by Beth White
Perhaps this wasn’t what Aunt Lyse had in mind.
“Charlie.” She broke away. “Charlie, I have to go. Do you hear me?”
“No. La la la I cannot hear you.”
She laughed. “Yes, you can. My uncle Rafa says he’s taking you to New Orleans. Maybe I could meet you there.”
His eyes flew open. “Don’t even think about such a thing!” He took her by the shoulders. “Promise me!”
“Well, I heard Desi talking to my brother, and it sounds like General Jackson expects the British to come back here to Mobile any day now. So New Orleans should be safe, don’t you think? I could go and stay with my brother Judah—”
“No! Under no circumstances should you get anywhere near New Orleans.” His voice was frantic, his eyes dark. “Fiona, if you love me, you will stay right here in Mobile with your family. If—if the British do attack the city, I want you to take refuge here in the fort.”
She dropped her gaze. “All right. If you really think I should, I will.”
“Yes. You must.” He took her face in both hands and kissed her forehead. “Beloved, I’m so glad you came to see me, but you have to go now. This is goodbye for quite a long time, and you mustn’t even write to me. But remember what I told you before. I’ll come after you as soon as I can.”
“And I’ll pray for you every day until I see you again.”
“And I you.” He kissed her again, lingering. “Fiona, I love you.”
“Goodbye, Charlie. I love—”
His lips took the words.
With a muffled sob she got to her feet and ran.
Holding onto the bars, Charlie pulled himself to his feet, then sat down on the cot and gripped his aching thigh. Pain was a good thing, a reminder that he was alive. The scar would always be there, even if he never saw Fiona again. He hoped he’d scared her enough that she’d not follow him to New Orleans.
She was fearless, though. Closing his eyes, he pictured her as she’d looked the day she came after him, galloping along behind him on Bonnie, practically one with the horse.
Surely her people would watch her, keep her from following him again. Lord knows, they’d warned him away often enough. Every single one of them. He couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten away from them tonight, how she’d talked the guard into letting her in to see him. Resourceful little minx.
He lay back, but didn’t pick up the book. He wasn’t interested in American politics right now, though he’d been absorbing Thomas Paine when Fiona came in. Every word she’d said tonight reeled through his mind like cables pulling a flag up a mast. There was something . . . something that snagged on logic.
But he had a hard time being logical when it came to Fiona.
He closed his eyes again, letting his thoughts drift. There would be plenty of time for hard plans during the next day’s journey to New Orleans. Free! At last, he would be among his own countrymen, able to speak openly, to laugh at British jokes, to eat navy food, to move about at will. More than two months of imprisonment had taught him to appreciate that freedom as never before in his life. He’d understood the risk when he’d taken the assignment of going into New Orleans as a deported Scottish criminal.
He just hoped the information he carried would not come too late.
“So I’m pretty sure he believes we think the next attack will come here, not New Orleans.”
Fiona sat at Maddy’s kitchen table, much as she had the night of the harvest ball, but this time Aunt Lyse and Uncle Rafa’s presence added a layer of reassurance she hadn’t felt then.
Still, her emotions wobbled. She’d once imagined that espionage would be glamorous. She’d thought she would feel like a heroine.
Misery was more like it.
“That was brilliant, Fiona.” Desi regarded her with approval. “I knew you’d be able to think on your feet.”
Maddy sniffed. “It sounds like she used persuasive measures that no lady would—”
“Don’t be childish, Madeleine,” Aunt Lyse said with mild annoyance.
“Persuasive measures? Perhaps you think I magically melted myself and dripped through the bars of Charlie’s cell?” Fiona regarded her cousin, chin up. “Really, cousin, you give me greater credit than I deserve.”
“Ladies, please.” Desi’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “If that information had come from me, Kincaid would have suspected a plant, but I’ve no doubt he believed Fiona. And if he carries it back to British admiralty, our advantage of surprise grows.”
