The Scarlet Code

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘Your dress is rather continental,’ he says with a frown, killing dead my fleeting optimism in his character. ‘For an English bride.’

  I glance at the dress. ‘Fashions have simplified,’ I say.

  ‘In Paris perhaps,’ he retorts, ‘every French lady wants to look as though she’s stepped out of ancient Greece. In London things are rather more formal.’ He coughs into his closed fist. ‘No matter. You’ll lose such affectations soon enough.’

  I am beset by sudden uncertainty, since I’d felt sure my future husband would favour my choice. Missing nothing, Lord Pole backtracks.

  ‘You must be comfortable, of course,’ he mutters. ‘It is your wedding day, after all.’ There is a pained look in his hawk-like eyes, as though such conventions of sentiment are inconvenient to him.

  ‘You are anxious?’ He’s trying to read my face, peering at me.

  ‘Why should I be? I have known and respected Atherton since I was a girl.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lord Pole eyes the maid, drumming fingers on his chin. ‘But he was not a cripple back then, Attica.’

  ‘He is not a cripple now.’ I’m outraged on my future husband’s behalf.

  ‘I only mean …’ For once Lord Pole seems entirely out of his depth. ‘You have made things right between you? Atherton had nothing to do with those trading routes. You must have understood that. If it was down to him, he would have continued his sugar -beet experiment. Created our own supply of sugar.’

  There’s something about his expression that I would attribute to guilt, if I thought Lord Pole capable of such things.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. ‘I understand that his loyalty to the Crown occasionally demands Atherton go against his own ethos,’ I say. ‘That is the nature of a monarchy, I suppose. Sometimes the end justifies the means. Perhaps France will do things differently, so more reasonable men have a say.’

  Lord Pole considers, not seeming entirely convinced. His brows knit together. ‘You do intend to have children? It is important for appearances. Though your issue couldn’t be expected to inherit any of your father’s estate, naturally.’

  ‘Of course.’ I make a smile that is a little too bright, too brittle.

  ‘You will arouse suspicions in Africa if you and your husband remain childless. Little point in sending you to infiltrate foreign embassies if you cannot give the appearance of a normal married couple.’

  ‘I intend to fulfil every part of my wifely duties,’ I tell him through gritted teeth. ‘Shouldn’t you be with Atherton?’ I add pointedly.

  Lord Pole nods. ‘I only came to wish you joy.’ He hesitates. ‘And to be sure this is really what you want.’ His eyes search mine, then dart away before I can answer. ‘You served your country, and of course we are grateful.’ He waves his hand, dismissing my four years’ service, risking life and limb, as a little sideline, a whimsical hobby. ‘Now a new life awaits you. The chance to do greater good.’ He takes a breath, as though making a speech he’s rehearsed. ‘More changes are made …’

  ‘In the drawing rooms than on battlefields,’ I fill in.

  Lord Pole fixes me with a long look, then seems to come to a conclusion.

  ‘In any case,’ he reaches inside his coat, ‘I brought you the latest news from France.’ He untucks a sheaf of letters.

  My beaming smile seems to take my uncle aback. ‘That was very thoughtful,’ I tell him.

  ‘I have my moments.’ He passes the papers. ‘If I may summarise,’ he adds, as I track through the dense spy-report, ‘the King and Queen were escorted to the Tuileries Palace in Paris. No one is yet admitting they are imprisoned, but it is clear they cannot easily leave. On the few occasions the Queen has taken the air in her carriage, she has been subject to some very gross impertinences.’

  ‘They are still legally recognised as King and Queen?’

  ‘Yes. Though no one is quite sure of the terms of the new arrangement. Only that power has shifted vastly. The Rights of Man, now signed, seems oddly redundant.’ Lord Pole looks thoughtful. ‘There is something else,’ he adds. ‘Your pirate friend tried to conceal a message for you in the correspondence from our man in Paris. Rather artlessly done, though I give him credit for low cunning. What I don’t understand is why he felt the need for secrecy. Here it is.’

