by Lisa Chaplin
“My resignation from the Alien Office, effective immediately.”
Zephyr looked at him coldly. Again, Duncan felt nothing, but waited. “So you would desert us on the commencement of war?”
Words that had always moved him before now left him cold. “There will always be a war, a cause, an assassination, or a sacrifice. I’ve made mine willingly. My wife, however, did not, and neither did her mother. My resignation is effective immediately, sir.”
“Do I not have the right to an explanation?” Zephyr demanded as Duncan turned away.
“You do not.”
“Damn it, Annersley, I will have an explanation!”
Knowing the veiled threat meant something against Lisbeth, he turned back. “The former Lord Annersley left the land and villages in bad heart. My first duty is now there. Take that as my reason, if you like. I assure you, you wouldn’t like the other. By the way, if young Mark Henshaw returns from Boulogne—”
“He hasn’t as yet, and if he does, it is no longer your concern,” Zephyr said coldly.
“True.” Duncan nodded. “I recommend thorough training for him. He has a stellar future in the Alien Office, if you can look past his birth. I sent in a complete report this morning.”
“I demand your word you’ll be available for future missions, should they be vital!”
“Then you’ll be disappointed, sir. You can’t force a peer into service.” Unmoved by the disapproving growl of his commanding officer, Duncan sketched a final bow, turned, and walked out, feeling lighter.
He knew what he had to do. An arrow landing on a hayrick, maybe; perhaps she’d kick him out. Either way he was heading to Scotland, to meet his true family, to become a Stewart. To become the man Lisbeth wanted him to be.
The British Alien Office, Whitehall, London
May 20, 1803
“I’m afraid you won’t see Campbell for some time, sir. Seems he’s disappeared.”
In his Spartan office in the Whitehall buildings, William Windham stared at the sturdy, pleasant face of Captain Wright. He’d newly arrived in London with vital papers—and information. “Campbell was taken? Lord John Campbell?”
“We can’t confirm it, sir, but more than fourteen hundred British nationals have been captured and taken to detainment camps across France. He could very well be one of them.”
What a damn day it had been. Bloody women ruined everything. The best team of alibis he could have, done with; Calum Stewart was useless without his brothers. Furious, Windham put his hands to his hair, only to growl in pain when he encountered his wig. “Damn it, he’s son and heir to the Duke of Argyll! He ought to have been released!”
Poker-faced, Wright replied, “Perhaps we counted on that a little too much when we entrusted him with this mission, sir.”
How the hell was he to explain the disappearance of his son and heir to the fiery Duke of Argyll? Or to the king, when English-Scottish politics were in a delicate state with the Irish insurrection coming closer by the hour? He caught sight of his hair in the beveled mirror, standing on end like a Bedlamite, and began smoothing it. “Well? You told me you had other matters to report.”
“Yes, sir, I do.” A short hesitation that wasn’t in Wright’s style. “There was—an incident—on Boulogne Beach a few days ago, sir.”
“Well? Don’t make me wait!”
“As you know, Talbot and Mandeville were left to bring certain items of value with them when the embassy in Paris closed.” A quick, delicate glance at the trunk at his feet, then around the room. A trained agent never said more than he needed to, even here, because if the British had hundreds of agents in France, Boney had thousands here, many of them English born and bred. “Unfortunately they were refused permission to board the packet at Calais. Diverted to Boulogne, they endured questioning by the sous-préfet who told them that Boney was ready to detain them and confiscate the items. So they decided to burn the ones that have their counterparts in this office.”
Windham swore hard, realizing what Wright meant: the essential list of British espionage agents in France. The names and covers of over three hundred of their best. “What happened?”
“Most were burned, sir, never fear—but two bundles escaped. We can’t know who’s implicated as yet, but we had to hide for two hours before we could escape. As we left the town with this gift for you”—indicating the trunk—“a boy jumped on the runner board. I gather he’s Tidewatcher’s cabin boy.”
