The Spy's Reward (6 page)

Rodrigo looked as though he was not sure whether to be grateful or dismayed at this news. “I will go. But if we continue at this pace, we will soon be too far ahead of them to double back at night. Have you thought of that?”

Meyer shrugged. “We can always contrive something. A broken wheel, a lame horse. But we do not need to manufacture any delays right away; we will not be traveling at all tomorrow.”

Rodrigo frowned. “Why not?”

“The Sabbath,” Meyer reminded him. “At sundown tonight.”

His servant shot him an incredulous look. “You—worrying about the Sabbath? While Napoleon is forty miles away? Master Anthony—” He hastily corrected himself. “Señor Roth, I mean, will call your bluff if you attempt to use that as an excuse to delay us. He knows quite well that you travel on the Sabbath.”

“I will not be the one making the request. Have you noticed how careful Mrs. Hart has been about what she eats? She is far more observant than I am. She will not wish to ride on a Saturday, and I will, of course, respect her wishes.”

“I see.” Rodrigo opened the stall door, then paused. “Someday,” he predicted, “someday very soon, I think, you will regret making Señora Hart one of your pawns.” He stomped out of the stall and scooped up an armful of hay from the nearby bin, radiating righteous disapproval.

Meyer followed him out and nearly tripped over the baskets. He had forgotten all about them. A startled flapping and cooing erupted.

“Madre de Dios,”
said Rodrigo, turning and dropping the hay. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes, I've brought us a little present. I sent down to Grasse for them yesterday and prayed they would be delivered in time. Amazingly, they survived the trip.” He hastily picked up a small metal tin from behind the baskets and stashed it away before Rodrigo could ask him about it. Sending messages was one thing. It was a bit dangerous, and scouting every other night would tax both of them severely, but Rodrigo would go along with it—after a certain amount of grumbling. If he found the jar of sulphur inside that tin, however, there would be open rebellion. And if he found the map and the notes tucked into the lid of the tin, he would probably turn Meyer over to the nearest insane asylum.

Rodrigo lifted the baskets and peered inside at the disgruntled birds. “How are you going to explain the sudden presence of two sets of carrier pigeons to Mrs. Hart?”

A very good question. Abigail Hart was an intelligent woman, that was already clear. And she didn't trust him at all. He wished he could have seen the letter she had received from Joshua Hart. He barely knew the man, but his impression was that Hart was a pompous boor. A recommendation from Hart would probably incline the widow to despise Meyer before she had even met him. He remembered her narrow, assessing stare during the delicate negotiations this morning—no, yesterday morning. If she suspected what those pigeons meant, his careful balancing act would come crashing down. He would have to think of some plausible tale to account for the birds—once his brain was working again.

“I'm going to get a few hours' sleep,” he said. “If the others wake early, tell them I have been taken ill.”

“You
have
been taken ill,” muttered the servant. “Napoleon fever. Incurable disease. Likely fatal.”

Meyer pretended not to hear that remark.

6

Three hours' sleep proved insufficient to inspire an explanation for the pigeons. They could not possibly be concealed, however; the throaty cooing was far too distinctive. He concluded that the best approach was to act as though there was nothing at all odd about them. Perhaps his talent for prevarication would miraculously return before someone thought to question their presence.

When the women emerged from breakfast, therefore, Rodrigo was in the process of strapping the cages beneath the coachman's bench of today's carriage. Considerably smaller than yesterday's barouche, this small, two-wheeled vehicle might well have been described as a farmer's gig had it not possessed a stained canvas cover and a small perch for a driver. Meyer saw Diana pause, shocked, her brows drawing down as she took in the open sides and the single horse standing in the traces.

“What is that?” she hissed to her mother, pointing at the carriage.

Abigail Hart, more tactful, greeted Meyer with a wary, “Good morning.”

He raised his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Hart. Miss Hart.” He was glad to see that both of them were warmly dressed. “I trust you slept well?”

