Dangerous Deceptions

by Sarah Zettel

  In the next heartbeat, he charged, and I ducked again, all the way under the water. The boat rocked, listed, and righted only reluctantly. I couldn’t hold my breath anymore, and I shot up, gasping and shoving the filthy stinging water from my eyes.

  Mr. Leroy was in the other boat, wrestling with whoever still manned it. The current had us all now, and we pitched and rolled, helplessly tangled together by the grappling rope. I clung to the gunwales, struggling to find a way to clamber across to where the men fought in that other rocking, sinking boat, seemingly oblivious to the oncoming bridge, only seeking to throw each other into the maelstrom and be the last standing.

  I grabbed hold of the grappling hook where it dug into our stern and heaved with what remained of my strength. It came free with a sodden splintering of wood. I’d just torn a hole in the boat and did not care. I reached out with that rough iron hook to the other craft, crying and praying to God, who surely could not hear over the roar of the waters. I reached to the ends of my strength and fingertips, but at last caught the gunwale of Lord Lynnfield’s boat. The hook’s tip bit into the bow, and it held. I wrapped both numb hands around the shaft, and I hauled myself over the rail.

  I couldn’t have done it without my corset. That hated cage shielded my body as I dragged myself—chest, belly, leaden skirts, bruised feet—into that other boat. I tumbled into the new bilge, limp, cold, without strength, and halfway convinced I had already died. Overhead, the men were cursing and swearing. One fell to his knees. The other hefted an oar. I could not tell one from the other. A wave splashed over the gunwale, and I coughed and cried out, evidently not yet dead after all. The boat listed to port, then starboard, and I curled in on myself as far as my stays would allow. Then I heard Mr. Leroy holler, and my head jerked up. Pym was bearing Mr. Leroy back, down toward the Thames’s raging waters. Any minute now, Johnny Leroy would slip, he would fall, he would be gone.

  I screamed with what felt like it must be my last breath. I grabbed Pym’s boot and I twisted and I heaved.

  As he fell into the boiling Thames, I dizzily thought how proud Monsieur Janvier would be.

  Mr. Leroy was on his knees in the water beside me, gathering me to him. “I’m sorry, Peg,” he gasped.

  I made no answer. I am ashamed to say, I cowered against him.

  In the next heartbeat, we were at the bridge. The bows slammed against a wall of water, and our boat tipped up, and the waves came down, and the force of it all washed away the remainder of the world, and it seemed there was nothing to be done at all.

  Except drown.

  THIRTY-ONE

  IN WHICH THERE PROVE TO BE MULTIPLE ENDINGS, PLUS ONE BEGINNING.

  My assessment that there was nothing left to do was made under great duress. Like most such assessments, it eventually proved incorrect.

  Across an unknown space of time, I found there were several items left to be accomplished. There was a significant amount of pain to be felt, along with cold like the end of the world. There was a buffeting from all directions to be withstood, and the memory of a pair of arms strong as bronze and leather holding on to me.

  This was followed by a space of darkness when I sincerely believed that not breathing was the most peaceful feeling in the world and that I should never bother with such nonsense again. It is entirely possible that if I had not seen my old nightmare ghost waiting for me at the end of that darkness, I might have given up my own.

  Then the air hit with all the force of a storm wind, and I was gasping and crying and vomiting up Thames water onto an expanse of stinking mud. I will never in my life forget the indescribably foul taste.

  But I was alive. Each painful breath against what felt like a great, granite stone under my chest told me I was alive, as did my corset stays, which seemed to have become deformed and were digging into my aching ribs.

  But I was alive.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the sky for a time, doing nothing but breathing. It was cold—colder than I have ever been and it is to be hoped colder than I ever will be again. The first gray hints of dawn glimmered above the great sleeping bulk of London town. Despite cold and pain, I laughed for the delight and wonder of it all.

  There was a groan beside me. Johnny Leroy rolled weakly onto his side. He was black with mud and Thames water, but his eyes opened, and they were clear and focused as he looked at me.

