by Nita Abrams
He had risen as well. He felt hollow. It was almost a game to him. He was no innocent—he knew what the reports he wrote would mean. He had made choices to save these ten people, and sacrifice those eight. He had blown up bridges with dozens of men on them. He had spiked guns so that they exploded in some youngster’s face the next time they were fired.
He had told himself that in the long run, he was saving lives. That he hated killing and did it only when necessary and even then with extreme reluctance. That England was right and France was wrong. That he deserved to play God, because he was willing to risk his own life, over and over again. What he rarely admitted, even to himself, was that he enjoyed his work far more than any man with a conscience should. “Game” might be the wrong word—addiction would be closer—but she was right. It was not patriotism that motivated him.
He walked away from her and leaned against the wall. “Do you know how I became a spy?” he asked over his shoulder. “No, of course not. Until today you thought I was a very dedicated banker.”
He didn’t wait for her to answer. “My wife died. We had married very young, so that even though she was barely thirty when she died, we had been together for over a dozen years. I had been working for the bank, as you know. I traveled frequently. I had a gift for languages; I already spoke German and English and Portuguese, I then acquired French and Italian and some Spanish as well. I only had to hear them spoken and I could reproduce the accents and phrases of the native speakers as though I had been living in the country for years. We were happy, or so I believed—Miriam with me and the children, I with her and my work. And then I came home one day from one of my business trips, and Miriam was ill, and within a week she was dead. Four months later, Spain invaded Portugal at Napoleon’s instigation, and I quit the bank and went to work as an unofficial British intelligence courier in Portugal.
“My family was horrified. They were even more horrified when I took my two young children with me to Spain a few years later. They told everyone I had gone mad with grief, that I was courting death, hoping to join my wife. But do you know what had really happened?” He turned around.
She had moved quite close to him. She gave a tiny shake of her head.
No, she didn’t know. No one knew. He had let his family tell this lie for him.
“I did grieve for my wife. I loved her. I missed her. But the reason I became a spy was not grief. It was fear. I watched a healthy, beautiful woman die of a fever in the space of six days, and I told myself it could happen to me. I did not want to die a banker. I loved traveling. I loved being in strange places, speaking new languages, seeing if I could fool people into thinking I was one of them. I loved the idea of pretending, and wearing disguises, and learning to move silently, and carrying knives in my boot. I was a banker who wanted to be a pirate, and the war gave me my chance. So you see, you are right to condemn me. I am a chess player. And the pieces on my board are armies and fleets and bands of partisans. They die, and somehow I survive. I survive, and I go on to the next match and play again. You said it yourself. I find danger attractive.”
“Perhaps I do, too,” she said in a low voice.
He remembered her face, alive and eager, as she took in the view of the mountains from the top of the Col Bayard. If he could go back, if he could take her aside there, with the mountains as his witnesses, and explain it all, would things have been different?
Probably not. Even the Alps could not excuse him to Abigail Hart. She had standards, and he did not meet them.
He straightened up. “Do you have any more questions?”
“No.” Then, “Wait. Yes. One more. General Cambronne said that he owed you a great debt. What did he mean?”
He shuddered. Orgon was not a pleasant memory. The screaming mob, seeded with hired cutthroats; the dazed former emperor, hustled away in disguise. “Last April, when Napoleon was on his way to Elba, I learned of a French royalist plot to assassinate him. I warned Cambronne and helped him get Napoleon away safely.”
“But—I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”
He used her terms. “The rules of the game. He was under British protection. We were responsible for his safety. We had signed a treaty.”
“You were responsible for our safety,” she said. Her face was bleak. “Mine and Diana’s. But I had not signed a treaty, had I?” She lifted her chin. “Good night, Mr. Meyer. Thank you for answering my questions.”
He watched her disappear back into the house. Then he walked slowly back to the barn. The candle still burned in its rocky holder; he left it there. In another hour it would be nothing but a melted puddle of wax, a puzzle for Durry or one of his sons the next time they repaired the wall.
17
What was the proper behavior the next day for a sensible woman of high moral standards who had disgraced herself the night before? She had no idea. The travelers were, for all intents and purposes, confined to the farmhouse. It would have been far less awkward had they been able to continue on their way. Abigail and Diana would have been in a carriage again, isolated from Meyer except for the brief halts, and the journey would have offered some distraction from her situation. But everyone except the patient himself had agreed that Roth should rest for at least another day.
She tried for Diana’s sake to pretend that nothing had happened, but she understood now what Anthony Roth must have felt like the day after the beating. Her bruises were not physical, but they were numerous and painful, and the effect was very similar. She moved stiffly; she had no appetite; she could not focus on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. For someone who liked pretending and disguises Meyer did not seem to be making much of an effort either. He barely spoke to anyone and when he smiled in response to something the younger Durry boy said there was a bleak twist at the side of his mouth. By the end of the day Diana was giving Abigail constant, worried glances; and when Abigail and Meyer were in the same room Diana and Anthony took on the frightened, too-cheerful manner of children whose parents have been quarreling.