“Quite well, thank you.” Only now did Abigail permit her gaze to settle on the carriage. “Is this ours?”

“I am afraid it is. The road is too narrow for a larger vehicle.”

“Any vehicle would be a larger vehicle,” he heard the girl mutter under her breath.

“We are taking a spare horse”—he indicated a sturdy chestnut, already fitted with packsaddles—“and will hope for the best.”

“You meant it when you said this route was more difficult, I see.” The widow's voice was dry.

He saw a challenge in her clear eyes and could not resist testing her again. “It is not too late to change your mind, Mrs. Hart. I will speak plainly: depending on the weather, two days from now we maybe riding mules.” Napoleon, he had discovered last night, had abandoned his heavy gun carriages and had transferred all his baggage to mules: an unmistakable declaration that his goal was now the mountains.

“I have traveled on mules.”

Not at this time of year, he thought. Not at four thousand feet, with snow underfoot and the wind howling and particles of ice stinging the side of your face so that you could see out of only one eye. Even for the pleasure of shaking Abigail Hart out of her eternally calm, self-possessed shell, he could not wish for a reprise of his last trip over the Col Bayard. “And you, Miss Hart? Have you some experience with mules as well?”

She swallowed, but nodded.

Anthony came hurrying up with several large carriage rugs. His eye fell on the cages, and he looked startled. “Pigeons!” He swung around and looked at Meyer, who was hastily searching through his extensive mental file of plausible lies hoping to find one labeled “carrier pigeons.” “You had them sent up from Grasse, didn't you?”

Had his nephew been eavesdropping in the stable at dawn? No, Anthony had still been fast asleep when Meyer had stumbled into the room just before six. He shot a quick glance at Abigail Hart and saw that she was looking puzzled and suspicious.

“Well—” he started to say, then stopped, not sure what was coming next. He really was out of practice.

But Anthony, full of energy after twelve hours of sleep, did not wait for him to continue. “You know, my father always used to say that you were the most farsighted man he knew, and this proves it.” He grinned. “Sending for our pigeons! That's famous!” He turned to the Harts and explained. “The bank has a courier system, you know, and for emergencies we use these birds. We can get a message from Italy to Paris in a day, and from Paris to London in another day. When the news about Bonaparte came into Grasse—the perfume town, south of here—I rode off to find my uncle at once, abandoning one of our biggest clients. I've been fretting about it since I woke up this morning. But now, of course, I can send word to them.” He seized his uncle's hand and shook it. “Thank you, sir. You just saved my neck.”

“Not at all,” said Meyer politely.

Rodrigo, completely expressionless, finished stowing the rest of the luggage and climbed into the driver's seat.

“Oh,” said Anthony, disappointed. “Er, I had thought I might drive the ladies.”

Meyer was so grateful to his nephew that he almost agreed. Then he thought of the likely condition of the road north of Digne-les-Bains. It ran along the Bléone River, which was currently swollen by snowmelt into an unnavigable torrent. He led Anthony out of earshot of the Harts. “May I offer you some advice?”

“Certainly.”

“It is only natural that you should find Miss Hart's company preferable to mine.”

Anthony looked uncomfortable, and started to stammer some polite disclaimer.

Meyer waved it off. “Take a good look at the driver's seat on that gig. It is set well forward of the passenger seat, and is higher up, to boot. How easy do you think it would be to hold a conversation with someone sitting both behind you and below you? You will do far better riding alongside, where the road permits.”

His nephew eyed the vehicle thoughtfully.

“Furthermore, my experience traveling with your cousin Elena two years ago suggests to me that young ladies are inclined to take attentive suitors for granted, and to take more interest in those whose companionship is less frequently offered.”

“I am not a suitor,” Anthony protested, looking even more uncomfortable.

