather than Abigail's long-sleeved cambric gown. Martha bounced up at once as Abigail came in and gave her a cheerful smile; Eleanor, who was quite shy, got up more slowly. Abigail wished it had been Eleanor, and not the boisterous Martha, who had become Diana's friend. No, that was unfair, she told herself firmly. Martha Woodley was a polite, warmhearted girl. It was not her fault that she had a father, two brothers, and a brother-in-law in the army and had spent several years in Portugal and Spain with her father's regiment—a circumstance that had attracted Diana instantly. It was Diana's fascination with all things military that made Abigail uncomfortable, not Martha herself. And Abigail did not object in principle to Diana's having Christian friends, although in the back of her mind she could not quite dispel the image of the little shrine in the mountains where Diana had lit candles.

She could not precisely recall who had introduced Martha and Diana—it had happened at a concert—but the girls had discovered that they shared the same voice teacher, and then that they had both been pursued by Napoleon's troops; after that first conversation in Hanover Square their families had nearly been compelled to use force to separate them. Abigail suspected that Martha's mother, a vicar's daughter from an old Lincolnshire family, did not entirely approve of the friendship either. And yet when the two women had met they had liked each other nearly as much as their daughters had. Henrietta Woodley was a down-to-earth woman whose years of traveling with the army had given her a brusque manner leavened by a wry sense of humor. She had bluntly told Abigail that Diana was far too pretty and that she would be obliged if Abigail could keep Diana away from Martha's two unmarried brothers. “For you must know,” she had said, “that one of my boys is in the same regiment as Lord Alcroft's son, and if a peer's son—and a major!—could marry Eli Roth's niece, it will be no use my telling Charles that it is not to be thought of.” Only late that night had Abigail realized who the niece was: Meyer's daughter, of course. Another black mark against poor Martha.

“Mama, may I go to Hatchard's with Martha and Eleanor?” Diana asked as soon as Abigail came in. “A new book by Captain Clarke is out, and they have come express to tell me.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hart,” said Martha politely as her cousin offered a quick curtsey. “I hope this is not too early to call, but there is already a queue in front of the shop, and his last book sold out on the first day.”

“They have their carriage,” Diana added. “And will bring me back.”

Martha nodded in confirmation.

“I suppose you may,” Abigail said. “Be sure to be home by three. Your aunt is coming to take you to see your grandmother.”

The three girls went happily off to help Diana select a bonnet and shawl, abandoning Diana's latest project—a patchwork needle case—on the sofa.

“Other young ladies rush to buy Byron's latest,” Abigail said to Fanny, resigned. “But not Diana. Ever since our adventure in France, my daughter buys every publication about Wellington's campaigns that she can find.”

Fanny took another stitch. “I believe Clarke's writings are said to be quite unexceptionable,” she offered. She blushed a little. “Unlike—that other book.”

Fanny referred to
Leisure Moments in the Camp and in the Guard Room
, authored by “A Veteran Officer.” This work had boasted that it revealed the true life of a soldier, and Abigail, finding that the true life of a soldier apparently consisted of drinking, gambling, and flirting, had promptly confiscated the volume. She did not consider killing (presumably the ideal activity for a soldier) much better, but she could hardly forbid Diana to read about events which were published in every newspaper in the country.

There was a knock at the door, and one of the maids peered in. “Mr. Roth is below, ma'am,” she announced. “Shall I show him up?”

“Yes, but after that I am not at home,” Abigail said firmly. “Miss Hart is going out, and I have letters to finish.”

The maid, however, had disappeared the moment she had heard the word
yes.

“I need a butler,” Abigail told Fanny, exasperated.

“So you keep saying,” her friend answered absently, holding up two different skeins of blue thread to the light from the window. “Although it would be a bit odd to have a butler when there is only one footman.”

“It would be worth hiring another footman
and
a butler to be able to have some privacy from unwanted guests in my own home.” She stalked angrily over to the sofa and scooped up the bits of cloth Diana had left there.

From behind her she heard an embarrassed cough. It was Anthony Roth, standing in the doorway. Yet another reason for a butler. Her maid did not always announce visitors properly.

“I beg your pardon,” Roth said. “I just stopped by for a moment, to give you this.” He held out a small parcel.

“Oh dear.” Abigail hastily stuffed the little pieces of cloth into her pocket and accepted the package. “I don't suppose there is anyway to pretend you did not hear that? I assure you it does not apply to you, Anthony.” She deliberately used his first name. “Please do stay for a little while. Diana is on her way out with friends, but she will wish to greet you first.”

