A Night of Secret Surrender

by Sophia James

  She held up her left hand, the ring on her third finger glinting in the light. ‘The myths of war are things that sustain those who might otherwise suffer doubt. Surely you of all people should know the nonsense of that?’

  * * *

  Her words had him turning away. His friend Guillermo Garcia was dead. Lying face down in the grove of the dwarf oaks on the ridge outside Idanha a Nova where they had been caught unawares by French dragoons in the grey drizzle of an early May morning.

  It was sheer bad luck that the French patrol had come around the corner just as he and Guille had broken through the cordon. His own insistence on wearing uniform had saved him from instant death, but the partisan clothes of his friend had had the opposite result.

  The myths of war that sustain those who might otherwise suffer doubt.

  Celeste’s words were dragged from the depths of truth. He remembered the dragoon lifting Guillermo’s head and cutting his neck open with a single brutal slice.

  With only a similar small mistake he’d be in the hands of the French again, facing the very same punishment, and no myths could save him here in the beating heart of the Empire.

  ‘You still wear your wedding ring?’

  ‘It adds protection. Why would I not?’

  She looked at him as she said it in a hard and direct way and he thought how seldom she smiled any more.

  ‘I can protect you.’ The fever burnt and his thigh throbbed, but he meant what he promised. War had changed her, but it had changed him, too.

  ‘I have no more need of a man’s guardianship, Major.’

  ‘No?’ He took the hand without the ring and turned it over. Breathing out, he tried the taste of honesty. ‘It seems to me as though you do.’

  The marks of old scars ringed her wrist, surprising and reddened, the newer slash of a knife still weeping into her makeshift bandage.

  She pulled away. ‘It is the end of my time here in Paris. In another city I shall be someone else entirely.’

  ‘Your grandmother still leaves a candle burning in your room at Langley Manor, just in case...’

  ‘In case I return,’ she snarled. ‘To go to court and play the lady as the marriage lines are drawn about me, the richest beau, the wealthiest suitor. I think, my lord, that it is far too late for that.’

  ‘You might play the role of a quiet widow just as well.’

  ‘I doubt that I would be credible, for the many acts of violence here have rendered me somewhat...spoilt for gentle society.’

  ‘Every soldier who has ever lived faces that battle when they return home.’

  ‘But I am not a soldier, don’t you see. I am not in it for King and country. Once I might have said it was for my papa’s sake, for family, for justice, for liberty even, but now...I am the dark shadow of war, just as you are its shining light.’

  He smiled at such an analogy though he knew he should not have, so intent was she on believing it.

  Once, years ago, in the home of a Spanish nobleman he had seen a portrait of a naked Venus lying recumbent on her bed as she gazed at the reflection of herself in a mirror. He remembered the painting vividly because in her face was a conceit he had so very often seen in Celeste’s.

  The conceited and arrogant Miss Celeste Fournier. Every young swain within a hundred miles had spoken of her beauty then, yet it was he with whom she had chosen to lie. Unmarried, too, though he had offered her the protection of his name after and she had laughed in his face.

  And here she was again, denying his guardianship, with a split lip and a swollen eye, a bandaged bloodied hand and scars easily visible at her wrist. No longer conceited, but distant and wary. A broken daughter of her father’s unwise dreams.

  ‘Did you ever marry?’ Her words punctured the silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her glance fell down and away, the years between them filled with ghosts.

  He wished he might have been able to stand up straight and tell her of it, but his head felt strange and his balance was off so he stayed still and closed his eyes. When he opened them again she was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Shayborne needed medicine and he needed water. The darkness would allow her some protection as she moved through the emptying streets of a city settling in for the night.

  He was married.

  The lump in her throat was thick and real, yet she knew any hope for what she had once thought between them was long, long gone. Better to accept it and move on. Better to have never asked him in the first place, too.

