And even when they do, she thought, recalling Irene’s words, they may be reasoning from false premises.
“I wish you luck,” Gwen said. She rose. “I’ll see you afterwards, I hope. Right now, I have to get back to the hall.”
“We’ll see each other after the war,” Raechel promised. “And I won’t let you down.”
She watched Gwen leave, then looked at Irene. “I’m ready.”
“Very good,” Irene said. “Do you think Jane had any reason to suspect you?”
“She would have thrown me out, if she had,” Raechel said. She hoped that was the case. “I kept my thoughts under careful control.”
“Lady Campbell was offering me a small fortune for your hand in marriage,” Irene said, wryly. “Her son is in dire need of a wife.”
Raechel had to think for a long moment. Lady Campbell’s husband was an industrialist, if she recalled correctly, one who might well have overextended himself. She couldn't remember anything about the son. He hadn't danced with her at the ball, unless he’d been so unmemorable she’d forgotten him. It was quite possible.
“Lord Campbell is a staunch loyalist and his son was educated in England,” Irene continued, seemingly unaware of Raechel’s thoughts. “He is unlikely to have anything to do with the Sons of Liberty. In any case, Lord Campbell still makes his decisions for him.”
“Poor man,” Raechel said, sarcastically. “I would feel sorrier for him if every woman didn't have the same problem.”
“Quite,” Irene agreed. “Lady Campbell has good reason to want to bribe me, naturally. I shall inform her that I have not only accepted her offer, I have talked your guardians into accepting it too. You will be officially informed of this in a small party, which we shall hold in three or so days. At this point, you’ll throw a fit and escape.”
She stopped, waiting.
Raechel thought fast. “And the Sons would have good reason to want to take me in,” she said, finally. Irene liked it when she used her brain, unlike her aunt and uncle. “They won’t want the match to go ahead.”
“Of course not,” Irene said. She gave Raechel a mischievous smile. “Your family’s resources would end up in the hands of a known loyalist. It gives them some incentive to hide you.”
“Good plan,” Raechel said.
Her blood was suddenly very cold. If Irene had been a genuine unscrupulous chaperone, she could sell Raechel to the highest bidder and no one would give a damn. Her guardians would have no reason to think that anything was wrong, not if Irene was telling them how wonderful Raechel’s new family was. They’d sign the papers in London without ever meeting their new kin.
“It happens,” Irene said, quietly. “More often than you might think, too.”
Raechel felt her temper flare. “Stop reading my mind!”
“I’m not the mind-reader you need to worry about,” Irene told her, sharply. Her voice hardened as she rose. “And if Jane gets one hint that this is all a put-up job, you will wind up dead!”
Chapter Twenty-One
“You’re joking!”
“I wish I was,” Gwen said. She’d called Wayne into her office as soon as she returned to the hall. “The French have launched their invasion, they’re probing north towards Amherst and we have to be in place to join the defenders.”
“We’re not ready, My Lady,” Wayne said. He still sounded stunned. Apart from her, he was the only British combat sorcerer in America - and he’d had a year of training before winning his badge. “We’re nowhere near ready.”
“I know,” Gwen said. “But His Excellency hasn't offered us a choice.”
She scowled at the map, hanging from the wall. It was a minimum of five days from New York to Amherst, unless the lines were cut so badly they couldn't be repaired on the fly - and if that happened, she had no idea how long it would take them to reach their destination or if they would arrive in time to make a difference. Indeed, given just how badly the demands of war had snarled up Britain’s far more developed railway lines, she rather suspected it would be a long time before the reinforcements reached Amherst.
“We’re meant to be leaving in two days,” she said. “We’ll do as much training as we can in that time, then practice as best as we can on the trains.”
“It won’t be enough,” Wayne said. “My Lady, this is not a reliable force.”
“I know,” Gwen said. She assumed Lord Mycroft had read her messages, but even if he dispatched reinforcements instantly it would still be at least three weeks before they reached New York. Longer, perhaps, if they reached New York at all. The French had an extremely good motive to attack convoys making their way across the Atlantic. “But it’s the best we’re going to get.”
She scowled to herself. Jane was a Talker ... and there was a rogue magician out there, a magician with far better training than anyone else she’d met outside Cavendish Hall. If that magician was American, he should be fighting alongside her, not plotting an uprising at the worst possible time. She wondered, briefly, if she could get away with conscripting Jane before deciding it would be pointless. Talking was a useful skill, but not during a battle.
“The servants can close up the hall once we’re gone,” she added. She’d have to do something about the classified documents, knowing that no one could be trusted to protect them. There wasn’t much for French spies to steal, but what there was could cause real problems in the wrong hands. “Hopefully, we'll come back to New York after the war and take possession.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Wayne said. His tone suggested he doubted it very much. “We may well be outmatched and outnumbered.”
