The Tide Watchers

by Lisa Chaplin

  For days she’d spent every waking moment with Edmond, playing with him, changing him, feeding him, and holding him. The wet-nurse, who’d brought her own child with her, a toddling girl, only took Edmond to give him milk. Lisbeth hung over his cradle in ecstasy when he slept, spoke to him in English, in French, and held and kissed him constantly. Edmond was fascinated by her in seconds, loved her within a day, and Marceline did everything she could to strengthen the bond between mother and son.

  “My son was damaged by the Revolution,” was all she’d said of Alain’s abuse.

  Lisbeth had bit her lip and said, voice breaking, “Edmond needs a grandmother.”

  “We’ll do better outside of France,” Marceline whispered, patting her arm.

  “He is beautiful,” Duncan agreed now, but he felt slashed by the sword of her uncertain half smile. She was trying to be nice but clearly wished him at Jericho. She was still leaving him, and guilt held him back from forcing her to stay.

  Marceline stood from the chair beside where mother and son played and left the room.

  Lisbeth’s gaze dropped. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

  He couldn’t help it. “I’ll come with you. Or stay with me here. This is your home.”

  “This will never be home again.” Her lips sucked in, drawing slow breaths. “Your love is an anchor pulling me underwater, drowning me. I can’t forgive you.”

  Closing his eyes, he nodded. “What do you want done with Papillon?” he asked at length, gruff with the pain he couldn’t hide.

  “Give it to the Admiralty,” she murmured, caressing Edmond’s hair as he bashed wooden blocks together. “I never want to see it again.”

  “They’ll kick up a fuss, but I’ll make sure they won’t demand your presence.” He tried to smile, but he was shaking. “Poor Fulton, they’ll probably kidnap him for his expertise.”

  “Alec has written to prepare the family for our arrival.” She hadn’t mentioned Fulton since the day she said she’d chosen the wrong man. She didn’t deny her part in destroying Fulton’s love and his faith. She never excused her actions as others did.

  Loyal, faithful Lizzy, she’d be fond of Fulton until she died, wishing she’d married the American instead. Duncan’s throat ached. The only woman who’d ever just loved him, and she was leaving. He’d scraped empty the barrel of her forgiveness. “They’ll love you.”

  Though she hadn’t hit him or even spoken harshly to him since their shattering scene, the echoes of her anguish were all the louder for their remaining unspoken. My mother died believing I didn’t care enough to come home, that everyone in her family put duty above her.

  She spoke again. “When I was in France and Jersey, I thought I could forgive my father—and you—anything. But I can’t.”

  Platitudes, useless and stupid, filled his mind again. What if time didn’t heal all wounds? How the hell would he know, when he had never healed from his own wounds in more than sixteen years? “If you wanted the world, I’d try to give it to you. You’re everything to me.”

  She looked in his eyes. “I don’t care.” She unwound her legs and stood, carefully holding Edmond. “I’m broken, and you just keep hitting me.”

  He didn’t answer. Keeping a lid on all the love he felt inside, because every time he spoke it aloud, her numbness flayed him.

  At the door she turned, holding her sleeping child, mother and son so beautiful they made him ache. “You should talk to your brothers. Something happened to Cal. I think he needs you.”

  Moments later, the door closed, and his wife and the only son he’d ever have left his life.

  HE FOUND HIS BROTHERS in the garden. Cal stood staring into the washed spring sunlight, where the poppy buds emerged from green sheaths, and lavender stalks had a hint of the luscious purple to come. Alec stood behind his twin, a hand on his shoulder. Neither spoke.

  Duncan felt like the worst of blundering intruders. The last thing he wanted was to be here. But the promise he’d made Lisbeth only minutes ago—If you wanted the world, I’d give it to you—would be worthless in her eyes if he didn’t do the first thing she asked of him.

  “Lisbeth thinks something happened to you, Cal, and you need to talk,” he said, cursing his bluntness. Cal and Alec had each other. What possible use could he be?

