by Brenda Hiatt
Still chuckling, Falcon turned to the smaller woman who had been waiting quietly and spoke to her in rapid Spanish. “Benita, no vamos a deshacer las maletas. Once Carlos has brought up all the luggage, take out only what we’ll need for tonight. There’s no need to unpack everything as I hope we will be on our way again by tomorrow.”
The lieutenant-major sat waiting at a table by the ivy-clad window in the front of the taproom of the Plough and Hammer, precisely where he could observe all the comings and goings of the patrons of the inn. The open taproom doorway offered a perfect view of the stairs and entry passage, and he smiled when he saw the “Spanish” lady and her companion come down with a basket of packages and exit to the street.
They had certainly wasted little time embarking upon their errand, whatever it was. They had barely stayed in their rooms long enough for him to take care of certain details. Through the fronds of greenery that framed the window he watched them head down the street in the direction the innkeeper had indicated. Despite her limp, the tall woman walked at a business-like pace, keeping up with the younger woman in black. The latter charged along with a stride that quite surprised him, especially considering the cut of her dress.
Most well-bred ladies in Jeremy’s experience sauntered and strolled when they intended to go anywhere, making certain to stop upon occasion to strike an artful pose. His mysterious “Spanish” lady, however, moved with fluid, feminine grace yet still achieved a speed that could probably match most men’s. Where had she learned to walk like that? She would no doubt reach her destination within the half hour.
He flicked open his pocket watch. Time to stop admiring and get to work. The two women could be back in less than an hour if their business was brief or the Cornishman wasn’t home. Any attempt to follow them was bound to be fruitless, for once they left the village he would surely be seen. He would learn more by staying here.
He signaled to a barrel-chested, blond man quaffing ale a few tables away, who promptly rose and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and back stairs. Jeremy would give Nicholson ten—better make that fifteen—minutes to get the lady’s servants out of the way. Then he would have a good look through her belongings.
He had not the slightest compunction about invading her privacy—he had performed similar tasks far too many times by now to give it any thought. He only hoped that he would find information that could close this case quickly. If not for this woman, he would have been well on his way home by now, not sitting here drinking ale from a chipped mug, preparing to search a stranger’s room.
He waited the fifteen minutes. Checking his watch again, he tossed an appropriate handful of coins onto the table and headed for the stairs. The chambermaid had been quite helpful. He was glad now that he had not waited until evening to approach her. A few compliments, a few shillings and the promise of at least a drink to be purchased for her at the end of the night had been sufficient to procure the information he’d needed.
The “Spanish Lady’s” rooms were not the best, indeed. Situated where they were, they would be subject to noise from both the kitchen and the stableyard. But Jeremy appreciated their convenience to the back service stairs, which offered him easy access to his own room on the floor above.
He listened carefully as he approached along the passage. He had complete faith in Nicholson’s ability to carry out orders, but unforeseen events were part of life. Like this assignment, he thought ruefully. Suppose the Spanish servants had refused to leave their post in favor of tea in the kitchens? Suppose they had been suspicious instead of delighted to meet a fellow servant who could speak their language? His assistant’s persuasive powers were impressive but not foolproof.
He heard nothing from inside the rooms on either side of the passage. Assured by a quick glance that no one was coming, he slipped the skeleton key from his pocket and used it to let himself in the first door, quietly closing it behind him.
Falcon and Maggie had walked through the village with its modest stone buildings and then down a verdant country lane where white drifts of wild garlic in bloom along the lightly shaded banks spiced the air with their pungent scent.
“Everything seems so lush and soft, Maggie!” Falcon exclaimed, looking out over the green fields. “Even more so than I remember. It is so different from Spain.”
“Tis that, no question,” Maggie replied, huffing as she tried to catch up to Falcon. The younger woman’s pace had gradually become too much for her.
Falcon slowed instantly. “Forgive me. I’m like a hound on the scent, all a-quiver to get there. Yet I’m growing increasingly nervous as we draw closer.”