  He passes me a page of dense text, overlaid by scrawling decoding ink, and the insignia of the Sealed Knot.

  ‘Jemmy wrote me a letter?’ I stand up to take it, disconcerting the maid, who’d been holding some decoration thoughtfully above my hair.

  ‘I hardly think your pirate capable of putting pen to paper in any comprehensible way,’ replies Lord Pole sniffily. ‘He sent you some badly coded thing from a slave colony. We broke it in minutes. Why he tried to conceal it is a mystery. I can only imagine he suspected we wouldn’t deliver it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I’m only half aware of Lord Pole making to leave, since I’m pulling apart the code in my mind, trying to understand why Jemmy wanted me to see it.

  ‘I wish you well,’ says Lord Pole with grave sincerity, bowing. ‘When I next see you, you shall be a married lady.’ I glance up to see his expression uncertain, concerned even, but I am more concerned with my letter.

  ‘Attica …’ he says.

  I look up, frowning at being distracted from the code. ‘What?’

  Lord Pole hesitates. ‘Never mind.’ He shuts the door behind him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  I’M STILL WORKING ON JEMMY’S CODED MESSAGE AS I WALK down the stairs to the chapel. People seem to be buzzing about me, but I hardly notice.

  The paper is something to do with a secret uprising in Haiti. A plan among the slaves to free themselves. The last line is something about France and the revolution. I am just making sense of it when I see Atherton, standing at the foot of the stairs. Nerves flutter in my stomach.

  I hadn’t expected to see him until we met at the altar in a few hours. It is so good to see him. Suddenly, all the doubts I had are rushed away. Of course I will marry this man. It was all I was ever destined to do. We make perfect sense.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Atherton says, with feeling. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he adds quietly, as I descend with a quizzical expression. ‘I know it’s bad luck. Only I wanted to see you.’

  I have no idea what he’s talking about until he adds: ‘People like us aren’t wary of old superstitions, are we?’

  ‘No,’ I say, and the words come out as though they belong to someone else. Because unexpectedly, Jemmy’s missive has made sudden sense in my mind.

  The revolution. The uprising. It came about because of the women’s march on Versailles. Slaves are looking to France as proof that they can stand up to their cruel masters. That all men are equal.

  ‘There was a slave rebellion,’ I tell Atherton, ‘in Haiti.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘The only successful uprising ever. The enslaved people took inspiration from the bravery of the French women,’ he adds, smiling at me. ‘Other French colonies are following suit.’

  ‘You realise, I was there?’ I tell him. ‘When the marchers reached Versailles?’ I’m not saying what I mean to say, and it is confusing. Why does this development feel so personally significant? I can hardly take credit for the actions of the French, after all.

  ‘Naturally, I was aware,’ Atherton says. ‘A very dangerous business it sounded, all those strong-armed women with pitchforks. I am very, very happy to have you back safe, and embarking on no more undertakings in France.’

  But for the first time, perhaps ever, Atherton hasn’t taken my meaning at all.

  ‘Surely, we might yet return to Paris?’ I say. ‘You know how much the slave cause means to me,’ I finish lamely, realising this doesn’t exactly make sense.

  ‘How could I forget?’ Atherton’s voice holds just the smallest shade of sadness. ‘Isn’t that what our future life together is all about?’ He comes closer, in the way that people of my class are practised at doing, so the
servants don’t overhear. For some reason, my thoughts fly to Jemmy, who airs his grievances at full volume.

  ‘Do not imagine I am under any illusions, Attica. You would never have agreed to become my wife if it had not come with the position in Africa. And if you wish to visit the Paris salons, and debate the slave cause, then of course we shall.’

  I’m stung, realising how selfish I sound.

  For the first time between Atherton and I, all the words go away, and we’re left in an awkward silence.

  He takes my hands in his and clasps them to his chest. It’s such a heartfelt, innocent gesture, it very nearly has me cast aside my fears. Only just at that moment, another wave of realisation hits me.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ I ask quietly, ‘that you took the position in Africa because you thought it meant I would agree to become your wife?’