  “Stout lass,” he croaked, and coughed. I suspect that had there not been so much waterlogged beard concealing it, I might have seen a smile. “Stout lass, Peggy.”

  “Why?” My throat was so dreadfully raw, even that one word hurt, but I couldn’t remain silent. “Why did you . . .”

  He did not speak in reply. He just fumbled at his shirt collar until his trembling fingers got hold of a chain and pulled it out. On the chain hung a ring. How the bauble had stayed about his neck, I will never know. I could barely feel my own fingers, but I lifted that ring to my eyes.

  It was a signet ring. The gold surface was carved with two letters, twinned tightly together: J and E. My heart stopped. Because I knew this ring. I had played with it as a child.

  This man—this wild-haired, greasy ruffian turned river pirate, lying in the mud, perhaps coughing his last breath away—this was my father, Jonathan Fitzroy. That was why he called me Peggy. That was why when he grew so agitated, his voice and diction changed. That was why he had risked himself to save me not once, but over and again.

  I thought about him being in the warehouse owned by my uncle and the Jacobite Lord Lynnfield, with a load of silver coin hidden in barrels of oatmeal. I thought how Mr. Tinderflint wrote me that the jewel he sought had been sent from Paris overseas.

  My father was a spy, and the natural haunt of a spy was a nest of Jacobites and traitors, of course, and the nearest destination overseas from Paris was England’s own shore.

  I thought of impossibilities and coincidences, and why had no one told me? But this made my head hurt even worse, so I tried not to think about it anymore. There did remain the question of what I should say now. How did a fond and tender maiden properly greet her father upon his grand reentrance into her life?

  “I promised myself I’d slap your face if ever I found you.”

  My father received these words of esteem and affection with a grave demeanor. “I’ll endeavor to stay alive long enough to give you the chance.”

  “Mother is dead,” I told him.

  “Yes, I know.” He spoke these words so softly, I could barely distinguish them from the lapping of the Thames nearby.

  “I was eight. They sent me to live with Uncle Pierpont.”

  “I do know, Peggy, and I’m sorry.”

  “But you didn’t come back.”

  “I’m here now.” He gestured weakly. “Such as I am.”

  It was a statement I could not argue with. I had, however, a thousand other things I intended to say to this man, a thousand questions to ask him, and a thousand curses to level against him. I wanted to yell and cry and explain to him in exacting detail what his absence had cost me and my mother. But I had no strength, and in the end, I just lay there and stared at the signet ring.

  Slowly, my father, Jonathan Fitzroy, sat up. He took the ring from me and tucked it back beneath his shirt.

  “We need to go, Peggy.” He looked behind us. “There’ll be those combing the docks who would be glad to find such fresh pickings as you and I.”

  This sober and believable statement rallied my spirits enough that I found myself able to sit up, broken stays and all.

  “We are not done,” I told him.

  “I hope that’s true.” My father took hold of my forearms and heaved me once more to my feet.

  My readers will, I hope, forgive me if I pass lightly over what followed—how, shivering and mud coated, we stumbled through the meanest, filthiest streets London had to offer. How we fetched up in one blind court after another, trying to find our way. How a gang of drunks almost dragged me from my father’s side, on the assumption
I must be a whore. How we discovered that I still had one gold pin tangled in my hair, and with that treasure clutched in my fingertips, we all but toppled into a tavern that smelled roughly as foul as the Thames. How it was my begging and my father’s threatening that got the tavern keeper to send a boy running with a message to Great Queen Street.

  That was my choice. Wherever in the depths of London we might be, Matthew was still my closest and surest friend. Also, I wanted him to know I was alive. More than that, though, I wanted to know he was alive. I wanted above all things to fall into Matthew’s arms and know that I had not escaped a river a thousand times worse than the Styx only to find myself alone in the world.

  I could barely stand to think what might have happened to Olivia.

