London Calling

by Anna Elliott

  “She is alive. And not even seriously wounded.” James pressed her fingers in reassurance. “The bullet only grazed her arm.”

  Susanna’s breath went out with a rush. “I am glad. If it had not been for her—” She stopped, rubbing her eyes, trying to make the rest of the night reassemble itself in her mind. “But James, what happened? The last I remember is being on the stairs . . . ‌fighting with Miss Fanny over the gun . . .”

  “Is that what happened? I suppose I must have come in just after—”

  And then he stopped and was silent so long that Susanna said, “James?”

  “Nothing.” James looked away. “It is just . . . ‌are you sure you want to hear this now? You look—”

  “No,” Susanna interrupted. “I mean, yes. Please tell me. I want to hear. And you said Miss Fanny had been dealt with? What does that mean?”

  James’s jaw was tight. But he said, reluctantly, “I was just climbing in through the window of the Admiral’s library when I heard the gunshot. I ran in‌—‌and saw you, lying on the entrance hall floor. Miss Fanny was standing over you with a gun. I thought—” A muscle sprang into relief on the side of James’s cheek. “I thought that you had been shot . . . ‌that she had killed you.”

  “She might have shot you, James!”

  “She tried.” James’s voice was grim. “She did not succeed. I overpowered her and got the gun away. Just in time to explain to Admiral Tremain what I was doing in his house at midnight with a gun in my hand. He must have been woken by the gunshot and the noise you made falling down the stairs.” For the first time James smiled, if only slightly. “Luckily for me, the Admiral and I have met on occasion at the War Office. And there was Mrs. Careme, of course, to back up my story that it was Miss Fanny who had fired the pistol.”

  “I see.” Susanna let her head fall back onto the arm of the sofa. “Then it is over, James. We did it. We found the traitor.”

  She felt all at once exhausted, the warm, sticky darkness threatening to engulf her once again. She thought James seemed to hesitate. But then she felt his touch, gentle on her cheek and his lips brush her hair. “Yes. It is all over.”

  Chapter 25

  “I cannot help feeling guilty that I slept through the entire thing,” Ruth declared.

  Susanna looked across at her aunt. It was a full day since they had left Admiral Tremain’s residence and returned to the rented house. And Ruth certainly looked none the worse for Miss Fanny’s having drugged her. They were sitting in the sunlit morning room, and the terror of two nights before seemed so far away as to belong to another life.

  “It was hardly your fault, Aunt Ruth,” Susanna said. “No one had the slightest suspicion of Miss Fanny.”

  “No.” Ruth paused, then asked, “What is to be done with her?”

  “She is to be locked up. But not in prison‌—‌in a remote cottage in the country that Admiral Tremain owns. She was always unbalanced, maybe. But after she was captured . . .” Susanna stopped and shivered, recalling the last sight she had seen of Miss Fanny.

  James had carried her upstairs from the drawing room in Admiral Tremain’s house to her own room. And as they had passed Miss Fanny’s door, Susanna had caught a glimpse inside and seen Miss Fanny, hair disheveled and eyes wild, struggling and screaming like a madwoman in the grip of two of the footmen.

  “She has truly lost all grip on reality,” Susanna said. “James told me that she was brought before a meeting of the War Office’s high officials. But she could only scream and mutter nonsense. They judged her to be no danger, though, to herself or others. So she will be locked up and cared for by a married couple Admiral Tremain knows.”

  It was, Susanna supposed, no more than Miss Fanny deserved. But she still felt a cold, strange kind of pity for the older woman. For the waste of the life she had led, the years of slights and being ignored that had brought her to this point.

  “And Major Haliday?” Ruth asked. “What of him?”

  “By rights he should hang for treason,” Susanna said. “But James does not think he will. He has given the government a full description of all the French agents he was in contact with. And he is still very weak. He may never fully recover from the gunshot wound Miss Fanny gave him. I think the government is prepared to allow him to live quietly as an invalid in return for the information he has given them.”

  “For the sake of his wife, I hope so,” Ruth said.

  Susanna looked up. “Does she truly love him, do you think?”

