Not Forgotten

by Elizabeth Johns

  As expected, he perceived no such shelf. Slowly, therefore, he began to climb the ladder, holding her as best he could with one arm. Being chilled to the bone himself, he shook with the effort. He had succeeded in clambering up four rungs when Amelia’s body began to slip from his arms. Snatching at her arm, he barely managed to keep from dropping her back into the water and, in desperation, leaned against the ladder, wedging her body between his and the rusty iron. Breathing heavily, he said a prayer for strength. There was nothing else left that could help him now. Once his breathing had recovered a little, he pulled their bodies up four more rungs. If Amelia survived, she would be battered and bruised from his meagre efforts, never mind the damage Josefina had done.

  “Josefina!” he screamed, his voice echoing through the chamber, in the vain hope she would find some shred of conscience left in her soul and come to save them. He paused again to try and summon the energy to go up the last four rungs. If he could scream and beat on the door enough, perhaps someone else would wander by and hear them or startle his horse enough to break free and send the alarm.

  Josefina had to be outside still, listening, and he would try to wear her down. He reached the top of the ladder with his lifeless burden and turned to a position where he could prop himself with Amelia on his lap. He felt the gash on the back of her head, but the bleeding had stopped and a sticky substance came away on his fingers. He hoped that was not a sign of her impending death.

  With great care, he balanced Amelia on his leg and stretched up to push at the door, but it would not budge. Their only hope was for someone to open it.

  He took his knife and opened it for longer reach before banging the hilt against the iron door. At the noise, Amelia stirred a little in his arms and his heart leapt with joy.

  “Forgive me, my dear, but noise is our only hope.”

  Her eyes opened just a fraction and she gave either a small grimace or smile.

  “Philip,” she tried to say.

  “Yes, it is I. Stay with me!”

  She did not; her head slumped back into unconsciousness, and his despondency grew.

  Pausing only to switch arms and readjust his burden, he continued to bang on the door, alternating with yelling for Josefina. It felt like hours that he laboured thus. The water below continued to rise, but he no longer heard the rain beating a tattoo on the metal door overhead. It gave him a small glimmer of hope. Reaching upward to bang on the door yet again, he heard voices.

  “Josefina! What are ye doing out here, lass?”

  “Tobin!” Philip recognized the voice, and with renewed zeal began to bang on the door as hard as his waning strength would allow.

  “Leave it, it is not your affair!” Josefina called.

  “I cannot do that, lass. Someone is stuck in the cistern,” Tobin said. His voice sounded closer.

  “Tobin! Help!” Philip called.

  “Do not open that door!” Josefina ordered angrily.

  “Ouch! Why did ye hit me, lass?” Tobin yelled.

  Philip strained to listen as they argued, but the sounds were muffled. Philip said a prayer that Tobin would hold his own. Josefina had grown desperate and would not hesitate, he was convinced, to kill Tobin too. Hopefully he was on his guard now that he knew what she was capable of.

  The sounds changed from arguing to grunting and scuffling; something banged against the door a time or two, and Philip knew not what could be happening. His body was gripped with anxiety and he could no longer feel his toes. At last the latch lifted on the door, but apparently their rescuer was having difficulty with it as well. It was another minute or two before the rusted hinge creaked and the sky beckoned above them, and then Tobin’s face appeared over the hole.

  “I never thought I would be so pleased to see your face, Lieutenant.”

  “Nor I yers, Captain.”

  “Help me to lift Lady Amelia out. She is very ill and I am afraid I cannot, at the moment, feel my legs.”

  “Aye. Let me call fer help.” Tobin’s face disappeared and then Philip heard a loud whistle, evidently to call the other searchers to their aid.

  Presently, Tobin again bent over the opening, his arms stretched out, and Philip did his best to lift Amelia upwards. He was not certain Tobin would be able to lift her from that distance, but once he had his arms under her, it eased the burden on Philip’s legs and he was able to provide the final push needed to get her through the door.

  A cavalcade of guards and servants arrived soon afterwards to aid in the rescue. Philip was pulled from the cistern and collapsed on to the ground. His legs stung with the attempted return of circulation and would not support him. Madame galloped up on her milk-white horse and directed her underlings to carry Amelia back to the house on a litter. Philip kissed the ground in gratitude.

  “I almost doona want to ask how ye were so daft as to be locked in the hole with the lady,” Tobin said.

  Philip cast a quelling look at the Irishman. “Your bonnie lass was hiding, then shut the door behind me when I went down to find Lady Amelia. Where is Josefina now?”

  Tobin sighed and inclined his head to the left. Philip looked up to see the maid trussed like a Christmas goose and being hauled away by the guards.

  “’Tis a cryin’ shame,” Tobin said wistfully as he touched the darkening bruise on his right eye. “Such a bonnie lass to be short a shilling.”

  Amelia could hear voices around her, but her head throbbed and was spinning, making it too painful to contemplate opening her eyes. Using her other senses, she tried to orient herself. She was cold, yet she burned with fire. Was such a thing possible? What had happened to her? She strained to hear the voices around her, some of it was French. She was in France. Memories flashed before her closed eyelids—her aunt’s face, her own assignment with Philip. Philip. He had saved her. He had held her tenderly and whispered sweet reassurances in her ears while simultaneously making the loudest noise that had grievously hurt her head.

