The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  The questions burned into Johnstone’s brain like hot wax poured into his ear. He felt his cheeks grow hot. He couldn’t answer. Now he knew how he felt to be his poor friend Brownlow, who’d believed in his adored wife’s fidelity only to see her legs spread for his brother.

  Was that how outsiders saw him? A lifetime of adventure on the seas since he was nine years old, charming women and gathering information, became small and stupid, defined and defiled by the birth he could never escape, no matter what he did. At least in England . . .

  “In France, a man is rewarded according to his deeds, not his birth,” Napoleon said softly, walking into the room of his thoughts and snuggling in for a long rest. “Why should a man who already has too much be given a position of honor when he has no talent and will not fulfill the role to anyone’s satisfaction? Why should a man of ability and strength be forever held back simply because of a heritage that exists in no one’s mind but that of his oppressors? Why can he go no further in life while the glory and riches go to a man who did nothing to earn it?”

  Damme, he’d hear the questions in his head until Gabriel blew his trumpet, so he would.

  Johnstone drew himself up. “I might be just a smuggler, sir, and never go any higher; but I am a true lover of my country. The one thing they will never call me is a traitor.”

  Expecting a violent outburst, Napoleon took Johnstone aback with his smile and nod. “Somehow I had expected such an answer. You’re a good man, Johnstone. Such a shame all they will ever do is exploit your loyalty for their gain.”

  “Still,” Johnstone said, a dog hanging on to its bone, “if I betrayed my country, what would stop me betraying you later? It would always be in your mind, and in mine. That way lies corruption of a man’s soul, and we both know it.”

  A tiny sigh. “I am sorry, Capitaine. You don’t know how sorry.”

  He snapped his fingers, and those four soldiers returned, bearing cuffs and leg irons.

  St. Helier, Jersey

  December 7, 1802

  From a hill to the town’s north the ship’s mole could see everything right out to Elizabeth Castle, sitting splendid and armed against invasion in the harbor. It was the first time in weeks he’d been able to get away alone, even for a short time. Alec Stewart knew, or suspected the truth; O’Keefe had suddenly become his barnacle, keeping nearly constantly in his company. In desperation, the mole had set up his scapegoat in a suspicious situation, and Stewart needed temporary help chasing that down. He’d easily lost the inn’s boot boy. He was too young to understand that buying a whore didn’t always mean spending the hour with her.

  Twenty minutes left.

  He squinted through the bilocular lenses. As part of the Royal Navy, he’d passed through here many times before the war began in ’93—but now he barely knew the place. Since his last visit, the entire town of St. Helier seemed to have moved a few hundred feet back. At the rocky promontory at the tail end of town, there were new fortifications. Trenches surrounded the round tower forts built after the Battle of Jersey. Every road into town had been cleared of vegetation. There were smaller trenches beside the roads, like rainwater ditches.

  His frown deepened as he traversed the hill, looking in every direction. On every road in and out of town, and along the walls and ramparts at both Elizabeth Castle and at the round tower, armed men and even women patrolled in uniform. No doubt the same was occurring at Mont Orgeuil Castle to the northeast, at Corbiére Point farther west, and every promontory on the island. They’d made it impossible for any sizable force to sneak onto the island—even a single stranger without credentials wouldn’t make it.

  Thank God he was a bona fide member of an English ship.

  The island was militarized, and Delacorte, Fouché, and especially Bonaparte needed to know about it now. If the other Channel Islands had similar fortifications and were set up with semaphore, it could be deadly for their leader’s plans.

  Squinting, he saw the semaphore poles on the roof of Elizabeth Castle. Any suspicious ship coming in from anywhere would be known across the island in an hour.

  Since Delacorte’s arrival in Ambleteuse just before the assassination attempt, nothing had gone right. Since the commander’s brother had taken control of the ship, watching them all closely, it was ten times more dangerous.

  He needed to create suspicion. Luckily, he had a scapegoat close to hand.

  CHAPTER 45

  Blacksmith’s Forge, St. Aubin’s Township, Jersey

  February 9, 1803

  I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU thought of this plan, my dear.” His face glowing with the forge’s heat, Fulton beamed at Lisbeth. “The master is overtaken by the pupil.”

  Standing by the bucket of water, ready to cool the finished drill, Lisbeth felt her cheeks warm. “I can’t believe you’re here, helping us. With your scruples against Britain . . .”

  Fulton sobered. “My republican principles don’t cover the enforced invasion of other nations, Lisbeth—even if it means Britain becomes a republic. Bonaparte is the best and most conscientious leader France could have asked for, but in this, his passion for conquest overcomes his good sense. No man should have to die to fulfill another’s ambition.”

  She nodded. “That’s just how I feel.”

  With tongs in the fire, molding the tensile steel and twisting it into a drill shape with delicate care, Fulton said, “Another thing we have in common, my dear.”

  Lisbeth fought against stiffening. Her nine long weeks of influenza that had turned into an inflammation of the lungs had made him even more loving and tender with her. During those weeks Fulton had nursed her like a babe, fed her, and tended the fire himself. He’d worked double time at the forge while she bathed or slept, day and night. He’d only returned to full-time work when the doctor decreed she could leave her room in mid-January. And not once did he remind her of his proposal during her recovery. The pearl drop pendant he’d given her at Christmas, and that he was working for Britain to remain close to her, only doubled her painful confusion. She’d never expected a man to love her this much.

