Spyfall

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  Clem looked ready to insist on hearing about it now when Nate had good fortune in the arrival of Clem’s son, Sam, a gangly youth who was as tall as his father was short. Only the nose and the grin gave his parentage away.

  Sam insisted his old man join him and his friends in a game of darts.

  Nate waved them along and pointed to his unfinished beer as explanation for not joining them.

  A flash of memory hit him. He was once more in the middle of the overcrowded prison. His hand shook as he reached for the tankard and another mouthful of beer.

  Those poor souls, those haunted men… they’d only see home again when the war was over – and only God knew how long that would be.

  This afternoon as he napped, he dreamed of one of them who had been in the oubliette along with him. The man had been there for a long time. The fullness of a beard hid a gaunt, pale face. His voice was rusty from disuse. He coughed frequently.

  The man insisted that Nate write to his family. He actually dictated a letter but it was nonsensical, filled with references to mythological creatures. Each day, the wretched man would recite the same letter over and over and insisted Nate learn it word perfect.

  To occupy his time, as days became weeks in that hellish hole, he did memorize it and recited it back to the man who, despite his weakened condition, could rouse enough energy to yell if he got the text wrong or embellished it.

  Then one morning, Nate woke and found he was the only one alive.

  That had given him nightmares this afternoon – and he counted himself fortunate he’d not awakened screaming.

  Even now, the phlegmatic words of his companion came back to him.

  Dear Aunt Runella,

  Your nephew has been remiss in writing, but the Gorgons have been insistent on having their way…

  Rubbish! The ravings of a man gone mad and yet the man had given him a perfectly sensible address.

  Charteris House

  Truro, Cornwall.

  Perhaps a few words to let the poor bastard’s family know of his end would help assuage his guilt that he survived when so many other men did not…

  Chapter Five

  Susannah sounded the small brass gong which sat on the counter behind the bar.

  “Time gentlemen, please! Last drinks!” she called.

  And like cows ready to be milked, the men made an orderly line, more or less, eager for one last pint before the clock struck eleven.

  As she and Peggy served, Susannah glanced around looking for Nate Payne. He wasn’t here, nor was Clem. Perhaps he had taken her insistence of removing the smuggled goods to heart and decided to do that tonight, instead of on the morrow.

  He didn’t need to do that, especially since he was obviously recovering from his ordeal.

  During the course of the evening, she’d glanced his way from time to time. He seemed to struggle to eat the meal set before him and nursed the same pint for hours.

  Eight months in a French prison is enough to change a man…

  Enough to change his appetite at least.

  Just before the eleventh hour chimed, Nate returned alone. He ran a hand through his wind-ruffled hair. A day-old beard darkened his cheeks. His concession to the evening was a navy blue coat that somehow altogether made him look every inch a dashing pirate.

  “I’m afraid the bar has closed,” said Peggy, “but since you’re a staying guest, I suppose we can bend the rules.”

  He shook his head and flashed Susannah a smile before addressing Peggy.

  “I wouldn’t want to get the landlady in trouble,” he said. “But I’d kill for a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll do that, Peggy,” Susannah insisted. “We’ve all earned one tonight.”

  She slipped into the kitchen without waiting for an acknowledgement. The truth of the matter was she found Nate Payne interesting and, yes, if she was being honest, she was starting to find him physically attractive, too.

  And that simply wouldn’t do.

  She set the water to boil and finished drying and stacking away the plates, then put away the cutlery from the meal service.

  Prince lay asleep in his usual spot in a corner near the fire, his large body curled up on a faded mat made of fabric rags.

  Susannah liked the life she had made in St. Sennen. The villagers welcomed her and didn’t pry into her past. The one or two men who’d expressed their interest in her were firmly but politely rebuffed and did not persist. After a while, she could even feel at ease in any company – just as long she kept her distance.

  Out by the bar, she heard the sound of laughter as Peggy and Nate apparently shared a joke.

  Oh my, yes. She should most certainly keep her distance from him.

  Surely that would be easy to do. It was one of the attractions of buying an inn, after all. No one stayed for long – a night or two that’s all. They could pass in and out of her life just like the flow of the river that ran alongside The Queen’s Head.

  Nate, too, would move on, and everything would be back to normal.

  She heard the conversation between Peggy and Nate grow louder, then they both came into the kitchen together.

  “I was going to bring the tea into the dining room,” she said, mindful her words carried a hint of admonishment in them.

  Peggy’s face dropped and Susannah knew why. She hadn’t used that tone of voice ever since they arrived in St. Sennen. She knew it to be standoffish, prissy, cold. Very much like the lady of the manor.

  But didn’t Peggy see? The kitchen was their domain – hers and Peggy’s and, more recently, Clem who had been welcomed into their group. It was too soon to invite this stranger.

  She braved a glance at him. He, too, looked reserved, although she wasn’t sure whether it was a reaction to her own coolness.

  “I’ll take my cup upstairs,” he said, not once taking his eyes off her.

  She shook her head to clear it. “No, there’s no need to do that. I’m sorry. You’re welcome here, Mr. Payne.”