  “Did she move?” she heard her sister say.

  “M, m, m...” She tried to say Meg but it came out as a moan.

  Someone squeezed her hand. “She is still so cold! Are you certain she is warm enough?”

  “Send for more blankets,” Waverley ordered.

  Amelia tried to open her eyes, but the light was blinding. She immediately shut them again.

  “Thank God you are awake!” Meg exclaimed, leaning forward to kiss her cheek.

  “Shut the curtains so the light does not hurt her eyes,” Waverley said to someone. His tone made it a command. “There now, Amelia. You may try to open your eyes again.”

  She opened them slightly, and was able to see a little, but the light made her head hurt. A maid came with more blankets and put hot bricks under the covers. Her legs and feet felt very painful.

  “What happened?” she whispered with difficulty. Her voice was hoarse and her mouth dry.

  “All in good time. Would you like to try some tea?” Meg asked.

  Amelia nodded slightly, but she regretted the movement.

  She sipped the tea at first and then gulped as though she would never drink again. It was a taste of heaven. When the cup was pulled away empty, she frowned.

  “Philip. Is he unharmed?” she asked, not realizing she had used his Christian name.

  “He is resting. You were both cold and wet for several hours, but you, my dear, had lost a great deal of blood.”

  “He will be well?”

  “He only suffered cold and exhaustion. He did not receive a blow on the head, nor lie in a wet cistern all night.”

  “Is that what happened? May I have more tea, please?”

  Waverley took the cup and refilled it while the Duchess stroked her brow.

  “Yes. If Captain Elliot had not thought to come and tell you of our plans to leave...” She broke off, choked by sobs. Waverley came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “One of the maids took it into her head to dispose of you. Philip is blaming himself, b
ut she hit you in the back of the head with a candlestick—we think when you were painting—somehow dragged you down the path and threw you in the cistern,” Waverley explained.

  “I remember being in the cistern.” Amelia swallowed. “My hands and feet were bound and my head hurt so badly.”

  “I am sorry your head hurts, but if not for the trail of blood, we might not have found you in time.”

  “I should let the doctor know you have awakened. He said if you woke soon, there was good reason to be hopeful for a full recovery.” Waverley left the room.

  “You should continue to rest, my love. I do not wish to delay your recovery,” Meg said.

  “When you see Captain Elliot again, please tell him I wish to see him.”

  “Very well. He will be greatly pleased to know you are awake.”

  Amelia was left alone to lie in the warm, comfortable bed and think. She had very nearly died. Such an experience made one take stock. What really mattered to her now? She had come here to meet her aunt, but also to endeavour to learn if there was to be another plot to overthrow the King.

  Both of those goals had been accomplished, but for Amelia they could not coexist harmoniously. She cared for her aunt, and she thought her aunt cared for her, but she could not allow Lisette to lead another uprising against Europe—if that was what she indeed had planned.

  It was some comfort to know her aunt had not ordered her harmed. She could almost forgive the maid her jealousy, even, though Philip had made neither of them promises. Yet was it simple jealousy that had caused the maid to act? Amelia might never know the answer to that.

  The door to her rooms opened, and she saw her aunt look in.

  “Meg said you were awake. I needed to see for myself.” She walked into the room, dressed all in black. It made her look like a different person—both aged and forlorn.

  “Yes. It seems I had a fortunate escape.”

  “How do you feel? The doctor was very concerned about the blow to your head.”

  “I do not remember being attacked, but I feel the effects.” She reached up and carefully felt her head, which was bandaged; the feeling was just beginning to return to her hands.

  “This should never have happened. I should have known I did not deserve to have such goodness in my life.”

  “That is not true!” Amelia insisted, and then regretted the action. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed against the pain.

  “Forgive me. Do not excite yourself. I can see what it costs you.”

  “No one could have known what the maid would do.”

  “Nor her brother,” Aunt Lissette said softly, clearly still affected by the death of her man.

  “Is it worth it, Aunt?”

  Lisette shook her head, fighting back tears and unable to answer.

  “You could return to England with us. You need not fight for this cause anymore.”

  Aunt Lisette reached forward and took Amelia’s hand. “I thank you, truly, but my life is here.”

  “What will happen to you if you are caught?”

  “Then I will die fighting for something I believe in.” She sighed heavily and leaned back, releasing Amelia’s hand. “Do not worry for me. This is not your battle to fight. Take your beau and return to England and live the life you were meant to live.”

  “He is not my beau,” Amelia confessed quietly.

  “I think you are mistaken. I see the way you look at each other when you think the other is not aware.”

  Amelia’s eyes widened at this revelation.

  “Oui, ma chérie. I do not think you have anything to worry about. ’Tis how your father used to watch your maman.”

  Amelia instantly felt enormous guilt wash over her. “I came here under false pretences.”

  “I know why you are here.”