“As does the likelihood of Charlie being shot by some Tennessee sharpshooter.” Fiona put her head in her hands. “What have I done?”
“The hard thing. The brave thing.” Aunt Lyse’s arm went around her shoulders. “Now you will pray for your Charlie and leave him in the care of the Father who loves you both.”
Of course she would pray. But she did not feel brave, and she did not feel brilliant. She felt like a leaf blown about in a violent wind.
NOVEMBER 16, 1814
OFF THE COAST OF NEW ORLEANS
The choppy waters of the Gulf of Mexico had thrown Charlie into a violent and unexpected state of seasickness by the time he and Rafael Gonzales boarded the prisoner caravel HMS Goldeneye. Perhaps he could also blame the fact that he hadn’t been aboard a ship of any size since early August. Whatever the cause, he clung, hunched like an old man, to his escort’s shoulder as they stepped off the gangplank onto the Goldeneye.
The young midshipman who greeted him stepped aside with a grin as Charlie muttered, “Excuse me,” and heaved over the side before turning around to salute. “Rough crossing, sir?” the boy asked cheerfully as he shook hands with Gonzales, then swung away without waiting for an answer. “Cap’n says to bring you to his cabin immediately. He wants to be under way within the hour.”
Gonzales kept a steady arm around Charlie’s back and shot him a look of concern as they followed the midshipman. “Are you up to it, son? You’d be better for a drink of water and your berth.”
“I’m fine,” Charlie said, gritting his teeth. This was not how he’d imagined his release from American custody. No line of officers to welcome him back. No flags or champagne toast. The ship itself barely bigger than a Brighton hog boat. He tried not to wish himself back in prison.
Shaking off Gonzales’s protective support, he ducked his head to enter captain’s quarters and stood at attention. “Lieutenant Charles Kincaid, reporting for duty, sir.”
The captain, a bug-eyed little man with thinning hair and a bulbous red nose indicative of a fondness for ale, looked up from a meal of something unappetizing—especially to one in Charlie’s queasy state—and waved his fork. “At ease, Kincaid. I’m Captain Walters. Glad to have you aboard, though as I understand it, that won’t be for long.” He squinted at the doorway behind Charlie. “The American diplomat with you?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie looked over his shoulder. “Captain Walters, meet the Honorable Rafael Gonzales.”
“Gonzales? That sounds Spanish.”
“I have been an American citizen for twenty years.” Gonzales moved to Charlie’s side and gave the captain a much more elegant bow than the man deserved. “I present to you papers from President Madison’s diplomatic staff, effecting the exchange of Lieutenant Kincaid for the American Lieutenant Sullivan Lanier, who has already been released and returned to duty.” He reached into his coat and removed a sheaf of documents, which he handed over to the captain. “You will please to sign both copies and give one back to me, so that I may rejoin my ship.”
Walters flicked a glance over the papers. “Will you not join me in a meal or tankard of ale before you go?”
Gonzales shook his head. “I thank you, but the weather threatens to turn ugly, and I wish to be on my way.”
The captain nodded. “Kincaid, you look rather green about the gills. You have been treated well?”
“As well as any prisoner determined to escape can be treated.” Charlie staggered as the ship rocked under a swell.
Charlie bowed himself out of the cabin and stood on deck for a moment, buffeted by a freezing ocean breeze. The midshipman was nowhere in sight, but he couldn’t escape the familiar shipboard noises of creaking timbers and chains, the slap-slosh of waves against the ship, sailors singing and calling to one another as they worked. Battling a wild urge to dive overboard and swim back to the ship he’d come from, he leaned against the cabin wall and stared at the steely horizon.
Before insanity had time to overcome him, Gonzales emerged from the cabin. “Ah, Kincaid, I am glad you are still here. There is one more thing I wished to say to you before we part ways.”
Charlie regarded the American warily. “You’ve had two days to say whatever you wanted, and as you can see, I’m feeling not quite the thing at the moment.”
