by Ruth Axtell
He also inquired about the tide and was told it would be going out around two that night.
He spent most of the evening in the taproom, listening to the conversation around him. At one point, someone asked him what his business in Dover was. He replied that he was there to meet someone from one of the packet boats from Holland. They seemed to accept that.
Once it neared midnight, Rees armed himself and headed to the small inn. He posted himself in a nearby alcove where he could remain hidden and watch the entrance.
He hadn’t been there more than half an hour when the two cloaked women exited. Even though their figures were hidden from him, he was sure the two were Lady Wexham and Valentine. They carried only a small valise each. Had their trunks been part of the ruse?
They kept to the shadows, heading west.
As Rees waited a moment to give them a lead, another shadow disengaged itself from a narrow alley and followed after them.
De la Roche. So, he, too, had located Lady Wexham.
Without thinking, Rees drew out his pistol and crept up behind the Frenchman.
Giving him no chance to react, Rees swung the butt with all his force against his head. De la Roche fell.
Rees dragged his body back down the dark alley.
Having nothing to bind him, Rees brought de la Roche to the end of the alley and left him in a garden shed, securing the door behind him.
Then he ran back out into the main street.
Afraid of being detected, he forced his steps to slow, guessing the two women were headed to Shakespeare Beach, a shingle beach just outside the town limits, the only possible location for a small craft to land. The road split, the higher road leading up to the cliffs just beneath the military garrison. Despite the cool sea air, he broke out in a sweat thinking of the risk they were taking—meeting a smuggler’s boat right under the eyes of the sentinels above.
Leaving the last street lamps behind, Rees decided on the higher path. He’d spent much of the afternoon exploring the various roads leading out of town both east and west.
Refreshed from a good night’s sleep, he was alert, every nerve on edge. His muscles still ached from his hard ride yesterday, but thankfully his wound was dry.
He arrived at the cliff overlooking the beach on the southwestern outskirts of the harbor and positioned himself flat on his belly just below the garrison.
The night was pitch black. He could not even make out his hand in front of him, could only hear the endless crashing and sucking sound of the surf on the pebbly beach below.
This cliff was low in comparison to the other, white-chalk cliffs distinguishing Dover. He had not seen the two figures again since leaving the inn. He could only guess they were down below on the beach.
Céline would need to be far from the coast by dawn. If they were spotted by a customhouse cutter . . . he didn’t want to think of that.
Suddenly, he saw a small, blue flash. It lasted only an instant, then blackness enveloped everything once again. He could have imagined it, but he didn’t think so. He knew what it was. The flash of a flintlock pistol without a barrel, an oft-used signal to alert smugglers on land that a boat was offshore ready to unload its cargo. Rees had spent enough time in the navy in the Channel patrolling for ships to know all the ways of smugglers.
He glanced over his shoulder. Would the sentries along the high ridge have spotted the flash? And if they did, what could he do?
He could only pray.
Training his eyes on the darkness below, he endeavored to make out a return signal from the beach. But he saw nothing. Likely they had a covered lantern, being so close to the garrison, whose light would only be visible an equally short time seaward.
Was that the sound of a boat scraping against the shingle beach? The tide was going out. He thought he made out the sound of footsteps upon the small pebbles, but it was lost in the sound of the incessant waves.
Then a thud like that of an oar against wood.
He kept glancing upward toward the Western Heights to the garrison for any sentries, who could quickly come down to his level by way of a special set of spiral stairs built inside a shaft leading to the road he was on. From there it would be a quick path down to the beach. If he had not stopped de la Roche, how easy it would have been for him to alert the soldiers.
His lips moved silently, continuing to pray.
But he heard no shouts, just the sloughing of the surf in and out upon the shore. He strained, thinking he heard the footsteps of a sentry on the ramparts above him, but only the sound of the waves came to him, one after the other in unbroken succession.
Many moments later, the emptiness in his heart told him Céline was gone. He gazed across the blackness, knowing on the other side of a narrow strait lay France. In about five hours, she would be there if their small boat was not detected by an English vessel.
From what he’d heard around the taproom earlier in the evening, the guinea boat rowers were swifter than the sails of the revenue men.
After a long while, Rees got to his knees, feeling stiff and cold. Slowly, he rose to his feet.
He didn’t return to his inn. Instead, he walked back to the harbor and stood gazing across the water. As the sun made its way over the horizon, it promised to be another beautiful day. The breaking light cast a white, sparkling swathe over the silvery water. A milky mist lay over the farthest horizons, obscuring the coast of France.
Gradually, the sky lightened, becoming a pale blue, almost white. Rees breathed in deeply of the muted scent of brine upon the air. A gull screeched and wheeled overhead, coming in low then diving into the water.
Once he’d looked toward the sea with longing—for adventure and the sight of distant lands.
Now, he wished only for a home and the quiet of a shared hearth . . . the companionship of a bosom mate.
But that dream was forever out of his reach.
Would he ever see Céline again?
“Godspeed,” he whispered to the breeze, then turned on his heel and left the harbor.
