by Nita Abrams
“You are English,” the man said coldly, scanning the folded sheets. “As is mademoiselle. Are you together?”
“Yes,” he said, just as Diana said scornfully, “No!”
The man looked up at Anthony. “Mademoiselle has no papers. This is a very serious matter. And your papers are not in order. They are signed by an official of the false Bourbon usurpers.”
The leader must have been some sort of regional guardsman under Napoleon, Anthony thought. And now that Napoleon was on the march, the man had reassembled the fragments of his little patrol and was back in business, as officious as ever. More officious: in the old days, he might have taken a bribe. Not today, not from an Englishman.
“I noticed you earlier,” the Frenchman said. “You were heading north, now you are going south.” He sounded very suspicious. “And now mademoiselle, too, goes first one way and then the other. You are messengers, perhaps? Spies?”
“We are not!” said Diana indignantly.
Anthony gave her a glare which promised that if she said one more word he would personally gag her.
“Then perhaps monsieur can explain these odd wanderings to and fro on a road of great strategic importance?”
Inspiration came to him. Inspiration and revenge. “Mademoiselle is my fiancée,” he explained.
Diana swallowed, but said nothing.
He gave the guardsman a wry smile. “We had—a quarrel. I, er, chose to travel on ahead of the rest of our party. She followed.” He shrugged as if to say, What can a man do?
“And where are these others?” The man was still suspicious.
Diana pointed. Her voice was shaking slightly. “There.”
“I hope you are not very angry with your nephew,” said Abigail. They were walking their horses up a gentle hill along the right bank of the river, giving them a rest after a long, fast canter. “It was not so very unreasonable for him to go on ahead; he is right that it will be better for him to travel slowly.”
“It would have been even better for him to rest,” said Meyer curtly. “And to go off without any attendant! Without consulting me first! Without even telling Rodrigo, who would certainly have gone with him if he could not persuade him to stay! No, it was pure melodrama. I have always thought him very level-headed, but he has been behaving like a halfwit since—” He stopped.
“Ever since he met Diana?”
He grimaced. “Yes. Well.”
She pushed back the rolled-up sleeves of the man’s coat she had borrowed. “I am sorry to say that the phenomenon is now very familiar to me. In Italy, a young man threw himself into the Arno after she sent back a necklace he gave her. There was an aborted duel in Nice. And last week, in Digne-les-Bains, two elderly gentlemen came to blows over who would pull her chair out at one of the tables on the terrace.”
“Did the young man drown?”
“Oh no,” she said. “He was fished out quite promptly. And it had just the effect he desired; Diana loves to nurse hurt creatures. She flew to his bedside and cried over him. I had to make an excuse to leave Florence early.”
“Forgive me if I offend you,” he said after a minute, “but I find it difficult to believe that someone as calm and sensible as you could have raised a daughter like Diana.”
“I did not raise her.”
He looked at her, astonished.
“Diana lived with her father from the age of eight until his death fifteen months ago. While he was alive, I saw her only twice a year.” She paused, then said, “I do not wish you to think I am excusing myself, or apologizing for Diana. I am well aware of her faults, but she has many excellent qualities as well. She is intelligent and well educated. She is loyal to those she loves, and she can be very gentle and affectionate.”
“Not to my nephew,” he muttered.
“Ah, but he is injured now,” she pointed out.
“He will not take kindly to being nursed, Mrs. Hart. Not even by your daughter. Nothing, in fact, could be more likely to dampen his ardor.”
“Well, that is all to the good then, is it not? It would be awkward to cut out your own nephew.”
“Very awkward,” he said grimly. Then, in a different voice, “What the devil!”
Abigail drew herself up stiffly. “Mr. Meyer, I cannot permit you to use those—those heathen oaths in my presence.”
He paid no attention to her whatsoever. He was staring at something farther down the road. After another moment, she had come far enough over the crest of the small rise to see what he was looking at. Her heart leaped. There was Diana. And young Roth. Then she realized that the men around them were not other travelers. They were wearing uniforms, of sorts. One of them had a sinister-looking helmet with a spike; he carried a rifle. Two others held the bridle of Roth and Diana’s horses.