  “If you’re not going to call me Nate, then I insist you call me Pirate like Peggy here does.”

  Susannah felt heat rise up her face. Peggy spoke before she could think of a reply herself.

  “Oooh, you’re not going to let me forget you overheard that, are you?” said Peggy, lightly tapping him on the arm. She addressed Susannah. “Nate’s offered to build that chicken shed and those shelves in the cellar, starting tomorrow. Isn’t that wonderful, Duch?”

  “I spoke to Clem tonight,” Nate added. “If I can borrow your horse and trap first up tomorrow morning, I can have certain goods away from here and be back by mid-morning with the timber.”

  She tried a tentative smile as her apology. “That’s most generous of you, Nate.”

  The simple act of using of his name seemed to bring genuine joy to his features – not lasciviousness or mockery. Susannah didn’t know what to make of it, so she turned her attention to the kettle on the stove but Peggy had beaten her to it.

  When she looked back, Nate stood by their kitchen room table.

  “Generosity has nothing to do with it,” he said. “As I told you this afternoon, I’m throwing myself on your charity until my buyer pays for his goods.”

  Susannah dropped her chin to hide a smile. Nate Payne was a man who looked less in need of charity than any person she’d ever known and, yet, were his circumstances so much different to hers? After all, both of them needed a fresh start.

  Here, Susannah felt on firmer ground.

  “Let’s not call it charity then,” she said. “Let’s call it a trade.”

  Nate waited a beat, then gave an emphatic nod.

  “That seems eminently fair, Mrs. Linwood.”

  He held out his hand, not as a man would to aid a lady, but rather to shake hands as one would do for a man. An equal. A partner.

  Once more, Susannah searched his face for hints of the mockery or malice she’d learned to detect in people’s faces – chiefly those of her husband and his cronies. Ther
e was none, only an expression of equal caution. The only difference was that in his actions, he was prepared to risk rejection.

  Wasn’t it about time she learned to do the same?

  She breathed in deep. She took his hand and shook it firmly.

  The three of them didn’t linger over tea. Nate had asked them questions about the work he was to start on in the morning and, with those answered, he announced his retirement.

  After he had left, Peggy looked at her over the rim of her teacup and it was a particular look.

  “So, what do you think of our pirate, then?”

  “We’ve known him for two days. Is there a particular opinion I should have of him?” Susannah parried.

  “Well, for my mind, I like him,” Peggy announced, “and I’m a good judge of people. Now, I’m not saying he doesn’t have his faults. He’s a bit too cocksure of himself, I’ll wager, but all men are.”

  “But more importantly, Clem vouched for him, did he?”

  Peggy’s eyes dropped in silent confirmation and Susannah tamped down a small feeling of triumph. See, Peggy was not the only one who could read people.

  “Aye, he did.”

  “What did your beau have to say?”

  Susannah let out a small laugh to see Peggy bristle at the term. Oh yes, it was love – as long as her friend wasn’t too stubborn to see it.

  Peggy told Susannah little more than she had already gleaned for herself. Nate had been in a French prison.

  “Nate was never really expected to come back, even if his smuggling run had been successful. He’d sold up everything to buy the Sprite, but some kind of business venture went sour. Clem wouldn’t say more, but I’d say there was a woman involved because there usually is with his sort.”

  “But other than being a smuggler with dubious business associates and a woman in every port, the pirate is a good man?” Susannah inquired mildly.

  Peggy picked up on her tease and grinned. “Something like that, Duch.”

  *

  To whom it may concern,

  My name is Nathaniel Payne. I write with news which may be of interest to your family.

  My fear is the tale I tell is so nonsensical and so out of sorts that it causes unnecessary distress to your family.

  This story concerns a man I only knew by the name of Felix. His surname, I regret I did not learn before his death. I met him while a prisoner held at Fort St. Pierre in Brittany. I do not know how long he had been held there, but judging by his state, it had been some time.

  He insisted if I should find my way back to England that I was to convey a message to you. In fact, he was so insistent, he had me memorize it and recite it back to him.

  I would have dismissed his request as the sad delusion of someone so far gone, but he gave the address to which I write you.

  Below is his message, transcribed faithfully.

  If it means something, I hope it brings you and your family comfort.

  If it does not, then I regret the distress this letter from a stranger brings you.

  Yours faithfully,

  Nathaniel Payne.

  Nate looked up from the dining table and out of the window with its view into the garden and the paddock beyond. It reminded him of where he was. He was no longer in that dark, dank prison he’d been so recently released from – the one he still saw in his dreams.

  Susannah asked no questions when he asked to borrow pen and paper to write a letter. He suspected he’d given something away in his face that the missive he needed to write was not a happy one and had to be written in private. She had offered him a commiserating look and disappeared through the dining room doors, leaving him alone.

  In the small hours of the morning, he gave up sleep and wrote and rewrote the covering letter in his mind. Over the past hour, he had warred with himself over whether to write the letter at all.

  But that was done and now to commit to paper the words Felix had asked him to commit to memory.

  He stared at the blank second sheet and heard the voice of the man with the death-rattle cough who shared the cell with him.