“Yes, we may,” Gwen said. “But British forces have been outmatched and outnumbered before and still prevailed.”
“Only by the Sikhs,” Wayne warned her. “And the Sikhs would have won if they hadn't fallen prey to infighting at the worst possible time.”
Just like us now, Gwen thought. Infighting between the Viceroy and the Sons might give the French an easy victory.
“But we still won,” she said, out loud. “And the French may only have committed a handful of magicians to America. They needed to concentrate on invading Britain.”
The next two days passed quickly, far too quickly. Gwen worked hard to train the magicians, showing Fife how to use his powers more creatively while pushing Harry and Vernon into expanding their abilities. Neither of them learned how to fly, even though it was a fairly easy trick. Gwen had a private suspicion that they saw their powers as extensions of their fists, not something separate from the remainder of their bodies. They could pick her up and hurl her around the battlefield, but carrying themselves was beyond their abilities.
At least their punches are strong, she thought, after picking herself up from the grass. They will be formidable if they’re given enough time to train.
She’d half-expected a delayed departure, but Colonel Jackson arrived on the selected date to inform her that the trains were ready. Gwen had already ensured that the seven magicians had an excellent dinner; she ordered Wayne to get them into the carriages while she gave the servants their final orders. She’d had to burn a number of papers, just to make sure they stayed out of enemy hands, but the remainder of the hall wouldn't help anyone, if it were to be captured. There had been no sign of the rogue magician, which worried her. Had he been a French spy? Or was he biding his time until Gwen left the city?
“You’ve done well,” Jackson said, as she joined him in the final carriage. “I’ve seen much less promising material.”
“It’s the wages,” Gwen said, cynically. She’d already paid the six conscripts more than enough money to have a decent life after the war, even if they never worked again. She had a feeling most of it would be spent on drink, but she didn't care as long as it happened after the war was over. “And they are not ready to face trained magicians.”
Jackson rapped on the panelling, ordering the driver to start moving, then looked at her. “I have seen
less promising material,” he assured her. “They may have their problems, but they’ll do better than some of the others I’ve seen.”
“I hope you’re right,” Gwen said. Normally, she had little to do with selection. The RSC took almost every magician who applied, although not all of them passed the final tests and became sorcerers. “I don’t even know if half of them are loyal!”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Jackson said. “My ... very ... distant relative is in deep ... ah ... trouble.”
Gwen smiled. “How bad is it?”
Jackson shrugged. “The French clearly had a working plan to destroy most of the plantations,” he said. “Many slaves have already revolted or fled; the remainder have been marched away from the plantations or simply massacred. Hundreds of plantations and minor farmsteads are on fire. It will take generations to recover, if it ever does.
“As for the bulk of the French army, it is still proceeding slowly towards Amherst,” he added, after a moment. “They are being slowed down by the pickets, so they may just starve to death before they arrive.”
Gwen looked at him. “Do you believe that will happen?”
“I would be astonished,” Jackson admitted. “The French are masters at supporting an army in the field, Lady Gwen, and there are plenty of foodstuffs in the vicinity. Thanks to the slave revolts, it will be hard for us to get everything out of their way before it’s far too late.”
“And so the French may be able to lay siege to the city, rather than trying to take it by storm,” Gwen said.
“Precisely,” Jackson said. “And with thousands of refugees already heading into the city, food supplies are likely to get short rather quickly.”
Gwen shuddered. She’d seen people on the brink of starvation in Russia ... and she’d heard stories from the last bout of European warfare. More people had been killed by starvation or disease than in fighting, although countless peasants had been robbed, raped and murdered by one side or the other. Just burning a farm to the ground could condemn an entire community to die. Hundreds of thousands of starving people, crammed into a city ... it didn't bear thinking about.
The carriage rattled to a halt before she could think of something to say. Jackson opened the hatch, revealing a long steam train attached to a line of coaches that stretched off into the distance. Some were clearly passenger trains, like the London-Brighton express some of her sorcerers took every weekend, others were designed for cattle or freight. Hundreds of porters worked frantically, loading the fright trucks with supplies for the front, while sergeants barked orders, marching red-coated soldiers onto the trains. The scene looked as chaotic as anything she’d seen in London, before the Battle of Dorking.
Fewer trains, she thought. Bridging the river hadn’t been that much of a challenge, after British engineers had bridged hundreds of coastal rivers in Britain, but America was just so much bigger. Parts of the colonies had only one rail line, if they were lucky enough to have one in the first place. And that means our logistics will get harder.
“We should have gone by sea,” Jackson muttered, “but there are too many complications.”
“French raiders,” Gwen muttered back. She could have fought to defend the convoy, but the French probably knew what had happened to their first raiding force. It had been talked about endlessly in New York. “Or is there another problem?”