  She’d put him off as long as she could. Now it was February, and he’d still demanded nothing from her—but she felt it coming. “Thank God the winter storms have grown in ferocity. It’s slowed down any chance of the French fleet’s launch.”

  “Yes. It makes our task slower, but I’m glad of it. You’ve had time to recover.” Another warm smile made Lisbeth want to squirm in guilt.

  She’d run out of time; the proposal was coming again, and her stomach twisted in knots. “I—think I should go in for lunch . . .”

  “Wait a moment, my dear. Stay with me. Please.”

  His tone held pain and hope. She bit her lip and nodded, fighting against pleading her recent illness as an excuse to leave. She owed him far more than this hearing.

  Her silence seemed to daunt him. He finished working on the drill part. “I’m not certain this steel is strong enough. You’ll have to do a test run.”

  “A test run?” she faltered, confused.

  “There are old ships and boats in the shipyard, I dare say, or perhaps the shipwright’s son could build a mock-up of the first consul’s ships you saw. We must be certain that these drills won’t break off when you attempt the holes.”

  Awed, she smiled at him. “How stupid of me not to have thought of that.”

  After passing her the new drill part to dip in the water with the tongs she held, he pinched her chin. “You can’t think of everything, my dear. We men have delicate sensibilities that need constant stroking by conceiving at least some of the brilliant ideas.”

  Nerves growing, she laughed, and moved just enough so his hand dropped. She turned and saw West watching her like a hen over its chick. Reluctantly she nodded, and West left to find his lunch.

  Before she’d even turned back to him, Fulton said, “Lisbeth, you do like me, don’t you?”

  Her stomach dropped. “Of course I do . . . Robert. Very much.” He’d insisted
she call him Robert, but it brought back unpleasant memories of the first time she’d been forced to be on so intimate a footing with him.

  “I know you, ah, like the commander. No,” he said, lifting a hand when she would have interrupted. “Please give me the dignity of honesty, my dear. You care for the commander.”

  Strangely ashamed of her feelings, she nodded.

  Fulton selected another piece of steel from the high-quality German metal he’d brought with him from Ambleteuse. “He’s sent notes daily that you haven’t answered, or even read. Since your recovery you’ve made every excuse to avoid him though he’s come to visit many times.” He looked up. “It seems to me that he’s hurt you.”

  She bit her lip. “He hurt me no more than any other gentleman would.” She almost choked on the admission. How many more times must she endure this? “My son is the only child I’ll ever have.”

  The silence was profound. In the quiet he selected a piece of steel and leaned over the forge. His apron glowed golden in the light; his spectacles gleamed like twin mirrors, warming his kind face. “I see. And this made a difference to the commander?”

  She shrugged, putting her wall back up. Duncan had said but a single word in response to her confession, but its foulness had spoken volumes. “It would to most gentlemen, I believe.”

  “I dare say.” He kept twisting the steel. A minute passed, two, and her throat filled. She was about to leave the forge when he spoke again. “Perhaps in time you might consider an offer from someone who considers your worth to be far above the mere bearing of children?”

  She stared at him so long he turned back to her. His eyes were serious, kind, affectionate. In the light of the forge, his gentle face was at its best. He put the piece of steel down on the iron plate lying on the table behind him, then came over and took her hands in his. “We didn’t start on the best footing, but during our time in Ambleteuse I came to admire your quick mind, your lively intelligence, your courage and kindness, as well as your lovely face.” He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have the flowery words women want to hear, but if you knew what’s in my heart . . .”

  “You—you don’t care about having children?” she whispered, amazed.

  His smile turned rueful. “Probably as much as most men. But though I could find many other women to provide children for me or feed me when I forget to eat, there is only one Lisbeth. You can stand beside me in my work and bring it richness and unexpected brilliance, make me laugh and think, brighten my day with your smile, and put me in my place when I treat you as anything less than the lady you are. If you’ll accept me as your husband, I’ll raise your son with all the love a father can provide.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. “Thank you, Robert,” she gulped, gripping his hands. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

  He gazed at her with such tenderness, she knew he meant every word he’d said: his first consideration was his love for her. He wanted her even without Papa’s funding. “Will you please do me the honor of thinking about becoming my wife? I’ll wait as long as it takes, so long as you’ll say you’re considering it.”

  Her head drooped. “You deserve more than a woman who loves another man.”

  He fumbled with his answer. “You are too close to him now. Perhaps after this mission, when you have your son . . . would you come with me to America? I swear I’d treat you with all honor. I wouldn’t press any, ah, attentions on you. In time, away from him, your heart might change. If it doesn’t, you’re free to pursue your own life. I would make certain you and your son are both provided for.”

  Moved, she looked in those kind eyes, and saw their masculine beauty in strength, kindness, and tenderness for her. She was ashamed that a small, vain part of her still felt resentful for the past neither of them could change.