“Who are those men?” she asked, alarmed. She pulled up her gelding, but Meyer flicked its rump with his own crop.
“Keep moving,” he said in a low voice. “Not too fast, not too slow. And do not contradict anything I say. I believe you to be quite intelligent, Mrs. Hart. We will see if I am right.”
“Who are they?” she repeated breathlessly as her horse broke into a jolting trot.
“My guess, from the bits of clothing, is that they are an old guard unit attached to the Sûreté, Napoleon’s Secret Police. They have set up some sort of blockade here.”
“But—under whose authority?”
“Their own, which makes this a very dangerous situation. Watch what you say; some of the Sûreté officers speak English.”
They approached the improvised checkpoint side by side, slowing again to a walk. Now she could see Diana’s face, pale and strained. Roth, oddly enough, looked slightly bored. He was talking to the man holding his bridle, and suddenly the Frenchman gave a huge guffaw and slapped Roth’s leg so hard his horse shied backwards. Diana shot Roth an absolutely poisonous glare.
“Good boy,” breathed Meyer. His own expression shifted somehow; it slid from fierce concentration into a combination of annoyance and anxiety. He looked coarser, less intelligent. She would hardly have recognized him.
“Mama!” called Diana, waving anxiously. Then she saw Abigail’s oversized coat and her eyes widened. She had the grace to look a bit guilty.
Abigail and Meyer drew up a few yards from the runaways.
“What seems to be the problem, monsieur?” Meyer inquired courteously of the man holding the gun. His French sounded very odd, as though he was hissing slightly.
“Are these two in your party?” The guard gestured with the stock of the rifle towards Roth and Diana.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“The young lady has no papers.”
Abigail gave Meyer a quick glare.
“Mademoiselle left in some haste,” Meyer explained. “She intended to return to Sisteron.” He pulled a packet from an inner pocket and handed it to the Frenchman. “Here are the passes for mademoiselle and for madame, her mother.” He indicated Abigail, who gave a stiff nod.
The man perused them in silence. “English,” he said in disgust. “Pah!” He looked hard at Meyer. “And you? You are Spanish?”
Bowing, Meyer handed him yet another packet. “These are my documents, and also those of a servant, who follows with the luggage.”
Suspicious again, the man looked at Diana and Anthony, and then back at Meyer. “I thought you said mademoiselle planned to return to Sisteron? Why are you now here? Why does the servant come with the bags?”
Meyer dismounted and drew the man aside slightly, lowering his voice as though shielding Abigail. “After mademoiselle left, I heard that the emperor’s troop was advancing north very quickly. It is my job to keep the ladies safe. Since they are English, I thought it prudent to change our plans.”
This made sense to the Frenchman; he nodded.
“Joseph!” It was one of the other guards. He was holding up a pistol, which he had taken from its saddle holster on Meyer’s horse. “Look at this!”
The first man f
rowned. “Search him,” he ordered.
Meyer made no protest as two of the other guards took off his greatcoat and quickly ran expert hands over his arms, his torso, and his legs. Abigail had assumed they would find nothing; to her astonishment and horror, he was carrying another small pistol and two knives, one of which had been concealed in the cuff of his boot. Diana’s eyes went wide. Roth, she saw, was unsurprised, although he was beginning to look worried.
“You know,” said the man with the helmet to one of the searchers, “I thought he had a military look. Let’s have his jacket off.” The man yanked it off. “And his shirt.” Meyer gave a small sigh, untucked the shirt, and pulled it off over his head.
There were scars everywhere. A small, dimpled one on one shoulder. An ugly gash across his chest. Gouges on both arms. The Frenchman walked around Meyer, studying his prisoner, who stood impassively, shivering very slightly in the cold wind. “Bayonet,” commented the guard, pointing to something Abigail could not see, on Meyer’s back. “Gunshot. Knife, knife. This one, a saber, I think.” He looked at Meyer, who nodded.
