The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  “Yes, I know about your son.” He didn’t say anything else. The sounds of booted feet and slow-clopping hooves filled the silence until she wanted to scream. “Perhaps I presumed too much, too soon. If you wish for your husband’s return—”

  She shuddered. Alain might appear like a medieval troubadour with his blond curls, blue eyes, and dimpled smile, but there all resemblance ended. God knows his absence from her life was a blessing; but while he had Edmond she’d play the cowed girl, the helpless lady, the tavern wench, even the supplicant—anything to stop him from taking her baby beyond her reach. “I won’t leave without my son.”

  There was a smile in his voice. As if he approved. “I rather thought you’d say that.”

  She didn’t know how to answer. Waiting for the terms to come.

  When they reached the pension, he lifted her off the horse. As they stared at each other after the awkward intimacy of strangers, he dropped his hands from her waist. “I hope John gave you the tincture of arnica for your bruises.”

  “Yes, he did, thank you. Why do you bother with me, monsieur? Why do I matter?” In her experience, altruism didn’t exist. He was here because either Papa sent him or he needed something from her, and she was tired of waiting.

  “I told you, I protect you only in the physical sense.” He didn’t speak sharply, or with anger. He merely said it, and she hated how much she wanted to believe him.

  She was the one who held the dagger in her speech. “Then what do you want from me?”

  He bowed over her hand. Soft as a breath of wind touching her ear she heard, “Not yet.” Then he left her, walking the horse through the marketplace toward the river.

  The sound of his horse’s hooves echoing slow and unhurried in the deep night was a wordless gauntlet thrown down. He was daring her to follow.

  It killed the cat, they said. Papa said it would kill her for certain. More than a year ago her intense curiosity had led to her downfall, wanting to understand Alain, the poetic, sorrowful young émigré who worked in the local village as an apothecary’s assistant.

  Now that curiosity had returned in full measure, and again, she couldn’t resist. Whoever this man was, she had to know—and she needed some of the high ground in their invisible battlefield. She’d do more than follow his lead in the dark dance he’d orchestrated. He needed to understand she was more than his pawn. He’d tell her the truth, give her his real name, and explain why he needed her before she’d agree to help.

  In moments she’d grabbed the candle burning in the hall of the pension. Swift and silent, she left and locked the door behind her.

  She moved against walls until she’d crossed the market square: a creature of the night like the whores, spies, murderers, and criminals, filled with calm certainty. He knew she’d follow him; he’d lead her in that dance into darkness, the mystery glimmering like a jewel in the night, irresistible. And he knew that, too. But she had her own methods of control.

  The stranger continued northwest toward the part of town where the affluent lived, the business owners, politicians, and magistrates. Never once did he look around or behind: the quintessential man with nothing to hide or fear.

  More unheard whispers in the night. That’s it, follow me. Trust me.

  Men could be such fools. If she didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, either.

  When he reached the Somme River, he turned right, and the beginnings of the morning mist rising from the water swallowed him. There was no trace of him by the time she walked into its coils. Though she bent low and shielded the candle with her hand, all signs of hoofprints or boot prints ended at the edge of the mist, the cloaked specter vanishing into the night.

  Jaw set, she trudged into the mist. Even walking bent and holding the candle close to the ground, the stony trail was too dark for her to see anything but rocks. At the first row of houses, she searched closely for signs of recent entry, but found nothing.

  Then a cat bounded onto the top of a lime-washed wall. As she jumped in surprise and dropped the candle, the cat leaped into the tangle of neatly trimmed bushes in the next property. Its slight air of alarm awakened a core of excitement in her, a humming certainty. Moving to the gate—a polished wooden affair with a simple latch—she pushed it inward. Smooth and silent, the gate had well-oiled hinges.

  This must be it. Excitement expanding with each step, she crossed the garden.

