The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9)

by Irina Shapiro

  “What did you say to her?” Quinn asked.

  “When?”

  “Earlier. When you got off the lift.”

  “I told her that if she were in the army, she’d get a Victoria Cross, and that’s the highest honor awarded only to true heroes.”

  Quinn nodded. “Thank you.”

  “You never need to thank me, Quinn. Now go and get some rest. Leave your mobile here. I’ll wake you when Dr. Chan rings.”

  Quinn handed over her mobile and trudged upstairs, where she stripped off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower. She wished she could wash away her fear, guilt, and disappointment, but just feeling clean would do. She dried off, pulled on Gabe’s T-shirt, and climbed into bed.

  She thought she’d fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but sleep wouldn’t come, horrible images and ever-multiplying fears crowding her mind. Having given up on sleep, Quinn reached for the ring. Delving into the past was the only way to quell her fears for the future.

  Chapter 62

  September 1777

  New York City

  Having seen Major Radcliffe and Captain Denning off, Jocelyn returned to the parlor and sank into the major’s favorite wingchair. Major Andre’s supper would last for several hours at least; these types of gatherings always did. There would be various courses, exquisitely prepared and served with all the pomp Major Andre’s staff could muster, accompanied by countless bottles of wine, then port and cigars in the library. By the time Major Radcliffe and Captain Denning returned, they’d be nearly insensible with drink and fit only for their beds. They’d have sore heads come morning and carry on like bears woken from their winter sleep.

  The ground floor was quiet and dim, only the light of Jocelyn’s candle dispelling the shadows of the parlor. Mrs. Johnson had retired directly after taking an early supper, and Private Sykes had gone up to his attic bedroom, glad not to be needed tonight. He had a cold and had been sneezing and blowing his nose all day, and annoying Major Radcliffe so much that he’d dismissed him and told him to take himself somewhere where he wouldn’t have to see him. John had bedded down in the stable so he’d be on hand once the men returned and the horses would need seeing to, so the coast was clear. This was the perfect opportunity to discover something about the impending attack on Washington’s army. From the snatches of conversation Jocelyn had overheard, it would commence in a matter of days, so this was her last chance to alter the course of events, if what she did could be described in such grandiose terms.

  Jocelyn stood and reached for the candleholder, her mind made up. She approached Jared’s office first, simply because it was the nearest door, and tried the knob. Locked. She then went across the corridor and tried the major’s study. Also locked. She sighed. It would have been so much simpler if either man had forgotten to lock his door, but she wasn’t that lucky. Jocelyn considered her options. She could either try to pick the lock, which might damage the mechanism and arouse Major Radcliffe’s suspicion, or try to get Mrs. Johnson’s keys off her. The housekeeper always wore the keyring at her waist, only taking it off when she retired and got undressed for bed. Jocelyn had seen the keyring often enough to know which key fit which door. She could find her way inside Mrs. Johnson’s room easily enough under one pretense or another, but she could hardly take the keyring without the older woman noticing. Unless she took just one key, Jocelyn thought, and smiled to herself.

  Mrs. Johnson had planned to have a bath after the men had gone, a luxury she permitted herself once a week. Jocelyn had helped her carry several pitchers of hot water into her room in preparation. She’d luxuriate in the tub until the water grew cold, which gave Jocelyn at least another ten minutes in which to remove the key to the major’s office from the keyring. Even if she didn’t return the key in time, Mrs. Johnson wouldn’t notice one key missing as she prepared for bed, and Jocelyn could pretend to have found the key in the corridor, as if it had somehow come off the ring, and hand it to her in the morning. That was about as good a plan as she could hope to come up with.

  She stopped by the airing cupboard and took out a clean towel, then knocked on Mrs. Johnson’s door and entered the room, thanking her lucky stars the woman hadn’t locked it. Mrs. Johnson was already in the tub, which was discreetly placed behind a screen.

  “Who’s there?” she called, her voice reedy with astonishment that someone would enter her private quarters without being invited.

  “Only me, Mrs. J,” Jocelyn replied. “I was just putting away the fresh towels and thought you might need one.”