  After the boy took to his heels, there was only waiting. We did this slumped on the bench before the fire. Eventually, it occurred to the tavern keeper that there was something out of the ordinary wrong with us. With a grunt, he stuffed wooden mugs of a hot, strong drink I could not even begin to identify into our hands. I drank this murky, anonymous beverage as quickly as I could swallow it, grateful beyond measure for the warmth and the taste of something besides Thames in my mouth.

  I cannot say for certain if I slept, but time did seem to proceed in fits and starts. Despite this, when the battered coach came lurching over the rutted dirt street, I came instantly and fully awake. In fact, I was on my feet and halfway out the door without memory of how I got there.

  But it was not Matthew who leapt down from the postilion’s perch. It was his friends from the academy, Heathe and Torrent, and both of them reeled back as I ran to them.

  “Where is he!” I shouted. “Where’s Matthew! Where’s Olivia!”

  “My God, Miss Fitzroy!” cried Heathe, covering mouth and nose with one great ham-hand. “It is you! The world’s been searching for you! Soldiers in the streets and all of it! There’s a reward.”

  “And you can claim it if you live long enough!” I told him. “Where’re Matthew and Olivia!”

  “Miss Pierpont’s at Leicester House writing advertisements and offering more rewards. Matthew’s abed with a broken skull and a foul temper. We didn’t dare tell him about your message for fear he’d try to get up—”

  “Take me to him! Now! No! Wait!” I staggered back into the tavern and shook my dozing father. “We’re leaving.”

  “I can’t be seen at the palace,” he said groggily.

  “Good, because we are not going there.” I tossed my gold pin to the tavern keeper and hurried out, leaving it to my father to decide whether he would follow.

  I will say this for the students of art. They are an easygoing lot, and those vibrant imaginations let them accept all manner of possibilities that would drive the strongest man of the court to distraction. As my wild man of a parent followed me out, Heathe and Torrent initially attempted to spring to my defense. But as soon as I told them to never mind him, they shrugged and did not mind. There may have been some extra odd glances shot between them, but for this, I cannot blame them.

  The ride that followed was long. The poorly sprung coach pitched and rolled as badly as our boat had when caught in the flood of the Thames. All my bruises and pains were doubled and tripled with each rattle and jounce as we crawled through the warren of narrow streets and alleys. But eventually, we did reach Great Queen Street and the academy. This time I made no protest at being led in the back way. Neither did I refuse the arm Heathe offered to help me up the stairs to the low, dim dormitory room where Matthew lay in bed.

  He was pale as the sheet that covered him and with a bandage around his skull. My knees gave way. It was fortunate Heathe had shoved a stool underneath me.

  “Matthew.” I laid my filth-encrusted hand over his pale one.

  His eyes flew open.

  “Oh, lord, don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m a horror.”

  “You’re here,” he said. “You’re alive.”

  Without ceremony, Matthew pulled me down to him and kissed me. If I had not loved this man before, in that moment, I loved him more than life itself.

  Shortly after this reunion, the entire school moved itself to his—our—assistance. I remain uncertain whether this was a measure of the esteem in which Matthew Reade was held or a measure of the artistic love for drama of all sorts. Water was heated, and screens were raised around great copper kettles that could be used as hip baths. The models who let themselves be drawn from life proved kind and practical women. They lent me enough articles of clothing—a shift, a plain woolen dress, stockings, slippers, a cap—to make me minimally decent. A collection was taken up so that bread, cheese, mutton, and pease pottage could be procured from the public house in the next street. A maid was persuaded to give up her room for at least a few hours so that I could sleep, although I left Matthew’s side only when he told me that my presence was interfering with his own ability to rest.

  That I slept like the dead goes without saying.

  When I woke, it was to darkness, panic, and no memory of how I came to be in this room. Then I saw the candle burning on its pewter dish and Matthew sprawled in the battered chair at my bedside. His bandaged head lolled back, and a snore of remarkable length and volume rumbled from his open mouth.

