by Jane Feather
Bonaparte dismounted and looped the reins over the stone gatepost that marked the opening in the hedge that bordered the cottage garden. He set foot on the path.
Cosimo raised his pistol, sighted over the heart, where for all his anonymity Napoleon wore the golden eagle of France pinned to his coat. The assassin’s hand was steady, his eyes narrowed as he cocked the weapon.
And then it happened. Meg’s image blocked his view of his quarry. He blinked, shook his head, but it wouldn’t go away. He could kill Bonaparte now. He would not survive himself, he had known that from the moment the guard had taken up positions outside. They would shoot him down before he set one foot on the path. But that was a price he had always been willing to pay.
But not Meg.
Montaine had her somewhere. There was no evidence against her at this point, but if Bonaparte was assassinated tonight, and the assassin identified as Madame Giverny’s majordomo, Meg’s life was not worth a sou. And before she died, she would suffer as Ana had done, and he would be unable to organize her escape as he had done for Ana.
Slowly his hand fell to his side.
He could not do it.
This time he must fail. The previously unthinkable was now a fact. There was something more important to him than the successful completion of a mission so vital the lives of hundreds of thousands of people depended upon it. He could sacrifice his own life, not willingly but because it was necessary, but he would not sacrifice Meg.
He moved backwards into the inglenook and once again hitched himself up into the shaft. The door of the cottage opened and Bonaparte entered. He went to the table and lit the lamp, his back to the chimney, and Cosimo in the shaft closed his eyes on the knowledge that with one thrust of his knife he could accomplish his mission.
Bonaparte climbed the ladder to the loft and waited there. Cosimo heard the thump of his boots as he took them off. He heard the general come down again, his stockinged feet slithering on the rungs of the ladder. Time stretched. Bonaparte went back into the loft and put on his boots again. He came down and went outside, leaving the door open. He went out onto the path and looked up and down. He came back into the cottage.
This went on for over an hour until finally the frustrated lover extinguished the lamp and stalked out of the cottage, slamming the door in his wake.
Cosimo lowered his feet to the ground and waited. He waited until the sounds of the general’s horse had faded into the night, and then he waited until the watching guard had left. Even then he remained still and silent for another half an hour until he was certain there was no human presence anywhere in the vicinity. Then he slipped out of the inglenook, pulled on his boots, and left the cottage, closing the door softly behind him. If the old couple noticed any sign of disturbance, they would assume it had been caused by the visitor they had expected.
It was well past midnight as he started to walk back to the olive grove where he had left his horse. He could make no assumptions about Meg’s whereabouts. Montaine could be detaining her anywhere. So he would have to go back to the house. They had very little time to make the rendezvous with the Mary Rose. The fishing boat that would take them to Hyères would leave on the dawn tide and not return for two days. The Mary Rose couldn’t risk standing in too close to Toulon for more than twenty-four hours. All this had been planned down to the last detail with his crew, and they would follow his instructions to the letter. But he couldn’t leave without Meg.
He put his horse to the gallop until they reached the outskirts of Toulon and then he reined him in to a sedate trot. A mad horseman galloping hell for leather through the nighttime streets of the port would be remembered. He turned onto the street behind the church and drew rein. All the lamps in the house were burning, and there were guards at the front door.
So Montaine had Meg in there. Relief was a tidal wave, invading every pore and cell. Unlike anything Cosimo had experienced before. He rode around to the mews and put his horse in a stall, loosening the girth but not unsaddling him. At the rain butt he washed as much of the chimney soot as he could from his face and hands, then he let himself into the house through the kitchen door. A group of servants huddling around the range looked at him, startled, as he entered.
“Oh, M’sieur Charles, such goings on,” the housekeeper said. “Madame is in the salon with that colonel, and he won’t let her go to bed. Denis said she’s told him he don’t know how many times that she has the headache, but he’s insisting she stay. Isn’t that so, Denis?”
“Yes, M’sieur Charles,” the footman affirmed. “And all these soldiers. It’s not right in a good household.”
