The Spy's Reward (23 page)

“You're to report to headquarters, then. They're forming a messenger corps for the next round. Requisition a horse when you get to the next village.” He turned back to the lieutenant. “Tell your colonel this man has been seconded to Major Barnes.” Then he wheeled his horse and rode away.

“You lucky dog,” said the man next to Anthony, giving him an envious look. “Swanning around headquarters nice and dry while we slog through the mud. The ladies are very partial to a man just returned from battle, you know.” There was a chorus of agreement, and some suggestions as to what Anthony might do with the ladies.

Anthony merely grunted and kept walking.

“Do you have a girl in Brussels?” his companion asked, curious.

“No.”

There was a gigantic crack of lightning as he spoke, and rain began again, harder than before.

25

The storm finally subsided around midnight. Abigail, venturing out of her tiny cabin, saw that the boat was under way again, and the terrible sense of frustration eased somewhat. Five hours, the ship's master had said. Five hours more to Ostend, and then seventy miles to Brussels. What was the road like? she had asked. How long would it take to cover that seventy miles? He had shrugged. He was a sailor, he told her. He never went more than two miles inland if he could help it.

She knew how long it had taken to drive from London to Ramsgate: eight hours. Meyer had arranged everything. He had sent to her house for a change of clothing and her maid; he had arranged for money; he had even made sure that any letters Diana might send would be intercepted at the coast and forwarded on. Then he had commandeered one of the bank's fastest coaches and they had sped away south. A boat had been waiting for them in Ramsgate. Unlike the luxurious coach, it was a rather small and suspicious-looking craft, and Abigail had been forcibly reminded that her escort had made many illegal trips to France. The boat was seaworthy, however, and that was all she cared about. They had set sail at around nine in the morning and Meyer had told her they would be in Ostend by late afternoon. Master Cooper's boat was very fast, as were the bank's teams of horses; Abigail might well find herself only five or six hours behind Diana when they reached Belgium.

That was before the storm. It had come up from the west very suddenly at noon. At first they had been able to run before it, heading straight for Calais instead of angling northeast. But as the squalls grew stronger, the ship's master had reluctantly reefed all but a few sails, and they had limped into a sheltered cove to sit it out. The waiting nearly drove Abigail mad, especially when the winds died down towards early evening. She had demanded to know why they were not putting out to sea again, and when Cooper had pointed to a second line of black clouds scudding towards them she had retreated to her cabin (more accurately,
the
cabin) in despair.

Now it was as though the storm had never been. The winds were gentle and steady. The sky was overcast, but the moon created a luminous glow behind the thinner clouds, and in a few places far to the west you could even see the occasional star. After hours in the close, dark cabin it felt wonderful to be outside. She took a deep breath of salt and pitch and damp wood. In the cabin, all she had been able to do was fret. Now they were moving. The clock had started again: so many hours to Ostend, so many to Brussels.

A dark figure detached itself from the group at the stern of the boat and made its way over to her. “How is your maid?” Meyer asked.

“Better, thank you.” Rosie had been very seasick during the storm. She had also been sick in the carriage. So far Abigail had been waiting on her rather than the other way around, but she knew that the reason Meyer had insisted on fetching Rosie had very little to do with hairdressing or with bringing cups of chocolate in the morning.

“We will be in the way here,” Meyer said. “Would you like to go forward?” He helped her to climb around the block that supported the mast. In front of the block was a sort of hollow, filled with casks and crates and neat coils of rope. The last made surprisingly comfortable seats, Abigail discovered. Meyer handed her down and then lowered himself onto an adjacent coil.

“Do you think Diana is all right?” Abigail asked, for the hundredth time since they had left London.

He made the same answer he always did. “Yes.” This time he elaborated a bit. “She is not as reckless as she seems. Recollect that when she ran off after Anthony in France, she took a groom with her. I think it very likely that she is with this friend you told me of, this Miss Woodley. It cannot be coincidence that she ran away the same week the Woodleys were leaving for Brussels.”

That made her feel better. She had recalled Martha's existence only when they reached Dover.