  At the door, a moment’s doubt. If she was caught—“Nothing ventured,” she whispered, and tested the door. Noiseless, it swung open—

  A massive figure stood behind the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Six Miles Off Le Crotoy, France (English Channel)

  August 27, 1802 (early morning)

  ONE OF THE NIGHT watchmen had gone to use the head; the other was taking an enforced nap. Since they were anchored in quiet waters, surrounded by rocks where few deep-hulled French ships could venture, all was quiet. With fifteen minutes between third and fourth bells, Camelford counted on the first watchman making a bet on the cockroach race in progress belowdecks and watching the outcome before he returned.

  The ship was in darkness. Nobody else was topside this time of night, despite being in French waters: the result of the commander and first lieutenant being on assignment, the others too young, and the ship’s master too bloody old. If he was commander, he’d have ordered four men on the watch day and night—watching one another as much as the waters surrounding them. Something wasn’t right on this ship—something, or someone.

  Which was why he had to get away tonight.

  As quietly as possible, he sawed the ropes holding a small rowboat inside two larger boats in the center of the ship; but how he was to get it over the side in silence God only knew.

  “Me lord, let me ’elp you.”

  Camelford swung around. In the lowered light of his lantern he saw a red-haired boy behind him. The cabin boy, if he remembered rightly. Even in the night gloom he could see the impertinent freckled face looking at him as if—as if they were equals. Or co-conspirators.

  As he was about to swing his cane at the boy’s face, the boy stepped back, grinning. “Nah, you don’t wanna do that, Lord Camelford, ’lessen you want everyone to know where you got off the ship and what yer doin’ next. I’m really loud when I’m hit.”

  The dropping of the boy’s voice on saying his title made Camelford stiffen. “What mean you, boy? I am Fourth Lieutenant Haversham—”

  The boy sneered. “I ain’t stupid. I seen your picture in the news sheets when ya got nicked in Calais. You ain’t got a face a bleeder forgets. You been smart to keep yer head down, but more’n that, yer bloody lucky the commander’s too worrited about summat to notice yer. But he will when he’s back. Guessin’ that’s why yer headed out now. But yer gunna need me help.”

  He stared down his nose at the boy. “What possible help could the likes of you give me?”

  The boy’s grin only grew. “I been scorched by worse mouths than yours, me lord, and prob’ly hit by harder fists. Now stop wastin’ time—’less o’ course you got someone to help you put the boat over, or a coach driver what speaks good French and knows how to get about. If a toff like you goes about demandin’ a coach and driver, they’ll remember you. Don’t matter what you wear, yer face’ll give you away since yer deportation was in all the news sheets—and soon’s you open yer mouth, you scream ‘toff.’”

  The boy had a strong streak of common sense. Camelford’s hand twitched, wanting to belt that impertinent mouth closed. “Well, go on. Don’t be all night about it.”

  “All roads are blocked by soldiers demandin’ Frenchie papers. Have you got any? I have—and what’s more I can get you some too.”

  “How?” Camelford demanded, furious. The boy actually winked at him.

  The boy cocked his head backward. “Them Frogs what’re on board? I can nick a set o’ their papers in five minutes flat.”

  “The authorities will want your papers, too.”

  “L
ord love ya, m’lord, I told you I have ’em.”

  How dare the little guttersnipe roll his eyes at his betters? “You’re wasting my time with all this posturing and bragging. Get to the point or I’ll kill you now.”

  The boy sobered and lowered his voice. “I’m commander’s fetch-and-carry, me lord. I got me Frog papers. Marcus René Balfour, I am, a coach-for-hire’s lad, which is why I can travel.”

  “Why do you want to help me?” If the commander had set the boy on his trail—

  The boy’s lip dropped. “I’m as clever a cove as you’ll find in all Lunnon, but the commander only uses me to fetch and carry acos I’m little an’ low-born. It ain’t right.”

  In the boy’s eyes, seething with frustration, Camelford saw the ambition and drive he needed. “If you’re not back in five minutes, I’ll go without you.”

  The boy ran off, his soft chuckle floating back to Camelford on the wind.

  If the boy survived a week in his company, it would be a miracle.

  Abbeville, France

  “Forgive me, madame. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  She’d dropped her candle. Picking it up, she murmured, “I’m not frightened. You startled me, that’s all.”