Abigail closed her eyes. She felt slightly dizzy. That lean, muscled body, inscribed with the signatures of a dozen weapons, could not be the body of a banker. Could it? She knew what a banker’s body should look like. Both her husbands had been cargo brokers. They were not unattractive men, the Harts, but their chests had been paler, softer; their arms more rounded. And how did Meyer come to have papers describing him as Spanish? How, for that matter, had he learned to speak Spanish? Where had he acquired Rodrigo, who treated him not as a valet treated a master but as a bodyguard treated a commanding officer?
“May I put my shirt back on, monsieur?” Meyer asked.
The guard tossed it to him, and the scars disappeared. Neckcloth, jacket. Now he was once more Nathan Meyer, would-be suitor, the same man who had bowed over her hand that first afternoon in Digne-les-Bains.
No, she thought. Not the same. This was no gentleman of leisure. That man had never existed. Leisure did not involve close encounters with bayonets and bullets and sabers.
The man in the helmet was frowning, studying Meyer’s papers again. He pointed to the little pile of weapons at Meyer’s feet. “Are these the weapons of an innocent traveler? And your scars, how do you explain those?”
Meyer shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Monsieur, I was a partisan in Spain. I will confess it to you, a fellow soldier. I came to know some English officers, and after the war ended they recommended me to their acquaintances who wished to tour Europe. Many regions are still very unsettled. The English travelers hire me to escort them. I speak French, and some English, and even a little German now. I know how to watch for bandits, for pickpockets, for ostlers who mix straw in with the oats for the horses.” He indicated the silver buttons on his jacket. “I have done very well for myself. These ladies”—he gestured towards Abigail and Diana—“have asked me to guide them safely out of France, and I am endeavoring to make sure they come to no harm. Naturally I carry weapons. What fool would not, with such a charge?” He glanced pointedly at Diana. He lowered his voice. “Only yesterday monsieur Roth here was injured defending her from two drunks. And now, this morning, you see the result.”
As the guard hesitated, still suspicious, Abigail saw Diana’s eyes narrow. She knew that expression, it was one of Diana’s few traits inherited from Abigail herself. And with Diana, it usually meant trouble. No, she thought, panicking. Don’t do it, whatever it is.
But Diana, for once, did something right. She didn’t say anything. She merely looked at the guard, her huge blue eyes filling with tears.
The Frenchman surrendered. “Pah,” he grunted. “I will let you go. You cannot be planning mischief against the emperor traveling with two women. But your passes are not valid any longer, do you understand? You must stop in Gap and have them reissued by the municipal guard.”
“Thank you, monsieur, thank you very much.” Meyer took back the pile of papers. He cleared his throat. “And my weapons?”
With a jerk of his helmeted head the guard signaled one of his henchman to restore everything except the smallest dagger. “Trust a Spaniard to have a knife in his boot,” he muttered. “I will keep this one.”
He stepped back, motioning his men to release the bridles. “Move on. I will pass your servant through when he arrives here.”
The reunited party rode off northwards at a slow trot, with Meyer a bit ahead of the two women and Roth behind them, like miniature advance and rear guards. Abigail glanced over at Diana. She was sitting very straight in the saddle, but tears were pouring down her face. “We will stop as soon as we can,” Abigail said quietly.
“Oh Mother, I am so sorry!” Diana said, half-whispering, half-sobbing. “I am so very, very sorry!”
“It was not your fault,” Abigail told her. Her own voice was shaking; she steadied it as best she could and said, “I was very angry when I got your note, but there is nothing like having a rifle pointed at one to restore a bit of perspective.”
“I will make it up to you,” Diana promised. “I will brush your hair every night. I will be polite to—to everyone. I will be more tidy.” She looked at the bunched-up sleeves of Abigail’s borrowed coat and winced. “And I will give you back your cloak, as soon as we stop.”
They now were riding past the little roadside shrine, and the old woman there curtseyed as they passed by. Diana nodded back, looking very uncomfortable. After a minute, she said hesitantly, “Mama, I did something else I should not have.”