In the following days, Rees went about his business as if on a mission, schooling his thoughts and actions with military precision. It was not unlike the self-control he’d had to impose upon himself when he’d first run off to sea and realized, too late, how unromantic life aboard ship was going to be.
The first thing he did upon returning to Lady Wexham’s townhouse was to apologize to Mrs. Finlay for having taken off so abruptly—explaining that Lady Wexham had forgotten something and he had gone off to take it to her.
At Mrs. Finlay’s worry, he gave her vague assurances that he had managed to overtake the coach above Biggleswade and given her the item.
That night, after packing his things and leaving his room bare and tidy, he reported to Bunting and told him that Lady Wexham had left for France. Before Bunting could ask him why he hadn’t let them know sooner, he explained that he had only discovered it at the last minute, laid up as he’d been, and had not had time even to send a message.
He said nothing of having followed Lady Wexham until she embarked for France, only that he had lost the trail in Dover.
He remained mute about the coded message, saying only that Lady Wexham had received a message that a family member in France was gravely ill.
Bunting pondered this. “You think it was only that?”
Rees waited a moment. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I found no evidence that she was passing along state secrets. I think if there was any intrigue it was between her and Louis’s court at Hartwell.”
“That would be nothing surprising. There will be all kinds of factions jockeying for power once Napoleon falls.”
At least he’d done his best to ensure that if and when the British allied armies invaded France, Lady Wexham would be seen as only another “faction,” and not as a former traitor to the British crown.
“Another dead end then.” Bunting sat back with a sigh. “Well, you had better report back to the Foreign Office. You’ll d
o more good there.”
Relief filled him that Bunting seemed satisfied with his report even as shame filled his heart. “Yes, sir.”
The next morning, he went back to his old office, and after sitting through several minutes of Oglethorpe’s monologue on the events transpiring on the world stage and his own exalted role and prospects, a silence fell.
Rees cleared his throat. “I was wondering if I might have a few days’ leave, sir.” At Oglethorpe’s raised eyebrows, he added, “I have a personal matter that I must attend to.”
“You know, Phillips, we are living in exciting times. If you want to move up, you cannot be going off whenever the fancy takes you.”
Rees shifted in his chair, trying to hold his impatience in check. “I understand that, sir.”
“Castlereagh is looking carefully at who will accompany him when he is finally able to enter France.”
Rees’s attention was caught. “Does he anticipate that soon?” Had there been some new information since he’d been on assignment in Lady Wexham’s home?
Oglethorpe shrugged. “With Austria having declared war on France, for the first time Napoleon is facing all four allied powers at once. He cannot last. Moreover, the duke has not lost a battle since reentering Spain this spring. It is only a matter of time before Napoleon is defeated.”
“But the Armistice—”
Oglethorpe laughed. “A tenuous thing at best. There will be a battle before the summer is over, is what I’ve heard.”
What would become of Lady Wexham in a defeated France? Once again, he hoped his lie to Bunting would help to ensure her future security. “I understand, sir. However, with this . . . assignment, I have left many things pending. I only ask you leave to visit my family for a few days.”
Oglethorpe drummed his fingers on his desk. “Very well. But be back Monday morning, bright and early.”
After leaving his office, Rees journeyed to his mother’s house. His next most difficult task, after deceiving Bunting, lay ahead.
He greeted his mother and sister, endeavoring to answer their questions as best he could, and enduring his sister’s reproaches about his long absence. When she mentioned seeing him in London, he said only, “You must be mistaken. I was nowhere near London at the time.” When she continued to insist, he stuck to his story.
Megan sighed impatiently. “Jessamine says she has received no letter from you in weeks.”
“Yes, that is so. Where is she, by the way?”
“Home, I expect.”
“Perhaps I shall call on her now.”
His sister brightened. “An excellent idea. I shan’t accompany you,” she added with a sly smile.
His heart heavy, he walked to his neighbor’s house.
When he was shown into their sitting room, Jessamine’s mother smiled in greeting him. “Hello, Rees! We didn’t know you were home. I haven’t seen you in an age. Your mother tells me you are so busy what with the war. We thought when you left the navy, we would see you more often.” She shook her head. “Dear me, but it seems you are even busier.”
He returned her smile with difficulty. “Yes, it does seem so. That is why I begged leave from them for a couple of days so that I could . . . er . . . visit my family.”
He turned to Jessamine as he spoke the last words, knowing she was the reason he was here.
His heart felt heavy at the words he knew he must speak. Her shy smile told him how glad she was to see him. It only increased his sorrow. Better if he’d never raised her hopes at all. “Hello, Jessamine. It is good to see you.” She was a comely girl with dark brown hair, more ebony than Lady Wexham’s, and green eyes—
He shook aside the comparison and forced himself to smile. “You’re looking very well.” He held her hands briefly then took a seat, feeling like the lowest scoundrel.