  “I see.” He sounded amused. A scraping sound, flint on tinder, and a candle stub lit the narrow hallway with mullioned walls and wide, scraped floorboards. “My felicitations. You came to the right house, and I didn’t make it easy for you.” The stranger pulled off his cloak and smiled with an approving air.

  “The cat was a nice touch. Subtle. Did you send it running?” She stepped inside, feeling as if she’d been congratulated for coming in last in a race. She wouldn’t be tame. No, for her sake, and her son’s, she’d fight all the way.

  His nod matched his smile: more elliptical. It suited him well. “It’s the ability to recognize and track the small signs that impress me the most.”

  Her brow lifted. “Impressing you is always my sole aim, of course.”

  He chuckled. Began to say something. Stopped.

  Ice gelled in her stomach. She whirled around, heading for the door.

  “It seems my silence is clumsy. Beg pardon, madame. You are free to leave at any time.”

  She stopped. Asked the question burning on her tongue, even though it put her at a disadvantage. “How did you leave so little trace on the path? I couldn’t find a single hoofprint.”

  “A broken tree branch covered with leaves. I left it at the edge of the path for you to see.”

  “Ah.” She smiled a little. “I didn’t think of it. Next time I’ll do better.”

  “I’m certain you will.” Again she heard the odd note in his voice.

  She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes. “You’re testing me.”

  He nodded, with approval in his eyes. “I had to know if you were ready. You met every trial with curiosity, intelligence, and courage—the exact combination I need.”

  Ah, that damned curious cat—her soul sister. She was drowning in the quicksilver he’d laid around her, and still she couldn’t stop. “You shot LeClerc to test me?”

  “Tell me why.” He lifted the candle a little.

  In some indignation for the help she didn’t need, she said coolly, “The same reason you showed me your face at the tavern tonight. The same reason you let me know the name you gave me was a lie. To see if I’d be a liability by my reaction to your scars, and to shooting LeClerc.”

  His sound of applause was a bare whisper. “Well done.”

  “I don’t need applause,” she muttered, but he only grinned.

  They hadn’t moved from the hallway. Clever of him. She’d feel threatened away from the easy means of egress.

  Finally, she murmured, “Are you one of my father’s men?”

  “My department deals with foreigners at home, and with more delicate matters on both sides of La Manche.”

  La Manche was the French term for the English Channel. Unsurprised, she nodded. “You know my father.”

  Ten seconds passed before he answered. “I was at school with Leo and Andrew.”

  “You have the Harrow accent.” Curious, the way he’d put it. Andrew was three years younger than Leo. He should have been to school with only one of her brothers. There was something in that, a story shrouded in the night. “I thought Papa worked for Military Intelligence. Did he or my brothers send you to find me?”

  And why hadn’t they come to her?

  “Our mutual enemy knows every member of your family by sight,” he replied to her unspoken question. “I’m still anonymous. And it’s best not to mention specific places of our homeland aloud while the door is open.”

  Then she realized why his mentioning her brothers felt off. He’d called Andrew by the French André. She nodded, assimilating the order almost absently. So her family still cared, at least enough to send him to her. “How is my mother?”

  “She misses you.”

  Her head snapped up. He’d hesitated, weighing his words before speaking. “What’s wrong? Is Mama well?”

  He looked around. “Not so loud. You’re the only woman here fluent in our native tongue. If a neighbor hears you, they’ll inform the gendarmes—or your husband.”

  A chill seeped into her blood. She’d lapsed into English without noticing, her second mistake in as many minutes. She murmured in French, “Nicely deflected, monsieur. A subtle touch of fear to turn my mind, hoping I’ll forget my question. Or perhaps you’re hoping my curiosity will prevail, and I’ll close the door.”

  To her surprise, he chuckled again. “You’re right. Yes, I want the door closed.”

  It was time to fish or cut line, as Andrew had said to her whenever she was in trouble— when he was home, that was. She closed the door and, in strange defiance, locked it.