  “Oh, I think she does. Hate can be terrifyingly close to love, my dear. And I saw her while she kept watch over his bedside. She does love him‌—‌however little he deserves it. Though who knows.” Ruth smiled just a bit. “Major Haliday may have been frightened enough by his brush with death to reform his ways. We can at any rate hope so.”

  Susanna started to answer, but was interrupted by the entrance of Snell.

  “Lord Ravenwood to see you, Mrs. Maryvale. Miss Ward.”

  #

  James looked both tired and abstracted, Susanna thought, as he came into the room. His dark eyes were shadowed, the lids reddened, and he was frowning. Though that was perhaps not surprising. He had been instrumental in securing the capture of Philippe and the rest of his gang. And Susanna knew that he had been present at the spies’ interrogations, as well.

  “James!” Ruth went swiftly forward to take both his hands and stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I may call you James, I hope? I know we have never been formally introduced. But Susanna has told me so much about you that I feel as though we are already acquainted.”

  James’s face relaxed in a smile at that, and he shot a quick glance at Susanna. “Has she indeed? I am not sure whether to be flattered or terrified of what you may have heard, Mrs. Maryvale.”

  James seemed to make an effort to shake off his weariness after that, accepting with thanks the cup of tea Ruth offered and talking easily of inconsequentials while a maid brought the tea tray in.

  “I understand Admiral Tremain and Mrs. Careme are to be married as soon as possible,” Ruth observed when James’s cup had been filled.

  Susanna had been watching James’s face. But she found herself smiling at that, thinking of her last meeting with Mrs. Careme, the morning she and Ruth had departed the Admiral’s house.

  Mrs. Careme had been very nearly herself again, her greatest grievance the bullet wound in her arm, which she was afraid would leave an ugly scar to prevent her wearing short-sleeved gowns. Susanna sympathized, but then asked, “Mrs. Careme? Did you know it was Miss Fanny?”

  Mrs. Careme’s cool green eyes considered her a moment. Then she nodded. “I did. Or at least I suspected. I saw her coming out of Charles’s study once or twice. And once I saw her hiding what looked to be a large roll of banknotes under her mattress.”

  “And yet you said nothing?” Susanna had not been able to keep the incredulity from her voice.

  Mrs. Careme had shrugged. “I had not yet made up my mind, at least. The world is a hard place for women‌—‌and most especially a woman on her own. I did not begrudge Miss Fanny her attempt to make what she could of her life. Though I did keep watch on her. I heard her forcing you down the stairs. That was how I happened to intervene. It was one thing to allow her to shoot Major Haliday. But I would not have let her harm anyone else.”

  An extraordinary woman, Mrs. Careme, Susanna thought now. But on the whole, she found she was glad to hear that Mrs. Careme and the Admiral would soon be wed. “Do you know, I think she will make Admiral Tremain a good wife,” she said.

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Ruth rose. “I believe that I have an urgent need to speak to Snell about the drains,” she said. She looked from Susanna to James, and a smile curved her mouth. “I will leave you two alone. As I am sure you have been wishing that I would this past quarter hour.”

  James rose and bowed to Ruth, thanking her for her hospitality. But when Ruth had gone out, he only sat, an abstracted frown on his bro
w. At last, to fill the silence, Susanna said, “Marianne will surely be out of the house soon, so she and Mrs. Careme will not constantly be butting up against each other.”

  “What?” James looked completely blank.

  “Marianne. I expect she will marry her Mr. Foster.”

  “Oh.” James nodded. There was a moment’s silence, and then he reached into the pocket of his coat. “I brought something for you. Liberated from Philippe at the time of his arrest.”

  When he opened his hand, Susanna saw that he had her heart-shaped pendant, the necklace he had given her on their engagement. She took it from him, looking down at the delicate golden filigree around the heart. Then she raised her eyes to his and said, “James—” At the same moment James ran a hand across the back of his neck and said, “Susanna—”

  James smiled briefly at that. Though the smile faded almost at once and he said, “I need to tell you something‌—‌ask you something, rather. But you can go first. What was it you were going to say?”