To his credit, Meyer did his best to avoid Abigail, and she was grateful. Every time she caught even a glimpse of him (which, admittedly, was as infrequently as both could manage it) she would feel her heart begin to pound, and a jellylike quiver would lodge itself in her stomach. She was not sure whether these were symptoms of embarrassment, or terror, or desire. Or all of them combined.
Even in his absence she found it difficult to maintain her equilibrium. The smallest incident would precipitate another round of memory and self-recrimination. In the morning, for example, she had put on her cap as usual. But when she glanced in the mirror her face had looked so wistful and vulnerable that she had hastily tucked every single strand of hair out of sight. A minute later she had pulled them out again, furious at herself. At the midday meal Madame Durry triumphantly produced a plate of the same pungent, leaf-wrapped cheeses Abigail had been offered in Pont-Haut. Evidently they were a local specialty. The smell immediately took her back to the terrifying wait in the guard station; she managed one taste, then choked out some feeble excuse and fled. Two hours later she ventured outdoors for some fresh air only to see Meyer over by the infamous stone wall, releasing two pigeons. She hastily retreated before he could see her.
Towards sunset she was beginning to feel a little calmer, but then Meyer came in and asked his nephew if he could have a word with him in private. Roth had been so much better by lunchtime that he had been allowed to get up, and as he went off with Meyer he smiled cheerfully. When he came back, he looked sick again, and he avoided Abigail’s eye all during supper. She could guess what had happened: Meyer had decided Roth was finally well enough to be told about the events of last night. Meyer himself did not reappear. Since the house was not very large, she could only conclude that he had once again taken refuge in the barn.
Very late in the evening, Rodrigo brought her a note—or rather two notes: a terse one from Meyer and a much longer one from Raoul Doucet. The Frenchman sent his most
profound respects to M. Meyer and his eternal devotion to Mme. Hart. In view of the illness of M. Roth he had been obliged to forego the pleasure of escorting them to Grenoble himself this morning. Instead he had made arrangements for them to travel tomorrow with the rear guard of the emperor’s army. They should be prepared to leave at a very early hour. Meyer’s note was one sentence: I forward the enclosed from M. Doucet.
Was this Meyer’s idea of a joke? She thrust the note into Rodrigo’s hands. “Have you read this?” she demanded.
“No, señora.”
“Please do so. And tell me whether he is serious.”
Expressionless, he scanned it, then handed it back. “I believe he is quite in earnest.”
“Is he in the barn?”
He looked alarmed. “Yes, but—”
Without even bothering to fetch her cloak, she strode out of the house and burst into the barn.
He was sitting on a bench, his dark head bowed, studying his clasped hands. On the floor by his feet sat the empty crate which had held the pigeons; there were a few feathers caught in the slats on one side. “¿Lo ha leído? ¿Qué dijo?” he asked without looking up.
“I do not speak Spanish,” she said.
He straightened up, shocked, and slowly got to his feet. His eyes were very dark, and for a minute she thought he had been drinking. But no, they were clear. At least she was not the only one still feeling awkward about what had happened last night; he was obviously ill at ease.
She held up Doucet’s letter. “What is the meaning of this?”
“I am afraid that it means exactly what it says.”
“You are seriously proposing that Diana and I should travel with Napoleon’s army? The very army we have been fleeing for the past five days? Or rather,” she amended bitterly, “the army I believed we were fleeing, while you, in fact, did everything in your power to keep us nearby.”
“I am not proposing anything,” he said. “Monsieur Doucet is proposing. It is only for one day; once you reach Grenoble, you will be at liberty to continue on in any direction you please.”
“This is because of you,” she said, her voice shaking. “Because of you and that bridge. Isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. He looked away.
“And if I refuse?”
His voice was very quiet. “I do not advise it. You will, in fact, be safer under the army’s protection than you would be on your own. Masséna is racing up from the south with a corps of royalist volunteers. They will be here by tomorrow afternoon.”
She sank down onto the bench. “So we are trapped between Napoleon’s army and an opposing army?”
“No,” he corrected. “You are trapped between Napoleon’s army and a loosely organized gang of Bonaparte-haters. The former are disciplined veterans under the command of men like Cambronne—who, by the way, has personally guaranteed your safety. The latter are little better than an armed mob.”
“We could not stay here for a few days? In the farmhouse?” She heard a pleading note in her own voice and forced herself back to a cold tone. “By we, of course, I mean Diana and myself. You and Mr. Roth are welcome to do as you see fit.”
“I have no options. I gave Doucet my word that I would remain under military supervision until we reach Grenoble. You and Miss Hart, however, could choose to ignore that letter. As could my nephew.”
“But you do not advise it.” She mimicked his phrasing savagely.
“No.”
“You will forgive me if I am inclined to seek another opinion.”
She stalked off to find Madame Durry. But her hostess only endorsed Meyer’s recommendation emphatically. Abigail could not tell whether her expressions of confidence in Napoleon’s officers were genuine or whether the Frenchwoman spoke from fear of what might happen to her farm if Abigail failed to cooperate with the soldiers.