After exchanging some pleasantries with the two of them and asking about other family members, he asked permission of her mother to take Jessamine for a turn about the garden. Such a suggestion to be alone with Jessamine would only give them both the wrong impression, but he had to tell her and could see no other way to do so privately.
They walked in silence. It was midsummer, the smell of roses in the air. They reminded Rees of Lady Wexham. He shut out the memories with the ruthlessness of a soldier marching into battle.
“We’ve known each other quite a few years,” he began.
“Yes,” she replied with a smile in her voice, although he kept his focus on the ground.
“You were but a girl when my mother moved back to this area after she was widowed.” Before she could say anything, he continued, “You’ve grown into a lovely young lady in the last year or so.”
They both stopped as if by mutual accord, and he met her gaze then. It was open and honest. He read her regard—and hope—and felt like the worst blackguard for what he was about to destroy. “I know that . . . someday . . .” He cleared his throat, finding it hard to continue. He was not only destroying her happiness but also his own chance for love and companionship. But he pressed on. “Soon, I imagine, a young gentleman is going to come along and . . . and desire you for his wife.”
The hope in her wide green eyes turned to puzzlement and then surprise and finally disappointment as his meaning dawned. Her chin lifted up a notch. He admired her for her bravery.
“I . . .” He wasn’t sure what more to say. He looked down. “I thought . . . for a while that I might be that man.” He drew in a breath, to give him the courage to look her in the eye as he destroyed her dreams. “But I am not that man.”
She opened her mouth, but he hurried on to prevent her from exposing her own sentiments. He didn’t want to embarrass or humiliate her in any way. He’d rather bear the burden himself. “I am not worthy of you. I know that I shall never find a woman superior to you, but . . . but I—that is, at this time in my life—my career . . .”
Before he could think how to go on, she reached out a hand and placed it on his arm, stopping his words as he searched for some good reason. “You needn’t explain any further.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. They tore at him, making him feel worse.
“I’m sorry if . . . if I ever gave you any . . . any reason to hope . . .”
She shook her head, a tremulous smile on her lips. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself. You were all that was correct and proper of a . . . an older brother and friend.” Her voice began to break. He reached out, but she withdrew her hand and backed away from him.
“Ex-excuse me, please—” Turning from him, she ran away to the house.
He stood there, knowing he could do nothing to ease her pain.
Dear Lord, forgive me for hurting someone so dear. She doesn’t deserve it. Was I wrong?
But deep in his spirit he knew it would have been more wrong to pretend to her something he didn’t feel.
After knowing what love was, he could never violate the sanctity of marriage with something less.
He would return to London in the morning, back to the Foreign Office to resume his duties. Oglethorpe had said nothing of the promised promotion, and Rees would certainly not bring it up. After compromising his patriotic duty for the sake of a woman, he was grateful to have any job at all, even if it meant continuing in his role of junior clerk with no hope of advancing beyond the tedium of translating communiqués from the field.
One chapter of his life was over. Despite its brevity, it was one that would mark him forever. It was time to pick up the pieces of his former life.
22
AUGUST 1, 1814
Rees stood on the edges of the Green Park just south of Piccadilly. The night brought a relief from the August heat. He stopped and gazed at the lightened sky as the first fireworks erupted overhead.
All of London seemed to have crammed into the park and the surrounding streets to celebrate the victory.
Napoleon had abdicated in April and the allied armies had been occupying France since then.
In London, c
elebrations had been going on since June when the allied sovereigns had arrived. King William of Prussia, Czar Alexander of Russia, Marshall Blücher, and a host of other lesser dignitaries had been fêted by the Prince Regent. The crowds had lined the Kent Road to catch glimpses of the royalty from their coach windows.
Perhaps the most admired and courted had been the Duke of Wellington when he’d returned from Paris, the conquering war hero.
Hyde Park was turned into a fairground with booths, stalls, pavilions, balloon rides, and all kinds of entertainment for the crowds. Returning soldiers filled the streets.
Tonight marked the beginning of yet another month of celebrations. The Prince Regent had declared the centenary of the House of Hanover, the royal house that had been on the throne in Britain since George the First. Today also marked the anniversary of the Battle of the Nile when Admiral Nelson had defeated Bonaparte’s navy off the coast of Egypt.
Rees had been present at that battle, his first engagement as a young sailor, a lad of sixteen.
He watched the explosions go off now. Smoke covered the large Castle of Discord that had been erected in the park as colorful fireworks burst out over it.
The feat of pyrotechnics left him unmoved.
All summer long he’d been an observer of the pomp and circumstance. Although he’d fought in the war over a decade ago, and he was heartily glad it was finally over, he was not a participant of the peace celebrations. He felt like a traitor.
It had taken all his strength to go to work each morning and come back to his rooms at night.
As he stood watching, rockets shot up into the night sky, others broke into all kinds of colorful shapes—trees, ships, pinwheels, girandoles, rockets bursting out of rockets—all to fall in a fine rain of fire back to earth.
Dear Lord, what am I doing here? Our two countries are no longer at war. I must go there. I must find her. Even if there’s no hope, I must see her.