The Captain and His Innocent

by Lucy Ashford

  She wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. How could she? Wearily Ellie got out of bed and went to draw back the curtains, seeing that the night clouds had drifted away to reveal a sparkling canopy of stars overhead. She remembered her father’s astronomy books and the sky charts he loved to draw for himself; how he would often take his notebook out at night and walk beyond Paris’s walls to the countryside that lay not far from the city. From when Ellie was seven, he’d taken her with him, especially in winter when the dark came early.

  ‘Papa’s star walks,’ Ellie used to call them, clapping her small hands in delight as her mother wrapped her up warmly.

  Ellie’s mother never came with them on those star walks. Already she was showing signs of the illness that would one day claim her—the thinness, the pallor, the constant cough. But Ellie wasn’t aware of that, in those days. And her memories were still precious, of the winter evenings she and her father spent beyond the city walls and market gardens of Paris, as he pointed out the constellations sparkling high above them.

  Ellie’s mother died in the late spring of 1813, when Napoleon was sending out his ragged and hungry troops to march against the combined armies of Britain and Austria, Prussia and Russia. And little more than a month after her funeral, Ellie’s father came home from work and told her they had to leave their home.

  ‘I cannot work for the Emperor any more,’ he’d said. ‘He is sending thousands of men to their deaths on the very roads I helped him build. Your mother’s frail health kept me here till now. But I’ve made up my mind that I will help no more with the Emperor’s plans to ruin the entire world with his constant waging of war. His endless ambition.’

  Of course, Ellie knew even before then that if you weren’t on the Emperor Napoleon’s side, you counted as his enemy. And so began their journey, their flight, until at last they’d reached what they’d hoped was the safety of Brussels; but even there, Ellie had still been terribly afraid—not only because her father’s health was rapidly failing, but because she was sure that there was a pursuer on their trail.

  She felt she was still under surveillance, even when she went out on as simple an excursion as to buy food from the market. Napoleon’s spies, she had whispered in fear to herself. Napoleon’s men have tracked us down. We are not safe even here.

  Several times she glimpsed the same man—he was easy to remember, because he had strangely pale eyes and pale hair. Sometimes she caught sight of him walking down the crowded street, or saw him standing outside the wine shop just over the road where the locals gathered to drink. He never approached her. She never even saw him actually watching her. Perhaps, she told herself, it was only her imagination that made her think he was on her trail.

  Shivering, she dragged herself back to the present, to Bircham Hall and her failed attempt at escape. Certainly, there was nothing imaginary about Captain Luke—who was possibly the most lethal enemy she had faced so far.

  As she and her father made that last, desperate journey out of France and towards safety, she’d had to confront men who thought she would be an easy target. Innkeepers, coach drivers, other travellers on the road—she had had to assume they were all her enemies and had to become adept at showing—if not actually firing—the little pistol her father had taught her to use.

  She was accustomed to dealing with enemies, but the captain posed an altogether more formidable challenge. She curled herself up in an armchair by the window, her hands across her breasts. Take his voice, for instance. Despite his shabby clothing, he possessed the voice of an English gentleman and his husky enunciation made something curl warmly—dangerously—at the pit of her stomach. As for his face, and the enticing curve of his mouth...

  She’d wanted him to kiss her and he knew it. His touch had set her blood on fire—oh, how that would make him laugh, how he would despise her for her weakness! She was aware of cold despair wrapping itself around her like a cloak, yet still she imagined she could feel the lingering heat of his body, so close to hers.

  She was a fool. Not only was she going to have to guard herself from a new enemy, but from new and treacherous emotions. She was in his power and she was terrified.

  * * *

  Luke sat in the dining hall, turning the compass thoughtfully in his left hand as the fire in the hearth slowly died. But he was on his feet the instant he heard Josh Watterson stride into the house and swiftly he went to meet him. ‘Did you get the girl into the house safely?’ His voice was sharp.

  ‘Aye, Captain.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone?’