  Cal turned his head, and Duncan forgot his stupidity. His brother’s eyes were dry and red, filled with the well of blackness Duncan knew well. “She was already half dead when I got there. I had to finish it. I was ordered not to kill the bastard, and I had to save his son, his mother. I can’t look at them, not even the baby.”

  Clare. Duncan didn’t know what to say or do.

  “All I want is to kill him, slowly and painfully. The bastard, the . . .” A sound came from the door behind Duncan, and after a quick glance, Cal ground out savagely, “the filthy boggin-faced clagtail, what he did to her . . . to them both.”

  He guessed either Lisbeth or Marceline stood nearby, and he’d modified his language only in changing it to Gaelic, calling Delacorte an unwiped arse. It was far less than he deserved.

  “How could you have made his death worse?” he asked in Gaelic, in case Marceline was behind him. “He died at the hands of the woman he’d abused and ridiculed as weak. He’d tried over and over to kill her, and she destroyed him instead. To a man like him . . .”

  He ran out of words; but Alec smiled at Duncan and nodded. “He’s right. How could his death be worse at your hands?”

  Cal stared narrow-eyed at his brothers. “Are you certain he’s dead? They never found his body.” He stalked away.

  Duncan glanced at the door, seeing Marceline disappear. “I only made things worse.”

  “No, lad.” Alec shook his head, smiling. “He hasn’t said this much about himself since Rose and little Frances died. I gather he was fond of this woman?”

  I think Cal’s suffering, Lisbeth had said. “He had a wife and daughter . . . and they died,” Duncan muttered in horror. “And now Clare’s dead.”

  The subtle glow vanished from Alec’s face. “Our father cursed the people of Tyburn as they watched him hang. He said they’d suffer until the German kings stopped ruling Scotland.”

  Confused, Duncan asked, “But wasn’t he a King’s Man? Eddie told me . . .”

  “It’s true. But at heart, despite the Bonnie Prince’s faults, our father was a Jacobite. When Annersley turned him in, he said at an open hearing he wanted a return to the Stuart throne—and Scottish freedom—with all his heart and soul. The government couldn’t save him after that. He was bitter that at the end his life amounted to nothing. He cursed the people watching him die for entertainment.” He curled his hands into fists. “I believe the curse rebounded on us, his sons. We’ve each had a wife and child and lost them.”

  Alec’s voice was cynical, touched with self-loathing, taking Duncan aback. Before he could think of anything to say, Alec said, “Cal lost Rose and Frances through no fault of his own. My wife and son aren’t dead, but I lost them fifteen years ago. Don’t make the mistakes I made. Do what you can to repair the damage you created with Lisbeth while you still can.”

  Finally the laughing mask had been snatched from Alec’s face. After all he’d lost, Alec kept reaching out, trying to bring Duncan into the family. Humbled, he touched his half brother’s shoulder. “I think it’s too late.”

  Alec’s eyes stopped looking inward at blackness and turned to him. “Lad, don’t mistake suffering with finality. Let her grieve; let her blame you. Give her room to breathe, to think, to forgive—but don’t give up. Somewhere inside she knows you had to make the choices you did.”

  He shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been trying to reach her for weeks, Alec. I don’t know what else to say or do.” It was the closest to a cry for help he could make.

  Alec’s hand landed on his shoulder. “It’s only been a few weeks, Duncan. Think about it, lad. Why is she coming to Scotland with us? Look at that, and you’ll know what to do.”

/>   For once Alec was the one to walk away from him, leaving Duncan feeling as if he’d been handed a gift he didn’t know how to unwrap.

  CHAPTER 55

  Jermyn Street, London

  May 19, 1803

  HE’D BEEN ALONE FOR more than a month now.

  The streets of London were filled with boys selling newssheets, screaming that they were again at war with France. The screaming and the war suited Duncan’s mood. Even the vile smell of the city, the piss and the vomit mixed with cooking smells and befouled rivers six feet beneath his feet, felt appropriate.

  Then the rain drizzled over his head. Perfect. London mirrored his life, a dirty shambles.

  Then it’s time to change it.

  The problem was, until Caroline’s death, he’d liked his life. Marrying Lisbeth had been the realization of everything he’d ever wanted. He was a successful King’s Man, with a home and family, a wife and son—

  The first time you put duty above family I’ll be gone—and that’s my vow to you.