Too late Meyer recalled that he, in theory, was the suitor. “I was, er, speaking metaphorically,” he said. But as he mounted up and turned into position in front of the gig, he resolved to make himself scarce at the midday halt. When he wasn't mooning over Diana Hart, Anthony's intelligent expression and well-cut features made him reasonably pleasant to look at. If his nephew could somehow engage the girl's affections, it would solve two problems. First, it would free Meyer from his brother-in-law's clumsy matchmaking. And second, he would be able to stop feeling guilty every time he saw Anthony. It was not his fault that his daughter had jilted her cousin, but guilt was not always a rational emotion.

Shortly before noon the party reached the town of Malijai, where they stopped for lunch. Meyer promptly put his campaign to promote Anthony's welfare into action. Pleading concern about one of the horses, he disappeared into the stable with Rodrigo. There were no other animals there at the moment, and he gratefully made himself a bed out of horse blankets in the tack room and fell asleep.

He was already up, brushing bits of hay from his jacket, when Rodrigo came to wake him an hour later. At least, he thought, he had not yet lost the knack of waking himself at set intervals, a skill he had perfected over many years of irregularly snatched naps in dangerous locations.

“Am I presentable?” He turned his back, and the servant quickly dusted off his shoulders.

Rodrigo shook his head as he surveyed him. “As your valet, I should resign from your service immediately. Or perhaps shoot myself.”

Meyer ran his hands hastily through his hair and straightened his neckcloth. “Luckily, you are not merely my valet. You are also my coachman and my bodyguard.” He opened the stable door and peered out. Anthony was just emerging from the inn. He was scowling ferociously. Obviously the opening round of the campaign had not been a success.

 

 

Meyer waited an hour before bringing his horse alongside Anthony's. The scowl had faded; Anthony merely looked tired and uncomfortable. He nodded morosely to Meyer but said nothing.

“I am sorry I was unable to join you for lunch,” Meyer said, testing the waters.

The scowl immediately returned. “Not as sorry as Miss Hart. Do you remember your theory that young women prefer the absent suitor to the present one? It has been fully confirmed.”

Meyer grimaced. “An unintentional effect, I assure you. I had forgotten all about that hypothesis.”

“Well, Miss Hart compared you to Byron. She said you were”—he gritted his teeth—“romantic and inscrutable.”

“Are those compliments?”

“Apparently. She also asked me whether you had ever killed anyone.”

“What!” He reined his horse in. “What made her ask such a question? You young fool, you didn't tell her about my work for the army, did you?”

“Of course not! What do you take me for? She saw the pistol in your saddle holster.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Miss Hart seems to have a vivid imagination. I trust you assured her that I am in fact rather dull and not at all bloodthirsty?”

Anthony twisted in the saddle slightly so that he could look Meyer full in the face. “Sir,
are
you courting Miss Hart? My mother seems to believe that it is all arranged.”

Meyer coughed. “Yes. So does your uncle Eli. And it is all arranged.” Anthony took a deep, painful breath.

“Save for the little matter of consulting the two interested parties.”

“Oh.” His nephew digested this in silence for a moment. “You . . . are not partial to Miss Hart?”

“I believe the correct expression is ‘We would not suit.'”

Anthony looked torn between relief at this news and outrage that any man could be insensible to the attractions of a girl like Diana Hart.

They rode on for a few minutes without speaking. It was raining lightly, but a breeze was sweeping the clouds away ahead of them, and they could see the town of Sisteron rising on its rocky plateau some miles ahead.

“Uncle Nathan?” Anthony's voice was so low it could barely be heard over the noise of the river below them.

Meyer turned his head.

“
Have
you ever killed anyone?”

His jaw tightened. “Yes.”

Fascinated and horrified, Anthony stammered, “With—with a knife? Right there, touching them? Or only with a gun?”

“Both.” And before his nephew could ask any more questions, he spurred his horse forward and reclaimed his position in front of the carriage.

