by Lisa Chaplin
“Dear Lord, what a mess,” he muttered. “No, Elise, you will continue as you have done since your employment began. I beg your pardon for any distress I have caused you.” With a new tenderness in his eyes, he picked up her hand and kissed the back of it, bowed, and left the room as quietly as he’d entered.
A SOFT RUSTLE OUTSIDE his tent didn’t alert Duncan at first; it was the season for late-night winds, he was pitched amid brambles, and lost in his thoughts. But then a male voice calling softly, “Hie there,” had him scrambling up and to the tent flap.
“Fulton.” He greeted the other in an undertone, resigned to whatever the American was about to say. He’d known this time would come; the man was a genius, after all. “Come in, make yourself comfortable,” he added, sweeping a hand to his roll-up blanket with a fine irony.
With lifted brows, Fulton squatted down on the makeshift seat. “She couldn’t go through with it. You ought to have known that about her.”
There was no point in deception. “I knew she wouldn’t, unless . . .” He left it there.
Fulton’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. “Precisely so. I am here now to tell you that I will not go to England. Neither will I give your Admiralty one of my boats, or a specification on how to make one. That will not change.”
Intrigued by the odd tone, the thinly veiled hint, he waited.
In an even thinner voice, edgy, Fulton said, “I will, however, teach her what I assume she was sent for . . . how to use a submersible. Why do you need it?”
The other’s gaze held his, demanding truth. But though he must give in, Duncan wasn’t about to give the whole game away to a brilliant, stubborn republican. “Something dangerous is happening at Boulogne-sur-Mer. My man was killed there last week. There’s a plot to kill the first consul, who will visit the region in a few weeks. We need to know why Bonaparte has blockaded the town by land and sea.”
“Ah, I see—a sneaking entrance, using my submersible. You suspect invasion, then.” Fulton nodded. “I will teach Elise—is that her real name?”
“It’s not my secret to tell.” What a day this had been.
Fulton’s smile was secretive, accepting the challenge. “I will teach her how to use my smaller submersible and allow you to borrow it one time, to—ah—visit Boulogne on one condition. You are to leave Elise strictly alone for the next few weeks.”
“Why?”
“I believe she’s been through enough, without your demands being added to them.”
About to repeat his question, Duncan saw the truth when Fulton’s gaze met his again. The American had divined what had always been there to see: Lisbeth was a lady, and not just born. She was a woman worthy of respect—and worth marriage.
“You have enough to do, in attempting to save the first consul, and Elise’s son,” Fulton said quietly, surprising Duncan with the knowledge. Why had Lisbeth told him about Edmond? “She will have more than enough to do, learning how to work the submersible. She still hasn’t completely recovered from her injuries.”
Guilt again, always the damned guilt where she was concerned. There was nothing to say.
“You need not concern yourself with her welfare. I will take good care of her—and there will be no further importunities.”
Duncan felt gritty sands of anger he couldn’t wash off. He was too bloody tired for these undercurrents. “If you force her into anything she doesn’t want, I’ll—”
“No need for threats, Commander,” Fulton interrupted, sober. “Elise is a lady. I will treat her as such at all times.”
Duncan stilled. “I understand.”
And, damn it, he did.
Fulton nodded once and left the tent without a farewell. Detente declared, each getting something he wanted. Neither trusting the other an inch. Lisbeth both their neutral ground and their battleground.
Left alone, Duncan didn’t unroll his blanket; sleep was more impossible than ever now. Assassination, invasion, and war crept closer with each sunrise, a few men and one brave girl attempting to hold back the tide with a small underwater boat.
CHAPTER 31
Neufchâtel-Hardelot, Channel Coast, France
September 27, 1802
YOUR PAPERS AND PERMISSION to enter Boulogne-sur-Mer, s’il vous plaît, monsieur.” The soldier held his hand out.
Now neatly bearded with foppish curls and wearing the latest in clothing for the rising businessman in France, Camelford kept his face in the shadows. Much as he hated taking the advice of an impertinent Cockney boy, he had little choice. “Marcus.”