  Atherton doesn’t reply, but I can see from his face it’s true.

  ‘You don’t have a great interest in breaking the slave rings,’ I ask, ‘do you?’

  ‘Now you are unfair,’ he says hotly, my hands still clasped in his. ‘Of course I care, of course I do. But my life, my work, is here in London. And more than anything I care for you. I care for you more than any of it. The politics, the work. Isn’t that what you want in a husband?’

  He looks so desperate, so defeated, that my heart goes out to him.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I say, and I know it with my whole heart.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  MY FATHER STANDS WAITING IN THE FAMILY GROUNDS, as the maid escorts me outside. He looks so different these days I can’t help but smile to see him. The once bloodshot eyes are now a sparkling blue, and there is an energy to him that was previously lost in laudanum fug. He wears a perfectly tailored suit in muted colours, and no wig over his neatly combed dark hair.

  ‘Your new Lady Morgan is good for you,’ I tell him. ‘You look like a handsome edition of your brother.’

  He laughs. ‘More fashionably dressed than Lord Pole, I hope. Hello, Attica.’ He kisses me on the cheek. Takes my arm, a little too tightly.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, his eyes searching my face.

  I manage a smile. But I cannot help the sick feeling in my stomach. I yearn to marry Atherton, but the reality of life beyond that – an ambassador’s wife – now crowds around me like prison walls.

  ‘The Sealed Knot is broken-hearted to lose you,’ says my father, ‘but it is a new adventure you embark on now.’

  I nod resolutely, glad of my father’s sturdy arm to lead me across the wet autumn lawn. My new situation is the price I pay to become Atherton’s wife. I would pay it ten times over.

  ‘I always hated the wedding ceremony,’ my father remarks conversationally, as we approach the church. ‘Seemed a lot of nonsense to me, to make a public declaration of it all.’

  I smile in agreement.

  We’re nearing our family chapel: a small, rather ramshackle affair. A tiny building constructed a hundred years ago, when worship was a more sober practice. Since there is only space inside for ten or so people, the ceremony at least will be mercifully small.

  ‘Best not keep your future husband waiting. Time to deliver him his bride. I almost forgot …’ He stops walking suddenly, tapping his fingers to his mouth. ‘I have a message from your pirate friend.’

  I had no idea my father even knew about Jemmy, but of course he was a spy himself.

  ‘Jemmy is well?’ I confirm hastily.

  My father nods. ‘I extended him a family invitation to the wedding,’ he adds in a suspiciously neutral tone. ‘In light of the services he has done, keeping my daughter safe.’ He casts me a sharp little smile. ‘He wouldn’t accept,’ my father says. ‘Strong-minded fellow. I liked him. Good to have at your side in a crisis, I should imagine. He refused under any circumstances to attend. Any thoughts on why that should be?’

  I shake my head, thinking Jemmy must be the only person my father has been unable to bring around to his point of view.

  ‘He’s a pirate,’ I tell my father. ‘They are impossible to understand.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ says my father, smiling at the unintended frustration in my voice. ‘In any case, Jemmy said that should you want to see him, he’s waiting at the Prospect of Whitby in Wapping, until the next tide. There is a person to be rescued from the machinations of some lawyer fellow, and he thought you might be game.’

  For just a moment, I allow myself to imagine a final mission might be possible. One last Pimpernel adventure, snatching an innocent life from Robespierre’s grip.

  But of course, it is impossible. I have already put Atherton through too much to abandon him on the day of our wedding. I am racked with sudden fury at Jemmy for being too stubborn to come to my wedding.

  My father catches my expression.

  ‘If I might offer you a little unsolicited advice,’ he says, ‘from a man who has made more than his share of mistakes?’

  ‘Go on.’ I eye the chapel.