  Madame Caroline Debussy appeared to be home as Celeste crept through the dark gardens in the opulent area of Petit Champs for the lights were on in the drawing room. This was an address she had come to for refuge across the years and, opening a large door, she let herself in to find the older woman sitting by an unlit fire.

  ‘I have been expecting you, my dear, for there are rumours...’

  ‘Which are all true.’ Celeste had not the time to skirt around the issues and with Madame Debussy she hadn’t the inclination to either.

  ‘Guy Bernard is dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I am glad for it. He was a bully and a cheat and one day he would have killed you. It is said that Benet is furious and names you as a traitor.’

  ‘Which on all accounts I am. But it is not for England I did this. It is more personal.’

  ‘The man you helped escape, the injured English spy?’

  ‘I knew him once...before...’

  ‘Merde. Everyone is looking for him. He is an important trophy.’

  ‘Has Benet been here to see you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then I hope for your sake that he will not. But for my father’s soul, Caroline, I would ask for two things. I need you to take this money and see that the remaining Dubois children and their mother are spirited safely away from here.’ She handed over a heavy silken purse and watched as the woman pocketed it. ‘I also need medical supplies.’

  Caroline Debussy did not miss a step. ‘I will have the family moved south and then on to Italy for we have some contacts there. They will like the warmth and beauty of Rome.’ Celeste was glad she asked no more questions. ‘The medical supplies are easy.’ Bending to ring a bell, she waited until her maid came, instructing the girl to find all the bandages and salves that were in the house and bring them back in a bag.

  When the servant left and the door had shut she spoke again. ‘If this English major is too ill, you might consider leaving him to fend for himself, for to be hunted hard in the company of such a man in Paris is suicide.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There is a cordon around the city and men out looking for you, and when they do not find you they will begin a closer search, door to door. Their orders are to kill you on sight, my dear, without even a word.’

  ‘And Shayborne?’

  ‘He is to be taken alive for more interrogation. If you can get your Englishman to me here unseen, there is a priest hole and perhaps...’

  ‘No. It is too perilous.’

  Dark eyes flashed as Caroline pushed herself up. Her lack of height was always surprising. ‘I have twists of powders here, Celeste, to be placed upon an open wound.’ She unlocked a drawer and carefully selected a few. ‘Each one is useful. Start with the darkest and proceed to the lightest.’ Her face was lined in worry. ‘Your father told me once that you were careless, but I think you are not that at all. I think you have always known exactly what you are doing and if your morals have been compromised in order to survive, then so be it, for mine have, too.’

  Celeste looked down on the diminutive woman. Madame Debussy had never been one to coat the truth with something to make it more palatable. ‘I shall send you word...’

  ‘Don’t, even when you are safely away. If you are caught, I will know of it. Go to England, to your grandmother.’

  Celeste took a deep breath and held it in.

  Susan Joyce Faulkner, the matriarch of her mother’s family. Ster
n, strong and opinionated. Disappointed, too, for how often had she seen that curl of anger in her deep blue eyes directed at her, the hapless and fickle granddaughter who was never quite good enough.

  When did it stop, Celeste thought, this disappointment in others? Her father had brought her into the chaos of France with barely a backward glance. Perhaps Caroline Debussy did truly wish her well, but even now Celeste looked around and listened, expecting betrayal, understanding that in every word that was said there lay other meanings. Payment. Remittance. Settlement. She could feel the heavy gold coins of it lining her boots and she remembered her father’s blood running along the floorboards as he had breathed his last before her eyes.

  ‘If you wait, I will find you the things you have a need of and some food to sustain you on a journey. My brother will be home in half an hour...’ Her glance went to the clock.

  ‘By which time I shall be gone.’

  Caroline nodded. ‘I think it is for the best.’

  ‘Why didn’t you marry him, Caroline? My father, I mean.’

  ‘Because he never asked me, my dear, and because he loved your mother before—’ She stopped.

  ‘Before she went mad?’