The cabin boy hopped down from the box, his face inquiring. Aching to yell at someone, or to scratch this beard that disguised his features, Camelford made himself wave a languid hand.
Mark spoke in rapid French. In seconds, the soldiers’ suspicions softened. Aylsham’s Cockney boy had been right—again—and Camelford gnashed his teeth.
He didn’t object to low-class boys cleaning chimneys or sweeping streets. He didn’t mind Frogs if they lived in France. But his blood boiled when he remembered he couldn’t find out where to kill Boney without that bloody ugly French nobody Fouché, who had the nerve to call himself a spymaster. Camelford burned alive every time little Frog soldiers blocked his path here, demanding his papers as if they were somebody. And the mere thought of strutting little Corsican soldiers taking over the French army, and then walking into the rightful position of kings . . .
But by far the worst indignity was being forced to leave this ill-bred, rude-spoken Cockney cabin boy to deal with the soldiers every few miles.
None would dare question him this way in England; a mention of his name and title and he passed almost anywhere. Entry to most other places could be bought—apart from insipid, death-by-marriage places he’d never attend, like Almack’s Assembly Rooms. He’d marry one day, but not to some frightened little debutante in a white dress and pearls. His cousin Hester Stanhope was intrepid, deeply interested in the politics of the day—and half a Pitt. She’d already rebelled against her stupid revolutionary father, Earl Stanhope. She was perfect. She’d broken it off with him once, but he hadn’t given up hope yet.
But he couldn’t get home until he’d killed Boney—that jumped-up Corsican usurper calling himself the first consul. But how the hell was he supposed to kill the strutting little martinet if he couldn’t get into Boulogne? He hated needing Mark. It infuriated him.
“Your papers and permission, Monsieur Jaulin?” the soldier asked, with more respect than he’d shown before the cabin boy’s interference. Damn the boy . . . Camelford pulled out the set of stolen papers from Aylsham’s ship and passed them over.
“Is everything in order?” he asked after a minute. “I have important business to conduct in Boulogne for the first consul.”
The young man flushed and returned his papers. “Oui, monsieur, all is well. You are related to the Jaulin shipping family in Boulogne?”
“Would I be here if I was not?” The impudent bastard frowned at his tone, and Mark frowned from behind him and mouthed, Apologize. Damned if he would! “My brick is cold and I am tired. I have important business, and this is the third barrier I’ve encountered today.”
“Oui, Monsieur Jaulin.” The young soldier sounded chastened.
Camelford turned his gaze ahead, refusing to acknowledge the soldier’s farewell wave. He was too busy stifling the urge to kill them all . . . especially Mark. But he’d got inside Boulogne-sur-Mer, and that was all that counted. From now on, he’d take control of matters.
North of Audresselles Harbor
September 28, 1802 (Sunset)
Tethered to land by four ells of long rope tied to iron stakes was the tiny submersible Fulton had pulled from beneath the water and into the small, deep cave beneath a short cliff. “This is Papillon,” he said with unmistakable pride, lifting the lantern. “I made her myself by hand, after the model created by David Bushnell. Mine is a little wider and taller, so it can accommodate two.”
Mouth parted
in amazement, Lisbeth walked around the little submersible boat, hardly caring that her dress and boots were wet from the incoming tide. Almost onion shaped, the little craft looked like a fat wine barrel, with tight-packed dark beams and brass coopering around her top, bottom, and middle. He’d opened the entrance hatch directly on top of the craft, with horseshoelike stairs made of beaten iron leading to it. A rudder was a third of the way down on one side, two propellers nearby, one above it, one below. An odd-looking contraption, a twisted piece of metal Fulton called the torpedo-attaching screw, sat sticking out beside the hatch. The air tube was like the end of a trumpet emerging from inside the observation dome, a foot above the hatch, but Fulton had modified it so it could be pushed higher from inside. Two small rounded windows curved around the brass at the top of the observation dome.