  My father heaves up a world-weary sigh. ‘I’ve had three wives, Attica. The first, your mother, I loved very dearly. The second, well, you know about her. My current wife, I am happy to say, has woken a hope, long since buried, that a man and woman might live in convivial happiness. I only wish I had been braver earlier. It would have spared you all those years … Well, you know it all.’ He frowns. ‘I was a coward, Attica, and it cost you a great deal. But you have always been better than I. You have your mother’s good qualities. She had a fearsome temper, you know. Quite ferocious. The bravest woman I have ever known.’ He smiles at the memory.

  ‘Thank you for the compliment, though it hardly counts as advice.’

  ‘What I am trying to tell you is that I think Atherton understands your rather unconventional character. I think he loves you for it.’

  I am sure of it too, and a rush of affection for Atherton suffuses me.

  ‘So I expect he will understand,’ continues my father, ‘when you inevitably act in ways that ordinary members of society might find unusual.’ He pats my hand. ‘If you wish to be happy in your marriage, you must start as you mean to go on. Be yourself, Attica.’

  I consider what he is suggesting.

  ‘Even if Atherton were to agree to a final mission,’ I say, ‘I have about a hundred relatives to greet after the ceremony.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says my father. He eyes the church ahead. ‘Then perhaps as a little wedding gift, you might accept my help.’

  I stare at him, trying to take in the magnitude of what he’s saying.

  ‘You spent a good many years fretting for me,’ says my father. ‘I am better now. More than capable of appeasing a few relatives, should my daughter wish to slip away early from her wedding reception.’

  ‘But your wife has invited half of London,’ I say weakly, the prospect of a reprieve from the formal reception like golden water pouring through me.

  ‘Then we shall have a very jolly party. All the jollier for knowing you are happy.’ He smiles at me. ‘I’ve designed entire military campaigns, Attica, completed impossible spy missions. I can be rather persuasive, even where my indomitable American wife is concerned.’ He winks. ‘Shall we get you to the chapel?’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  THE PROSPECT OF WHITBY IS AN ATMOSPHERIC OLD TAVERN on the banks of the Thames. Just the place to watch ships coming and going. It’s filled with drunken sailors, returning captains and prospectors eager to trade off the latest voyage.

  For a moment I don’t see Jemmy, and then I make out a dark figure skulking at the back.

  ‘You look rather plain,’ I observe, closing in on him, ‘for an adventurer.’

  Jemmy stands, disbelief and pleasure lighting his features.

  ‘Attica?’ He moves towards me, taking me by the shoulders as though to assure himself I won’t vanish away. ‘I didn’t believe you would come.’

  We’re beaming at one another. Jemmy’s hands are still at my arms and he seems reluctant to
take them off.

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ I say. ‘Where are your jewelled pistols?’

  ‘You don’t wear fancy pistols in a place like this,’ he explains. ‘Not if you’re alone without your crew.’ The smile slips from his face. He withdraws his hands. ‘I am sorry for how we left things.’

  Our last ugly conversation leaps painfully to mind. Jemmy sits back at his table and I slide in next to him, remembering the last time we spoke.

  Jemmy had told me in no uncertain terms that Atherton and I were ill-suited.

  ‘He could have asked you to marry him three years ago,’ Jemmy had fumed, seizing the ship’s wheel with unnecessary force.

  ‘He thought I would refuse.’

  ‘A man thinks nothing of such things. He was decent enough to know you deserve more. He knew he had no business marrying a spirited young wife, when all he could offer is a slow limp around the world, shaking hands with perfumed old men.’

  ‘And what should he be offering me?’

  Jemmy’s green-brown eyes had taken a pained expression.

  ‘You come to it like one of your codes, Attica, a problem to be solved. Love is not like that.’

  ‘Should I come to it like you, then? A broken heart in every port?’

  To my great surprise he had look offended.

  ‘You have me all wrong, Attica,’ he’d said. ‘I was wed and when it did not take I was broken-hearted.’

  We had been silent after that, for the remainder of the voyage, and I had disembarked to a frosty farewell from Jemmy, and open glares from his shipmates.

  I have the strong impression Jemmy is thinking of the same conversation. To break the silence I take out my tankard and pour off some ale from Jemmy’s vessel into mine.