Natalya (11 page)

"All along, Rene has been incensed by Napoleon's limits on freedom of the press. He's been aching to speak out, but waiting for the right moment." Brushing crumbs from her fingers, Natalya reached for her wineglass. "He told Uncle Nicky that when the end of Napoleon's empire was at hand, he feared the proud French would make a last show of resistance in spite of their secret wish to be rid of Bonaparte. I'll wager that this pamphlet is Rene's way of urging France to be reasonable and welcome the Allies." She leaned forward, her eyes agleam. "Do tell me what he's written."

"Well, you are quite right. Chateaubriand contends that 'God Himself marches openly at the head of the Allied armies,' and then he goes on to list Napoleon's crimes, claiming that only a man with a 'nature foreign to France' could have done such things." Grey smiled at Natalya

"How sly of Rene," she exclaimed, reaching for the pamphlet and scanning its pages. "By assuring the French that Napoleon is not
really
one of them, he gives them permission to withdraw their loyalty from him now." She looked up. "I hope that his approach helps to end this madness at last!"

"You love France."
 

"How could I not? The land charmed me instantly—and I have lived there five years. There has always been a bond, perhaps because my father is French—"

A loud crashing noise on deck interrupted Natalya. Grey jumped to his feet and went out to investigate. Moments later he returned, pale but calmer, to report that part of a yardarm damaged in battle had broken loose and fallen to the deck.

"There's no cause for alarm," he assured her.

"You've turned positively white! Did you think we were under attack?" Natalya asked, without thinking. "Were you afraid that those men had somehow followed us?"

"Nonsense. You have the overactive imagination of a novelist." Grey gave her a quelling look. "To return to the situation at hand, George tells me that he is taking us as far east as Dover and we're nearly there. We'll go ashore with the tide in early evening, spend the night at an inn, hire a coach in the morning, and then be in London by midafternoon." Smiling to himself, he dropped onto his chair and stretched out his long legs. "I own I am pleased to be going home. For the past few years, I've learned to block out thoughts of my old life, and now that I no longer have to, I'm anxious to return."

Natalya studied him pensively. "I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same way—about holding back on thoughts of home. Now I worry that everything I long to rediscover may have changed, that nothing will seem quite the same..."

St. James arched a black brow and averted his face. "It hasn't been that long... and I wasn't dead after all. I trust that my loved ones and friends have kept a spot in their hearts for me. They've more sense than to credit a lot of nonsensical, hysterical rumors. I have no doubt that they're expecting my return."

"I'm sure you're right." Natalya reached out to pat his hand, but Grey lifted his wineglass at the same instant. She watched as he drained it, then stood. Restlessly he strode across the low-ceilinged cabin.

"I'm going up on deck to wait this out. Would you like to come?"

Natalya beamed. "Indeed! I'll be with you as soon as I put on my shoes."

"You'd better wear my cloak, too. The ocean breeze is chilly."

Minutes later, enveloped in the worn black wool of Grey's cape, Natalya emerged from the dark gangway with its fumes of pitch and bilge water onto the H.M.S.
Essex's
main deck.

She barely remembered her arrival on board that morning, but now she was fully alert and quite determined to take in every detail in case she ever needed to write a scene set on board a warship.

The barrage of sights, sounds, and smells was exciting and impressive. Her eyes swept over scrubbed decks and spotless brasswork, triple lines of guns, and masts and yardarms high overhead that were nearly obscured by a forest of ropes. Smart-looking officers oversaw the movements of sailors clad in reefer jackets with mother-of-pearl buttons, straw hats, and loose white canvas trousers. They surged over the decks and ratlines, unfazed by the rocking of the ship. Natalya closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the piping of whistles, the rushing of waves, the clanking and creaking of pulleys, the trampling of feet. Her nostrils were filled with the smells of tar, brine, and cold moist air.

"What an adventure this is!" she cried suddenly, trying to grasp Grey's arm through the folds of her cloak. "I am so very grateful to you for making this extraordinary experience possible."

"What a minx you are." His bemused eyes held a glint of silver as they stared at her searchingly. "Do you not realize that I would still be trapped in France right now if not for you? I should be expressing
my
gratitude to
you
on bended knee."

"Then why aren't you?" Natalya demanded, her laughter laced with mischief.

Grey smiled and drew her forward. "Perhaps another time," he replied in a drier tone. "At the moment, we should join Captain Bumblethorpe on the quarterdeck. The English coastline is at hand, and the view should be excellent from there."

As they were climbing to the higher deck, a voice bellowed from a platform on the main mast, "Land ho!"

Bumblethorpe trundled forward to meet them. "Ah, my dear lady, what a pleasure it is to see you up and about, and looking so pink-cheeked and lovely!" He caught her elbow through the cape and led her to the polished rail, pointing with one stubby, weathered finger. "Behold, the white cliffs of Dover!"

Natalya gasped, and behind her she heard Grey's sudden intake of breath. "How lovely," she murmured, struck by the sight of the vast promontory, rising up before the churning whitecaps. The cliffs were burnished by sunset in hazy tones of lilac and gold. "It's exquisite. I've never been to Dover before. The last time I sailed to England, we docked at Falmouth."

"I happen to think this is an especially pretty place to arrive," Bumblethorpe told her. "The beaches here are quite the rage lately, and the Dover Road to London is profoundly historical, not to mention beautiful."