“The times are not right, Denis,” the majordomo observed somewhat loftily, keeping himself out of the lamplight as far as possible, knowing that his hasty cleanup in the stable yard wouldn’t pass muster under a bright light. “I’ll find out what’s going on myself. You people should be in your beds. The fires will have to be lit again in four hours.” On which instruction he disappeared into his own apartments in the basement.
The long case clock in the salon struck one. Meg yawned, leaning her head against the high back of the elbow chair in the salon. She regarded her companion with an ironic lift of her eyebrows. “Colonel, would you explain to me why I must sit up all night?”
Montaine, who was yawning himself, dragged himself upright on the sofa. “I await a messenger, madame.”
“I wish you’d tell me why you have to await him here, in my house,” Meg protested. She stood up and walked to the windows, drawing back the curtains to look out on the street.
Where was Cosimo? Was he alive . . . imprisoned in some dungeon? Lying mortally wounded somewhere?
She could do nothing to answer the questions. She knew what she was to do if Cosimo didn’t make the rendezvous in the stables by midnight, but she couldn’t do it. Not with this great lump of a colonel in the room, watching her every move. She could feel his eyes on her back even now.
And then the door opened. “Madame, may I offer you some fresh coffee . . . a cognac for the colonel, perhaps?”
Cosimo stood there, immaculate in his black majordomo’s garments, a tray in his hands. He offered the colonel a courteous bow as he stepped forward and placed the tray on the sideboard.
Meg didn’t miss a beat. She glided across to the sideboard. “Thank you, Charles. That’s very thoughtful. You passed a pleasant evening, I trust?”
“Very, thank you, madame.” He reached for the cognac decanter and flicked his eyelids at her.
“Colonel, you’ll join me in a cognac?” Meg said, not certain what the flick meant but certain she was supposed to act upon it.
Montaine was bored, anxious, and frustrated enough to throttle someone. The hospitality offered him thus far had been rudimentary and cognac now had its appeal. “Thank you,” he said shortly.
Cosimo held a tiny vial over the goblet and four brown droplets fell into the glass. He poured cognac over it liberally and gave the goblet to Meg. “Coffee for madame,” he stated, pouring a cup, and despite the desperation of the situation and her own turmoil she had to swallow an appreciative grin. Cognac, doctored or otherwise, was not on offer for her tonight, just a plentiful supply of stimulant.
“Colonel.” She set the glass at his elbow and sat beside him on the sofa. “Perhaps we should play backgammon to pass the time. Charles, would you bring the backgammon board?”
Montaine shrugged and reached for his glass. “I’m an indifferent player, madame.”
“At this hour of the night, sir, so am I,” Madame Giverny stated acidly, as her majordomo set the backgammon table in front of the sofa and then a chair opposite the colonel. “But if I’m not to fall asleep where I sit, I must do something.” She moved to take the chair, and took a sip of her coffee.
Montaine took a much larger sip of his cognac and leaned over the board. The majordomo went to stand in attendance beside the door.
Meg moved her first piece, the questions tumbling in an incoherent jumble i
n her head.
Cosimo was safe. So was Bonaparte dead? How had Cosimo evaded the trap that Montaine must have set for him? And there had to have been a trap. Holding her here made no sense unless it was only one side of the colonel’s plan. But if Bonaparte was dead, Cosimo would not be standing there. Surely they would have taken him . . . killed him.
But she mustn’t distract herself with pointless speculation. She had to concentrate on the game now being played, and it wasn’t backgammon.
She kept her eyes on the colonel as she drank her coffee, noticing that every time she sipped, automatically he followed suit. It was like a marionette dance. So she kept lifting her cup to her lips and moving her pieces and within fifteen minutes the colonel’s goblet was empty. She reached for it.
“A little more, Colonel?” She gestured to her majordomo. “Bring the decanter, Charles.”
“No, no, I think I’ve had sufficient,” the colonel said, and Meg could detect just the tiniest slur in his voice.