  The stranger smiled. “Eddie would be proud of your courage. Your French is superb, madame. You have no accent at all.”

  She drew herself up. “I’m sure you know Mama’s mother was French. Grand-mère taught me several accents. It was a favored game of ours. So, is my mother well?”

  A second slight hesitation. “Eddie mentioned nothing in his most recent letter to me.”

  If he called her father Eddie, he must be a social equal, or Papa wouldn’t allow the intimacy; nor would Papa correspond regularly, as the stranger had implied. Was it at Harrow that Papa had recruited him?

  How young had he been? Why had his family allowed it?

  “Several accents, eh? An accomplishment indeed,” he said, returning to an earlier point with spurious politeness. Another challenge masked by good manners.

  Proud enough to be distracted, she pursed her mouth, smug. “I can be a Parisian lady or Breton fisher lass”—she used that particular accent—“or use the Occitan or even Alsace without difficulty. Grand-mère and I found the game quite amusing.” Using even the semi-Germanic Alsace without a trace of false accent. “I also speak some German and Italian.”

  He nodded. “You’ll do.”

  Her brows lifted. “I’m certain I shall, once you tell me what it is I shall do for.”

  But he only grinned. “You proved yourself to be a true daughter of our homeland when you refused to return to the house to spy on your father.”

  She gasped. “Papa knows about that?”

  “You disappeared as we were planning to take you back. Your father . . .”

  So somber his voice: the specters of his past only putting a tentative foot out of their cages. But she only heard one thing. Papa had tried to rescue her. “Did he send you here?”

  “I searched almost a year before I found you.”

  Not once had he answered her questions directly about Papa. She let it go—for now. There were many ways to skin a cat. “So we return to the point. What do you want from me, monsieur? With no more roundaboutation or false names, if you please.”

  Though he nodded, she noticed his words came in clear reluctance. The man hated parting with information. “In my dealings with you I�
�ve seen courage, intelligence, curiosity, loyalty, and a well-developed moral code.”

  “A ruined woman who eloped with an enemy spy?” she mocked, shearing away the compliment. “Somehow I can’t see my morals shining for any stranger to distinguish so easily.”

  “It’s because of the woman others perceive you to be—what you’ve had to do to survive—that I need you.” He took a step toward her, and another. Lisbeth held her ground, chin lifted, eyes calm—she hoped. But holding herself so stiffly, she felt every one of her fading bruises.

  He stopped a few feet from her. “Good work, madame. If I had not met you the way I did, I’d assume you had no fear of my approach.”

  Again, the compliment felt wrong: a vision of how he’d first seen her stripped away any pretensions to dignity. “I’m tired. Can we dispense with the compliments and reach the part where I discover what I ‘shall do’ for?”

  A startled moment, and then he chuckled. “Eddie said you weren’t the common run of well-bred female.”

  She suppressed the childish urge to retort, And how would my father know? “It’s late, monsieur. I realize you’re enjoying this game you’re playing, but I’ve worked all night. Either you tell me what you want now, or I unlock that door.”

  In the half gloom she saw the flash of his teeth, acknowledging her accusation. “I overheard snatches of conversation at Le Boeuf the night we met. Tonight those same men left when I entered. I stand out, as you see.” He motioned with his hands, a reference to his height. “You, however, do not.” When she stared at him, eyes alight with amused incredulity, he amended, “I mean, you have reason to weave among the tables and patrons, and if you hear something, you can legitimately approach those men . . .”

  She drew a breath. “I won’t get pillow talk for you,” she said, with needle-fine anger.

  “I won’t ask it of you.” His restrained reproof made a blush mount her cheeks. “Indeed, the woman I’ve seen at the tavern is just what I need. Intercepted dispatches show Bonaparte has warned his spies against frequenting whorehouses or confiding in their mistresses, or women who flirt or attempt to seduce them. But a woman who works without a smile, won’t flirt, won’t tug her décolletage down or linger at tables—and that must be your inflexible rule, never flirt or linger, no matter what—you won’t even be noted as a threat.”