7

Abigail was pleasantly surprised when they reached Sisteron before sunset. She had vowed that she would not say anything if Meyer wanted to continue after dark. She would not even request a halt for tomorrow. Yesterday's argument about the papers had left her shaken. She still believed that she was perfectly capable of taking charge of the documents. But the expression on his face when he had informed her that he was responsible for her safety had told her that the situation was far more serious than young Roth was letting on. Meyer's nephew treated the invasion as a temporary inconvenience. He cheerfully assured Abigail and Diana that it would be suppressed within a week or two, that the French government troops were well prepared for such an attempt.

When Roth informed her that the party would remain in Sisteron for two nights, therefore, her immediate reaction was not gratitude but anxiety. She had come down to the small parlor adjoining the rooms booked for the male travelers—her own room was up on the top floor—and she could not help glancing at the door of Meyer's room.

“Is your uncle anywhere about? Might I speak with him? I would not like him to think that I have insisted on our remaining here tomorrow.”

“He is leaving, or has just left.”

She had barely seen Meyer the entire day; he had ridden either ahead of or behind the carriage and had disappeared at lunch. “Where is he going?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

“As I recall, up to the Hôtel de Ville, to see what he can learn. But he told me earlier today that he believes we are comfortably distant from Napoleon's forces.”

“If he is still here, I would like to ask him a few questions.”

Diana appeared, freshly washed and combed, and Roth's face immediately went carefully blank.

“I will be back in a moment,” she told her daughter, taking up her shawl. “I am going to see if I can find Mr. Meyer before he leaves.”

“Oh, is he gone again?” Diana looked a bit disappointed. “He seems vastly busy, always off on some mysterious errand, even at mealtimes.”

Abigail saw Roth frown at this observation, and attributed his unease to jealousy of his uncle. She felt very sorry for the younger man. In Diana's absence he was perfectly presentable; in her presence, he became a wooden lump. At least Diana was now being civil to him, in a distant and very patronizing fashion.

Roth escorted Abigail out to the inn yard. It took some time to determine that Meyer had indeed left; the ostler had a very thick accent. By the end of the interrogation they had several curious onlookers. Very thankful that Diana had not come out with her—several of the bystanders had been just the sort of bashful young rural giants she enjoyed reducing to stammering idiocy—Abigail returned, escorted by Roth, to their parlor.

It looked very welcoming after the long and uncomfortable day in the poorly sprung gig. There were two chintz-covered armchairs by the fire, which had now been lit. Opposite the chairs was a long sofa, with a footstool at one end. A maidservant had brought in a pot of tea, and on the tray were little pastries with fruit centers. Diana was at one end of the sofa, putting sugar in her tea.

She looked up as her mother came in. “Should I have waited? I am sorry. I did not know how long you would be gone.”

“Three lumps is too many, dear,” Abigail said automatically.

Diana made a face and put the last one back into the bowl.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Roth?” Abigail asked.

He turned red and stammered that he would be much obliged.

It was an extremely uncomfortable half hour. Roth sipped his tea and tried to make polite conversation. Diana studied her saucer, apparently absorbed in the slight chip on one side. Abigail thought longingly of her book, sitting on the table by the tea tray. Finally Roth made some excuse and retreated to his room. It really was too bad, Abigail decided, that the parlor adjoined the two lower bedchambers. Poor Roth must be acutely aware that Diana could hear every move he made. Sure enough, a minute after he had closed the door, they heard a small crash and a stifled oath.

Diana clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should also go upstairs and change,” Abigail said, rising.

That was when the outer door opened.

Two square, red faces, belonging to a pair of rustic youths who had witnessed Abigail's encounter with the ostler, peered around the edge of the door.

“I am afraid this is a private parlor,” she said politely.

One of them grinned, a loose, too-wide grin that was very familiar to Abigail. They were drunk.

Diana had also risen. “Didn't you hear my mother?” she asked sharply.

Abigail wanted to tell Diana that the last thing an attractive young woman should do when two inebriated louts arrive is to call attention to herself. And the second-to-last thing she should do is to speak in an angry tone. But Diana, of course, did not have Abigail's extensive experience with inebriated louts.

