by Sarah Zettel
“I’m not arguing,” I told him. “I’ve got no arguments left in me. Only, please, don’t vanish again.”
He smiled. “I’ll do my best, as long as you promise you’ll still be here when I get back.”
I promised, and he bowed to us all and left us there. We waited, each of us examining the mantelpiece, the remains of the beef on the tray, the way the napkin in my lap shifted as Isolde underneath tried to find a more comfortable place to curl up. We, in fact, looked at anything and everything except one another, until we heard the door close downstairs.
Olivia sprang up and ran to the window. I heard the thud of horses’ hooves against the dirt road. “He’s gone,” she said.
“You think he was using the Sandfords’ smuggling men to get secrets out of France, don’t you?” said Matthew.
How very well my sweetheart had come to know me. “Or into it, yes. I think . . . it’s possible he might be a double agent, in the pay of both sides.”
I waited for them to contradict me. Matthew’s face went hard and grim and he folded his arms. I could not guess his thoughts in that moment and found I did not want to. Olivia, for her part, grew as grave as I have ever seen her.
“Dear heavens, Peggy,” she breathed. “I’m sorry. You just found him again, too.”
“Wait,” said Matthew. “Olivia, before this, you said you’d made a discovery. What was it?”
But my cousin only shook her head. “I’ll explain afterward. If Peggy’s right, then there’s going to be nothing to tell.”
I was not happy about this answer, but time was short in the extreme. Father had gifted us with only a brace of hours, and there were plans to make. Carefully. Quietly. We could not forget that this was his house and the servants were in his employ. I didn’t even have Libby to call upon here.
“What will you do?” asked Matthew with remarkable calm. “There are still Mr. Tinderflint’s letters, on top of everything else. Will you send them?”
“I will, but not to Mr. Townshend or anybody else.” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to send them to Mrs. Oglethorpe. It will be a sign of good faith when I ask her to help me escape my father’s clutches.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE MAKES HER ESCAPE, BUT NOT QUITE UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES SHE PLANNED.
As I made my bold declaration, I steeled myself for a lengthy exchange, most probably involving attempts on the parts of both Olivia and Matthew to ascertain the current health of my mental faculties.
Much to my surprise, however, Olivia’s first question dealt entirely with practical matters.
“Is there time to get the Oglethorpe a message? Uncle Fitzroy said he’d be gone only an hour or two. He tends to be overly optimistic about such things, but considering the circumstances, I don’t think he’ll leave you alone for long.”
“Not on purpose, anyway,” added Matthew. “Can a message wait until tomorrow?”
Were they agreeing with me? Shock robbed me of my voice for a good long moment. But at last, I was able to force both mind and mouth into action. “There’s no knowing what plans Father will have made by tomorrow.” We also couldn’t know what plans the Oglethorpes and the Sandfords already had in place. Allowing those to advance undisturbed did not seem at all prudent. “We must make our move tonight.”
“So you’re going to escape under the nose of a double agent?” Matthew cocked his head toward us. “With the help of a woman he’s declared to be his enemy?”
“Not ideal circumstances, I admit.” I dug into my desk drawer for pen, ink, and paper. I also pulled the paper Mrs. Oglethorpe had given me out of the bottom of my reticule. “Matthew, I think we may need to call on some of that experience you’ve gained helping in your father’s apothecary shop . . .”
A gleam showed in his gray eyes. “You’re about to ask me if I can mix a sleeping draft, aren’t you?”
I smiled over my shoulder at him. “However did you guess, Mr. Reade?”
Matthew’s pause was a long one and caused me all sorts of misgivings. He drew a deep breath. “I will do this under one condition: whatever we learn, wherever it may lead, at the first opportunity, word goes back to Their Royal Highnesses, and no one else.”
“If I can—” I began, but Matthew cut me off.
“No. That is what will happen. They are the only ones whose loyalties we can be sure of.”
“They’re loyal to themselves,” said Olivia.
“And to their children. Exactly,” said Matthew. “We know that. It’s almost the only thing we do know. Do I have a promise? From you both?”
I nodded my agreement and Olivia sighed and said, “Very well—we promise, and we’d better get started.”
I am pleased to be able to report that once committed to the task at hand, we three proved remarkably efficient. Matthew at once took himself off to the nearest apothecary’s shop to have the recipe for his father’s strongest sleeping draft made up. Olivia and I set ourselves to writing a suitably hysterical letter for Mrs. Oglethorpe.
We detailed certain threatening and entirely fictitious things my patron had said when I supposedly confronted him with the lies he’d told about my mother’s life. We further declared that when my father learned I had lost my valuable position with the Hanoverians, he flew into a towering rage.
“‘And now I fear for my very life!’” Olivia said. “Is that an a or an e?” She pointed. “Peggy, your handwriting hasn’t gotten any better.”
“I write with perfect clarity. And isn’t fearing for my life coming on a bit strong?”
Olivia turned toward me, eyebrows raised to their limit. I put up my hands. “You’re right. I should not even have brought it up.” I wrote what I was told, being sure to add extra flourishes to the e’s.
