by Baird Wells
The harbor master's office had been dark for nearly half an hour now. Certain that no one was still inside and sure no one was coming back until morning, Olivia stole from her hiding spot along the docks, passing through a dark alley between the harbor master's building and a public house.
The lock fastening the rear door was surprisingly complex. Her ears tuned to every sound, she went to work. Footsteps a street over, laughter and shouts from a nearby tap room, and a stray cat howling competed with the sound of the lock’s insides as she struggled with her thin pick.
After several minutes of frustration, Olivia sighed and hung her head a moment. Ty would have had it open already. He would have teased her and made a fuss over his skill, then kissed her in apology. Being without him, not knowing his fate, was wearing her thin. Any other day, even she would have the lock open by now, unburdened by worry.
The sooner I'm done here, the sooner I'll have news.
Shoring herself up with the reminder, she attacked the lock until it sprang free.
Picking her way along a dark, unfamiliar corridor, she worked towards the front office where the ledgers were kept. Light from street lamps offered just enough illumination that she was able to pick out a stoneware candle holder on a shelf below the counter. Casting about, a box rattled when her hand brushed against it. Judging by the sound and location, it was matches. Setting the candle stand on the floor, she struck one, cupping it to hide its first brilliant flare.
When the candle was lit, she peered up onto the rough wooden counter top. Two ledgers sat closed, a quill and corked ink jar between them. Gathering everything to her, Olivia stared at the ledgers, trying to decide which one to check first. She opened the first one and flipped to the most recent entry, which ended up being too recent. She thumbed back a few pages. Too far. Ready to flip forward, she paused when a name caught her eye: Katherine Foster. Age twenty-three, destination New York, United States by way of Bristol, England.
She sat back, flabbergasted. Kate had gone home to America?
Did Kate know something she did not? Had the battle truly been lost? Olivia traced the small, neat signature. If Ty lived, he might never see his friend again. On an impulse, she tore the page free from its binding. Folding it, she tucked the paper into her pocket.
Skimming the rest of the ledger yielded nothing. She slid it back atop the counter and opened the second book.
Reading through the dates, she stopped when she came to a ship with the correct destination. Corsair, bound for Plymouth. Correct destination, and two days before Waterloo. Let anyone who looked believe he'd fled like a coward, ahead of the battle.
Opening the ink, she dipped the quill, and on the first empty line scrawled 'Emil DuFresne – Minister of Government.’
She'd kept her promise to help him anonymously board a ship. She never said she would keep it for long. DuFresne had been given a fair head start, more fair than he deserved. If anyone wanted him now, Fouche, the Austrians or otherwise, they were welcome to him. Setting the ledger next to its mate on the counter, Olivia left it wide open for all to see. Licking her fingers, she snuffed the candle, put it away, and slipped out into the night.
She practically ran the alley’s length, so eager to reach the public house that she failed to hear the footsteps until she was at its front stairs.
“Olivia.”
Sighing, she paused with a hand on the door, and then turned around. “John.”
He stepped forward, and she stepped back, cornered.
His hand came up. “I'm not here to fight. Where's DuFresne?”
Olivia wasn't certain she trusted his word anymore. “Gone.” She shrugged to herself. “Plymouth yesterday and on to London, or so he claims. All yours, if you can find him.”
Exhaling, John took off his hat, smacking it against his thigh. “Did he tell you anything?”
Now they were in dangerous territory. John didn't need DuFresne if she knew all of the man's secrets. “Nothing that I haven't already written up and sent to Grayfield.”
“You don't have to lie to me, Olivia. What's done is done, in any case. Battle's over, Britain will decide what happens now.”
“We've won?” She rushed John before she could stop herself. “What have you heard?”
“Little more than that. Napoleon fled the moment his Old Guard was broken. We nearly lost the whole thing. Prussians turned it around,” he added grudgingly.
Nearly lost. “Oh God.” How would she know? How long before Ty could get word to her that he was all right? She might go mad well before then.