  ‘By then I think she understood the journey your father was taking her on was for ever. She knew that he would never settle in England and after the death of your sister...’

  ‘She gave up?’

  ‘She tried to kill you and your father both. Twice. I think your grandmother knew of it.’

  The shock of the words had Celeste’s heart speeding up. She could feel the heavy beat of it in her throat and a memory of being pushed and falling.

  ‘People are all different, my dear. What might break one into pieces may only strengthen another, but August set out his pathway and he followed it.’

  ‘And my grandmother? Did she give him her blessing?’

  ‘No, she did not. She cursed him to hell and back for taking you.’

  The lump in her throat thickened at the knowledge of her father’s choices. Not so easy, after all.

  ‘After the soldiers came I wrote to your grandmother, anonymously, and told her you were both dead.’

  ‘In a way we are, Caroline.’

  Celeste was surprised at Caroline’s tears. She had never seen Madame Debussy cry, not through all the times they had struggled side by side, not even when her father lay dying at her feet in this very room.

  ‘It was my fault, all of it. Those who hated your father came here because of me. I was a part of it, don’t you see. They had been watching me. They knew what August wanted. They knew one day he would cross a line and that they would have their revenge.’

  ‘A line? What line?’

  ‘Your father assaulted the son of the head of their small faction in a drunken rage because he thought it was the only way to make them stop. By then he was crazy with his hopes for France under Napoleon’s stewardship and would allow nothing to get in his way.’

  ‘And I was the person in the middle. The daughter? They could not chance what I might say.’

  ‘You never had a hope, Celeste, not from the moment August set foot in France with his hatred and his zealousness. Mary Elizabeth had wounded his soul somehow and even with my best attempts at loving him I could not bring him back to be the man I’d known as a young girl.’

  The penny dropped then. Caroline had watched as they had killed her father here in her house. ‘In the end, you did not try to save him.’

  She shook her head. ‘There is as much danger in caring too much as there is in caring too little. August was a lost cause, but I failed you and that is my greatest regret.’

  The moment came rushing back to Celeste, the moment the men had taken her, their arms wound around her own, her dress ripped in anger, the blood of her father on her hands where she had tried to stop the bleeding. Slippery with the redness.

  She needed to get away and back to Shayborne. This place was like a spider’s web with a hundred sticky threads of deceit mixed strangely with honour—the cutting edge of a politics that demanded the blood of its martyrs. Again and again. Until there was nothing left. Not even grief.

  Bundling up the medical supplies the maid had brought, Celeste turned, ignoring Caroline Debussy’s quiet plea for forgiveness.

  Outside, she brushed away the tears that fell down her cheeks, angry at her emotions as well as at the reminder of the loss she had suffered. She should be used to it, this treachery, but Caroline Debussy was the last link she’d held to her father and now that was gone, too.

  When the light of a streetlamp fell full across her she was brought back abruptly to the danger of exposure and stepped into the shadow, her palms splayed against thick and reassuring stone.

  She was like a drop of water in a river that rushed to an endless ocean. She was a leaf on a tree in the deepest of forests in some far-off land not yet discovered.

  She was alone and she was lonely, the jeopardy of Paris all around her reaching out and searching. Well, they would never find her. Not alive, at least, she promised herself that.

  * * *

  Shayborne was barely conscious when she returned, his skin burning with heat, the wine in a glass beside him untouched.

  In the bag, she found the water Caroline had insisted on giving her and was infinitely grateful for it. Soaking one of the new bandages, she brought the fabric to his mouth, glad when he began to suck.

  ‘I thought...you had...gone,’ he said finally, his strength returned enough to be able to hold the water bottle himself.

  ‘If I leave, you will die.’

  He had the grace to smile and the gesture pulled at her heartstrings. Uncomplicated. Sweet and sad. After the evening with Caroline Debussy, such honesty was a relief.

  * * *

  He saw the flicker of something in her eyes, the choice she had made, he supposed, or the lack of it.