  “I have a towel,” Mrs. Johnson replied. “But thank you all the same, Jocelyn. Just leave it on the bed.”

  “Enjoy your bath,” Jocelyn called out as she quickly located the right key and slid it off the keyring. She held the other keys tight so they wouldn’t make a clinking sound and alert Mrs. Johnson to the fact that she was doing anything other than placing a towel on the bed. Jocelyn pocketed the key and left the room, closing the door with enough force to let Mrs. Johnson know she’d gone. Then she returned to Major Radcliffe’s study and looked around, her heart hammering in her chest as she fitted the key into the lock and opened the door.

  She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, making a beeline for the carved mahogany desk, which, like the rest of the study, was pristine, the surface polished to a shine. Only an inkwell, a matching cup filled with pens, an ink blotter, a letter opener, and a stick of sealing wax were neatly arranged in the righthand corner, where the major could reach them easily.

  Jocelyn set down the candleholder and went to work, pulling open the top right drawer. Inside were the major’s diary, a stack of thick, creamy paper, and an extra bottle of ink. She tried the second drawer. This one contained a folio filled with correspondence. Jocelyn leafed through the letters, but most of them contained nothing of interest, dealing mostly with the requisitioning of supplies, orders, and receipts. It seemed most of the major’s work centered on inventory and logistics. How boring that must be, Jocelyn thought as she shut the drawer and opened the one beneath it. It contained several ledgers.

  Frustrated, Jocelyn pulled open the drawers on the left side of the desk. More useless lists, papers, and requisition forms. She was about to give up when she opened the bottom drawer. There was a rolled-up map and more lists, but the date at the top of the first page was recent, so she studied the notes carefully, her heart fluttering as she realized these lists pertained to the upcoming campaign. The first detailed the provisions, horses, wagons, and other items needed to supply an army on the march. The second list dealt with ammunition, the numbers frighteningly high. Jocelyn unrolled the map and studied it carefully. It was a detailed map of the northern colonies marked with several hand-drawn lines and arrows. Jocelyn’s brows furrowed in concentration as she tried to comprehend what she was looking at.

  The lines began in and around New York, crossed New York Bay, and stopped at Red Bank, New Jersey. Then new lines spread out from Red Bank, pointing toward Head of Elk in Maryland. Jocelyn’s mouth dropped open. If she understood the map correctly, the British Army would not be marching toward an engagement with Washington’s army. The soldiers would be delivered to Maryland using troop ships and then attack from the south, taking the Continental Army by surprise. It was a clever plan that was sure to work if no one got wind of the details of the campaign. Jocelyn quickly rolled up the map and replaced it in the drawer. She had time to run to the tavern and pass on an urgent message before the men returned home.

  She had just shut the drawer and was about to leave when the door opened and Major Radcliffe strode into the study, his face set in lines of anger, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  Jocelyn took a step back, her heart hammering and her breath coming in short gasps. Her mind raced furiously for an explanation she could offer, but nothing sprang to mind. She had no right to be in his study, and they both knew it.

  “The door was unlocked,” the major said as he shut the door behind him and ad
vanced further into the room.

  “I… I needed a sheet of paper to write a letter,” Jocelyn stammered.

  “Did you now?” the major asked conversationally. “And how did you get in, Jocelyn?”

  “The door was unlocked, as you said.”

  “I doubt that.” His gaze fell on the key lying on the nearly empty desk. He couldn’t miss it. Had she put it in her pocket, its absence would have given credence to her lie, but now she was caught red-handed.

  “Where’s Mrs. Johnson?” Major Radcliffe barked.

  “In the bath,” Jocelyn replied as she came around the desk, her hands at her sides to show the major that she hadn’t taken anything.

  He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed her by the shoulders, shoving her against the desk. The wood bit into her lower back as she leaned away from the major, who looked enraged. All pretense at civility was gone, replaced by cold fury.

  “What were you doing in my study, Jocelyn?” he asked, his words clipped and menacing.

  “I needed a sheet of paper,” Jocelyn replied lamely.