  I smiled and turned over and went back to sleep.

  When I woke the second time, it was to the press of a callused hand holding mine. I opened my eyes to see Matthew smiling softly down at me.

  I think I meant to speak his name, but I had no chance, for he was kissing me with infinite gentleness. All memory of pain and fear and fury fled as I gave myself over to this moment and the simple, joyful act of kissing my paramour. It was not until we parted that I realized there were voices in the room. Over the curve of Matthew’s shoulder, I saw my father standing in the corner, talking softly.

  The person he was talking to, as it happened, was Mr. Tinderflint.

  I’m afraid the next words that came out of my mouth would have done Mr. Pym proud.

  “Rest easy, Peggy Mostly,” said Matthew as he gripped my shoulders. I was attempting to kick back the covers and scramble to my feet. “Easy!”

  “I am not a horse, and you will let go of me, Mr. Reade!” I snapped or, rather, croaked. My throat still seemed to be suffering from its prolonged contact with the Thames. Regardless, I had no intention of telling my patron what I thought of him and all his doings while flat on my back like an invalid. I was going to look him right in his watery eyes.

  This mildly admonishing discourse caught the attention of both men, and they turned toward me.

  “It’s all right, Peg,” said my father.

  “Why on earth should I listen to you, sirrah!” I swatted at Matthew’s hands, but he didn’t let go. I was forced to remain in the bed unless I wished to apply some of Monsieur Janvier’s teachings, which, I will say, was not entirely out of the question. Matthew did at least permit me to sit up.

  “You’re a lying blackguard, and you’re standing there talking with another!”

  My father sighed and cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Tinderflint. “She has a point.”

  “You will find, my friend, that she generally does, and a good one at that. A very good one.”

  “Just like her mother.”

  Mr. Tinderflint nodded until all his chins flopped.

  I looked at Matthew. “Let go of me,” I ordered. “I’m going to murder them both.”

  “No, you’re not,” Matthew answered with infuriating calm. “You’re going to trust me when I say that if murder were called for, I would have already done it.”

  I had no immediate answer for that.

  “My dear—” began Mr. Tinderflint.

  “Don’t you dare!” I cut him off. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me! You ruined my uncle once before. You put me up to this business of maid of honor and spy and the rest of it to ruin him again, and my cousin! You led me on with all those stories about my mother, and you knew all the time where my father was, and you
have the gall to call me “dear”! And you!” I turned to my father. “You let him! You let him! I could have died right along with Mother for all you cared!”

  “You know that’s not true,” said my father.

  I fell back against the pillows and folded my arms tight across my chest. My cheeks were hot, and my eyes burned, but no tears fell. Matthew squeezed my shoulder. He said nothing, only made sure I knew he was there.

  “Mr. Reade, if you would give us a moment?” inquired Mr. Tinderflint.

  “No,” said Matthew.

  Mr. Tinderflint looked at my father. “Let him stay,” said Father.

  Mr. Tinderflint shrugged. “Very well.” Someone had moved a battered wingback chair into the room, and Mr. Tinderflint lowered himself into it. “Now, Peggy, I’ll tell you. Yes, I will.”

  I did my utmost to make sure he saw that this story had better be a good one. I was gratified to see him blanch, just a little. A thorough rinse in the Thames evidently did wonders for a person’s powers of glaring.

  “Our late Queen Anne’s death was a slow, sad time coming,” said Mr. Tinderflint. “There was, as you must understand, a great deal of jockeying for position and power while it was happening. There was also much going back and forth over whether Hanover or Stuart would take the throne. The power games were deep and complex. They played out for money and patriotism and religion and a thousand other reasons. Then, as now, some plots were true threats to the nation and the throne, some were nothing but air and the dreams of drunken men.

  “Those of us who were ready to declare for Hanover knew it would be vital to tell the difference between the two. We had to put in place our best men to learn the differences and report back. One of these men was your father, Mr. Jonathan Fitzroy.”