“The windows make it possible to view the outside world when we are at the surface,” he explained when he saw her staring at them. “I am trying to make some form of movable telescope so I can see from beneath the waves. Come, my dear, and I’ll take you on a voyage such as you’ve never known before.” Taking her by the hand, he led her around the craft to the horseshoe steps. “Take your time and do not fear, I am right behind you.”
She was wet to the knees by the time she worked up the courage to set a foot on the bottom rung—and she understood why Fulton had insisted on her wearing her oldest dress and highest boots for this journey.
“I will help you.” With his supporting hand at the small of her back, her confidence grew, and she took the next step. The next she took alone.
Soon she was looking down into the craft that would take her beneath the ocean.
“Courage, Elise,” Fulton said softly. “I know you have enough to spare. Swing your feet in, and drop down onto the bench. There’s a pole inside for you to hold on to for balance.”
Drawing a slower breath, she put one foot inside the hole, and the other. Sitting at the hatch’s opening, she breathed again, and dropped down.
Holding the pole, she sat, looking around in wonder. There were levers and cranks and other contraptions, making space limited. She wouldn’t be able to stand up straight once the hatch was closed, especially with the little wheel beneath to lock it from inside.
Fulton soon dropped down beside her, proud as a new father. “Isn’t she wonderful?”
Awed, she nodded. “How did you manage to get this all the way out here?”
He didn’t look at her as he released the quadruple-plaited ropes and unfurled the black sail. Then the tide did its work; like a little sailboat, Papillon flew ahead with the wind. “I . . . had it moved when I first came to Ambleteuse.”
Fulton really dislikes the commander. There was a downward slant to his mouth and displeasure in his eyes just thinking of how the submersible had been moved. To soothe him, she asked, “But how does this boat sink?”
“I’ll show you, once we’re in deep waters.”
This is my mission. She nodded and waited, but her stomach quivered with nerves.
Once they’d reached open waters, he packed up the sail and closed the hatch. “Now I’ll show you the pump.”
Without fresh air, Lisbeth held her stomach with both hands, fighting the roiling.
“Here, my dear.” From his pocket Fulton fished out a small sack and held out a thin white stick. “It’s a confectioner’s treat, made to my special order. It’s flavored with chamomile, peppermint, and wintergreen. You suck on it to relieve mal de mer. The first few times inside a submersible boat can be a nightmare for the uninitiated. If these don’t work, I have others made with ginger and chamomile.”
With a smile of real gratitude, she took the sticks—and to her surprise, they did help the nausea to subside.
“To submerge Papillon, you use the pump to bring seawater into storage tanks set in the keel. It’s hollow beneath our feet.” Fulton worked the little, fat pump, and the submersible sank smoothly downward. “The weight of the water makes us drop farther below the waves.”
A single lantern lit the entire cavern. She was inside a fat little barrel dropping beneath the ocean. The tight-packed wooden beams lined the copper-riveted outer shell, held in place on the inside by bent ribs of dark wood and more copper, the coopering holding everything together.
Fulton moved two of the levers and cogs, explaining which was a propeller and a rudder.
The windows of the observation dome were half the size of portholes in a ship, and useless to see anything underwater. The little chamber was heating up fast, though the night was cold and the waters almost frozen. Lisbeth’s wet legs were warming so fast she tossed off her cape.
There were ropes coming out from each end of the pipe. A single hook hung from the pipe, holding the lantern in the exact center of the chamber, to throw light in every direction and keep the lantern away from anything that could burn.
“How do we go back up?” Knowing this felt vital to keeping from panic.
“To resurface,” Fulton corrected as he worked the pump lever up and down, “I let the water out again by moving the lever in the opposite direction.”
She shook her head. “You’re truly ingenious, m’sieur.” She was beneath the sea. It was unnatural and terrifying—yet there was an element of vivid life in this courting of death.