From there, we went on to detail my complete conversion to the Jacobite cause and to say that I had been entrusted with several letters by my patron, which I now enclosed because I didn’t know what else to do with them, and I was certain that she, Mrs. Oglethorpe, would be a better judge of what they contained. The Old Fury had already demonstrated that she believed me to be a little fool. This action would in no way strain her credulity.
Our letter concluded with my begging her to send some trusted person to my aid, for my father was even now making arrangements to spirit me away to I knew not where.
This last was as close to the truth as we came in the entire narrative.
When Matthew returned, we proudly showed him our effort. As he read it, he frowned, and I felt all manner of second thoughts rise to the surface. Olivia visibly gathered herself to answer whatever objections he might have as to the tone and content of our missive. But Matthew just went over to the water pitcher, dipped his fingers in, and shook out the droplets over the paper.
“Tears,” he said. Then he carefully ran his thumb across several words to smudge them lightly and shook one large blot of ink from my quill. “Distress.” He also crumpled one edge of the paper. “Uncertainty.”
There are, it seems, many advantages to involving an artist when committing any sort of fraud to paper.
Once these additions were dry, I folded the missive around Mr. Tinderflint’s letters.
“I still say we should read them first,” muttered Olivia.
“This is not the time to find out how bad we are at unsealing letters,” I told her as I set my own seal to the packet. “You should have thought to give it some practice.”
“You should have thought to give us an extra s’en day before letting slip this level of disaster,” she answered righteously. “I would have been perfect by then.”
I ignored this and wrote “Mrs. Righthandwall” on the packet, making sure my hand shook. It did not take a great deal of effort. Then I handed the packet to Matthew.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
I nodded. This was no longer merely about spies and thrones and invasions. This was about me—that same Margaret Fitzroy who had learned too much and not enough and had unwitt
ingly claimed attention for so many busy persons. This was about finding out the truth of who I was and where I came from, so that no one—be he Jacobite, Hanoverian, or Holy Roman Emperor—would ever again be able to use my name and family against me.
One glance at Matthew was enough to show me he understood all this and more. His own hand was entirely steady as he took the packet and stowed it safely away.
Despite Matthew’s and Olivia’s cogent reasoning on the subject, I admit to being surprised when Father returned after only two and a half hours. Darkness had settled in by then, and the clock had chimed half nine. He stumped into the parlor somewhat mud-spattered and quite rumpled, and without bothering to remove his spurs or boots. I sat by the fire, pretending to read. Isolde sat at my feet, pretending to be a civilized creature. Being so overfed on roast beef that she could barely move contributed greatly to the success of this performance.
I got to my feet and made my curtsy as Father came in. He grunted, trudged past me, and threw himself down into a chair.
“That,” I remarked, “does not sound like your business met with a successful conclusion.”
“No.” He swept his hat off and tossed it across to the sofa. “At least, not entirely. Everybody’s watching to see which way the wind blows. Is this supper?” He eyed the loaded tray on the marquetry table.
“Certainly. Let me fix you a plate while you take off your boots.”
That drew a tired chuckle. “Going to be my civilizing influence, are you, Peg?”
“I was always told it is maiden’s chief function.” I laid beef on bread and cut a large slice of ripe golden cheese. We’d told the cook that no dinner would be required and instead brought into the parlor the remains of the roast beef and bread that had played such a central part in my own revival. Cook, torn between being angry that her talents were not being more regularly employed and concerned that her charges might be going without adequate nourishment, sent up a large wedge of cheese, some pickles, and a walnut cake to complete the collation. She’d also refilled the pitcher of beer.
My hand had been shaking rather more than it should have when I’d poured Matthew’s sleeping draft into the beer. It shook again now that I poured the beer from the pitcher into a tankard. I hoped I had angled myself properly to keep Father from seeing.
“Your mother,” he said, “assured me maiden’s chief function was keeping man from believing all the mighty things he said about himself.”
“And how is that different?”
Father barked out another laugh. I wished I hadn’t started joking. I didn’t want to laugh with him or be in any way comfortable. What I was about to do would be much easier if he remained surly or even growled an insult. As it was, he took the food and drink I held out and set them on the table at his elbow. He had, I noticed, taken off his boots.
By way of being companionable, I helped myself to walnut cake I did not want. At Olivia’s advising I had already placed a tankard full of beer by my own chair, so that it would not look strange when I did not pour myself any fresh.
“Where’s our Mr. Reade?” Father mumbled around a large mouthful of beef and bread.
“He had to go back to the academy. He’s still an apprentice, after all.”
“Yes, of course. He’s a good fellow. Steady in the face of . . . well, us. I like him.”
“I’m glad.”
“Will Olivia be joining us?” Father gestured toward the door with his food.
“She’s upstairs, writing to her mother. I thought we should let her be.” In truth, she was packing for our separate clandestine departures. Leaving her this task had caused me a certain amount of consternation. I knew how Olivia packed. However, I could not both be there, loading hand luggage, and here, drugging my father.
I poked my fork into my cake. “Have you heard anything from Aunt Pierpont yet?”