  Dear Aunt Runella,

  Your nephew has been remiss in writing, but the Gorgons have been insistent on having their way.

  Iris reports Aristeaus has three hundred and Phorcys brings another hundred to his aid.

  Ares has taken to the skies. Eurus brings his usual bad luck, Apheliotes might be prepared to cooperate.

  Adrastus should be aware of betrayal. Pyeois wanders closer.

  Deipneus still plies his trade.

  Thanatos draws closer, too, so this letter will be my last.

  Your faithful nephew,

  Delas

  If Nate didn’t know better, he’d think it was a code of some kind, perhaps a game, instead of the ravings of a man near death.

  He stared at another piece of paper and considered whether Felix’s kin would want to know more of his final days. What could he tell them? Hell, he couldn’t even know where his body was.

  Before he could wallow in the poor man’s misfortune any longer, Nate took the sheet, fashioned an envelope, and addressed it to Charteris House in Truro before sealing it. The wax dripped blood red on the paper.

  There. It would be posted tomorrow and he would have discharged his duty to Felix, God rest his unfortunate soul.

  Working outside was a godsend. The spring sun of late May on his bare back was invigorating. The breeze making its way from the sea up the valley cooled him as he worked and made his chore a pleasant one.

  Nate continued the task he’d started at the beginning of the week. The uprights had been set into holes filled with mortar and packed with dirt and then cross-braced to keep the length of log perpendicular. He used lengths of twine to get his levels before fitting the horizontal connecting girts that would keep the structure rigid.

  It felt good to be doing something with his hands. Perhaps he could build his own cottage not too far away from the river.

  While he worked, Nate indulged in the fantasy of rebuilding his life. He would take on another hand to help him manage the Sprite and establish a legitimate trade around the coast of Cornwall. Every night he would return, knowing he had somewhere to come back to.

  He lifted the girt into place and shoved until the timbers bit. He pulled a mallet from his belt and tapped along the length of the beam, feeling it further mate with the uprights. When he was done, this structure would stand sturdy against the wildest of storms to blow in off the coast.

  He stopped at a sound and mopped his brow. Susannah had shut the front door. She had a basket in hand and was making her way across the paddock to the meadow across the road from the inn. Her hair was pulled back to her nape in a loose chignon, but it was a losing battle against the breeze.

  She put down the basket and removed her straw hat. Light brown hair fell out of it to hang halfway down her back. It glinted gold in the light. She faced into the prevailing breeze to better deal with her hair. The skirts of her dark green gown fluttered around her ankles.

  Nate admired her form as the gown stretched tight across her bust and trim waist while she reached both hands behind her to deal with the wayward pins in her hair.

  She hadn’t noticed him. He suspected she would be less carefree if she did, so he picked up another length of timber he’d earmarked for the lintel over the door and started hammering it into place, so if she did happen to glance his way, she would find him at work.

  Although she was no more than forty yards away from him, Susannah seemed to be in a world of her own. Walking on again, she stepped lightly though the grasses, more like a girl than the cautious woman he’d come to know over the past week.

  A look of delight came over her face as she spotted something in the field ahead. She headed for it with a spring in her step.

  She bobbed down. She’d plucked something red, most likely ripe fruit from a wild strawberry plant.

  The simple honest pleasure of her actions touched something within him. H
ow long had it been since he stopped and looked at the world around him and acknowledged its beauty?

  Nate knew, willing or not, he had been privy to something special. The woman in the field before him was the true Susannah, the one who lay within the quiet, reserved proprietress of The Queen’s Head.

  He wanted to know her better, and wondered what he might have to do to bring another expression of joy to her face.

  He cast his eye across the landscape – the valley in which they stood, shaped over eons by the flow of the river between the two hills. He used to wander through the woods of Arthyn Hill. They could find mushrooms there – perhaps even sheltered parts where sorrel and mallow might grow. There were the paths that crisscrossed Trethowan where blackberries were found.

  Would she enjoy the outing? Would she give him the smile she now reserved for the wild strawberries?

  He’d like to find out.

  Chapter Six

  Susannah crossed the road to the field opposite The Queen’s Head and looked back.

  What a difference six months had made. She and Peggy had worked hard and the fruits of it were beginning to show.

  Windows frosted with unwashed years of grime now gleamed in the sun. The timber sills were painted and tubs of red geraniums and the spikes of rosemary in flower were welcoming and inviting.

  Arthyn Hill, dark green against the bright blue sky, provided the most spectacular backdrop to the inn. Susannah allowed herself to feel pride. She had done this. She had lost sight of who she was and what she could accomplish after so many years of being told she was useless; an adornment and no more.

  With Peggy’s help, she had done it.

  She turned away and headed into the field. The breeze tugged at her hat and her pins loosened. She dropped her basket and removed her hat to secure the pins.

  There was much to do, but the thought of it brought anticipation, not dread.

  One floor of The Queen’s Head had been refurbished and was now letting, although they’d only had one or two paying guests so far. But soon, when news spread during the market days, overnight trade would pick up.