“Annersley,” Windham corrected in cold precision. “He’s no longer one of us.”
Wright didn’t waste time on semantics or indignation. “The lad has vital information for us, sir. I brought him along with us. He’s outside the door now.”
“Bring him in.”
Wright called, and a lad strutted into the room as if he owned it. A shock of spiky red hair, a cheeky grin, and eyes alive with intelligence, the skinny youth couldn’t be more than fifteen. Windham had a vague recollection of him. The boy made a jerking bow, his eyes filled with a mixture of hero worship and wariness. “Mr. Zephyr, sir, you’re gunna wanna hear what I got to say, cos some o’ your best ones are in mortal danger.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As this book took years to get right—from first draft to final production—I have so many people to thank that should I forget any, you have my deepest apologies.
First, to my wonderful, supportive agent, Eleanor Jackson: There are no words. Four years ago I had to make a choice, and I’ve never regretted it. You’re the agent I want to keep until I can no longer move my fingers to write. Your commitment to The Tide Watchers through the years, your certainty I’d create the version that would sell to the right publisher and editor and give me a career that would, in your words, keep me happy as a writer, kept my faith alive. You never gave up on me or on the book, which meant I couldn’t either. Thank you for everything. I hope we work together until I fall off my perch!
To Emily Krump, my brilliant editor at William Morrow: You brought this book to greater life with your comments and questions and constant willingness to call me and talk things through. Your commitment to making this book the best it could be kept me focused. Thanks for loving this book as much as I do. I hope we work on many, many more projects together.
To Fiona McIntosh, wonderful author and excellent course-giver: Thank you for offering the Popular Fiction Masterclass. It inspired me to the rewrite that led to the sale to my dream publisher. Thank you over and over again for your no-nonsense, no-excuses course on how to be a professional mainstream writer. The sheer amount of published authors that have come from your course is proof of what a fabulous teacher you are.
I have so many writer friends who have helped me through the years with this book: to my creative partner of fifteen years, writing coach extraordinaire and heart sister, Mia Zachary—I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you. Rachel Bailey, Hayson Manning, Barbara de Leo, your critiques on the earlier versions of the book, our group chats, and emails helped me focus on Duncan’s character and strengthen him. Big thanks to All of Us, email group extraordinaire, dear friends of many years who are always there for me. And massive thanks to the Beau Monde, a historical writers’ group that constantly inspires me with its deep knowledge and willingness to share, never rude or competitive.
To my local critique group, the Valleygirls, and Kerri Lane in particular: you’ve been a big sister, a mentor, and a loving bully at times, but your incredible work ethic is ever inspiring, your generosity and kindness limitless.
Absolute massive thanks to Heather Cleary. You didn’t know what would happen when you gave me those hard-to-find books on espionage in Britain and France in Napoleonic times; you just understood that I thirst for historical knowledge as you do. Without your generous gift, the core plot of The Tide Watchers wouldn’t be what it is, its knowledge halved.
Diane Gaston, you always read parts of this book when I needed it, put me up in Washington when I cross the ditch, and always happily argue plot
points with me (bulldog). Margaret Riseley, thank you for reading parts of this book over and over, and always giving encouraging advice. Your advice about seeing every scene as part of a movie has remained with me through the years.
Barbara and Peter Clendon, the lessons you gave me on raw beauty, and writing what is essential without self-indulgence, have never left me. Fiona Brand, your advice way back in 1999 on “the overreaching arc,” or describing my book in three lines or less, helped me focus this book to the best of my imperfect ability.
Special thanks to Dallas Gavan, friend and military expert: your knowledge will hold me in stead throughout the book series. Thanks to Gail Mellor, dear friend for many years, for the reintroduction, and just being a friend still.
To Helen Selvey: I’m so glad we met at the Popular Fiction Masterclass. We don’t just work together on historical detail, we’re friends and inspire each other. History nerds unite—and there’s always The Admiral!