“Tis only natural, child. Your anticipation puts all your other feelings up on edge.”
“Yes.” Falcon could not begin to articulate them. The hope of this reunion had kept her going for five long years of waiting and living among strangers. Now that it was imminent, she was not only excited and eager, she was afraid—mostly afraid that she had hoped for too much, but afraid, too, of the painful memories that she knew would come the moment she heard Triss’s voice.
His cottage came into view at the next bend in the road. Like the houses in the village, it was built of gray stone with white-painted wooden window frames that gave it a neatly tailored appearance. It stood at the end of a long earthen path flanked by stone walls, as the innkeeper had described.
Hardly an instant after Falcon put her hand on the gate at the bottom of the path, the door of the cottage opened. A dear, familiar voice boomed out in greeting, “Falcon, is it you? O’ course it must be. What other splendid señorita would be a-coming to my door? Welcome, welcome!”
A short-necked, bespectacled bulldog of a fellow came bustling out and down the path towards them, walking a bit lopsidedly but briskly nonetheless. His voice seemed to cut through time.
It was Triss—Corporal Martin Triss, as Falcon had known him, although he had become Sergeant Triss by the time he left the army, she had learned later from his letters. He looked hardly changed by the five years that had passed since she had last seen him—a bit less hair, more gray than she remembered, and the walk a bit more lopsided, perhaps, but that was all. He was dearer to Falcon than any other person alive.
She flew up the path towards him. “Triss! Oh, Triss!” All the long-harbored affection she felt for him seemed to well up until it spilled out of her as tears. She launched herself into his arms and clung to him as if she would never let go again.
“Well, look at you, missy!” Gently he set her back from him and adjusted the spectacles her energetic embrace had knocked askew. “’Ere, ’ere, now. Good thing this is not me best waistcoat, eh?” He reached inside his imperiled waistcoat and produced a large checkered handkerchief. “It seems that little girl I knew is still inside this very grown up young lady, after all.”
He offered the handkerchief with a tender smile. “It’s all right, cry all you like, m’dear. You’ve ’ad a long road to travel. When you’re good and ready, we’ll go inside. I’ve a few things I want to show you.”
At the inn, Jeremy had found nothing in the first room except a small cot—obviously the maid’s quarters. A basket and several parcels lay on the coverlet, but for the moment he had ignored them. He moved into the main bedchamber, taking care to unlock the outer door of that room as well, as a precaution. He had learned long ago to make certain of his exits.
This room contained a double bed adorned with printed cotton hangings and a fireplace flanked by two windows. Two trunks sat on the faded carpet next to a pair of straight-backed chairs and a table that was scarcely bigger than a candlestand. Assorted boxes and a portmanteau sat between them.
He wasted no time, setting to work immediately on the lock of the larger trunk. He opened the lid carefully to avoid any sound and studied the way the contents had been packed so that he could replace everything exactly as it had been. Oh, there was no doubt he was a master at this game. But he had thought he was finished with it. When he had boarded his ship i
n France to come home he had believed all this was finally behind him.
More the fool you! he thought as he removed several neatly folded cambric nightdresses and a silk shawl from the trunk. His fingers skimmed through the remaining piles of folded garments, feeling for objects or papers. He listened for the tell-tale rustle that might lead him to a hidden document among the clothes. His probing released a scent of lavender from the depths of the trunk.
In the bottom he found a surprisingly small assortment of fans, brushes and haircombs, and a bulky object wrapped in blue silk. This proved to be a hand mirror set in an elaborately ornamented silver frame. It surprised him, for the clothing and other items in the trunk appeared to be for the most part very simple and such a mirror seemed out of place.