John's hand, warm against her shoulder, steadied her. “One other bit of gossip that may be of interest to you. Artillery company G Troop was the only troop that did not abandon their guns. Responsible for a large portion of the rout against the Guard.”
He squeezed, then patted her arm, smiling at her in the dark. “Not surprising, given their commander.”
On impulse, she threw arms around him. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” He pushed her away gently. “And I want you to know I didn't betray you or England. I was assigned to take DuFresne's intelligence to Metternich and the Austrians, in the event things did not go well for us yesterday.”
Stubborn ass. “You chose to keep that to yourself, even when I garroted you?”
John shrugged. “You were not an approved contact.”
“Hmm.” A ship's bell chimed farther down the docks, and she glanced around. “Where will you go now?”
“Back to London. The Prince Regent is making noise about wanting a divorce. Some poor sod has to do the digging.”
She laughed. “That poor sod being you?”
“Indeed. I have no feelings one way or another. Just an assignment. More coin in my pocket.”
Something shifted in her chest, a sensation, as though her feelings about John had settled into place. He was a mercenary, but not a villain. To him, assignments were all business, and to her they were entirely personal. It wasn't contempt she felt in that moment, not like she had when she thought he’d betrayed them all. It was just a distance that couldn't be filled the way she and Ty had done.
Olivia cocked her head toward the door. “I'm going in, see if I can get a room, or at least a spot on the floor.”
“I'm heading out with the tide. Not anxious to stay longer than I'm required.”
“Good luck.” She stuck out a hand and John took it in his firm grasp.
“You as well, Olivia. I imagine we'll cross paths again.”
She nodded. “Eventually.” But as acquaintances, not spies.
That life was nearly over.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Waterloo, Belgium - June 20th, 1815
Ty surveyed the clumps of wounded men. They were arms and legs akimbo, burned by sun, and swarmed with flies. They needed Kate. Doctor Hallick – the doctor sent to replace her – was aged, old-fashioned, and overwhelmed. Ty had found himself offering suggestions which surprised the man, ideas which seemed common sense thanks to Kate's example. A canteen to give the wounded shelter and fresh water. A triage yard. Moving the dead out from among the living, for sanitation as much as morale. Exhausted, Hallick had at last asked humbly if Ty could oversee those tasks, and for a night and day, that was all he had done. Conscripting men from every cantonment, he set them to one of two tasks. If they were well rested and mostly uninjured, they heaped bodies, dug latrines, and tended their brothers. Weaker, exhausted men were sent out to reclaim firearms, round up horses, and scavenge the battlefield. In that manner, for twenty-four hours, he'd worn two hats at once.
He hadn't slept and probably couldn't have if he'd wished to. There were so many dead. Bloated under the sun, mangled by gruesome wounds, some that he knew had not been quick or kind in dying. If he turned in, he would be alone with the memories, his thoughts, and his sorrow. Without Olivia to take away some of the sting, Ty wasn't sure he could face that. Instead he worked, comforting the living and honoring the dead. If he kept bus
y, he didn't have to think.
He was so busy not thinking, right now counting ammunition crates, that the hoof beats behind him fell into the background noise.
“Major.”
The voice spun him around fast enough that he nearly tripped on his own boots. “Webb. By God!” Matthew dismounted and he threw his arms around his friend, squeezing with every ounce of gratitude he had, then pulled away. “We've embraced as long as two soldiers can without the threat of battle at their heels.”
Matthew grinned at his own words and nodded. “So we have, but I'm no less glad to see your hide in one piece.”
“And I yours, though,” he raked a finger along Matthew's temple, “seems you had a close call. Hopefully it knocked some sense into you.”
“If only the same could be said of you, major.”
Planting fists on his hips, Ty squinted into the sun and looked around them. “I've been with you far too long for any hope of that.”
“I suppose we're set together now.”
He nodded. “So we are.”
