All Through the Night

by Connie Brockway

The names obviously meant nothing to the frail old man. “We were talking to the queen and We did not like being interrupted.”

  Anne glanced worriedly at Jack. The queen had died some months before.

  “Forgive us, Your Majesty.” The portly old man sitting down lumbered upright. He had a voice as gentle as his mien.

  “Who is that?” the king asked sharply.

  “Knowles, Your Majesty.”

  “Knowles. Podgy fellow with more pockets than I’ve coin? And which pocket are you emptying today, Knowles?”

  Anne glanced at Jack in dismay. But he was smiling slightly, and Knowles seemed in no way disconcerted by the odd turn of the conversation.

  “I have a letter in one, sire. You’d dictated it and sent it off but it was lost.”

  “Did I? To whom did I write this missing letter?”

  “A Mrs. Mary Cashman, sire.”

  The royal visage crumpled in concentration. The king’s brow knit into a thunderous, bewildered aspect. Beside her she could sense Jack holding his breath, and then, like a minor miracle, the disoriented expression faded. Peace filled the old, seamed face.

  “The sailor’s mother.”

  “Yes, sire,” Knowles said with alacrity. “We have recovered the letter, Your Majesty.”

  “Good,” the king said. He sighed and tapped his finger sharply against the chest of the bruising young hulk cradling him as easily as a mother does her child. “The colonies must be brought to heel. See that Pitt comes to us tonight. We will not lose them, do you hear? We would be laughed at in all the courts of Europe. We will not—”

  “Mrs. Cashman cannot read, sire!” Knowles shouted.

  The king’s mouth grew flat. “Cannot read? Well, then read the letter out loud to her, man!”

  “Yes, sir.” From his pocket, Knowles withdrew the sheet of vellum Anne had stolen. He opened it and approached the figure of Mary Cashman still trembling near a curtsey at the far wall.

  “Mrs. Cashman?”

  “Aye?” Her answer was nearly inaudible.

  “Good,” Knowles said, and offered her a small, encouraging smile. “His Majesty, George the Third, King of England writes:

  Madam,

  We, too, have lost beloved children. We regret Our Son and Heir did not do His sovereign duty on Our behalf and halt so grave a miscarriage of justice. Accept our condolences, madam, and know that Your King appreciates your sacrifice on His behalf.

  G

  “That is the sum total of this letter, madam. It is yours. You may take it if you like.”

  “You can’t possibly—” Jamison stepped forward; Jack stayed him with a hand on his upper arm.

  “You would be most wise to remain quiet,” he whispered. “Most wise.”

  Jamison shook his arm free, staring at Jack with open enmity. But he remained silent.

  “Well, Mrs. Cashman,” Knowles prodded, “what of it?”

  A single tear slipped from the corner of Mrs. Cashman’s eyes. She straightened slightly, not much, but enough that one could see the innate dignity His Majesty’s words had given back to this, the poorest of his subjects. And in that moment, Anne loved her blind, mad, ancient monarch. She would have put down her life for him.

  “I gots no call to take that letter, sir, thankin’ ye very kindly,” Mary Cashman said quietly. “No one would believe this ’appened anyways and that letter would only be jeered at as a fake. I won’t have no one jeerin’ at this day and this moment. I’ll keep it here”—she placed a gnarled hand over her heart—“and I’ll carry it to me grave. God bless Your Majesty.”

  Knowles stared at the woman, a complex and unreadable series of expressions passing with lightning rapidity over his soft, doughy face. Then he turned and called out, “Your Majesty, Mrs. Cashman bids God’s blessings on you.”

  The royal head nodded, accepting the blessing as his due. He tugged at the shirt of his bearer. “The queen does not like being kept waiting, Bob.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The huge youngster turned and, gingerly bearing his fragile king in his arms, departed through the back door. The other attendant followed close behind.

  “Mrs. Cashman, Burke here”—Knowles nodded to the glorious-looking youth by his side—“will see you home. I believe there is a matter of monetary compensation to be addressed. Burke shall address it.”