  Well, she’d kept her vow. Three months married, and it had been over for more than a month. It hadn’t even lasted a month. What was so wrong with him that he couldn’t keep her love even for a few months?

  Why is she coming to Scotland with us? Look at that . . .

  What did Alec know that he didn’t? Why had she gone to Scotland? To Duncan, it was the one place he planned never to go: the embodiment of a life of rejection and ridicule.

  No, there was something off in that.

  He turned into his building, and he ran up the stairs to his rooms. Letting himself in quietly so his valet, Dobson, wouldn’t fuss over him, he picked up his letters and headed for the chair by the fire in the small sitting room. He’d planned to open up Annersley House in town for them. Now he couldn’t be bothered leaving his bachelor’s digs.

  Scotland. Why had she gone to Scotland? It was something he ought to know. Alec thought so, and Duncan had learned to trust his brother’s advice. If he’d listened months ago—

  He sighed and sorted through his letters.

  One had a Norfolk direction. Though he knew she’d gone, he tore the thing open before reading the sender’s address.

  Swallowing his disappointment, he read the letter from the Aylsham man of affairs.

  Dear Lord Annersley,

  I regret to inform you that your father passed two months ago. As you were not in England for the reading of the will, I take leave to inform you that everything passed to you, including the title of Baron Annersley. Mellingham Hall is in urgent need of repair, as are the villages and lands surrounding. The tenants desperately need repairs to their homes. Your father dismissed the steward some years ago, among other servants. If you could find the time to make an inspection, and release some funds, I would be most grateful.

  Yours, etc,

  Jerome Fairmont

  “So I’m Lord Annersley,” he murmured, feeling only emptiness. He’d expected to be grateful the abusive old bastard was dead at last, but what he felt was cheated. God knows it would have been useless, but he’d wanted to see the old man one last time, take Lisbeth and Edmond, show him even a traitor’s unwanted bastard could find happiness.

  He frowned, thinking about why the thought disturbed him.

  Our grandparents pray every day to see you before they die.

  Why is she going to Scotland?

  I don’t know who you are.

  His life had been built on more lies than he’d realized. No wonder he’d chosen to be a King’s Man. A life of deception was all he’d known. Annersley gained his heir by killing Broderick Stewart by legal means. Then he’d fed Duncan a steady diet of half-truths and crazy stories that prevented him from wanting to meet his real family or discover the truth. By the time he’d run from Norfolk at fourteen he’d become so comfortable with the sham that was his life, he hadn’t considered truth to be an option.

  Then Eddie saved him, cared for him, and filled him with ideals of duty to king and country. If Annersley had spun ugly stories to keep an heir, and Julia had made love a lie, it was Eddie who’d made deception noble in Duncan’s eyes. Thrusting him into the shadows and telling him it was acceptable, right, even honorable to keep secrets, to maim, kill, or die in the name of king and country. And lying, always lying. It was normal for him to push truth away, apart from factual reports to his superiors. But everyone else was fair game. Being like Eddie had been his holy grail for half his life; emulating Leo and Andrew was his aspiration, gentlemen spies.

  Did they even know who they were, if their own daughter and sister didn’t know them?

  Did he know who he was?

  No wonder he refused to accept Alec in his life. His brother had thrust an unwanted light on his life from the day they’d met, handing him unpalatable truths, leaving him uncomfortable with who and what he was. And then he’d met Lisbeth, who didn’t know how to lie; and Cal, with his bluntness and his pain. Three people who’d risked everything for him, who would do anything for him without agenda or cost.

  The three people he could trust with his life, because they’d never deceived him. The people who’d shown up his life for the glass castle it was, a fragile house built on shifting sands.

  Why is she going to Scotland? Think about that, lad, and you’ll know what to do.

  A slow smile spread across his face.

  Admiralty House, Whitehall, London

  May 20, 1803

  “Where is this underwater craft? We must test it and make replicas.”