“Be thankful you are not responsible for my daughter,” he added. “Rachel once went over to France in boy's clothing and managed to get herself taken prisoner by the
Sûreté
. Since at the time I myself was masquerading as chief inspector of that very same branch of the
Sûreté
the situation was rather awkward. Luckily her brother and some of his fellow officers managed to rescue her.”

That did not make Abigail feel better. She knew the ending of that story. Rachel Meyer had married one of those officers. She stiffened and shifted slightly on her coil of rope so as to put more distance between herself and Meyer.

“What is it? What is wrong?”

She shook her head.

“My scandalous past, I suppose.” He was only half-joking.

The question came rushing out before she could stop herself. “How could you? How could you let her become a Christian? And your son?”

“Ah.” He hunched forward, clasping his knees. He said, almost to himself, “So that is the problem.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, drawing herself even farther away. “It is none of my business, of course.”

He ignored this last. “Rachel has not converted. Neither has James. It is true, however, that they have both been compelled to pretend briefly that they were Christian: my son to obtain his commission and my daughter to obtain a marriage license. As far as my mother is concerned, there is no difference between the pretense and the reality. She will not let their names be spoken in her house. They are dead to her.”

“And what of you?” she asked, her mouth dry. “Did she disown you as well?”

“No.” He leaned back against the gunwale. “She graciously informed me that she would not hold me responsible for the sins of my children. I, however, found myself unwilling to pretend that James and Rachel were dead. I have not seen her in three years.”

“I have not seen my mother in ten years,” she confessed, her head bowed. “Since the divorce. She sends messages to me through my sister.”

He was silent for a moment. “Do you know why Rodrigo avoids using his surname?” he asked abruptly. “Because his father disowned him. Formally disowned him, taking a public oath in front of witnesses.”

She shivered. “For what reason?”

“Rodrigo opposed the French regime in Spain. His father supported it.”

“Politics?” she asked, incredulous. “Rodrigo's father disowned him because of
politics
?”

“Señor Santos called it treason, not politics. But yes, he did. I myself see very little difference between his actions and my mother's.” He sat up and looked at her intently. “What of you? Do you believe I should have disowned James and Rachel? Do you disapprove of me because I still consider them my children?”

There was a long pause. “Perhaps,” she said in a low voice.

“And if Diana were to convert, would you renounce her? Would you forbid her name to be spoken in your presence? Destroy every picture of her? Walk by her on the street as though she did not exist?”

There was an even longer pause. “No,” she confessed. “I could not do it. I paid a terrible price to bear her, and another almost as terrible to get her back. Even if she did something truly dreadful, she would still be my child.”

“Running away to Belgium, I take it, does not count as truly dreadful.”

“No.” She gave a painful smile. “Although I beg you not to tell Diana that.”

The wind freshened, and the boat began to pitch slightly, sending the occasional spray of water over the bow. “You will wish to go below again,” he said, standing and offering her his hand.

The thought of the cramped, musty cabin made her shudder. “I would rather not,” she said.

“Take my coat, then,” he said, pulling it off and draping it over her shoulders. He sat down again.

They sat for a long time without speaking. It was growing lighter; she could see the coast now, low hills and dunes just visible above the rail of the boat. She knew that she should go and see if Rosie needed something, but a strange lassitude possessed her. Her limbs felt heavy. She did not know if she could move. After a while she leaned back against the gunwale and closed her eyes.

“Abigail?” He sounded hesitant.

She did not correct his over-familiar address. She did not answer at all; she was in some sort of trance.

“Asleep,” he muttered. She felt him tucking the coat more closely around her and then, tentatively, reaching out to brush some windblown strands of hair away from her forehead. His hand hovered for a moment at her temple and then traced a slow line downward to her jaw, barely grazing her skin.

“God,” he whispered. He moved abruptly away from her and there was a small thump as he settled back against the side of the boat.

With an immense effort, she forced her eyes open. He was sitting a few feet away, staring off into the distance. The expression on his face made something twist painfully inside of her.