Roth was equally unhelpful, although from a different point of view. Anthony raged against his uncle; the man was a ruthless, cold-blooded plotter, no more to be trusted than a snake. He would lie to his own mother. Family loyalty, chivalry, responsibility meant nothing to him. Whatever Meyer proposed was sure to be the worst possible course of action. When she hesitantly mentioned the advancing royalist volunteers, he brushed his uncle’s warning aside. He did, however, promise to accompany Diana and Abigail, no matter what Abigail decided to do. It was the least he could do to make up for Meyer’s villainy.
In the end, she went back to Rodrigo. She found him cleaning and loading two pairs of pistols. The sight of four guns next to the pan of bread dough on Madame Durry’s enormous kitchen table did not seem a good omen.
“Mr. Santos?” He looked up, frowning, and she remembered that he did not use his surname. This flustered her so much that she stammered as she continued. “May I—may I—could I ask you a question?”
He rose, setting down the gun he was holding. “Certainly, señora.”
But she could not even put into words what she wanted to say. Why did you betray me? Why did he betray me? How can I tell my daughter that the man I believed to be her protector has handed her over to fifteen hundred soldiers?
He understood at least part of what she wanted to ask. “It is only one day,” he said. His olive-skinned face held an expression that looked suspiciously like pity. “You and your daughter will be safe; I am sure of it. By tomorrow night we will be in Grenoble. The Roth-Meyer Bank has an exchange office there; they will provide everything we need.”
“The Hart brokerage has an agent in Grenoble as well,” she said. “And you may tell Mr. Meyer that I will be seeking their assistance in returning to England the minute we arrive in the city.”
“You will accept the offer of Señor Doucet, then?”
She hesitated, then nodded, watching his face in spite of herself to see what his reaction to her decision would be. He seemed relieved.
“Please do not worry, señora. You will be under the protection of General Cambronne. He is an honorable man.”
She gave a bitter smile. “That will be a pleasant change from my current circumstances,” she said.
Rodrigo watched her leave. She was holding herself so stiffly he wondered how she could breathe properly. He went back to cleaning one of the pistols, but after a few minutes he sighed, put it down, and went out to the barn. It was empty. So was the farmyard. But as he was scanning the other outbuildings, he caught a flash of light from the trees at the foot of the slope behind the barn. It bobbed gently up and down inter-mittantly, and as Rodrigo drew closer he saw that the light came from a lantern that had been suspended from a low-hanging tree branch next to a stream.
Beneath the lantern Meyer was kneeling, scooping white crystals from a heap on a piece of oilcloth into a burlap sack. At the edges of the heap, where the damp had reached the crystals, large sections were crusted together in sharp-edged chunks. His hands were bleeding slightly.
“Saltpeter?” Rodrigo asked.
Meyer did not answer or even look up.
“Señora Hart has agreed to accept the escort of Napoleon’s guard.”
That elicited a slight nod.
Rodrigo edged nervously around the side of the oilcloth. “I could have done this, señor.”
Meyer turned then. “Sometimes a man has to tidy up after himself. Even a wealthy man with loyal and well-trained servants.” He went back to shoveling the saltpeter into the bag. When the heap was nothing more than scattered flecks on the oilcloth, he carefully swept the last remnants into the center of the cloth and then folded it into a neat square. “You can take the lantern. And the butter paddle and mallet,” he told Rodrigo as he picked up the sack and cloth. Rodrigo saw the wooden implements propped against a nearby tree. They were damp, and the flat blade of the paddle looked as though it had been scoured with something abrasive.
They walked back up the hill in silence.
Meyer stowed the oilcloth in the saddlebag of his horse and set the sack in the corner of the barn. He grimaced when he looked at the stained padd
le in Rodrigo’s hands. “Best leave a silver coin with it when you put it back in the churn. Madame Durry may require a new one.”
“Yes, some things are not so easy to clean,” Rodrigo said, eyeing the yellow and black grime in the cracks of the wood.
“True of more than that paddle.” Meyer hung the lantern back on its hook. “Do you remember what you told me last night? That because I was unable to choose between the bridge and Mrs. Hart I would likely end up with neither?”
Rodrigo remembered. He had hoped Meyer would not. “Perhaps the situation is not hopeless, señor,” he said. “At the moment Señora Hart is very upset, of course, but in time—”
Meyer cut him off. “She came out to speak with me last night,” he said. “She let me kiss her. More than let me, in fact. Then she told me she despised me.”
“Well then,” Rodrigo said, brightening, “if she kissed you—”
He was interrupted again. “Wrong order,” his employer informed him. “Denunciation first, embrace second is the one you want. Embrace followed by denunciation is a very bad sign. I will wager a large sum that Mrs. Hart will not even speak to me tomorrow. And that the minute we reach Grenoble she will seek out some means of returning to England that does not involve me or anyone remotely connected to me. Unless, like my nephew, they have renounced me and all my evil works.”