Charles filled his glass nevertheless and returned to his station at the door.
It happened so slowly that Meg was hardly aware of it despite her close observation. Colonel Montaine’s hand became a little less sure as he moved his pieces, he slumped a little on the sofa, and then the piece he was about to position on the board fell from his hand and his head fell forward onto his chest.
Cosimo was there instantly. He lifted Montaine’s wrist, checking his pulse. “Good,” he pronounced. “He’ll be out for hours but we don’t have that much time.” He pulled Meg to her feet. He clasped her face between his hands for one instant and then released her. “Go and change into your britches and meet me in the stables. And for God’s sake, Meg, hurry.”
“There’s no need to be so peremptory,” she said, feeling the warmth of his hands on her face, aware now of a warmth within her creeping into the cold detachment that had insulated her from the fear and hurt that seemed to have been her companions for so long. “I’m not about to dawdle over anything at this point.” She whisked herself out of the salon.
The soldiers were still in the hall and they stiffened to attention as she entered. Ignoring them, Meg ascended the stairs. In her bedchamber she changed quickly into Anatole’s garments that she had kept hidden in the back of the wardrobe. She looked once around the room, wondering if there was anything else she should take. The jewels?
Then she shook her head. If Cosimo had wanted her to bring them, he would have said so. Perhaps they were stolen. The thought brought a choke of lunatic laughter. She left the room and crept down the back stairs to the kitchen. It was silent, but still well lit. A pot boy snored in front of the fire. She tiptoed past him and let herself out into the narrow courtyard beyond. The stables were in darkness and she felt her way until an arm came around her, making her jump and gasp.
“You scared me,” she hissed, turning angry eyes on him.
Cosimo offered only a rote apology, but Meg was not to know how much he relished the anger that returned the liveliness to her eyes. He urged her into the narrow lane behind the church where their horses waited, and gave her a leg up onto the mare.
“We’ve lost close to three hours,” he murmured. “Stay close.”
And Meg stayed close as they left the port by an unfamiliar route and rode along the coast until they reached a secluded cove. Cosimo didn’t speak and neither did she as the dark night gave way to the gray of the false dawn and then the pink tinge in the eastern sky that heralded a new day.
They rode down a narrow path to the small beach, where a fishing boat bobbed in the shallows.
“What about the horses?” Meg asked, hearing her voice as if it was that of a stranger.
“Payment for services rendered,” Cosimo replied before greeting the small group of fishermen waiting on the edge of the beach.
Meg gave the mare’s neck one last stroke and bade her a soft farewell. The animal was too valuable a beast to meet with anything but the best treatment. Cosimo as always had not neglected a single detail.
Except that the details were for nothing if Bonaparte was still alive.
“Come, quickly now. We have to catch the tide.” Cosimo lifted her and carried her through the shallows, depositing her in the bow of the fishing boat. He hitched himself in beside her and two of the fishermen jumped into the stern while a third pushed them off the sandy bottom. The foresail and jib caught the swelling breeze.
The sun rose as they sailed out of the cove and into a stretch of water between the coast of France and a small group of islands. They sailed around the biggest of the islands and Meg drew a deep breath as the familiar shape of the Mary Rose stood out against a gray cliff.
She glanced at Cosimo. He too was looking at his ship, and there was a strange cast to his countenance. Not exactly a darkness, more a question. As if aware of her scrutiny he turned his gaze towards her. The blue eyes were full of light. As if he’d seen something he hadn’t known existed.
As they drew closer to the Mary Rose the rope ladder dropped over the side. Men appeared along the rail and one of Cosimo’s nephew-lieutenants, Meg wasn’t sure which one at this distance, climbed down the ladder ready to pull them in. The fishing boat came alongside and one of the men tossed Frank Fisher the painter. He secured it, bringing the boat against the ship’s side.
“Welcome aboard, Captain . . . ma’am.” He offered a hand to assist Meg onto the ladder.