She must have moved, or made some small noise. His eyes met hers. “You were not asleep just now.”

“No,” she said. She wanted to tell him that she did not mind, did not mind at all. But her voice was frozen.

He mistook her silence for condemnation. “Put it on my account,” he said savagely. “Item, one attempted embrace of sleeping mother while searching for missing daughter. Add it to Pont-Haut.” He stood up. “We will be coming into port soon. You should see if your maid is ready to disembark.” He beckoned a sailor to assist her back into the stern. By the time she had climbed aft he had disappeared into the bowels of the boat.

She returned to the cabin, still moving very slowly, as though the air was water. Rosie was sitting up on the edge of her berth, looking rather wan.

“We will be landing soon,” Abigail said.

Rosie brightened at this news.

“I hope you are feeling a bit better.”

“Yes, ma'am, I am.” She peered at Abigail. “Is everything all right? You look a bit pale.”

No, she wanted to say. Everything is not all right. My daughter has run off to a city that is about to be invaded, and I have fallen in love with a spy. But instead she handed Rosie a damp towel. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Do you think you could keep down some tea?”

 

 

Even exempting personal affairs from consideration, everything was not fine. Napoleon had not waited until mid-July to attack. From Ostend in a continuous line stretching back to Brussels the road was packed with fugitives, and their stories grew more and more ominous: there had been a great battle. Tens of thousands of soldiers had been killed. Wellington was dead; the Allied army had broken and fled.

After the first garbled reports at the dock, Meyer hired a young Belgian to ride crosscountry into the city and return with some reliable news. In the meantime, he made sure that Abigail and her maid were bundled into a carriage, and set on their way as quickly as possible. At every halt he brought refreshments to them himself, and escorted them personally when they stopped for longer rests. He could not prevent her from overhearing the conversations of others, however, and Abigail huddled in the carriage, more and more terrified as they crawled along. She wished that she did not understand French. Even the normally placid Rosie heard enough from the numerous English-speaking fugitives to make her round-eyed with anxiety.

At the fourth halt, Abigail opened the carriage door. “Can we not go any faster?” she pleaded as Meyer came over to assist her.

“We would have to ride through the fields. They are a sea of mud, and in any case I do not think it would be safe for you and your maid; not with deserting soldiers between us and the city.”

“I hate this,” she said, her voice shaking. “We are going so slowly, and every new rumor is worse than the last.” She looked back at the highway. Coaches clogged the road, the frantic passengers shouting and cursing as slower vehicles in front of them blocked their progress. Alongside the carriages and wagons and gigs groups of refugees trudged northwards on foot, moving hardly more slowly than the vehicles. Women were sobbing as they walked along, and the wails of hungry infants could be heard everywhere. It was as though the world was coming to an end.

“This?” he said, gesturing towards the wretched crowd of fugitives. “It happens every time armies engage near a large city. You cannot trust anything these people tell you.”

“If you tell me there is no cause for alarm,” Abigail said in a tight voice, “I will never speak to you again.”

“There is certainly cause for alarm. There has been a battle. That much I believe. For the rest, there is no evidence whatsoever. Look at those people. We have been driving past them, hundreds of them, for hours. Have you seen a single British soldier?”

“No,” she admitted.

“And do you hear that noise? Almost like a very low drum?”

She nodded.

“Those are cannon,” he told her. “No one fires cannon after a battle. Therefore, the battle is not over. The Allies may or may not win, but they have not lost. Not yet. And that means that the armies are not yet in Brussels.”

She was unconvinced.

With a sigh, he handed her into the carriage and climbed back onto his own horse. He and a groom had been riding ahead of the carriage, trying to clear a path; the road was wide and well drained but even when the northbound vehicles kept to their side the pedestrians oozed out around them and made the road impassable.

Four hours later, she saw a messenger pull up next to the carriage, sweating and breathless. She recognized him only by his jacket: it was the young man Meyer had hired at Ostend. He was now hatless and covered from the waist down in a layer of mud. She was already out the door before Meyer had even dismounted, and she stood clenching and unclenching her hands as he came over to her.