His training told him to break it. A message could easily have been hidden behind the glass, and such an out-of-place item was exactly the sort of clue he was looking for. The breakage would be attributed to the rigors of travel. But his instinct argued against the destructive act. He was not superstitious but he did appreciate fine craftsmanship, and the mirror was beautiful. He shook his head. He was losing his objectivity. Nevertheless he carefully rewrapped the hand-glass and replaced it in the trunk.
Next to the mirror he found several pairs of white silk stockings, all neatly rolled. As his fingers grazed over their softness he winced. How often he had purchased fine stockings like those! His wife, Anne, had loved them. Sad, sweet memories washed over him, triggered by the combination of touch and smell.
Why was he thinking of Anne now? It was all bound up together, his not wanting this job, his wanting to be home, his not having been at home with Anne two years ago when she died. Blast! He should never have agreed to take this last assignment.
He forced himself to examine and replace each rolled pair of stockings as carefully and methodically as he did everything, but it required considerable concentration. Anger simmered inside him just beneath the surface. All he was doing here was wasting his time! So far, he had found nothing to indicate that this mystery woman was anything other than an ordinary person, certainly not an enemy of the Crown.
After repacking everything in the large trunk, Jeremy poked briefly through the boxes and the portmanteau, which seemed to contain bonnets, shoes and servants’ clothing. Was there really a point to this? He opened up the smaller trunk and repeated the process of methodically examining the contents. He was taking too much time, he knew. In the bottom of the trunk, however, he finally came upon something of interest.
In a carved wooden box lined with green velvet he found an exquisite necklace of pearls set with a single, brilliant emerald at its center. There were earrings to match it and he caught himself thinking, Of course, to match her eyes. Among the plain, mostly black gowns in this trunk there was also one of green moiré—an evening dress or a ballgown, most certainly.
So, our mouse may at times play the peacock, eh? The discovery helped to bring back his focus. The box also held a locket with miniatures of a man in British regimental dress and a very beautiful woman. Who were they? It was an odd thing for someone supposedly Spanish to possess.
Delving further in the trunk he found a purse with a thick wad of bank notes drawn upon a bank in Madrid—a sizable fortune to be carrying in cash. Next to it was a book—the Holy Bible, in English, notably—and a second box, similar to the first one, containing a set of rosary beads with a crucifix.
Of course, she is Catholic! he thought with a sudden jolt of dismay. That was something he’d have to report, although it still could mean nothing. If she was a British subject who had married a Spanish don, it made sense that she might share his religion. It might explain everything. Many English Catholics emigrated. It did not have to mean she had designs against the government or was a foreign agent in league with those who did. But it made him wonder all the more about the man pictured in the locket. Catholics could not be commissioned officers.
Jeremy slid his fingers along the bottom of the trunk past the box with the rosary and at last encountered what he had most been seeking—a tied bundle of folded papers. Ah, he thought. Here we’ll have it. The packet was too fat to lift out without upsetting all the other contents of the trunk, so he removed piles of clothing and set them on the floor.
How much longer did he dare to continue? Enough time had passed that the servants could return at any moment. He paused to listen for voices in the passage or the sound of footsteps on the back stairs. Hearing nothing yet, he turned his attention back to his discovery.
The papers appeared to be a collection of letters, sent to one person at various addresses in Spain. However, the name on the letters was not the one currently being used by his mysterious lady from Spain.
The lady in question, ashamed that she had given in to her surge of emotion, had meanwhile gathered herself together and even managed to introduce Maggie to the Cornish sergeant. Triss had served as bâtman to Falcon’s father and had known her since her childhood.
Now the two women were seated in Triss’s parlor as he lumbered about preparing their tea. Late afternoon sunlight poured in through the two windows in the white-washed front wall, giving the small room a cheerful appearance. A large, round table filled the center of the room, where a floor cloth of stenciled canvas covered the rough flagstones. A small, modern coal grate looked rather lost in the sizable fireplace.
“Can we not help?” asked Falcon, feeling a bit useless as she watched Triss place the kettle over the grate.