  Susanna took a breath. There was a thread pulling tighter and tighter inside her ribcage. But she said, “I was going to ask whether you still wanted to marry me.”

  She had, at any rate, succeeded in surprising James completely. He could not have looked more astonished if Snell had come back into the room wearing a dancer’s tulle skirt and pink tights. “You want to know whether I want to marry you? Susanna, don’t you know—”

  “I know you love me.” Susanna interrupted him. “I do know that, James. And I love you. But loving someone is different from wanting marriage. And I have thought . . . ‌I have wondered whether you truly wanted to be tied down. Saddled with the encumbrance of a wife. I do not think you are cut out for domesticity, James, or a quiet life.”

  “Encumbrance?” James got up from his chair and came to kneel beside her, taking her hands in his. She could feel that his hands were shaking, and when he looked up at her, she could see the tiny flecks of gold in the irises of his eyes, every individual point of his dark lashes. “Susanna, I have gotten used to living day to day. Mission to mission. Never thinking too far into the future. It has been the only way I could survive. But as for domesticity, or a quiet life‌—‌I do want that. A part of me does.” He reached up to touch her cheek. “I have never even shown you my lands in Derbyshire. I would like to. To take you there‌—‌live there with you as my wife. If it were not for the war—”

  He stopped, briefly closing his eyes.

  Susanna said, “Yes, if it were not for the war. But there is a war being fought. And you are needed, James. Your country needs you. London and the War Office will come calling again.”

  “And I need you.” James looked up, dark eyes intent on hers. “When I came into Admiral Tremain’s house‌—‌when I saw you lying there on the floor, dead or dying for all I knew, I realized just how much I do need you. That was what I wanted to ask you today. Whether you would consent to be married now‌—‌at once, as soon as we can obtain a license. It is unfair of me to ask, perhaps. I told you that once, and I am still not sure that it is not true. Because I cannot promise you that our life together will be quiet or without danger. I think of that moment, when I thought that you had been killed, and I do not know where I will find the courage ever to go through that again. And yet . . . ‌and yet I am still asking. Because—” His voice turned husky and unsteady, and he bowed his head over their clasped hands. “Because I love you. I do not want to spend another day without you as my wife.”

  When James raised his head, Susanna saw that his eyes were wet. Her heart seemed to turn over in her chest, and she reached to smooth a lock of his hair that had fallen across his brow. Her throat felt so tight that she did not think she would be able to speak. But she whispered at last, “Then we will hope and pray for peace. But the next time London calls, we will answer together, side by side.”

  THE END

  Thank You!

  Thank you for reading London Calling! If you have not yet read the first book, Susanna and the Spy, and would like to, a link to its amazon.com page is included below. Regency fans may also enjoy Georgiana Darcy’s Diary, a continuation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Please read on for a sample of Georgiana Darcy’s Diary. Volume 2 of Georgiana’s diary, titled Pemberley to Waterloo, is also available.

  Amazon.com links:

  Susanna and the Spy

  Georgiana Darcy’s Diary

  Pemberley to Waterloo

  For a current list of Anna Elliott titles, please visit:

  www.AnnaElliottBooks.com

  GEORGIANA DARCY’S DIARY

  Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice continued

  ANNA ELLIOTT

  a WILTON PRESS book

  Author’s Note

  Of all the wonderful secondary characters in Pride and Prejudice, Georgiana Darcy has always been my favorite. In Jane Austen’s original text, we never actually hear her speak a single direct word; any dialogue she has is merely summarized by the narrator. But to me, that only made her more intriguing. Just who was she, this painfully shy younger sister of the famous Mr. Darcy—a girl with a large fortune of her own, who at the age of fifteen was so very nearly seduced by the wicked Mr. Wickham?