Father shook his head and took a bite of cheese. The tankard remained untouched on the table. I did not stare at it, exactly, but I did take a certain uneasy notice. “I’ve written her people in Colchester. If all is well, we’ll hear from them tomorrow or the next day.”
“And if it isn’t?” I poked my cake again.
“I’ll think of something else.” He paused and bit into one of the pickles. “Are you going to eat that cake, Peg, or dismember it?”
I set the cake aside and picked up my tankard. Although my throat actively rebelled against the action, I forced myself to take a swallow. Had Father drunk anything while my eyes were riveted on my plate? I could not tell.
“You don’t really believe Aunt Pierpont’s involved with the Jacobites?” I said, hoping any tension in my voice would be thought to come from the subject, rather than the strain of not staring at his tankard.
“Two weeks ago, I would have laughed at the idea.” Father bit into a fresh slice of bread. “Now I cannot say what she might be involved in.” He picked up his tankard. My breath stopped. He stared moodily at the contents. “I’ve begun to think I’ve been wrong about everything from the start.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I understand.”
“I rather imagine you do.” He set the tankard down. I suppressed an urge to scream. “I would change things if I could.”
“So would I.”
“And Tierney would as well, I expect.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “So here we all are, wishing things were different, but with no way to make that difference. Should we curse fate? Or blame our own frail selves for our faults?”
“I could not begin to say,” I answered, which was surprisingly close to the truth.
“No. Neither can I.”
A dozen tensions and contradictions knotted themselves up inside me. I did not want this comfortable, sympathetic conversation. I was angry and I was frightened and I doubted myself as badly as I doubted this man sitting with me.
“If . . .” I began hesitantly, “if I asked you where you went tonight, would you tell me?”
“I might,” he said. “But then I might be lying about it all again. That’s what worries you, isn’t it?”
The question hit me hard, but not so hard as his eyes as they looked at me, and through me.
“Should I deny it?” I answered back.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” He shook his head. “I could list a few names, some of which are genuine. Some are cant names of certain low persons involved in making sure . . . things . . . get where they’re meant to go.”
“Smugglers.”
He shrugged. “Almost everyone smuggles something now and again, Peg. It’s one of the truths of life if you’re a sailor or a carter. The only question is what you personally decide you’ll take on and what you won’t.”
I made no answer. I understood better than I wanted to.
Father didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not going to tell you these names, though, because neither of us knows what will happen next, and the less you know, the less you can give away.”
“I’m not a spy anymore,” I reminded him.
“Of course not,” he said softly. “But not everyone is going to take your word on that.”
He was still looking through me, waiting for me to make some answer. I wanted to, but my wit had for once deserted me. Father shrugged.
“Welladay. I suppose there’s nothing for it in the end but to trust each other.” He contemplated the tankard again and lifted it to his mouth. Then lowered it. “And since we’re trusting, you might tell me what it is I’m drinking here, Peg.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE FINDS SOME LITTLE OPPORTUNITY TO MEDITATE UPON OLD SAYINGS REGARDING FRYING PANS AND FIRES.
I should perhaps have been violently shocked at this question and its implicit revelation that I had entirely failed to dupe my father. As it was, I felt only a certain weary acceptance.
“It’s a sleeping draft,” I told him. “A strong one.”
He nodded, sniffed, and nodded again. “I would have chosen an emetic myself. Nothing so distr
acts a man as vomiting his guts out for a few hours, and it leaves him less suspicious afterward.” He swirled the tankard gently. “Can I ask why?”
“Can I ask how you’ve become so suddenly wealthy, sir?” I replied. My voice was hoarse. I was glad I’d put my plate down, because I otherwise would have dropped it. “And please, don’t try any more tales about money left with friends.”
His mouth twitched. “Oh, Peg, you are so very like your mother. I should have . . .” He sighed. I did not permit my gaze to waver. If he was readying yet another lie, I wanted to see his face.
“I stole it,” he said.
“What?”
He smiled at my slack jaw and furrowed brow. “The idea came to me when you were still sleeping, after we’d pulled ourselves out of the Thames and were safe. I watched you, you know. I saw what a fine lady you were, and here I returned all but a pauper. I couldn’t help thinking about all that silver coin Sir Oliver had been hiding in his warehouse, and how it would now be sitting there with barely any guard.”
“You stole a barrel of silver?”
He smiled with becoming modesty. “Ten of them, actually. I was able to borrow a very stout cart. And d’you know, I think the Crown should pay the harbor watchmen better. Far too easy to bribe them.”
“Mr. Tinderflint helped you, didn’t he?”
“Actually, he knows nothing about it. That money, you see, technically belongs to the Crown, and I didn’t wish to create any further awkwardness for my daughter’s friend.”
Friend. The word twisted around all my suspicions and squeezed. I shook this off, but only because a separate, slow realization had crept into my thoughts. “Olivia found you out, didn’t she?” A smugglers’ tunnel full of stolen silver. My cousin, with her love of all things theatrical, must have been in ecstasies.
“I swore her to secrecy. But apparently, since the funeral, your cousin’s been searching the house from top to bottom. Remind me not to leave any more trapdoors open when she’s about. “