Not Forgotten

by Elizabeth Johns

  As the boat drew closer, Philip flashed the light again to direct Frome towards the beach and away from the rocks.

  Wellington stood there in silence. There had to be a great deal on his mind, with the knowledge they had obtained regarding La Glacier and Napoleon’s intentions. Philip did not envy Old Hookey his task of trying to gain more support from Parliament when the Peninsular War had just ended and many regiments were already fighting another conflict on the shores of America.

  The boat was coming in to shore, and the two of them stepped forward to guide it.

  Captain Frome was standing at the hull, and Philip held out a hand for him to climb over the edge.

  “Captain,” Wellington said by way of greeting.

  “Your Grace!”

  “We have a change in plans. We are all departing on the morrow. I want to know if you have seen anything suspicious?”

  “There was some activity in and out of the caves. The man who visited the first day returned, but I have witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. Has something occurred?” Frome asked.

  “La Glacier’s henchman was murdered today.”

  “Lannes?” Frome let out a low whistle.

  “Quite,” Wellington agreed. “It is not good for us to be here.”

  “Should we not dispose of the contraband we found?”

  “No. We have no grounds to at this point, and would only anger La Glacier and, in his turn, Napoleon. Even if he does escape, we have no proof he will try to retake the throne...yet. I intend to leave men here on watch, and return to England to raise support for what I believe is to come.”

  “Shall I remain here to keep a lookout or return to England?” Frome asked.

  “Return. I only wanted you here for extra protection with the ladies’ presence.”

  “Yes, sir. I will be ready to depart at first light.” Philip and Wellington watched Frome’s craft pull away and mounted the steps back to the fortress. When they reached the courtyard, Wellington began to take his leave, but Philip could see he remembered something, for he turned and raised his finger.

  “The Lieutenant.”

  “Do you wish me to inform him to be ready to depart?”

  Wellington wrinkled his brow.

  “I think he would not be opposed to remaining,” Philip suggested.

  “The wind blows that way, does it? Very well. He can remain. Be sure to be ready to leave after breakfast.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After watching his commander climb the grand staircase, Philip set out to look for Tobin.

  The house was surprisingly quiet for having just experienced a violent death. Perhaps the occupants were all terrified of the same fate and were hiding in their rooms.

  He crept down the servants’ stairs with the idea of leaving that way to find Tobin, the passage only lit by a few sparse candles. He was a guest, so he could come and go as he pleased, but with Josefina thinking she recognized him, he did not want to take his chances with the guards.

  There was light coming from the kitchen, so not everyone was abed. He knew it was likely some of the servants would have their quarters nearby, and when he heard giggles coming from behind one of the doors, his suspicions were confirmed.

  He spied the door to his freedom, and was moving quietly on tiptoe past the door from where the sounds were emanating, when he heard the all too familiar voice. Cursing under his breath, he stopped, debating what he should do. Should he wait there until Tobin left? It could be a while, and he had no intention of listening to giggles and flirtatious nonsense for hours.

  Philip supposed he could go into the village and leave a note for the Irishman at his rooms, but that was a long way when the rogue was right here.

  Heavy footsteps approached the kitchen, and Philip had to make a quick decision. Skimming the big open room with his eyes, he saw there were few hiding places available to him, so he chose a shelf under one of the tables, amongst some sundry cooking utensils, and tried to cover himself as best he could.

  The loud steps entered the kitchen, echoing off the stone walls. From his low vantage point, Philip watched a pair of heavy, worn boots cross the flagged floor and stop in front of the door where Tobin, and presumably Josefina, were fraternizing.

  A heavy fist pounded upon the door.

  “Josie!” the voice demanded, “I know you are in there!”

  Philip strained to see who was knocking.

  Josefina’s face peered around the door. “What are you doing here, Pierre?”

  Pierre? Philip asked himself. Pierre was a common name, but Pierre was the man whom La Glacier had sent away from the cave and whom Frome had said he saw today. Was this another one of Josefina’s lovers spurned? Philip was beginning to feel rather cheap.

  “You should not be here, brother. Did not Madame tell you not to return?”

  Brother. That gives some little comfort, he thought, knowing it was but a crumb.

  “Are you not going to invite your brother in?” Pierre asked in an irritated tone.

  “Now is not a good time,” she answered, her own voice low. Philip could see she was holding the door fast against her body.

  “Who is it this time?” Pierre asked. He smacked one fist into the other hand. Philip desperately wanted to see the man’s face. His voice seemed eerily familiar.

  “It is none of your business.”

  “Is it the pedlar? It had better not be one of those Englishmen! I heard they are all leaving soon. Good riddance,” he spat.

  “How would you know?” she scolded. “Madame does not tell you anything anymore.”

  “That is about to change, you wait and see.”

  “What are you planning, Pierre? Tell me!”

  “Nothing to worry your pretty little head over, but there are about to be some big changes coming.”

  “You had better be careful,” she whispered. The words vibrated with warning.

  “Lannes is no longer here to stand in my way,” he boasted.

  “What did you do, brother?” she asked, her horror clear.