Gonzales smiled. “It is only that I know a man who faces regrets when I see one, and I wonder if you would accept a word of advice—from one who has known something of making difficult choices.”
“There is no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Gonzales said gently, “and the most difficult is between discharging one’s duty without question and judging whether one is substituting duty for right. I stand here today because your grandfather made such a choice.”
Charlie wanted to ask what he meant. But perhaps he already knew the answer.
NOVEMBER 18, 1814
MOBILE
The Friday morning after Charlie left, Fiona awoke from a repetition of the cliff dream. Aunt Giselle’s house was quiet, Sehoy still asleep beside her in the bed they shared in the Laniers’ attic bedroom. She sat straight up, a hand at her throat. It wasn’t true. Tully was now in the care of some cavalry regiment, Bonnie safe at Navy Cove, and Charlie returned to his command. Everything was back as it should be.
Everything except Fiona herself. She missed Navy Cove—her people, her horses, the refuge of the beach. She wished she had the strength of mind to go home. But deep inside, in a place she couldn’t admit even to herself, she wanted to wait until Uncle Rafa returned and hear how Charlie fared. One more word of him. One crumb of information to add to the store she took out at odd moments of thinking about him and praying for him.
So odd that her first prayers used to be for Sullivan. But now that he was back with his naval command, Charlie’s welfare took precedence in her conversations with God.
Holy Father, please cover him, protect him, give him wisdom. You know how I miss him. Keep him and my brothers apart. I couldn’t bear it if—
And therein lay the glaring, damaging truth. Yes, she had ridden after Charlie and recaptured him. And yes, she had unwillingly betrayed him with that visit to his cell—in the process earning Desi’s approval—but her love for Charlie had somehow corrupted her loyalty to her brothers, to her country. She hadn’t done enough, not yet, to make up for harboring an enemy spy for months while his comrades slipped up into the bay to attack and invade.
She was a Lanier. American-born, raised to courage and resourcefulness. She knew the stories by heart. Others of her family had given up comfort and fortune and their very lives so that she could be free. There had to be something else she could do to meet this new, looming threat of British aggression. No more excuses based on feminine weakness, conflicted affections, nonsensical fears.
The hard thing, Aunt Lyse had said, as if kissing Charlie goodbye had been some huge sacrifice. No, the hard thing was yet to come.
And suddenly she knew what she might do. Dangerous, some might say foolhardy, but the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that it was the right thing. A frisson of sheer terror and excitement overtook her. All her life had led to this point, but she would still have to plan carefully.
Thinking it through, she slipped out of bed and dressed in the day gown she’d left hanging on a hook behind the door, then put on her shoes in the dark. Twisting her hair up in a simple knot atop her head, she tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen, where Aunt Giselle was already building a fire in the stove. Four loaves of bread dough lay at rest on a countertop. By late afternoon they would be risen and ready to bake for supper.
“Auntie, what can I do to help?”
Aunt Giselle looked around with her dimpled smile. “Good morning, dearie.” She nodded at the bucket sitting beside the door. “You can go to the well for water. I don’t know about you, but I need a cup of coffee.”
Like all the women of the family, Giselle ran her household with the iron discipline of a brigadier general, but her troops felt the underlying cushion of her love. Fiona and Sehoy were expected to help with chores, making them feel more part of the family than if they’d been treated as pampered guests.
Shaking off her melancholy, she flung her cloak around her shoulders and grabbed the bucket on her way out the door. The morning was chilly but not bitter, a dense fog blanketing the surrounding houses. She had to walk a couple of blocks to the center of town, where the well made a gathering place for gossip and news. A cluster of uniformed cavalry soldiers stood about smoking cigars and trading jokes. Ignoring them, she lowered the bucket into the well.
But as she left, one arm extended to balance the weight of the water on the other side, the words “big bay stallion” stopped her in her tracks.
“Handsome piece of horseflesh, but obstinate as a mule. Can’t wait to show him who’s boss.”