  Jane Austen herself gave her own family a few tidbits about what happened to her characters after the close of Pride and Prejudice. Kitty Bennet married a clergyman near Pemberley, while Mary married one of her uncle’s clerks. But so far as is known, she never hinted at what happened to Georgiana Darcy after her brother married Elizabeth. For myself, I always felt that Georgiana Darcy ought to marry Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  The modern reader may object that the two of them are cousins. But in Jane Austen’s world, marriage between cousins wasn’t considered at all improper—it was often absolutely encouraged. Queen Victoria married her first cousin Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, and theirs was one of the happiest love stories and most famously successful marriages of the age. In fact, Jane Austen herself wrote about such romance in Mansfield Park: Fanny Price and Edmund Bertram are first cousins.

  Of course, you’ll have to keep reading to see whether, once I started writing their story, Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed with me that they were meant to be together!

  One further note: I can’t begin to match Jane Austen’s immortal writing style, and wouldn’t even pretend to try. That’s one reason I chose a diary format for this story. I would never aspire to imitate Jane Austen or compare my work to hers. Georgiana Darcy’s Diary is meant to be an entertainment, written for those readers who, like me, simply can’t get enough of Jane Austen and her world.

  Thursday 21 April 1814

  At least I was not in love with Mr. Edgeware.

  That sounds as though I am trying to salvage my pride, but I am truly not. I hate lying—especially to myself. And there is small point in keeping a private journal if I am only going to fill it with lies.

  So, I was flattered by Mr. Edgeware’s attentions. I liked him—or at least, I thought I did. But love? No.

  Though I am sure my Aunt de Bourgh would say that is neither here nor there in considering whether Mr. Frank Edgeware and I should marry.

  I don’t seem to have begun this story at all properly. I have been keeping a diary on and off since I was ten, but I have not written an entry in a year or more. Maybe I am out of practice with setting down the events of the day. I am not even entirely sure what made me pick up this notebook—a red leather-bound book of blank pages that Elizabeth gave me for Christmas. Except that the memory of what happened today feels like a festering sore inside me—and maybe writing it all down here will let the poison out.

  To explain more clearly, then, Mr. Frank Edgeware is the youngest son of Sir John Edgeware of Gossington Park. Mr. Frank has been staying here at Pemberley for the last three weeks, one of the house party my aunt has imposed upon us all. He is a handsome man—really, a very handsome man, with dark hair and melting brown eyes and a sallow, lean kind of good looks.

>   Aunt de Bourgh—small surprise—has thrown us together a good deal, and he has been my partner at whist, has accompanied me for walks and rides about the grounds. We seemed to have so much in common, he and I. He would ask which poets I liked best, and when I mentioned Mr. Cowper, he would wholeheartedly agree that Mr. Cowper’s poems were masterpieces of language and feeling. The same with music. I spoke of Mr. Thomas Arne’s operas, he professed himself a great lover of Artaxerxes, as well.

  I can see now, of course, that I was an idiot to be so taken in. Anyone would think that after George Wickham’s courtship, I would have learned to spot a fortune hunter. But at the time I had not a single suspicion that Frank Edgeware was anything but sincere.

  Until this morning, when I chanced to be walking in the rose garden. I was on a path screened by a thick row of bushes and overheard Mr. Edgeware speaking to Sir John Huntington on the other side of the shrubs. They could not see me, of course, but I heard every word.

  Sir John—he being another member of the house party, a goggle-eyed man with plump hands and greasy hair—asked Mr. Edgeware how he was progressing with Miss Georgiana Darcy.

  And Mr. Edgeware laughed and replied that he fancied he would succeed in winning my hand in marriage, all right, and confidently expected to be wedded to me by the end of three months’ time.

  “And thank God that when we’re wedded,” he said, “I won’t have to listen and pretend to agree while she maunders on about poets and musicians.” He laughed again. “It’s a good thing she has a fortune of thirty thousand pounds. She’s a nice enough little thing, but ditchwater dull.”

  My whole body flashed hot and cold, and just for a second I wanted to smash my way through the bushes and confront the pair of them. But I did not. If I have not yet learned to judge men’s characters, I at least know my own well enough. And I knew I would never in three hundred years work up the nerve for a dramatic confrontation of that kind. Or if I did, I would stand there, red-faced and stammering trying to to think of the perfect retort. Which would probably come to me at three o’clock the following morning, but not before.