Natalya nodded politely as the rotund captain chattered on happily, but her eyes were drawn to Grey. He stood a short distance behind them, staring over her head toward the Dover cliffs. The rosy light of the sinking sun softened the rugged contours of his face and the hard set of his mouth... but his eyes! Natalya had never seen the like. His eyes caught the fading rays of the sun and positively gleamed with intensity as he beheld the majestic coastline. At last, becoming aware of Natalya's scrutiny, Grey glanced down at her and appeared to give himself a mental shake.

"It's been a long time," he muttered.

Natalya didn't answer. The aura surrounding him surpassed that of a man who simply missed his homeland. She sensed that there was more at stake for Grey St. James than a mere desire to see beloved friends and places from his past.

It was becoming clear that Grey had secrets of some weight. Whatever he kept from her about the bad blood between him and Auteuil was probably the least of it, she realized. A little thrill ran down her spine.

The adventure was just beginning.

Part 2

Man plans, but God arranges.

Thomas A Kempis (1380-1471)

Chapter 8

April 1, 1814

In the morning, Grey overslept, and Natalya had to tap on his door at the Ship Inn to rouse him. It was nearly ten o'clock when he finally emerged into the inn's taproom, looking appealingly sleepy, and rakish in a white shirt and cravat, black breeches, and top boots. Accepting a wedge of cold pigeon pie from the innkeeper's wife, he paid their bill, gestured to the waiting Natalya, and led the way into the yard.

Natalya had certain qualms about the mode of conveyance Grey would arrange for them on this leg of their journey, but when she saw the elegant green-and-black Daumont-style landau he had hired for their passage from Dover to London, all her fears vanished. A pair of prancing chestnuts and a wiry little driver completed the stylish picture. Spring was on her best behavior; the sky was an azure canopy above budding trees, purple crocuses and blue scillia, singing birds, and sunny breezes. As London was only a few hours away, the low-slung, open vehicle seemed not only appropriate, but inspired.

Joy and anticipation lit Natalya's face from within. "What an unsurpassably excellent morning this is. And in all fairness, sir, I must give
you
the credit!"

Grey smiled in spite of himself. "I'm relieved beyond words that you approve of my choice, Miss Beauvisage. May I assist you?"

Natalya smiled prettily and clasped his outstretched fingers, lifting her skirt with her free hand. Today she had packed away the breeches, choosing instead to wear one of the chemise dresses she'd managed to squeeze into the small bag she'd been allowed to bring from France. Although a trifle crumpled, the charming frock of blue-sprigged white muslin, with its tiny puffed sleeves and silk sash, lent her the air of a young girl in her first Season as she arranged herself beside Grey on the landau's leather seat. Her honey curls, freshly washed at the Ship Inn, were caught back in a ribbon to stave off the wind's ill effects, emphasizing the exquisite beauty of her face. And her enthusiasm was contagious.

"I'm surprised you're not driving yourself," she said as a boy Grey had hired sprang up to his perch. "I thought it was a point of pride with men of your ilk."

Grey crossed his booted legs on the seat opposite and chuckled. "Dear God, deliver me from being in anyone's ilk!" When Natalya continued to look at him expectantly, he sighed and went on in a tone of capitulation, "I enjoy tooling a curricle or phaeton as much as the next fellow, but today I have other matters on my mind."

"Oh, I see." Natalya didn't know what else to say, since it was evident that Grey's thoughts were far from their conversation. So, she left him to them and turned her own attention to the scenery as the landau rolled away from the Ship Inn and began to speed up the Dover Road.

England's appearance of dazzling rural prosperity was all the more impressive in light of the ruin Natalya had witnessed during her recent journey through France. As their landau bowled along the fine highway, she stared at the fat meadows and downs with their well-fed flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. The villages looked idyllic. Laughing children and fat geese frolicked on the greens, and whitewashed cottages clustered around the church and manor house in a cozy fashion. Even the people looked more prosperous than their French counterparts. On the coast, fishermen wore striped jerseys, grey aprons, leather leggings, and fur-lined caps. In villages, Natalya noticed that the country squires sported snowy shirt frills under their wide overcoats. Some farmers wore long-tailed coats, and even the gamekeepers strutted out of shops in green coats and gold-laced hats.

"Has the war had no effect at all on these people?" she asked at last, turning to Grey. "Are there no poor here? Most of the farm animals I've seen this morning appear to be fatter than the majority of people we encountered on our way to St. Malo!"

Her traveling companion appeared to be deep in thought but he managed a grudging smile. "You do have a singular way of expressing your opinions." He looked around then, as if truly focusing on the countryside for the first time. "I'm sure I don't know how to answer you, Natalya. I've been inhabiting a worse world than you these past years. No doubt it's been easier here at home because all the fighting's been going on elsewhere. Not that that is much consolation for all the men risking their lives in Europe and America." Grey paused, sighing as he inhaled the fragrant air of early spring. "I pray that all of England has been prosperous—that nothing changed while I was away, except for the better."

With that, he forgot her again, returning to his own private world of memories and expectations. Natalya swallowed her disappointment at his indifference. She had no idea what she felt about Grey anymore, or what she hoped for. She only knew that the sight of his hand resting on his hard thigh, long-fingered and taut, made her heart ache, and she had the same wild stab of pain when she stole a glimpse at his chiseled profile. She had never felt so exhilarated and terrified all at the same time.