The last thing she wanted was to sit and be waited upon. Anticipation made her restless. She had come here not just to see Triss, but to obtain some important information from him. While she did wonder what Triss could possibly have to show her, the other business occupied her attention.
“No, indeed, Miss Falcon,” he insisted. “You and Mrs. Meara are my guests. My missus’d ’ave me ’ead if I didn’t treat ’ee right and proper.”
Falcon knew that Triss’s wife had died some years back. She could guess how much he missed her. “Now Triss, how is she going to do that?” she asked gently. “You know Mary’s gone.”
The Cornishman grinned. “Do ’ee think she’d let a little thing like that stop ’er? You never knew my Mary.” He turned away and busied himself with dusting off the teacups from the top shelf of the dresser.
Falcon knew better than to press that topic further. Instead she reached for the basket of paper-wrapped parcels that she and Maggie had carried with them.
“While we wait for the kettle, Triss, perhaps you would open these? We brought something for you.”
“Did you, now?” He smiled as he set the cups and plates around the table. Falcon tried not to fidget.
Once his preparations were complete, he sat. He made a great show of inspecting the paper and string which held the parcels together and of feeling the shape of the objects held within them. Comical expressions paraded across his face as he did so, making Falcon laugh. Finally he took pity on her impatience and opened the first one.
“O-ho, oranges!” His delighted chuckle warmed Falcon’s heart as thoroughly as Spanish sunshine.
She had brought him almonds and cigars as well as oranges from Seville, all delicacies he had enjoyed in Spain. She and Maggie agreed that he could smoke one of the cigars if he waited until they finished their tea. Falcon watched his face intently as he finally opened the last of the bundles. She had wanted to bring him something truly special, and had gone to considerable trouble to procure this last gift for him.
For a moment he said nothing, staring down into the paper wrappings and fingering what lay there reverently. Then he looked up at Falcon.
“There are several pieces,” she said. “It should be enough for a good pair of boots. I would like to have them made for you in London.”
“They would be the finest pair o’ boots a man such as me ever owned,” he said reverently. “Cordovan leather! You shouldn’t ’ave done it, missy.”
She went to him and kissed his chee
k. “Of course I should have. It is the very least I should do, Triss, for a loyal friend who undoubtedly saved my life. If I could have, I would have brought you an entire cask of sherry from Jerez as well. But we would have found it a bit difficult to carry!”
“Now, that’s a picture,” Maggie said. “Two such Amazons as we are? Sure and he’ll be wonderin’ why we didn’t bring him two.”
Their laughter felt easy and comfortable, but then Triss said, “I’ve something to give ’ee, too, Miss Falcarrah Sophia Colburne—something I’ve been keeping for ’ee.”
Falcon caught her breath sharply, all thoughts of gifts wiped from her mind. She had not heard her real name spoken since the terrible day she had parted from Triss five years ago. The familiar sound of it triggered a rush of agonizing memories that hurt like a knife thrust into a wound that never healed.
“Falcarrah Colburne is dead, Triss. Please do not call me by that name.”
“Who is sitting ’ere at me table, then? It honors your dear mother’s memory, you being named for her village in Ireland. Falcarrah’s a fine name.”
She did not want to explain. She was not even certain that she could, the feelings ran so deep. The years had changed her into someone very different from the innocent young girl her parents had loved. She set her jaw stubbornly. “The girl you knew by that name has been officially dead for five years and will be safer if she stays that way, at least for the time being. Please do not use it.”
“I know. But just among ourselves…”
“No.” She had buried the past and her name along with it. For five years she had been someone else, as Triss knew well. How else could she have coped with the unbearable pain? All that remained was the business she had come here to finish. “You need to know that I have taken a new identity for this journey. I am using the name Doña Sofia Christina Ynez Alomar de Montero. It simplified matters for traveling to pose as a Spanish widow, and it should protect me and allow me some freedom if I continue the pose until I can resolve things here.”