  Josh was fumbling in his pocket. ‘I met Joseph at the house. He’s a wise lad, that one—he’d realised she’d gone and reckoned you’d return her safely one way or another, so he was watching out for us. And then, on the way back here, I met Davey Patchett.’

  Luke nodded—Patchett was a local fisherman and smuggler, who often sailed over to France by night for illicit liquor.

  ‘His boat got into Bircham Staithe earlier this evening,’ Josh went on. ‘Davey’s been over to Calais. And he was about to set off up here, Captain, because when he was in Calais harbour, someone came up to him and asked him to deliver a letter to you. I said I’d bring it.’

  Davey sometimes brought messages to Luke from Jacques—it was nothing unusual. But this time, Luke felt a coldness at his chest. A premonition. He held out his hand and Josh gave the letter to him; it was sealed and salt-stained. His pulse racing now, he tore it open.

  Luke’s eyes scoured Jacques’s familiar, scratchy writing.

  Mon ami,

  I have learned for certain that your brother was on the run for only a few weeks after the betrayal at La Rochelle before he became a prisoner of Napoleon’s men. After that—no news at all. But we have met someone who knew your brother well. And I hope to be with you in person, very soon.

  Luke read the letter again, as if reading it could alter the contents. Anthony taken prisoner? There was little hope for him, then. Luke knew the kind of atrocious conditions that an Englishman suspected of being a spy would be kept in.

  ‘Is it bad news, Captain?’ Josh’s enquiry was hesitant. Tom was there, too, hovering in the shadows.

  Luke suddenly realised how every muscle, every sinew of his body was taut with the shock of the news. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Jacques writes that my brother was taken prisoner.’

  Tom spoke up. ‘Then he might still be alive somewhere?’

  Luke didn’t reply. But I will not give up hope, he vowed under his breath. Never will I give up hope.

  Josh and Tom had quietly left him, realising, he guessed, that he needed solitude. Luke went back to the dining hall to pour himself more brandy—and all that kept him company in that big, lonely room was this letter and the delicate lavender scent that lingered from the girl who’d been there a short while ago.

  Elise. Elise Duchamp. He swallowed some brandy. She was another weapon in his hand, that was all—another possible lead to follow. If her father was Napoleon’s man, it meant nothing to him. During Luke’s years in the British army, he’d seen countless men on both sides die terrible deaths, and for what? His mouth curled cynically. Was there really so much difference between Napoleon’s grand ambitions to expand his empire and Britain’s ruthless will to keep its control of trade and sea routes?

  It was justice for his brother that mattered to him now. Nothing else. Which was precisely why the girl must mean nothing to him—especially since she was clearly deceiving Lord Franklin, and would no doubt deceive him, too, if he gave her the chance.

  He had to make use of her, that was all. He had to shut his mind to that reckless, desperate bravery of hers that tugged at some emotion deep inside him; because, quite simply, it was an emotion that he could not afford to indulge.

  Chapter Eleven

  During the next few days, Ellie watched from her bedroom window as
the iron-hard frosts of late January took Bircham Hall in their grip. She saw how the lawns and neatly clipped hedges shimmered with delicate ice crystals all day long; saw how the sun scarcely seemed to rise above the bare woods beyond the garden and how, as twilight gathered, great flocks of geese would fly overhead in immaculate formation, making for the marshlands for the night, while the sun sank into a fiery red sky.

  Ellie continued to join Lady Charlotte and Miss Pringle for meals, at which Lady Charlotte dominated the conversations, always. Miss Pringle ate as quickly as she could and nodded her agreement with all of her ladyship’s outrageous opinions, while Ellie remained as silent as possible.

  ‘Clearly,’ Lady Charlotte said to her, ‘no man is going to marry you for your conversation, Elise.’

  Every afternoon, Ellie went walking in the gardens, in spite of the bitter cold that clawed at her gloved fingers, and she thought of the man, Luke. What was his story? He’d told her himself that he’d been a captain in the army and she had to assume that his hand was injured in some battle in Spain—but why his acute interest in the French port of La Rochelle, which was far away from any fighting involving the British ?