Puzzled, Abigail turned to face her.
Diana would not meet her eyes. She took a deep breath and blurted out in a rush, “I made an offering at that shrine. That was where I found Mr. Roth, and I got off my horse, and the woman came over with the candles, and I bought two, and I lit them.” She added, almost defiantly, “I made a prayer.”
Abigail stiffened; her hands clenched the reins so hard that her horse almost reared.
“Mama?” Diana looked alarmed.
“My horse stumbled,” Abigail lied. She forced herself to relax, to ask casually, “So, you bought the poor woman’s candles?”
Diana smiled, relieved. “You do not mind?”
“A little . . . not very much.” She would have to speak with Diana later. But not now. No scolding now, no lectures. “What did you pray for?”
Hanging her head, Diana confessed, “For something exciting to happen.”
Abigail looked back at the statue of Mary, who was smiling serenely at the baby in her arms as the candles sputtered by her feet. Abigail wondered, not for the first time, if God had a sense of humor.
10
“That was dangerous back there,” Meyer told his nephew. “And you did very well.” The party had stopped to rest at a village inn, and when Rodrigo had arrived a few minutes ago Meyer and Anthony had decided that he needed help rearranging the hastily loaded baggage. In reality, for different reasons, each man was avoiding the female members of the party, who were inside finishing a cold lunch. “You kept your head admirably. I saw you joking with the man holding your horse; that was a clever touch. What did you tell him?”
“That I was no longer so certain I still wished to marry Miss Hart.” He colored. “I had told them she was my fiancée. It seemed the best thing, under the circumstances, especially as I was the only one with papers.”
“She did not take it well?”
“Take what well?”
“The announcement that she was your fiancée.”
“Oh.” Anthony coughed. “No, she did not. But by then she had sense enough not to contradict me.” He shook his head. “I will never understand women. When I jested that I no longer wanted to marry her, she didn’t like that either, and she must have known it was all an act.”
Meyer remembered the furious expression on Diana’s face after the Frenchman had slapped Anthony’s leg. She had not been entirely playing a part at that moment, he suspected. Nor had Anthony when he announced his reluctance
to marry her. His nephew was behaving like someone who had been rudely awakened from a very pleasant dream. He had tried to avoid Diana when they had stopped here to eat and rest. But the hunter had become the hunted: the girl had pursued him, puzzled and hurt when he made excuses to move away from her. Even Diana’s mother could not repress a flicker of amusement by the fourth iteration of the little comedy.
Anthony was looking rather drawn, even paler than usual. There were little lines around his mouth. Meyer suspected that his broken rib was aching fiercely. “I think you should ride in the gig this afternoon,” Meyer said abruptly. “It will be no more uncomfortable than trotting. And Miss Hart will be on horseback, if that is your concern.”
His nephew sighed. “Was I that obvious?” He looked down at a chicken pecking at some gravel in the small stable yard. “You must think I am very fickle. A short time ago I regarded a chance to be alone with her in a carriage as a great prize.”
“I think you had a very unpleasant experience yesterday, and the bruises were the least of it,” Meyer said quietly. “And then you had another unpleasant experience two hours ago. You cannot tell me that you were not frightened when you found yourself alone with Miss Hart confronting five armed, self-appointed imperial police.”
“I was frightened,” Anthony admitted. “I was more than frightened; I was terrified. I will say for Miss Hart that she seemed remarkably unafraid, at least while it was all happening.”
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Meyer observed. “The former quality being somewhat lacking in Miss Hart.”
“You should have seen her yesterday, when those oafs barged into our parlor.” Anthony gave a short laugh. “It was a crack-brained thing to do, to scold them like that, but she certainly had courage. I, on the other hand, did not show to advantage in that encounter.”
“Did you not? Well, then, what of me, today?” Meyer’s voice was harsh. “Do you think I fancied standing in front of all of you half-naked while that greasy vigilante paced around cataloguing my wounds? Do you think I did not choke, inside, while I was thanking him effusively for letting us go? In that encounter did I show to advantage, as you put it?”