  The young man named Burke snapped into a bow over Mrs. Cashman’s astonished face and offered his arm. “Right you are, Mrs. Cashman.” He grinned and Mrs. Cashman blinked, smitten with his godlike good looks. “We’ll ’ave—have you home in a dash.”

  Mrs. Cashman, Anne felt sure, would have gone to Spain had he suggested it. She certainly left the room quickly enough. Jamison waited a few seconds before walking stiffly past them through the door. Knowles sighed, pausing on his way out.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Seward,” he said. She did not know his station or his rank but he’d aided Jack and that was more important to her than either of the other two so she curtseyed. He smiled at that. “She has as good manners as you, Jack. Just think of what your children will be.”

  His smile stayed on his face and his tone didn’t change. “Jamison will assume you’ll seek his … elimination. He’ll anticipate it.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Jack said levelly. “But I won’t, sir. Not unless he—” For a fraction of an instant, Jack’s eyes flickered toward her.

  “Yes, I see.” Knowles nodded. “Didn’t think you would, him being your father and all. Still, wouldn’t have been too great of a surprise.”

  He wouldn’t have been surprised if Jack sought to kill the man as close to being a father as Jack knew? Anne wondered in horror. Did no one know Jack?

  Knowles paused, his hand on the door. He looked out into the hallway and then, satisfied no one was there, turned his head. “To avert any further unpleasantness, I would consider relocation, Jack. I really would.”

  And he, too, left.

  EPILOGUE

  The fog rose early that evening, and it rose fast. It flowed over the ground and prowled up the sides of buildings, enveloping everything in its path with thick, soft plush. Anne and Jack stood on the balcony of Strand’s mansion and watched the world being devoured by a cloud. Strand was not with them. Saying he preferred his club, he’d given them the use of the house.

  Jack’s arms enfolded Anne, pressing her against him. Trapped mist sparkled in her loose hair and dusted her cheeks with dew. The moon had risen and its chance light found depths in her eyes he wanted to spend a lifetime exploring.

  “What about the Home?” she asked a little anxiously. “You’re certain Julia Knapp will be allowed to supervise it?”

  “Yes,” he answered, brushing his lips over her temple. “Those papers you signed earlier gave her control of its administration.”

  Anne nodded. The fog had made its way to the balcony now. It wound around their ankles like little white phantom cats.

  “Can you really do it?” she whispered, reaching her hand up to rest it on his chest. Tenderly he covered it with his own, lowering his head and brushing a kiss across her fingertips. “Can you really make people just disappear?”

  He smiled. “Anne, I’m a master spy. This is what I do.” He sobered. “And I do it well. But when we disappear, we will disappear for good. We leave everything behind: possessions, friends, family, and rank.”

  “The cat? Can we bring the gray cat?” she asked in a troubled voice.

  “And that’s all,” he answered gravely. “It’s the only way this will work.”

  “I know.” Her breath came out in a long, shaky sigh mingling with the misty shroud that had swirled up around her shoulders, caressing her throat and tangling in her hair.

  He tilted her chin up to see her face. Beautiful Anne. His thief. His wife.

  His arms tightened around her. “Take one last look then, Anne. Say good-bye to all you hold dear.”

  But she looked instead at him, because in him she saw all and everything s
he held dear. She gazed at him long and faithfully. Filled with the singing sweetness of loving as well as being loved, she did not notice the fog finally enveloping them.

  And when a chance breeze blew it away, they were gone.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  John Cashman was a real person. He was tried, found guilty, and executed for treason in much the circumstances I have set forth in this story. New evidence suggests that King George III suffered from a disease called porphyria, some of the symptoms of which are hallucinations and psychosis. These symptoms, while recurring, would not necessarily be unremitting. History has well documented the antipathy between King George and his son, the prince regent. In having an enfeebled, powerless, mad monarch indulge in one moment of lucid charity, I have played the age-old author’s game of what-if. I hope the results have proved entertaining.