  There were other issues that she tried, for now, to push aside—such as the fact that he had offered her a starkly undeniable male challenge at that meeting, as if he was staking some kind of claim.

  He was making her his spy, she reminded herself bitterly. That was all. The instant he touched her, she should have slapped his hand away—but she hadn’t, and the memory of his touch still burned inside her veins, long and slow and deep. What a fool she was.

  Quelle idiote.

  * * *

  She was becoming accustomed, now, to the clockwork routine of the household, which was strictly run by the housekeeper, Mrs Sheerham. She was all too aware of the early hour at which the servants had to start their work; was familiar now with the arrival of the maid Mary at seven every morning to light a fire in her bedroom. Mary always carried out her work cheerfully even though her poor fingers were painfully red and chapped.

  ‘I have some woollen mittens you may borrow, Mary,’ Ellie said to her once. Mary was lighting the fire and was visibly shivering; Ellie had already risen from her bed and was wrapped in her dressing robe. She went to fetch the mittens from a drawer. ‘Here. Please take them. And I can lend you this chemise, made of flannelette—it’s not right that you should suffer so in this cold weather.’

  Mary’s face brightened as she looked at what Ellie was holding out. But then she shook her head. ‘Thank you, miss! But Mrs Sheerham says we must never accept any gifts from his lordship’s guests.’

  ‘Then tell Mrs Sheerham that I was going to throw the gloves and chemise away,’ said Ellie. ‘If you are asked.’ She thrust the items into Mary’s hands. ‘Please use them. I really don’t need them.’ And Mary accepted, gratefully.

  I would gladly, thought Ellie, give her, too, the gowns and pelisses that Lord Franklin bought for me in London. But of course Mary would have even less use for them than she did.

  Mary was still disappointed by Ellie’s refusal to wear any of the lovely gowns. Sometimes, when she was fetching one of Ellie’s old dresses from the wardrobe, she would gaze longingly at the London clothes, made of satin and silk in colours of pink and turquoise and pale green.

  ‘You could wear one of them to dinner with her ladyship, miss,’ Mary said hopefully. ‘It seems such a shame to leave them untouched.’

  Ellie almost laughed—to dress in silks and satins for Lady Charlotte, who thought her a jade anyway, was surely the height of folly. She shook her head. ‘I’m quite comfortable in my old gowns,’ she told Mary gently.

  She continued to walk around the grounds without fail every afternoon, despite the bitter chill. She noted that every few days Lady Charlotte was driven out in her carriage to visit friends in the neighbourhood—she saw her being assisted out to the carriage, swathed in furs, with a groom carrying a hot stone bottle to place by her feet. On these occasions, Lady Charlotte made more fuss than ever to anyone within hearing about her lack of mobility and the pain she endured.

  ‘Especially in the cold weather,’ she would say. ‘I am a martyr to my health.’

  Ellie could not forget the time she’d seen her on her feet and pouring herself some sherry before walking back to her bath chair. She wondered if the servants knew of Lady Charlotte’s duplicity, though all of them appeared to bear her complaints with stoic endurance. But Ellie also noticed that the atmosphere in the house changed markedly on the afternoons when her ladyship went visiting. Bircham Hall, without her acid tongue and her judgemental eye, was to Ellie a much kinder place.

  Although Ellie herself was still filled with tension. Any day now, she kept reminding herself, the man called Captain Luke will find a way to remind me that I must get into Lord Franklin’s library. Or else...

  Or else he would let Lord Franklin—and possibly the whole world—know that her father once worked for Napoleon.

  Would Luke dare to approach Lord Franklin himself? She doubted it. She felt sure that he had spent part of his recent life at least tangling in some fashion with the law, and he would surely tread carefully where Lord Franklin was concerned.

  But there were plenty of other ways in which he could expose her—for instance, he could ensure that the compass was seen by curious observers, or he could set rumours in motion. Once the secret of her father’s past was out, Ellie knew there would be no refuge for her here in England.