  “What should have been done a long time ago.” The man finally took a couple of steps back and turned around so Philip could see his face. It was the man Philip had tied up on the road, the day he and Amelia had left Paris.

  “Humph,” Josefina responded.

  “Soon you will have your rightful place here,” he said, trying to tempt her with Spanish coin.

  “I would be happy enough with a small cottage. It is when the guests come here, acting all high and mighty, I cannot abide it. There’s a lady here who is Madame’s niece. Flaunting herself at me. I’d like to see her taken down a notch or two.”

  “One of the English?” he asked.

  “She has hair like fire. You cannot miss her.”

  “If you anger Madame…”

  “What will she do? She should thank me for doing her a service. They’ve been spying on her, plain as day, and she does nothing!”

  “Spying, eh? Maybe we can use this to our advantage,” he said, scratching his beard in contemplation.

  “We can talk tomorrow,” Josefina said. “Now, leave me be.” She kissed him on the cheek and shut the door in his face.

  Philip sighed and resigned himself to a long wait under the table until Tobin emerged.

  Amelia left her aunt in the hands of her maid, who had just administered a sleeping draught. Aunt Lisette had been inconsolable, and she appeared to be a woman in the depths of despair. She had said very little while Amelia had held her, except to insist that Amelia leave France at once, for her own safety. It had been difficult for her aunt to utter those words, Amelia could tell, and her heart ached. It felt as though she were torn between two worlds and one was forbidden to the other. Why did it have to be that way? Why must she be forced to choose?

  Wiping a tear away, she walked down the hall, lost in the torment of her thoughts and feelings. When she reached her chamber, the painting she had begun of the fortress sat on an easel waiting for the fin
ishing touches. For a few moments she studied its composition, the blue sky and the warm sunlight that bathed the stone château sitting atop the majestic cliffs overlooking the open water. She wanted to present it to her aunt as a gift. Since it was unlikely she would find rest in her bed that night, Amelia set about the task of completing the work.

  Moving the easel in front of the lamp, she opened the windows to the cold night. Even though she could not see, the breeze and smell of the ocean transported her back to the morning on the beach, when she had felt free. Something had changed in her since then. Although she could not say what it was, she knew nothing would be the same after becoming close to her aunt, becoming close to Captain Elliot, and seeing that poor man hanging in the courtyard.

  Amelia swallowed hard, trying to push the visions of the man from her mind, and then went about the task of finishing her work. A tear fell as she painted small touches on the beach, making her recall the picnic she had shared with Captain Elliot: the crab playing hide-and-seek with them, the shells she had found scattered across the sand, and the waves as they crawled forward then retreated, murmuring a gentle lullaby. She paused to listen to nature’s song again and could almost feel the spray of the salty water on her face. She smiled and inhaled deeply of the cool air, becoming lost in the memory.

  A gentle sigh escaped her lips; at the same instant, a heavy object struck her on the head.

  When next she opened her eyes, Amelia was completely disoriented. She was lying on a hard floor; it was dark, cold and damp, and she was bound hand and foot.

  What had happened? Where was she? Closing her eyes, she tried to still her tumultuous thoughts to consider her predicament, but the back of her head hurt terribly and was pounding fit to burst. Her fingers were numb with cold, the tight bindings chafed her wrists and ankles, and her body was sore from lying on the rough stone. She began to shake with fear. There was a foetid stench reminiscent of the woods in winter, combined with that of rotten fish. Where was she? Who could have done this to her? Would she be left alone here to die? How long had she been gone? Would anyone have missed her yet? When the questions ran dry, she again tried to gather her wits. Had she not been warned to be alert at all times? She had felt safe in her room and had let her guard down. What a wretched spy she was!

  She struggled against the bonds around her hands and ankles. They seemed to be fabric and she thought she might have a chance of loosening them if she worked at them enough. In spite of the cold, beads of perspiration formed on her brow with the effort. After several minutes of striving to be free, her hands also became numb and she had to stop.

  It was difficult not to panic in the darkness. To keep from thinking about what might happen if no one found her, she surveyed what she could of her surroundings. The cold and damp indicated that, in all likelihood, she had been taken down into the maze of tunnels below the house. She began to wriggle along the stone floor, trying to discover anything she could. There must be a way out! What would a spy do? Feeling tears roll down her face, she had to fight not to lose herself to deepest alarm; little good that would do her now!

  The pain in her head stole her breath away and she fell back against the wall to steady herself. If she could not clear her muddled wits, she would not be able to find a way out of this dilemma. Loosening the knots was not a quick prospect, so she fell forward onto her knees and slowly began to crawl around the room. Determining where she was would help her plan what she could do, if anything, to escape. Giving in to her fears was not an option. She could see nothing, the darkness being absolute, she tried to use her other senses. Her prison was made of stone walls and floors, and it smelled similar to the wine cellar at Hawthorne Abbey. There was no sound but her ragged breathing.

  When she reached another wall, she found no exit; nor was there a fairy godmother to conjure a door to safety. The exertion needed to traverse the room with hands and feet bound was exhausting. She paused to rest, and biting her lip against the chafing, once more worked to ease the knots at her wrists. Her breathing was rapid with fear. Could there not be a tiny bit of light or air? Was that too much to ask?