The shorter of the two intruders reached up for a hat that wasn't there, frowned in puzzlement, and settled for a crooked bow. The taller one pushed the door all the way open and stepped in.

“I must ask you to leave,” Abigail said. She moved towards the bell, but the shorter youth blocked her way.

“Get out. At once.” It was Roth. He was standing in the door of his room. He must have been changing clothes: he was coatless and in his stocking feet. He no longer looked blank or awkward, Abigail noticed. Unfortunately, he had not grown any taller, and the nearest lout had a good four inches on him.

The presence of a hostile male clarified things nicely for the intruders. “Damn English,” the tall one said, scowling. “
You
should get out. We don't want your damn interference here.”

“Damn Protestant heretic,” the other one added, moving up next to his companion. This left Abigail's access to the bell unimpeded, but she hesitated, wondering whether Roth would be humiliated if she rang for help.

Unfortunately, before she could make up her mind, Diana intervened. “We are
not
Protestant,” she said, nearly stamping her foot in anger. “We are Jews. This man's bank”—she pointed to Anthony—“loaned money to help your country. I think you are very ignorant and ungrateful.”

Diana's French was not always grammatical, but it was disastrously clear.

The taller lout grabbed Roth and slammed him against the wall. “Is that so?”

Roth said nothing, but gave the man a look of contempt that somehow reminded Abigail of Meyer. Her hand, reaching for the bell, was frozen. Then the second man started punching, and Abigail came back to life, pulling on the bell rope for all she was worth, screaming at the men to stop. They ignored her. She turned around and screamed at Diana instead, telling her to go, to run and get help, to find someone, anyone. Diana's face was completely white. She didn't seem to understand what Abigail was saying. She kept looking over at the two thugs, who were systematically hitting Roth and swearing in rhythmical, panting bursts as they did so. Finally, as the boy sagged to his knees, she gave a small cry and darted out the door.

It did not even occur to Abigail to follow her. She could not leave; she felt, somehow, that her presence shielded Roth from something even worse than a beating. It was probably no more than a minute that she stood there, helpless, watching Roth flinch silently in time to the curses and blows. Then the door slammed open behind her; Rodrigo burst into the room. He tackled the tall Frenchman in a flying leap, and brought him down to the floor with a crash that knocked over the fire screen. Two quick blows to the side of the neck, and his opponent gurgled and went limp. The shorter man had dropped Roth and now attempted to kick Rodrigo from the side; the Spaniard rolled away, came up facing his attacker, and let fly one backhanded blow. Abigail heard a sickening crack as the second Frenchman, too, crumpled.

Diana had reappeared in the doorway, surrounded by terrified-looking servants from the dining room. She was clenching and unclenching her hands and looked as though she might faint any minute.

Rodrigo had dropped to the floor beside Roth. The younger man's eyes were closed, and he was breathing in little gasps. “Are you all right, Señor Roth?”

Roth nodded. Then he opened his eyes and saw Diana. He shot a mute look of appeal to Abigail, and said, so faintly that she understood him only by reading his lips, “Going to be sick.”

Abigail whirled around. “Go, quickly!” she said to Diana. “Fetch brandy, and hot water! Send someone for a gendarme at once!”

Three of the inn's servants came in and hauled away the drunkards. One was able to stumble out on his own; the other had to be carried. Rodrigo got up hastily and went after them, clutching his right hand.

Abigail, shocked that he would leave Roth, hurried over to kneel beside him. She put her arm under his shoulder and helped him to sit up. This was a mistake; he promptly turned yellow and she barely had time to grab the slop bowl from the tea tray before he doubled over, retching.

“Thank you,” he whispered after a minute.

“Is it very painful? Can you get up?”

With some assistance, he managed to struggle over to the sofa, where he sat, silent and stone-faced while Abigail dampened her handkerchief and tried to clean him up. His nose was bleeding, as was his lower lip, but he did not seem too badly damaged other wise—or so she thought until she began brushing off his shirt. He bit his lip to keep from crying out the minute she touched his left side.