  America.

  In England she’d have no hope of meeting a man who’d see beyond her past. Perhaps he was right—once she was away from Duncan . . . if she and Robert traveled to America without his asking for anything from her father . . . again she felt ashamed for suspecting that he’d write to his new father-in-law, hoping for Papa’s funding in exchange for rescuing his daughter.

  She lifted a hand to her mouth, feeling off her balance, her thoughts heavy as a glop of mud in a pond. “From my heart, I thank you for all you’ve said. I have doubts, but, I—Robert, I’ll consider your offer, will consider going to America with you once I have Edmond.” Moved, shaken, she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “You have been—”

  Fulton turned his face and kissed her mouth.

  St. Aubin’s Bay, Jersey

  During the murky end of a sunset filled with scattered cloud, Duncan heard splashing oars approaching across the small, calm bay by St. Aubin’s township. His was the only ship not docked close to land. Unable to see the boat's occupants in the dark, he swarmed back down the forecastle mast. Once on deck he made sure his pistols were primed and ready.

  He didn’t need to call Flynn; his first lieutenant was already in the shadows by the bow. They’d taken shifts in the commander’s cabin for the past few weeks, never achieving more than uneasy dozing. He didn’t have to ask if Flynn was armed. They’d been waiting for this for the past three months, knowing the Martello towers were too well manned, and how easily they could be outnumbered here aboard ship. He nodded. Flynn came over to him; standing as one, both were armed and ready.

  “Who goes there?” he yelled.

  “Ho, Commander,” West’s strong Welsh brogue called. Duncan didn’t have to ask who he’d brought with him, or even why. West refused to leave her for any reason.

  He looked at Flynn, cocking his head upward. Instead of melting back into the darkness of the commander’s cabin, Flynn climbed up the forecastle three hours before his turn would begin, at twelve bells.

  Still, Duncan called down in a hushed tone, “Who’s with you?”

  “It’s me, lad, and Miss Sunderland,” Alec called back, sounding subdued.

  It was warning enough.

  Duncan lowered the rope ladder over the port side, knowing West would dog Lisbeth’s every step until she was safe on deck, and inside by the fire. Alec would tie the boat and guard the ship with Flynn until Lisbeth said what she’d come to say.

  Moments later he saw Lisbeth’s face for the first time since his last day off two weeks ago. Though she still seemed delicate, he was happy to see that waiflike translucence had given way to a glow of health. Fulton had taken good care of her, along with the nurse Duncan had paid to stay and perform all intimate tasks for Lisbeth during her illness.

  He grasped her by the waist and lifted her onto the deck. Her face was serious, a little sad, but mostly turbulent as she looked at him. West saluted his commander and waited outside the door when Duncan led her inside to her favored wing chair in front of the fire. “Please, be at comfort.” He stoked the fire. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea, but I have some ratafia—”

  “No, thank you, Commander. Please sit down.”

  Knowing what was coming, he sat, wiping his face of all expression.

  It wasn’t long in coming; she had too much emotion churning in her to hold it in. Watching her fiddling hands in her lap as though they contained the mysteries of life, she said, “Commander Aylsham, I thank you for the great honor—”

  His laugh was hard with no humor in it. “Shall we put the word without any bark on it, Miss Sunderland?”

  She stiffened and looked up. “Certainly, sir.” Her tone was gentle and cool. “You know what I’ve come to say. I only wish you’d saved me the trouble by withdrawing your suit.”

  He felt a brow lifting. “Why would I have done that?”

  She turned her head to the side. “I thought it obvious. I suppose, given the love you bear my father, it was awkward for you to retract.”

  “That obligation ended the day I found you.” It took some self-control not to snap the words, but he refused to hand her the power of knowing she could hurt him.r />
  “I am here to—” She shook her head in apparent frustration. “Thank you for your offer, but I think you will be grateful for my rejection of your suit.”

  “You’ve accepted Fulton, then.” He spoke calmly.

  Both her brows lifted. “That would be unpardonable in me without answering you, even though he proposed first,” she said gravely, but her eyes still held storm clouds. “He proposed days before you did—days before he knew my father’s name.”

  “Why not say what’s on your mind?” he demanded, reining in the temper he’d claimed only weeks ago he never lost. She was still not fully recovered, as evidenced by the thick winter dress and the cloak she’d put off, the shawl tied about her shoulders. “It’s obvious you have something to say to me.”

  She sighed, staring at her hands, twisting together on her lap. “You don’t wish to marry me now. You want children.”

  In the quiet, a wave lapped the side of the ship, and the pendulum swung on the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Yes, I do,” he said quietly, before realizing the ambiguity of his answer. Unsure if he wanted to clarify her first statement, he said, “I’ve never had a family of my own.”

  “It’s understandable, sir. But I find myself offended. I want another man to come on the mission with me. I think perhaps Robert would do it now—for me.”

  It took a minute to make the connection. “Fulton knows, and still wants to marry you.”

  When at last she looked up, her eyes burned with betrayal. “He said he would raise Edmond with all the love a father can provide. That any woman can give him children, but there is only one Lisbeth. I want a husband who feels that way for me.”