  The slap that followed took her by surprise. Her head spun to the side, her teeth rattling with the force of the blow. There was a ringing in her ears as the major grabbed her chin and forced her to face him again.

  “What were you doing in my study?” he growled, his dark gaze boring into her.

  Jocelyn remained silent, her gaze meeting his, their noses almost touching. She’d thought his brown eyes were soft and soulful, but now they were like dark holes, the pupils dilated and his breath hot on her face. He was staring at her, his breath quickening as he pinned her hips to the desk with his body. Jocelyn felt his arousal against her thigh and shuddered with revulsion.

  “Please let go of me, Major Radcliffe,” she pleaded, her voice quivering with apprehension. “I had no right to be in your study. I was snooping,” she muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t react to her words. He was panting now, his fingers like steel clamps around her arms. “You’re not going anywhere. You were spying. You are a rebel spy,” he hissed.

  “I’m not,” Jocelyn protested, but it was no use. She had no plausible explanation to give him. Something had made him return to the house before the carriage got too far. He may have forgotten something, or he might have had a premonition. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that now she was at his mercy.

  “Please, Major,” Jocelyn begged, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. He spun her around and pushed her down on the desk. She cried out in alarm when his hands pushed up her skirts, his thighs holding her in place. She tried to fight back, but the major slammed her head against the wood, momentarily stunning her.

  “You’ve been toying with me for months, you little harlot,” he panted. “Pretending to like me, to respect me.” His voice was gravelly as he shoved his knee between her legs, forcing them to part. “You’ve been playing me for a fool, encouraging Captain Denning’s attentions to make me jealous. I treated you like a lady, but you’re nothing but a cheap, lying whore,” he spat out. “And you will be treated as such. Tomorrow, I will have you arrested for spying. Do you know what the penalty for spying is?” he demanded hoarsely as he slid his fingers inside her, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction as if he’d dreamed of doing that for some time. “Hanging,” he murmured in her ear as he bent over her. “That’s right. You’ll be dead by noon tomorrow, Jocelyn. It would be a damn shame not to avail myself of something that should have been mine,” he grunted as he guided himself inside her, pushing hard.

  Jocelyn felt a searing pain as he breached her maidenhead, his engorged shaft stretching her until she thought he’d rip her apart. He grunted with satisfaction. “And a virgin to boot,” he panted. “A double pleasure.” He thrust into her again and again, his hands gripping her as his hips slammed against her.

  Jocelyn’s cries seemed to arouse him, loosening his tongue. The things he said were obscene. He told her exactly what he was doing to her in the crudest terms possible, his breathing ragged as he promised to do it again and again before she was taken away in the morning. He loosened his grip as he spilled himself inside her.

  “Thank you, my dear. That was most gratifying,” he said as he finally pulled out, releasing his hold on her.

  Jocelyn crumpled to the floor, her skirts cascading down to cover her nakedness. Major Radcliffe had taken out his handkerchief and was wiping himself, his seed mixed with her blood.

  Jocelyn hadn’t heard the door open, nor had she realized they were no longer alone.

  “Is everything all right?” Jared asked. “I was waiting in the carriage…” His voice trailed away as he took in the scene, his horrified gaze fixing on the major’s shriveled cock and the bloodied handkerchief in his hand.

  The major’s head snapped back, his wig falling off, as Jared punched him hard, then again. The major fell backward, his breeches still unlaced, his manhood hanging out as Captain Denning grabbed him by the lapels and lifted him up, his face twisted with rage. “You bastard,” he hissed, then brought his knee up to hit the major in the groin.

  Major Radcliffe let out a blood-curdling shriek and collapsed on the floor once Jared let him go. Blood gushed from his broken nose, dripping onto the carpet as he lay curled up like a shrimp, howling with pain, his hands between his legs.

  “You’re going to hang right alongside her, you idiot,” the major roared. “Sykes!” he cried out. “Help me!”

  Private Sykes exploded into the study a few moments later, his hair disheveled, his shirt hanging out of his breeches, his musket in his hands.

  “Seize him!” Major Radcliffe bellowed as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his sleeve. “He struck me.”