  The wound in his thigh throbbed badly and he felt shaky and sick. Once in Spain he’d had the same sort of malady and it had taken him weeks to recover. Here he had a matter of hours before they must move.

  Celeste had brought a bag from wherever it was she had ventured and he saw her pull a number of medical items from the canvas. Perhaps it would be enough...?

  He winced as she removed the muslin from the wound she’d fastened earlier and winced again as the wine he had not drunk was used to sluice out the open injury. He could smell his sweat and his fear in the small space and knew she would be able to as well. But it could not be helped.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I like you better when you are honest, Major, and if this does not pain you, you must already be dead. This needs to soak for at least ten minutes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He tried to keep the shaking from his voice. And the pleading. It would not do for her to feel she could not go at all. He needed to leave the choice of it in her hands.

  ‘Once upon a time we were friends. It should mean something?’ Her voice held question.

  Once upon a time we were lovers, too.

  He turned away so she would not see that thought in his eyes.

  ‘Tell me about your wife.’

  He had forgotten how direct she could be, how unguarded.

  ‘She was beautiful and kind and sweet. We were married for three years before she took a fever and died within hours.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Anna.’

  He swallowed as he said it because the pain of loss was still raw.

  ‘And you loved her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for your bereavement. Do you hold strong religious beliefs?’

  ‘No.’

  She brought forth her rosary. ‘Would you mind if I recited a prayer for her.’

  ‘A Catholic prayer?’

  ‘’Tis the same God. I think our Lord will not mind the difference.’

  ‘Your father was Catholic?’

  ‘In England he had no faith in anythin
g. It was only after coming back to France he decided we needed some extra assistance.’

  ‘Because his political opinions were...extreme, to say the least, as well as foolhardy?’

  ‘There are those here who would tar your actions in Spain with the same brush, Major. A spy is hardly easy company, I should imagine, especially one with the reputation you have garnered.’

  At that he laughed, surprising himself with the sound. ‘It’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose. The French may hate me, but the Spanish do not.’

  ‘But you think Wellesley will win against Soult in Spain?’

  ‘I am sure of it. Already he is on the march towards Santander.’

  ‘And you imagine he might come into France itself?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So it will have been for nothing in the end. All these lives lost?’

  ‘I think your father might have said his death was a means to an end. After every tragedy there is reflection and learning. And growth if you know where to look for it.’

  ‘You went to Spain after your wife died?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And you thought it did not matter if you were killed because your heart was lost?’

  He countered with his own query. ‘Is that how you felt after your father died?’

  ‘Papa knew the risks.’ Her tone was harsh, the truth leaking out beneath the falsities. ‘My father made his bed and everyone he cared for had to lie in it with him.’

  ‘It was uncomfortable?’

  ‘As uncomfortable as anyone else’s barbs of conviction can be. He wanted the greater good and forgot about the smaller one. If he’d been satisfied with less...’ She did not finish, but grabbed a new bottle of wine, uncorked it and took a generous swig. Then she brought a polished jet rosary from her pocket, her fingers sliding across the beads with both familiarity and grace.

  * * *

  She made the sign of the cross and started on the Apostle’s Creed. ‘I believe in God, the Father Almighty...’ The complexity of religion had helped her recover. A salve. A balm. A way of handing her problems over to a deity who could help shoulder the burden.

  Shayborne lay quietly as she recited the Our Father and the Hail Marys, the Glory Be and the First Mystery and when, finally, she had finished, she lay the rosary down beside his leg and found salve and sprigs of garlic in the bag Caroline had given her. There was oregano there, too, and the other more potent powders in twists of paper. She began by using the darkest shade, sprinkling it into the red swollen flesh with care. Celeste knew Madame Debussy well enough to know that she swore by these remedies and that they were highly effective. She said her own private prayer of the Guardian Angel under her breath as she rebandaged the wound and tied the ends of soft linen.