“Mines,” Jackson said. “A warship hit one last night and went down with all hands. The French have been busy.”
Gwen cursed under her breath as Wayne escorted the sorcerers to their carriage. The French had definitely been busy. They knew just how strong the Royal Navy was, so they were working hard to find ways to offset Britain’s advantages. Ironclad warships, submarines, mines ... each new innovation changed the face of warfare, constantly giving Britain’s admirals new problems to worry about. Even basic mines could do a great deal of damage if they scored a hit ... and if they didn't, they’d still give the admirals fits. The mere threat of a minefield would be enough to keep a mighty fleet out of action.
Jackson raised his voice. “You’ve all been assigned to Coach Two,” he said. “There are beds and supplies inside, suitable for your ranks.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said. “Where will you be?”
“Coach One,” Jackson said. “You are welcome to join me for dinner, if you like.”
Gwen smiled, then turned to look at the coaches. It looked, very much, as though the army had commandeered a set of luxury coaches for the use of the senior staff. Gwen had ridden in a couple, after she’d become the Royal Sorceress, and she had to admit they were quite fancy, even though the lower-class passengers were packed in like cattle. She hoped that the small army of servants had been left behind, no matter how much the officers wanted to enjoy themselves on the trip. It wouldn't impress any of the common soldiers if their superiors rode in luxury.
And it won’t impress the Duke of India either, she thought, as she followed Wayne into the coach. The sleeping berths were larger than she'd expected and the beds more comfortable, although each tiny compartment barely had enough room to swing a cat. He was fond of insisting that officers should march, eat and sleep with the men.
“There isn't anything to do here,” Vernon protested, loudly. “Are we meant to sleep for five days?”
“Be grateful if you can,” Wayne said, before Gwen could say a word. “When you go on campaign, sleep is a priceless luxury.”
Gwen agreed, wholeheartedly. She’d slept in worse places, particularly during the trip to Russia, but the coaches would grow claustrophobic over the coming days. Wayne had packed a number of books, at her suggestion, yet she had no idea how many of her half-trained sorcerers could actually read. It wasn't a fashionable skill in far too many places. Perhaps they could spend some of the time actually teaching the magicians how to read. She’d helped Olivia, after all.
She felt a stab of guilt as she recalled how they’d slowly fallen out of that habit, as the paperwork and other demands of her office had mounted up. And then Olivia had been kidnapped ...
“Settle down here,” Wayne added. “We’ll see about what else we can do on the trip once we’re on the way.”
Gwen nodded, then hurried back to her tiny cabin. Someone had clearly put some thought into her requirements - she needed a private room - but she knew she’d go crazy if she had to spend an entire week in the compartment. Her bag was already on the bed, waiting for her, while the remainder of her supplies were being loaded towards the rear of the train. She had to smile at the thought of just what her mother would say, if she saw how little Gwen was actually taking to war. If she was going to stay at a friend’s, for the night, Lady Mary took at least two trunks, crammed with clothes.
There’s no room for dresses on a battlefield, Gwen thought. It was an amusing idea - she’d seen far too many newspaper drawings of her defeating the French, wearing a ballroom gown - but any halfway decent dress would be in rags before the battle was done. And the clothes I wear can be worn time and time again without needing a wash.
Her lips quirked at the thought of what her mother would say to that, then she looked up as she heard another carriage canter up to the open door. Bruce Rochester jumped out, landing with surprising agility for someone so indolent, and waved cheerfully to her. Gwen felt a flicker of irritation, which she rapidly suppressed. It was easy to understand why the Viceroy wanted his son out of the city, but did she have to take him? She was not a nanny.
And he wouldn't listen to me if I was, she added, coldly. David had been a right little terror to his governess, if Lady Mary was to be believed. Gwen had problems accepting it - her brother had always struck her as a bit of a stuffed shirt - but he had been a young man once upon a time. Bruce might rebel against me just because he can.
Shaking her head, she watched as Bruce stepped into the coach. His two servants - who wouldn't be joining him in his cabin, she rather suspected - were unloading several trunks, each one s
eemingly heavy. Gwen rolled her eyes in irritation - Bruce seemed intent on carrying as much clothing as Lady Mary - and intercepted him before he could walk into the main compartment. Wayne had started a game of cards to keep the other magicians occupied.
“We need to talk,” she snapped. Behind him, his servants were carrying his trunks towards the rear of the train. “Now.”
Bruce blinked at her, owlishly. She wondered, in a fit of dark amusement, if he were hungover. She knew more than she wanted to know about the late night habits of young men, particularly if they were leaving the city and going to war the following morning. No doubt Bruce had spent the evening with a prostitute, if he hadn't been able to convince one of the aristocratic girls to sleep with him. Telling her that he was off to war would probably be enough, Gwen suspected. She knew sorcerers who’d gotten young women into trouble through that exact line.
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