“Thank you, Frank. Go on up, Miss Barratt can manage without help.” Cosimo stood back watching with a tiny smile as Meg grasped the ladder and swung herself easily onto the bottom rung. She went up hand over hand as if she’d been doing it all her life. Her fatigue dropped away from her as she hitched herself over the rail and felt the sloop’s deck moving gently beneath her feet.
“G’day . . . g’day.”
At the familiar squawk she turned, laughing. David Porter, with the macaw perched on his shoulder, emerged from the companionway. “I thought it must be you,” he said, smiling, even as he looked her over with a professional eye. “You seem intact.”
“I am,” she said, holding out her arm for Gus, who flew instead onto her shoulder and pecked her ear. “So is Cosimo.”
“So is Cosimo what?” the privateer demanded as he jumped to the deck. Gus rose with a delighted squawk of greeting and abandoned Meg for his master.
“Intact,” she said. “David was asking.”
“David.” Cosimo held out his hand to the other man. “Everything all right on board?”
“Smooth sailing,” the physician said. “You?”
“Not all the time,” Cosimo said and the physician nodded as if satisfied.
Cosimo, standing at the rail beside Meg, scratched the macaw’s poll, murmuring to him. And Meg could feel the tension that the privateer had carried from the moment they’d left the ship at the Bordeaux estuary leave him like an unwanted cloak. Whatever he’d been through that night, waiting for Bonaparte, was over. Whether the mission was accomplished or not, it was over.
Cosimo strode to the quarterdeck, where Mike at the helm nodded a laconic greeting. The captain of the Mary Rose stood behind the helmsman and called, “Make all sail.”
Meg leaned back against the rail of the mid-deck and gazed upwards, watching the familiar routine. Men crawled all over the rigging, hanging precariously over the deck some twenty feet below as they set the sails. The sloop sprang across the water under full sail and Meg turned to look behind her at the little fishing boat, now heading out to sea.
She felt Cosimo behind her before his hand came to rest on the nape of her neck. Gus flew onto the deck rail and regarded them, bright-eyed, head cocked. “Poor Gus,” he murmured experimentally, and when he received no response, muttered it again with more conviction and tucked his head under his wing.
Meg leaned back into the warm clasp, closing her eyes against the dazzle of the early sun. “You didn’t kill him,” she said.
“No,” he agreed, his fingers moving upwards into her h
air.
“Why not?”
He looked over her head at the receding coastline. “Love,” he said. “An odd feeling. I’ve often wondered what it was like.” He turned her towards him. “Now I know.” He traced her face with a fingertip. “You could say it, Meg. I am so sorry it took me so much longer. But I love you. You are all and everything to me.”
She didn’t respond immediately, but looked at him seriously, still unsure. She could still hear his words: I don’t risk failure, my dear.
“It must matter to you that you failed this time.”
He palmed her cheek, running his fingers over her eyelids. “Yes, it matters, but not enough. Can you accept that?”
“Yes,” Meg said, reaching a hand to caress his cheek. “Yes, I can accept that.”
She turned within the circle of his arm and looked out over the sea. “Where are we going?”
“I promised I would take you back to Folkestone,” he said, his hand flattening against her hip. “I will keep my promise.”
“And if I release you from it?”
He drew her closer against him. “Then the Mary Rose will follow Bonaparte to Malta.”
“And the captain of the Mary Rose will try his mission again?”
“In one way or another,” Cosimo said. “Nelson’s waiting for Bonaparte. If we don’t sail back to England, then the Mary Rose will join the admiral and the navy in this fight.”
Meg turned to put her hands on the rail, feeling his body come up close, molding itself against her back. “Then I too will join this fight.”
“Out of conviction or out of love?” His breath rustled across the top of her head.
“Both,” she said after a moment. She turned again, reaching her hands up, linking them behind his neck. “But love takes precedence. I love you, privateer.” Her eyes glittered with a sheen of tears.
He kissed her eyelids, stroking her face. “You are all and everything to me,” he said as he had done earlier. “I love you, Meg Barratt.”