  Private Sykes took in the scene and blanched, as if unsure what to do, but he had no choice; he had to follow the major’s orders. He bashed Jared on the side of the head with the butt of the musket. Jared sank to his knees, a trickle of blood snaking down the side of his face as he lifted a hand to his head. He looked stunned, his glazed gaze turning to Jocelyn, who lay on the floor, her cheek pressed to the cool wood as tears slid down her temple and into her hair. She was trembling, her insides quivering after the major’s assault. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Johnson, a shawl held tightly over her nightdress. She stood in the doorway, her mouth open, her eyes wide with horror.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Mrs. Johnson exclaimed as her hand came up to cover her mouth.

  Having recovered somewhat, Major Radcliffe scrambled to his feet and tucked himself into his breeches before rounding on Jared with the help of Private Sykes. It took a few minutes, but they managed to subdue him and tie his hands behind his back with a tassel tie-back from the curtains. Major Radcliffe grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the door while Private Sykes brought up the rear. Mrs. Johnson moved out of the way, her gaze still fixed on Jocelyn as understanding of what had happened finally seemed to penetrate her befuddled brain.

  “Jocelyn,” Jared called out desperately.

  Jocelyn couldn’t move. She was glued to the floor, her body like a boneless sack of meat. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, so she shut her eyes and allowed herself to drift.

  “Mrs. Johnson, return to your room. Now!” the major ordered.

  The older woman must have obeyed because Jocelyn heard the key turn in the lock, and then she was alone. She remained where she was. What did it matter now? Come morning, they would come for her and she would hang, just like Nathan Hale, just like so many others. She’d never get her message to Richard, nor would she see Jared again. The major would make sure of that.

  After a time, the candle burned down, near-darkness descending on the room silvered by moonlight. Jocelyn finally managed to sit up. She leaned against the desk, resting her head on her knees. Her thighs were slick with blood and Major Radcliffe’s seed, and her head ached so viciously, she felt sick. She crawled toward the wastepaper basket and emptied her stomach, vomiting until there was nothing left. Sh
e wished she were dead. At least if she were to die now, she’d die on her own terms, not in front of a jeering crowd. She’d heard that people’s bowels let loose at the time of hanging. The final humiliation inflicted by a body that couldn’t process the shock of what was happening.

  Jocelyn’s head snapped up, her mind finally growing more alert. What was she thinking? She had to try to escape instead of sitting here and wishing for death. A surge of energy shot through her veins, forcing her to take stock of her situation. She was in a locked room, yes, but the study was on the ground floor, the window easy enough to open. She supposed Major Radcliffe had forgotten about that and assumed she was safely contained until morning.

  Jocelyn hurried toward the window and tried to open it, but it was stuck fast. Major Radcliffe never opened the window in his study and, swollen from heat and humidity, the frame was glued to the windowsill. Jocelyn ran to the desk and grabbed the letter opener. It was sturdy, the metal shaped like a dagger. She inserted the tip between the window frame and the windowsill and used the opener as a lever. Nothing happened. She tried again, moving the opener bit by bit and trying to break the seal that had formed during months of disuse. It must have taken her an hour, maybe more, but eventually she managed to loosen the frame.

  Jocelyn placed her hands on the top of the window frame and pushed up with all her might. This time the window budged, and she was able to raise it a few inches. It took three more tries, but at last, she was able to open the window nearly all the way. She looked down. It was a drop of about ten feet, but she could do it. She threw one leg over the windowsill, then the other, and gripped the sill as hard as she could, slowly lowering herself until she was hanging down, about two feet between her feet and the ground. Jocelyn let go and landed with a soft thud.

  The air was cool and fresh, the night full of mysterious sounds. Jocelyn crept toward the back gate that was used to deliver firewood and foodstuffs to the kitchen. She unlatched the gate and slipped out, breathing a sigh of relief when no one followed. She shut the gate behind her and hurried down the street, praying all the while not to encounter any drunken soldiers or anyone else intent on doing her harm. Once away from the house, she began to run, desperate to get away.