She sucked in her breath. “Where does it hurt?”

He moved his hand very carefully to the spot.

“Does it hurt to breathe? To breathe deeply, that is?”

He nodded.

“You may have a broken rib.” A servant arrived with brandy, followed by a nearly hysterical innkeeper. She dismissed both of them. “Drink some of this.” She held the brandy to his mouth.

He drank, coughed slightly, and winced. He kept looking over at the door, and she knew what he was thinking. At any moment Diana might return, and he did not want her to see him like this.

“Would you like me to help you to your room?” she asked.

“I am fine.” He took a cautious, shallow breath, and stood up—very shakily. “Thank you. Thank you very much, Mrs. Hart. I am most sincerely sorry that you were—”

She cut him off, horrified. “Don't be absurd! I should be apologizing to you! If Diana had behaved more prudently, this would never have happened! They were disgustingly drunk, but I believe they would have left if she had not provoked them so.”

“I don't know.” He sighed, and then winced again. “It is my fault as well. My uncle warned me not to advertise our nationality. My poor French betrayed us. I should have sent one of the chambermaids out to question the ostler.” He hobbled over to his room, and Abigail, watching him teeter slightly, hurried to help him into bed.

“I'll have them send a servant to you right away to help you undress,” she promised. “And the doctor, to see to your ribs.”

He shook his head. “No. My uncle can do it.”

She did not contradict him, but the minute she left, she rang and dispatched one of the inn's grooms to fetch a doctor, or at least an apothecary. Roth probably didn't like being bled; most young men didn't. But she could not imagine that Nathan Meyer, a banker, had much in the way of medical skills.

Diana was hovering outside the door of the parlor when Abigail finally emerged. “Is he badly hurt?” she asked anxiously. “His face was all over blood. Is his nose broken?” She had been crying, Abigail saw. “It was all my fault, I know it was. Does he hate me? May I go in and see him?”

“Later,” said Abigail. “And no, he doesn't hate you. He blames himself.”

Her daughter gaped. “He does? But why?”

“Why? Because he is an idiotic young fool, just like you,” she snapped, goaded beyond endurance. “You can think of nothing but yourself and your admirers; Mr. Roth, I have no doubt, is angrier at the servant who rescued him than he is at the brutes who hit him. Neither one of you understands that the incident just now was nothing, less than nothing, compared to what could happen if we are caught between Napoleon and the French army!”

Diana's eyes filled with tears again.

Abigail's voice softened. “If you would like to be of some help, go to our room and bring me down my small case; it has some medicines in it.”

Her daughter gave a small, chastened nod and started up the stairs.

Abigail stood for a moment, shaken by her own loss of control. She had not wanted to frighten Diana or make her blame herself for what had happened, and now she had just done both. With a sigh, she went back into the parlor and sat down to wait for Diana to reappear with the little stock of medicines. She wondered who felt worse: the wounded knight, who had failed to save the princess from the dragon, or the princess's mother, who knew that there were hundreds more dragons out there, carrying rifles and bayonets.

 

 

Meyer knew something was wrong the moment he returned. Every single servant stopped dead the moment they saw him, then hastily resumed whatever they had been doing, making sure it took them in the opposite direction. He looked around for the innkeeper. Monsieur Busac, less cowardly than his employees, was hurrying out to meet him, gasping out half-finished sentences which veered wildly between apologies, reassurances, and excuses. All Meyer could make out was that the apothecary had been sent for, and the ladies were in the private parlor monsieur had reserved.

His first thought was that Abigail Hart had been taken ill. She was calm and cheerful with her daughter, but he had seen the strain in her face when she had thought herself unobserved. They had been traveling at a brutal pace, over very rough roads, and the gig had offered little protection from the cold. He shook off the incoherent Busac and strode up the stairs. Perhaps a slight ailment would be to his advantage—nothing serious, something he could use as an additional excuse for delay, if need be. He knew he was being callous, but it had not been his choice to travel with the Harts.