  Duncan stood facing the long line of desks. “My ship’s docked at Brunswick. It takes time to bring such a contraption here, my lords. It will be in the stables by Spring Garden Mews this afternoon.” He waved a hand behind the assembled admirals and rear admirals to the park behind Admiralty House, viewed through wide windows.

  “Will Fulton come?” The Admiral Earl St. Vincent demanded, voice eager.

  “No, my lord,” Duncan replied without inflection. “Though he donated Papillon to our cause when he heard of the invasion fleet, he is of firm republican principles.”

  “Then why did he donate Papillon to British interests?” Admiral Baron Elphinstone asked in his Scottish accent, heavy white brow knitted. “It seems rank foolishness to me.”

  Duncan chose his words with care. “By then Fulton knew of the invasion. One of our team had been taken for questioning right from the house where he was staying, and it terrified him. He left France that night.”

  Sir Edward Pellew had sat in silence until this point. He was merely a rear admiral, but a man of famed acumen and heroism. “What’s her name, Aylsham?”

  Duncan met the sharp gaze. “That’s a delicate matter, Sir Edward.”

  Pellew’s brows lifted. “I will be answered, Commander! Who’s the woman you sent to Fulton, what does she know about submersible boats, and why isn’t she here?”

  Duncan met fire with cool obedience. “You’re right, Sir Edward. A woman was sent to Fulton as an assistant and learned enough from him to conceive the manner in which we disabled the French fleet. She came with me on the final mission. Though she’d just recovered from weeks of illness, she saved my life that night, and her courage and brilliance saved Britain from invasion.” As Pellew was about to speak, Duncan lifted a hand. “But whatever her name was, Sir Edward, it is now Aylsham. The lady did me the great honor of becoming my wife, my baroness. She is currently in Scotland with my family.”

  Mutterings greeted this announcement. It was a facer, indeed. British law dictated that no man could force another man’s wife into any form of work. Even the king himself couldn’t force a peer’s wife into the kind of labor needed to create copies of Papillon.

  Admiral Lord Nelson spoke. “I have met Lady Annersley, my lords. She’s a lady of the highest duty and principle—but when I saw her, she was in a state of collapse.”

  Throwing Nelson a grateful glance, Duncan said, “My wife is indeed a lady with a high sense of duty, but she is currently in
sore need of rest.”

  Once again Pellew harrumphed, but his eyes were touched with regretful determination. “You’re aware, of course, that neither of your names can be recorded as the authors of this heroic endeavor, especially that of Lady Annersley. It must remain forever secret.”

  Duncan fought the urge to growl when all the other men nodded in emphatic agreement. In their eyes, a lady couldn’t conceive anything but children, a drawing-room decoration, or a new hat style. Anything else was indelicate and unfeminine in the extreme. He doubted any man here but Nelson or possibly Pellew would like Lisbeth, or admire her strength. Her insight would probably terrify them.

  He replied coolly enough, “My wife and I did none of this for public honors.”

  Pellew nodded and smiled, as if he’d agreed. “Quite right. She is your baroness, will meet the king, and receive our thanks in private.”

  And that’s reward enough for risking her life over and over, because she’s a woman? Duncan saw Pellew, a man who lived to shower heroic men with praise and rewards, through new eyes. He truly believed Lisbeth’s part in saving England must be kept secret merely because she was a woman. Her footnote in history would only be as the thirty-sixth Lady Annersley.

  “I have another appointment. Good day to you, my lords.” He bowed and left the room. As soon as the admirals had Papillon in their meaty paws, he’d—

  Halfway down the hall, a voice came. “Aylsham, a word if you please.”

  Unsurprised, Duncan turned to face the haughty, thin face of his spymaster. “It’s Annersley, if you please,” he said coolly. “Did you withhold my wife’s letters to her mother?”

  Zephyr’s brows lifted. For the first time, it left Duncan unmoved. He waited.

  Eventually Zephyr snapped, “You don’t need to create a fuss about it, Annersley. It was a necessary precaution. She’d talked about being in Ambleteuse and Jersey. It’s about time you returned from Norfolk. I have a mission—” He stopped when Duncan shoved a sealed envelope into his hand. “What’s this?”