They grasped hands and shook, filling the space between them with so much that remained unspoken. Then Matthew stepped away. “I start for Paris today. You are to follow in a week's time.”
“To Paris? Not to London?”
“No, not to London! If I'm to be buried in this provisional government mess, you are going with me.”
“This is inhumane. I'm telling Kate, when she gets here.”
Matthew grinned like an absolute rogue. “Politician. Precisely why I chose you for the job.” Remounting, he grabbed Bremen's reins. “Ride with me as far as the guard post?”
Ty unhitched Alvanley, who looked put out at being pulled from the shady spot beneath the oak under which he’d spent the better part of his day.
Side by side in companionable silence, they trotted together up the hill where Napoleon's battery had stood a day earlier.
“It was close,” Matthew muttered, squinting out to the horizon.
“Did you think we were lost, for a moment?”
“I did. I admit it.” There was a touch of guilt to his words.
Ty reached over and put his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “But you didn't believe it, and neither did I. Nor did a hundred thousand other men. That is why we took the day.”
Matthew heaved a sigh, shoulders relaxing. “This is why I keep you around, major.”
Swallowing a lump in his throat, Ty gathered himself. “Likewise, general.” He wheeled Alvanley nose to nose with Bremen, and after a moment of silence, he and Matthew saluted.
A cheer broke out in the valley below, spreading between the islands of men as they waved arms and hats overhead.
One corner of Matthew's smile cocked up. “My God, I don't think Wellington earns this sort of applause.”
Ty winked. “Don't let it go to your head.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Paris - June 22nd, 1815
Olivia paced the dusty walk bordering the Place du Trone, trying and failing to keep her eyes from the mouth of the lane leading out to Vincennes. She and Ty had agreed to wait somewhere easily identified, but secluded from cheering throngs surging along Paris’s streets. Place du Trone had seemed sensible when penning her hasty reply. It was nearest the gate by which Ty’s regiment was expected to enter the city, its covered walkway untraveled in favor of the wild revelry out in the square. It hadn’t occurred to her until she stood idle beneath a canopy that barely saved her from burning afternoon sun what landmarks would comprise her view. A low, black iron gate marked an entrance to the house of detention across the place. Madame Guillotine held her ground on the south edge, not sharing Parisian confidence in her exile. From her hateful position, Place du Trone narrowed into the mouth of the Cours de Vincennes, its narrow lane winding to where Philipe lay peacefully under a victory in which he should have shared.
She reached the end of the walk and paused, admiring the smart ranks of red and gray soldiers moving straight-backed into Paris. They marched to the cry of bagpipes that underscored an insistent drum beat urging them on. Handkerchiefs, frilled or coarse and masculine, showered the occupiers between a rain of pink cherry blossoms and white lilies. Something ignited in her heart, and Olivia dared kindle a small flicker of hope that this time, finally, peace would last.
She searched the shape of every officer marching smartly beside his company, trying to fit him against a template, weighing for a familiar figure. Too tall, too much gut, too thin; she dismissed each man in turn.
He had to come today. Grinding her teeth, she squinted harder against a pounding head, willing the next and then the next man to be Ty. His last letter had said only that he expected to arrive today, but she vowed to trust a voice in her heart whispering that he was near.
Sweat beaded at the crown of her green silk bonnet, her matching coat a sweltering shroud against the day’s pitiful breeze. Pulling a small silver watch from her reticule, Olivia realized she had passed nearly an hour watching the troops come in. Their military deluge slowed to a trickle, and her chest began to ache.
In pairs and clusters the crowd moved off, trailing behind a familiar face or simply eager to cheer on their allies. Disappointment choked her, and it was all that kept her tears at bay. Ty wasn’t coming, not this afternoon. She struggled with the idea of repeating her vigil for a third day, and how to fill the lonely hours till then. Hanging her head, she scrubbed tired eyes.
“Olivia.”
Her name on his lips snapped her up, and Olivia stared across the place without moving, without seeing. She held her breath, strung taut, waiting for him to touch her. When he didn’t, she at last turned around.