He glanced nervously at the hallway but consented to sit down. She was not certain what his thoughts were about her daughter these days. In France he had gone from infatuation to disillusionment to bewilderment, and so far as she could tell, he was still mired firmly in the last of the three. When he called, he always looked as though he was not quite sure why he found himself once again in the Harts's drawing room. He rarely smiled, and the informal banter she had seen between him and her daughter during their journey had completely vanished. Nor could she blame him for his confusion and hesitation. Diana was just as awkward and inconsistent in her treatment of him.

Now, for example, as she came back into the room, chattering and laughing with Martha, she stopped dead at the sight of Roth. “Oh!” she said, startled, as he rose to greet her. “Mr. Roth. How—how nice to see you.” Then, recollecting her companions, “May I present my friends, Misses Martha and Eleanor Woodley?”

Stiff nods were exchanged on both sides.

“We are off to the bookstore,” Diana told him with artificial brightness. “Perhaps you would care to accompany us?”

This offer was politely declined.

All four young people stood in uncertain silence for a moment, and then, forgetting to maintain her worldly pose, Diana suddenly frowned. “What have you done to your hand?” she asked in her normal voice. “It looks as though it is bleeding.” Martha, next to her, leaned forward to see better.

Roth hastily put both hands behind his back, which gave Abigail an excellent view of them. The tips of two fingers on his right hand were indeed bleeding slightly. “It is nothing. A scrape.” He had some small scratches on one side of his face as well, Abigail noticed. Perhaps Roth was one of those young men who somehow attracted illness and injury. Paul, her first husband, had been like that.

Martha whispered something to Diana, and her daughter reverted to doll mode. “We must be off, I am afraid,” she announced, very grande dame. “The Woodley's carriage is waiting.” The girls took their leave of Abigail and Fanny but forgot to close the door, so that Martha's loud “Who was that, Diana? A suitor?” was easily audible.

Roth flushed and picked up his hat and gloves. “I must go as well.”

“But your gift,” Abigail objected. “I have not even opened it, or thanked you.” She began to unwrap it, wondering for the first time why Roth had brought something for her rather than for Diana. It was a book: Byron's latest, in fact, his
Hebrew Melodies
, a disconcerting choice.

“It is not from me,” he confessed. “It is from my uncle. There is a note inside.” He saw her expression and sat down again. “He came to find me two days ago. We had a long talk. He feels very badly about . . . everything.”

“I see.” Abigail's voice was tight.

Roth added, “I believe he is no longer working with the army.”

“So, he is ‘a reformed character,' as you told me once before.” She was not sure if Roth remembered his ill-fated attempt to explain his uncle's scars as relics of a career as a seducer. Apparently he did; he flushed.

“You need not keep the book,” he said. “My uncle thought you would not, in fact. He told me to give it in that case to the library at the Chelsea Hospital.”

Torn between curiosity and indignation, Abigail hesitated. If she opened the book to read the note, she would have to keep it. She glanced uncertainly at Fanny, hoping for a cue, but her friend was concentrating with implausible dedication on her embroidery and clearly wanted no part of this conversation.

Curiosity won. She lifted the cover and peered at the flyleaf. To her disappointment the inscription said merely:
I saw this and thought it might interest you. I hope you will forgive the presumption.
It was unsigned.

What had she expected? A passionate declaration? She told herself that he must have felt constrained to keep his statement impersonal, knowing that the volume was likely to end up in the hands of an elderly pensioner.

“Thank you for bringing it,” she said. “I am sure I shall enjoy reading it.” That was a suitably ambiguous response.

But Roth was not willing to leave it there. He twisted his hat in his hands. “If my uncle were to call here, would you be willing to see him?”

She was not ready for that question, and her face must have shown it.

“Never mind,” he said, rising hastily. “He said nothing of any plans to visit; I am merely engaging in a long-standing Roth family pastime.”

“And what is that?” she asked.

“Meddling.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I am not very good at it, am I?”

“I don't know about that,” she muttered as he left. She had accepted the book of poems, hadn't she? And when Roth had asked his question, she had not said yes, but she had not said no either. A butler would not be much use if she could not make up her mind about whether she wanted to see her visitor or not.

 

 

After two unsuccessful attempts to catch his brother-in-law before he left the house, Eli Roth abandoned his original “casual encounter at breakfast” plan and turned to the other end of the day, instructing the night porter to come and fetch him the minute Meyer returned. He thus had the satisfaction of shocking the normally imperturbable Nathan by appearing in that gentleman's study at just past one in the morning.