Fiona looked over her shoulder just as the man who had spoken whipped his quirt against his boot.
The man must have seen her flinch, for he touched the brim of his hat and gave her a bold grin. “Sorry to startle you, ma’am—er, miss?” His expression was hopeful.
Fiona bit her lip. “Good day to you, sir,” she said, hurrying on her way without satisfying the oaf’s curiosity.
Had they been talking about Tully? Maybe not. It would be silly to get upset over some imagined harm to a horse that no longer belonged to her. Surely there was more than one big bay stallion in General Coffee’s remuda.
But worrying about Tully reminded her of the dream from last night, which made her think of Charlie and what she knew she had to do. For the rest of the morning, as she helped with household chores, she rejected multiple impractical ways to accomplish her plan. By that afternoon when she sat by the kitchen fire hulling pecans while Aunt Giselle knitted, she had it figured out.
The first hurdle to cross was getting away from the house alone. At first she’d wondered why Maddy had been so insistent on bringing her and Sehoy to stay in Mobile. Slowly it had dawned on her that the freedoms she had enjoyed at Navy Cove were regarded as outré by the more socially adroit females of her family. Maddy and Aunt Giselle—probably Aunt Lyse too—worried about Fiona, worried that she wouldn’t attract a suitable husband if she were left to her own pursuits in the wilds of the south bay.
She could have told them that she didn’t want a suitable husband who wasn’t Charlie Kincaid—and since she couldn’t have him, she didn’t want one at all. Shuddering at the thought of the likely response if she were so foolish as to utter that thought aloud, she tossed a handful of hulls into the sack at her feet and rose.
“Aunt Giselle, I’m feeling restless. I think I’ll go for a ride before dinner.”
Aunt Giselle looked up, eyes sympathetic. “I’m sure you’re used to more physical activity than we have here in town. Just dress warmly. You don’t want to take a chill.”
“Of course.” Grateful to have crossed that hurdle, Fiona hurried upstairs to the little attic room and knelt in front of her trunk.
Ten minutes later, breathless and clutching the folds of her cloak about herself, she returned to the kitchen and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
“Go by Maddy’s and bring everyone back
with you. I’ve got enough stew to feed the army.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Feeling guilty, rebellious, and relieved all at the same time, Fiona grabbed the boots she’d left at the foot of the stairs and headed for the barn.
She found Cisco seated on a hay bale, mending a harness and singing softly to himself. He looked up with a grin. “Hullo, Miss Fiona! Old Max and me was hoping you’d come out to keep us company this afternoon.”
“Yes, five days without riding is too many.” She stood in the center aisle of the barn, breathing in the familiar pungent scents of horses, hay, leather, and manure. Sweet smells that reminded her of home. She swung her cloak off her shoulders and draped it over a stall door. “Could I take Max for a ride?”
Cisco’s eyes widened as he took in the breeches, boots, and old coat that she wore when working in the barn. “Miss Fiona, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Aunt Giselle knows where I am.” She didn’t have to explain herself to the stable boy, but if he went running to Uncle Rémy, she was in trouble.
“Still. Max hasn’t had a sidesaddle on him in years.” Cisco was looking obstinate.
“Cisco, you know I can make any horse do whatever I want, but look at me—I’m not dressed for a sidesaddle. Max will be perfectly safe with me. Now you can either help me saddle him, or I’ll do it myself.” She stomped toward Max’s stall, went in, and reached for his bridle, then slipped the bit into his mouth.
Cisco followed. “Oh, all right. Let me help you.”
Between the two of them, Max was saddled in nothing flat. Fiona led him out of the barn the back way, and Cisco cupped his hands to give her a boost into the saddle.
Yanking down the hat that covered her pinned-up hair, she grinned down at him. “Nobody will suspect I’m a girl, let alone Rémy Lanier’s niece. You won’t tell on me, will you?”
“I thought you said it was all right!”