  And if you’re caught, he’d warned, you’ll find yourself thrown into prison, for being a spy for Napoleon. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. If only she’d never let him see the compass! But it was too late, now, for that. It was too late also to think of running—she’d already tried it and failed.

  Yet what else could she do? How else could she escape the threat the captain posed? Not by visiting him in person, that was sure. Because the effect he had on her was quite possibly the biggest threat of all to her safety. Just one touch. Just one look and she’d felt herself under attack; felt heat racing through her veins and her blood pound.

  Guard yourself, you fool. Guard yourself.

  * * *

  Ellie had already met Lord Franklin’s steward Mr Appleby in London, and here at Bircham Hall she came across him quite frequently. He had a comfortable house in the neighbourhood, he told her with some pride, and his own office in the Hall, close to the housekeeper’s rooms. His job was to manage Lord Franklin’s vast Kent estate, dealing with taxes and salaries and collecting in the rents from the tenanted farms.

  ‘There couldn’t be a fairer landlord in all of England than Lord Franklin,’ he remarked when he invited Ellie into his office one day to enquire after her well-being. ‘It really is a privilege to work for him. I call here at the Hall often, mainly to update the accounts. And of course, I regularly visit all of the tenant farms, also—but last week I travelled to London to see his lordship, who asked me to keep an eye on you particularly and to let him know if there is anything at all you need.’

  If Mr Appleby remembered anything about Ellie’s protest to Lord Franklin that her room had been searched, he made no reference to it.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Appleby went on, adjusting his spectacles, ‘and if you do have any requests, I will gladly convey your wishes to his lordship once he’s returned from his travels.’

  ‘He’s going to Paris, isn’t he?’ Miss Pringle had told her that.

  ‘Indeed, yes. Of course, you probably know the city, mam’selle?’

  ‘I grew up there.’ Her voice was almost a whisper, because it took a great effort to push aside the haunting memories of childhood happiness. ‘Is Paris restored to normality then, Mr Appleby?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness! And Napoleon Bonaparte is confined on the last kingdom he’ll ever rule—the island of Elba. Don’t you worry, mam’se
lle—the Corsican monster is beaten for good and Paris, they say, is a city full of parties and gaiety again. Although as you’ll probably know—’ he chuckled ‘—his lordship is not much of a one for partying, since his true passion is fine art. Doubtless he’ll be looking for more exceptional items to add to his collection. I’ve heard that now peace has come, many paintings and sculptures that were hidden away at the time of the Revolution—well before you were born, of course!—are coming to light again. Ah, Paris. A lovely city. And some day—who knows?—you may be able to go back there.’

  She remembered Paris with a sudden vividness that wrenched at her heart. Remembered the Palace of the Tuileries, where her father once took her to see Napoleon himself holding court. The glorious celebrations that accompanied Napoleon’s wedding, when the public fountains ran with wine and the city was bright with fireworks and flowers.

  Mr Appleby talked on, but Ellie, in her heart, was far away.

  * * *

  The February days went by slowly, marked by grey skies and bitter cold—and Ellie heard nothing more from the captain. Perhaps he’d gone away? Perhaps he was afraid she might have reported his threat?

  She couldn’t imagine him being afraid of anything or anyone, but even so, she allowed herself the luxury of hope. Until, one day after breakfast when sleet was battering at the window panes of her private sitting room, there was a quiet knock at her door.

  Ellie was curled up before the fire reading a poetry book of her mother’s. Slowly she put the book aside. Mary? Miss Pringle? Poor Miss Pringle—she regularly came to Ellie’s room to keep her company, Miss Pringle explained, but really Ellie guessed it was to escape her ladyship’s constant harrying.

  But it was neither Mary nor Miss Pringle, because after the knock, Ellie heard a man’s voice. ‘I’ve brought coal for your fire, ma’am.’

  She was already on her feet. ‘Come in.’ It was Joseph. She’d seen him in the distance often enough, but he’d never before tried to speak to her, never made obvious in the slightest way his connection with the captain.