  She could not keep her thoughts from growing morbid as she tried and tried in vain to free herself. Why had someone done this to her? Had her aunt discovered she was helping Wellington and was punishing Amelia for her betrayal?

  No, she refused to think Aunt Lisette capable of such duplicity, even though Amelia herself was committing the same. A horrible guilt assailed her. Using the wall, she managed to hoist herself up to a sitting position; the pain in her head caused by the movement made her retch violently. The sheer force with which she was sick left her too weak to do anything but lie back down and close her eyes.

  Sometime later, Amelia awoke with a start to the feel of water touching her face. She opened her eyes. The smallest amount of grey light was creeping into the prison from somewhere above her. It was still difficult to make anything out, not least because the room was spinning about her.

  It took enormous effort to keep her eyes open, and she wanted nothing more than to return to sleep, but some instinct warned her that the water around her was getting deeper. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Amelia lifted her head and forced her eyes to focus. Although it was necessary to squint in order to discover her prison, presently she espied a ladder descending from beneath a small window near the ceiling. Little good it could afford her, she reflected bitterly, with bound hands and feet, when it did not reach the floor.

  The water was now flowing over her hands, and she realized she would soon perish from the cold if she did not get above the rising tide. She must be in some sort of cistern! No one would ever think to look for her in such a place. Wriggling her hands in the cold water was becoming harder; she could barely feel her fingers. As she stretched them in an effort to restore some circulation, the fabric binding gave slightly. It had loosened a fraction!

  Somehow, she had to get her hands out of the water to warm them. What kind of evil person would leave her to die this kind of torturous death? Would that the blow had killed her! Icy fingers wrapped around her heart at the thought of slowly drowning to death in this hell-hole. Sitting up caused her head to spin and she almost retched again. She had nothing left to vomit, and the feeling slowly eased when she sat still.

  It took a few minutes for some feeling to return to her hands. Redoubling her efforts, she was able to loosen the fabric enough to slide her hands to freedom. The knots around her ankles were tougher to loosen, but eventually she was able to toss the binding aside. By this time, the water had risen almost above the tops of her half-boots. Little protection would they provide if the water rose any more, she mused ruefully. Once free, she gingerly felt the back of her head, and found a large indention and sticky, matted hair. She sucked in her breath at the stinging discomfort. Who had hit her? And why?

  If she wanted to survive, she would have to reach the window near the ceiling. Looking up at the base of the ladder, she mumbled one of her groom’s favoured oaths; it appeared an impossible feat. The only way would be for the water to rise enough to carry her to it―but would she die from the cold before that happened?

  Chapter 15

  After Philip had followed Tobin and explained the commander’s plan, he went to his rooms looking forward to a few hours respite. He was glad to be leaving, for with the death of Lannes, and Pierre plotting some type of coup within the ranks, the danger was very real. Who could say what might happen next, especially with the vitriol Josefina had shown towards Amelia. Thinking of the latter, he decided to stop at her chamber to satisfy himself that she had suffered no ill effects from her experience. It was never easy to see a dead person and especially not when they had met such a violent end.

  He rapped softly so as not to disturb anyone nearby―or advertise his clandestine visit in the wee hours of the morning―but the door creaked open with his meagre knock. He frowned and pushed the door fully open, knowing something must be wrong. The lamp still burned bright, and the wi
ndows were wide open to the cold night air. He hurried across the sitting room to her bedchamber, but the bed had not been slept in, and there was no sign of Amelia. He peered inside the dressing room, but there was no sign of her there, either. He walked back into the sitting room and paced the floor, trying to think. Perhaps she had gone back to console her aunt, but it looked as if she had been disturbed while painting. There was a streak of paint running across the canvas, which appeared to otherwise be complete. He knelt down, to find a cloth and paint brush had fallen carelessly on the carpet along with splashes of red paint. Thoughtfully, he touched the fresh paint; something about its consistency made him bring his hand up to his nose to smell it. The sticky substance had the telltale metallic odour. It was blood―and Amelia was in trouble. He ran at once to awaken Waverley and Wellington. If the blood was hers—if she were badly hurt—then time was of the essence. Abruptly, he discovered a professional detachment was hard to maintain.

  As he waited for Waverley and Wellington to dress, he went back to Lady Amelia’s rooms to see if he could discover any clues. He looked around the room and found a candlestick, heavily stained with blood, under the edge of a chair.

  “What has happened?” Waverley demanded, entering the room while still donning his coat. Wellington was not far behind.

  “It appears as though Lady Amelia has been harmed. I found blood on the carpet and this candlestick. The evidence points to her having been attacked while she was painting. He showed them the streak of paint across the canvas and where her brush had fallen on the floor.

  “Good God!” Waverley exclaimed.

  “Who the devil would do such a thing to a young lady?” Wellington looked ready for a battle royal.

  “I believe I know who may be responsible, but first we must find Amelia. She could be gravely injured. I will search the room for hidden passages. It would not be easy to take a limp body through the window. Also, the risk of being seen, either in the hall outside or elsewhere in the house, would be great, although not impossible,” Philip said.