Ty raised his tall black hat slowly, revealing how much dust and grit painted his handsome face. He stared with an expression which must have mirrored her own, a look that said if he blinked, he expected she’d be gone.
She looked him over head to toe, prompted by a neat row of stitches cutting from his ear to cheekbone. A hundred questions sprang to mind, but her tongue couldn’t make enough sense to ask a single one.
He took a step toward her, swallowing hard. “There are some things I would like to say to you.” Reaching out, he claimed her hand with steady pressure, brushing his thumb across her wedding ring.
She threw herself into his embrace, stumbling back and sending his hat bouncing along the walkway. Ty’s arms circled her while she clung desperately to his coat. He stunk like horse and sweat permeated with gun smoke, and she didn’t care. Long arms crushed her and she struggled to fill her lungs, but she wouldn’t wriggle or protest and risk him letting go even a little.
It was Ty who pulled away when the first real breeze of approaching evening whipped across them inside the promenade. He flicked a finger at her brim, knocking back her bonnet and fitting their lips together. The gravity of their reunion was lost, trampled by her beating heart racing ahead of a hand sliding up her back. Twining arms around his neck, she crushed their lips closer, digging into damp hair flirting with his collar. She could not touch him enough, kiss him enough.
At last she released him with a sigh, putting the barest hint of space between their bodies. Cradling his face, palm catching his stubble, she traced his wound. “Are you hurt?” She groaned silently. Of course he was hurt; Olivia shook her head. “I mean, is this the worst of it or…”
He grinned, brushing scabbed knuckles over her cheek. “There is but one way of answering that.”
“Stop.” She swatted away his hand and tried not to smile.
Ty bent and claimed his hat, then slipped long fingers between her own. “We can go home and stare at each other all night, Olivia. Fall asleep on the lawn. But I promise you something,” he murmured, blue eyes wide. “We’re not leaving the house any time soon, and I won’t be a single moment without you beside me.” He settled her bonnet, sweeping hair behind her ear. “Starvation, exhaustion, whatever the risk, I’ll not be parted from you again.”
Her breath quickened at his p
romise, and she brushed one last kiss over a saucy twitch of his lips. She was more than ready to be home, to have Ty all to herself. Twining her arm around his, she pulled him toward the steps. “Calm yourself on one of those counts, major. There’s a market between here and the house. We won’t starve.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
Paris - July 1st, 1815
Webb,
In reading through the documents you’ve sent, I observed a notation about inventory of the government section offices. If this has not already been tasked, I request it be assigned to my lot. My lads are level-headed and trustworthy, and I don’t foresee the looting which has occurred in other parts of the city. There is a good deal of property secured in the vaults, as I understand it, and all possible should be returned to anxious families of the dead and exiled. With your permission, I would like to examine one office in particular, so that I might have a sense of the mess for which I’ve volunteered.
– Burrell
He should be ecstatic. The war was over and Napoleon on the run. France was on her way to diminished chaos. An ache in his chest allowed him to feel none of it. Exhausted after days of command work and errands on Matthew's behalf, news he had both dreaded and expected seemed to have come at last.
Kate had been sent to Antwerp to wait out the battle in relative safety, or at least to have a means of retreat. But she wasn't in Antwerp, nor had she reappeared with the regiment. A letter from Matthew's mother, Lady Adelaide, confirmed that Kate had not returned with her to London.
Just as he was ready to give up and leave Antwerp, word had arrived that the Union had sunk in open ocean. A ship, according to the manifest’s last entry, that carried one Katherine Foster.
Pitted mid-summer roads rattled his carriage, jarring ugly doubts of grief between his temples, pounding them. If Matthew had not sent her away, if she had just stayed put in Antwerp... But it was no one's fault. He wasn't certain if that made things better or worse. Rubbing a palm over aching eyes, he tried to focus on the task at hand: how to tell Matthew. He had lost a dear friend, but Webb had lost a piece of himself.