Fulton worked levers to make the boat move. “The original genius doesn’t belong to me. David Bushnell’s was the first working ‘turtle.’ During the American Revolution, he attempted to use barrel bombs to sink British ships—but he didn’t invent the idea of filling the keel. Leonardo da Vinci worked on submersible boats, but a sixteenth-century English innkeeper named Bourne thought of bringing water into the keel to make the capsule submerge.”
It was time to do more than passively learn what she could. “How can I help?”
“We need balance. Stay there for now.” Fulton grinned at her. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”
“Amazing.” She stared wide-eyed at everything. “Terrifying. Wonderful.”
“I’ve lost that awed feeling.” He sounded wistful. “The first few times, it was like I engaged in hand-to-hand combat against the sea. I felt so alive.”
That was it. She’d never felt so alive as this moment.
“But I needed to change perspective. Twice the windows of Nautilus broke after the barrel exploded too close. Nautilus is heavy and sinks quickly. We had to escape and swim to the surface or drown. Papillon, being lighter, will take longer to sink.” He chuckled, as though risking their lives was a joke.
“See the propeller cranks behind you? Turn only the lower one.” He prompted her gently, “Elise, turn the crank. We need to be moving before I consult the compass.”
Lisbeth snapped her mouth shut, found the crank, and turned it without knowing what she did, for only three words pounded in her brain. I can’t swim.
If there were another accident today, her heavy skirts would pull her down. This frigid black water would be her grave. An anonymous death, soon forgotten.
Two years ago the girl she’d been had despised the conventional things in life. She’d wanted to save the world, or at least see it as the men in her family had. But now, locked inside a floating tomb, the last shreds of her wanderlust dissolved; the child Lisbeth waved her final farewell. All she wanted was an ordinary life with her baby.
But what if war came and the commander needed her for other missions? His promises might never come to fruition. She could be stuck in France for years, with no papers, no way to save Edmond, no friends apart from Fulton, and no way home.
Home. She wanted a home of her own—her baby, and a husband who valued her—but that was for a distant future. If she didn’t concentrate, she could die tonight without seeing Edmond or holding him again. Mama might never hold her grandson.
“Elise, the mechanism is delicate. Your movements must be smooth and constant.”
Fulton’s admonition pierced her consciousness like a honed knife. She jerked to a stop as cold crept through he
r veins like the cobwebs of a spider in the snow. She panted as if she’d run a race.
“Smooth and constant,” Fulton repeated very gently.
Refocusing again, she said, “I beg your pardon, m’sieur. I-I was thinking . . .”
“It’s natural to think of life when you understand how easily you could lose it. Even to think of painful memories reminds you you’re still alive.”
“Yes.” The word grated from her throat.
As if emphasizing Fulton’s words, Papillon bucked. Gasping, they both grabbed the pole, even though the ropes around their waists anchored them to their seats. “I warned you that would happen.” Though he was even kinder now than before, Fulton didn’t look at her—and she wondered whether it was sexual disappointment, or if he really cared for her.
CHAPTER 32
Boulogne-sur-Mer
October 25, 1802
NO, ME LORD, I keep tellin’ yer, you can’t go out into the town no-how. Someb’dy killed me poor mate Peebles t’other week. There’s bully boys runnin’ round in Frog getups, demandin’ papers off everybody and lookin’ for foreigners.” He pronounced it furriners. “You’d blow yer chimney piece and lob off some bleeder’s head for sure. I’m just a little fella. Nobody’s lookin’ at me. I can get just about anywhere you need.”
Interned at an inn in the old town high above the harbor, Camelford glared at Mark. This had been going on for weeks now. Stuck inside this second-rate inn, eating in his rooms, pretending to be sick, while the boy came and went at will. The impertinent brat loved to bring him information, proving his worth, believing he’d become indispensable—that he’d become one of Camelford’s permanent staff when he returned to London.
There was no chance of that. All those in his employ were respectful of their lord, very well aware of their station in life, and grateful for everything given them.