Big thanks must go to the excellent staff at the State Library of New South Wales in Sydney, especially Jaisong and Cathy for finding a map of the exact region I needed in the era I needed, and for helping me with the order. You went above and beyond. Thank you both so much.
To my former critique partner, Maryanne Cappelluti: I wish you knew, my darling friend. To my soul sister, Helen Yde, who wanted me to write historical mainstream along the lines of The Scarlet Letter, a book she loved—I wish you could see this book. I still love and miss you both.
To my dear friends Dan and Liz Eliza: You read the book, gave good advice, put us up, fed us excellent food, encouraged and listened, and let me have hours to write when inspired, and took us on great walks too. You even came to Scotland on my research trip. I’ll never forget your friendship (or the hours watching Eureka when I needed to unwind!). Thank you for being who you are.
To my fantastic “ideas person” and brilliant friend, Olga Mitsialos: I don’t need to say it; you know. You always understand. How many times did you read this book for me and give me great ideas? You even read a book on Napoleonic espionage for me—a great sacrifice! Beach walk soon? Or a research trip?
And finally, to my wonderful and very grounding family: to my husband, Jim, who read this twice and gave me excellent insight into the male mind, bluntly letting me know when I’d overwritten or made something “too girly.” To my mother, Mary Price: thanks for reading over and over, for listening to new ideas, and being a general cheerleader. To my daughter Katie for all her technical help, advice on social media, and being a good ear; to daughter Jaime and son Justin for being proud of my achievements, loving history, and being willing to bring me down to earth when I need it. I have no doubt I’ll need it again in the future! And Chris, my darling son-in-law, I just love you.
To all my extended family and dear friends I haven’t mentioned, I love you and just thanks for being there.
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About the author
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Meet Lisa Chaplin
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The Story Behind The Tide Watchers
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Meet Lisa Chaplin
LISA CHAPLIN has published twenty contemporary romances under a pseudonym, but the publication of The Tide Watchers marks her mainstream debut. Lisa, her husband, and their three children currently reside in her home country of Australia.
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About the book
The Story Behind The Tide Watchers
THOUGH I’D ALWAYS WANTED to write historical fiction, I was writing contemporary romance when a friend from the United States visited Sydney with her family. In April 2006 I showed them around Sydney, including Darling Harbor and the maritime museum. Touring the museum fired my imagination for historical writing. I wandered around, dreaming up stories. Then at the museum store, I picked up a book called The Terror Before Trafalgar by Tom Pocock. I looked at the first few pages and knew I had to buy it.
As I read Pocock’s book, a brief reference caught my attention. Unnamed English spies found a fleet of ships in the Liane, the river behind Boulogne-sur-Mer harbor, in late 1802 or early 1803. The ships launched in March 1803, after a horrendous winter of storms. Some ships sank eight miles out to sea and the rest returned to France. Two months later, war resumed. I knew I’d found a story I had to tell—the story of the unnamed spies who’d found and sabotaged Napoleon’s secret fleet. I read the book cover to cover, making notes throughout, making special note of who was in France at the time and what they did, especially what trouble they got into. I bought more books and researched online. Reading about fascinating people like Captain Wright, spy extraordinaire; Robert Fulton, brilliant American inventor; the Mad Baron, Lord Camelford; and what we’d nowadays call a colorful identity, Captain “Guinea-Run” Johnstone—not to mention learning such weird and wonderful facts as the Archbishop of Narbonne’s false teeth—I knew I had to include them.
With each new fact I discovered about the era, I realized the sabotaging of this fleet had been almost totally shrouded in history. I even had people tell me it didn’t happen. You mean 1798, when the fleet sank in the Irish Sea, or No, there was only the 1805 invasion attempt from Boulogne.