  “You do?” Amelia braved a glance at her aunt’s face.

  “I was never under any illusion as to why you were here. It did not matter to me. I have nothing to hide from you, or Wellington for that matter.”

  “I confess I am relieved. It was not the only reason I wanted to come.”

  Aunt Lisette smiled sadly at her. “I am happy to hear that. Much of what they say about me is true, though—I am hardly worthy of your consideration.”

  “Please do not say such a thing! It is not too late!”

  Aunt Lisette held up her hand. “Let us not spend the little time we have left together arguing our differences.”

  “Are you still sending me away?”

  “It is for the best, chérie.”

  “There is nothing I can say?”

  Lisette shook her head. “I must see this finished.”

  Amelia turned her head away. There was nothing left to say. They remained there in silence for a few more moments before her aunt rose quietly and took her leave.

  Amelia could not control the tears that streamed down her face. It was grief of a different kind from losing her mother. It was a conscious betrayal, and Amelia knew what her aunt was doing was wrong. There were better ways to fight for what you believed in. Was Amelia herself to leave and do nothing?

  There was much on her mind, but it hurt too much to deliberate upon these life-altering decisions when the details were not clear. Deliberate she must, however, yet when her head did not feel as if it was being split with a hammer and when the pull of sleep was not drawing her under.

  Chapter 17

  Philip had slept like the dead—having collapsed from exhaustion once he was able to rest. Amelia was in the hands of the doctor, and there was a little more he could do for her now. Wellington was in a hurry to return to England and the Waverley party was trying to determine how soon Amelia could leave. Philip had great respect for his commander, but it went against every bit of his instinct to go home and leave Madame unguarded and the supplies untouched.

  He was frustrated with these games of strategy the two sides were playing with each other. Quite frankly, politics was something Philip abhorred. He had never been privy to the upper echelons of the decision making and favours that went on in the King’s circle, but he did believe in the free society in England, and protecting that future for his family. It was something which mattered deeply to him, for that unborn child Adelaide was growing inside her—and for his own children? Was that possible? This was the first time he had allowed for that possibility. First, however, this rebellion must be stopped. For as long as Bonaparte was alive, there was always a chance of further trouble. What, he wondered, was going on within the ranks of La Glacier’s organization? What would happen as a result of Lannes’s death? Would she rethink her tactic, after what had happened to Amelia?

  There was a knock on his door, interrupting his conjectures. “Enter,” he said.

  “Excellent. You are awake,” Waverley said as he entered the room and closed the door. He walked over and took the chair opposite Philip, who was still in his dressing gown, drinking coffee.

  “Are you suffering any ill effects?”

  Philip shook his head. “I was not sodden too long. I have some pain, but the doctor does not anticipate any permanent damage.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. You will be happy to know that Amelia is awake. She has asked to speak with you.”

  “That is good news, indeed. I was afraid—did not know—if she would…awaken.”

  “None of us knew. She still suffers a great deal of pain, but appears to have her faculties intact.”

  “Did the sawbones say—will she be damaged from the cold?”

  “It is likely there will be some damage to her feet. The doctor has applied poultices and bandages, and is keeping them warm. We are hoping for a miracle.”

  Philip nodded absently. Why Amelia? Why could not Josefina’s wrath have been directed at him instead of that beautiful, perfect creature? How she must despise him!

  “Wellington is ready to depart for England. He felt he must make haste,” Waverley explained.

  “Yes, he dropped in and spoke with me not long ago. When
do you plan to leave?”

  “As soon as Amelia is able. I will speak to the doctor when he returns.”

  “It could be some time before he wants her moved.”

  “Unfortunately, it could.” Waverley hesitated.

  “Is something on your mind, Luke?” They had been friends a long time, and Philip knew something was bothering him.

  Waverley looked him in the eye. “I confess, I cannot be easy in my mind about any of this. I understand why Wellington felt his hands were tied and could not act, but mine are not.”

  “I was just contemplating that very thing when you walked in. What are you considering?”

  “Wait until La Glacier leaves for Elba, then burn everything down.”

  “Will it not be obvious it was us? That would incite war for certain,” Philip argued.

  “I do not intend to be caught. No building is immune to fire,” he reasoned.

  “Perhaps not, but how less likely is success when it is in a cave, as the stores are in, hence the name fortress. I want the same thing as you, but I do not want to start a war. We are horribly disadvantaged with most of our good men in America.”

  Waverley ran a hand through his hair, as was his habit when he was thinking. “She must believe us back in England when it happens. Then she will suspect Pierre or one of the King’s men.”

  “Every part of my being wants this operation destroyed, but it will shatter Lady Amelia.”

  Waverley blew out his cheeks. “It is why I wish to do it after their aunt is away. I have no intention of destroying the house.”

  “If we could be certain it would only destroy the war supplies—but with the amount of ammunition sitting in those caves, it would destroy the whole mountain.”

  “We must consider it, Philip.” Waverley was having difficulty keeping his voice down. “If Napoleon or even another were to lead an army against Europe now...the carnage would be unfathomable. You have seen what he has already done.”