These were knowledgeable people, and I began to doubt. But then I discovered some crucial facts. In late 1802 British spies discovered Bonaparte’s Grand Armée of 100,000 men, half of them bivouacked in the Channel region. Just after the war resumed in July 1803, over 1,400 ships and boats were anchored in the Channel region. Under the terms of the Treaty of Amiens, neither side was to accumulate more ships than it already had. Bonaparte had five hundred more than he had in 1801. Though since 1798 he’d invaded Piedmont, Parma, Venice, and finally Switzerland, and had taken their wealth away; he was pushing the Americans hard to buy Louisiana for fifteen million dollars—a massive amount back then. He’d already brought France back into economic balance. Why did he need all this money? By the time he stopped hiding his invasion fleet in late 1803, boats and ships filled the region from Boulogne-sur-Mer to Audresselles, over ten miles away. Why, if he was committed to the peace he’d created? He was too prepared for this open invasion to have only begun building ships and buying armaments less than a year before.
I kept searching for more of this hidden history, the invasion that “never happened,” and Bonaparte never talked about. Why hadn’t he? Of course, from pharaohs of old to Charlemagne, leaders never spoke of their failures or allowed historians to write about it. But why would Britain keep this stunning success secret? There had to be a solid reason why, when so many victories were publicly celebrated and spies had their achievements credited to them in history and this one did not.
The more I read of the time, the more I saw that while men were credited, the women working for the British Alien Office (the forerunner of MI6, started by Prime Minister William Pitt in 1793) were rarely even named. Researching the etiquette of the times and how women were expected to behave, I began to feel excited. Was the secrecy because a woman had been, not just a saboteur, but the instigator of an idea? That was when the book really began to take off.
In 2007 my family moved to Switzerland, and I left the idea as I explored my new world, learned German, and kept writing romance novels. But I kept researching, until I had twenty-four books, three DVDs, and endless web pages on the era and the subject. I wrote earlier versions under another title, which didn’t sell. It was a case of “write what you know”—in my case, romance—meeting far too much research for a genre focusing on the relationship, not the history.
In 2009 my beloved sister-in-law died. Before she passed away, she made me promise to write a story with substance about a woman who mattered. When I returned to Switzerland burned out, I took a year off writing but couldn’t leave the promise
to Vicky unfulfilled. I began rewriting the book. In 2010 I signed with my agent Eleanor Jackson, who tactfully began steering The Tide Watchers into the genre she believed it belonged in from the start. In 2011 I visited the Channel Coast region of France and bought a DVD that again mentioned the amount of ships in the region before war resumed in May 1803, the river ports built not just in Boulogne-sur-Mer, but in surrounding villages; it was mentioned only in passing references, but it was there. I watched it over and over, convinced I was right: a secret invasion attempt had occurred, but it remained all but secret 208 years later.
We moved back to Australia in late 2011. I was still feeling unenthused about writing romance. I fulfilled my last contract, and quit in 2012 to concentrate on getting the book right, but it was missing something.
Then my friend Heather Cleary, a librarian and historical author, lent me a book: Secret Service: British Agents in France, 1792–1815 by Elizabeth Sparrow. This fabulous book had the inspiration and information on politicians, spymasters, missions, spies, and code names I’d been missing. I raved about the book to Heather, who generously told me it was mine. I rewrote my book again and it came close to selling, but again, something wasn’t right. Finding veiled references to spymaster Joseph Fouché wasn’t enough. I bought Joseph Fouché: Portrait of a Politician by Stefan Zweig, and it rounded out the book still more.
Then I realized my romance voice was still too apparent in my mainstream writing. I began attending mainstream courses. I heard about a master class course run by fantasy and historical bestselling author, Fiona McIntosh. After a week with that blunt-spoken and inspiring woman, I knew what to do. I went home, rewrote the book from the first line to the last, and submitted to my agent. Eleanor said, “This is it!” Three weeks after sending it out, I found my home with William Morrow. Since then I’ve been continuing my apprenticeship on writing historical mainstream, with my editor’s help.
