The Halifax Connection (58 page)

“The doctor thinks I’m going to die, don’t he?” she asked once.

“He thought you would, before,” Aggie said. “Now he isn’t saying what he thinks.”

“I had a friend in Darwen, first good friend I ever had. She got sick from the mill. She were sick all winter. Sundays I’d go to see her when I could. She were so weak and skinny—always lying on her little cot, she was. First of May she died.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Aggie said sternly. “So stop thinking about it.”

“Thing is, you know, I don’t mind much. Oh, don’t look at me so, Aggie. It ain’t that I want to. It’s just I won’t grieve over it, see? Everything I was like to grieve over has already happened.”

Aggie made as if to speak and then did not. Perhaps she understood there was nothing useful she could say. She finished her chores and then, with a smile on her face that was somewhat less than steady, she bent and brushed her hand across Sylvie’s face.

“You’re strong, Sylvie Bowen. Strong inside, where it counts. You’ll make it.”

The other staff of the Den were not allowed in, lest they get sick too; but no one told Madame Louise whom she could or could not visit. She came with fruit and treats from her kitchen, and all manner of good advice. The third time she came—at least the third time that Sylvie was conscious enough to notice—it was on a Sunday afternoon. She picked her way across the room and settled in the chair by the bed.

“Sylvie, lass, how are you?”

“Much better, Madame, thank you. I was up for a bit this morning.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it.” The words seemed little more than a formality. The old woman’s eyes were troubled, and Sylvie could guess why. This morning, when she was up for those few minutes,
she had looked in the mirror on the wall, and she had been frightened by what she saw: a woman so wasted and thin as to seem a child, with sunken eyes and hands like small, spent claws.

“Sylvie …” Madame was rarely at a loss for words, but she hesitated now, rubbing her thumb across her fingers. “Sylvie, do you still have … feelings … for Mr. Shaw?”

She could not meet the older woman’s eyes. “That be over, Madame.”

“Yes, I know. You ended your friendship because of his political activities. I quite understand. But do you still care for him? If, let us say, you had by chance been wrong about him—”

“I weren’t wrong, Madame. He admitted it himself.”

“Lord preserve us, you are a stubborn child! I never said you were wrong. I only ask about your feelings, and I would not ask without cause. Do you still care for him?”

Tears welled in Sylvie’s eyes. “Oh, Madame, how could I not? He were so good to me. And smart, too, and full of life. He could always make me laugh, when it seemed there were nothing left for laughing in the world.”

“Well then, that’s good. I have brought him to see you. He’s waiting in the parlour.”

Sylvie could only stare, swept by a blind animal joy, immediate and utterly astonishing; swept by hope and even by desire—and then also, as clear thought returned, by a wrenching sense of betrayal. Not now, dear God, she had no strength to face this now!

“Oh, Madame, how could you?”

“I would like you to see him, Sylvie. Just this once. Listen to what he has to say. He has promised me he will say it only once, and whatever you choose to do then, he will accept it. If you tell him to go away, he will go, and never trouble you again. I have his word.”

And what is that worth, Madame, when his whole life has been a lie?

“I have no faith in Mr. Shaw’s word,” she said bitterly.

“Do you have faith in me?”

The tears spilled faster. “Yes, Madame.”

“Then see him. Just this once.”

It was impossible to refuse Madame. It was perhaps more impossible to refuse herself, to forgo the chance to look on him again, to hear him laugh, to have, perhaps, a few last caresses. Nothing was going to change. She would not stop loving him, not for years, so how could it matter very much?

“I will fetch him for you, then, shall I?” Madame went on.

“Yes,” Sylvie whispered. “Thank you.”

She scarcely noticed Madame Mallette after, when the old woman returned through the door with Erryn behind her. He was exactly as she remembered—the same hawk’s face, the ragged blond hair, the fine, stylish clothing. Only the laughter was gone, utterly gone now, replaced by a distress so great it seemed almost to be grief, twisting his mouth and turning his eyes to grey water.

“Sylvie, oh my love, my poor, poor love …” He took her reaching hand and kissed it, brushing his other across her cheek, desperately, all the time saying her name, asking if she was all right, she was so thin, weren’t they taking care of her, Oh, God, he was sorry, he was so sorry …

Somehow she found the strength to wipe her face and try to speak. “I’m all right, Erryn. I mean, I’m getting better. They’re kind to me here. Really, they are. I’ll be all right.”

It was so good to see him. It was like food on an icy winter day. How did a starving person take a handful of it and shove the rest away?

“Why did you come, Erryn?”

“Because I love you. I would have come sooner, if I’d known you were sick. But I had gone away.”

He’d gone away. He wouldn’t have let me die alone. He’d gone away.

On Confederate business, no doubt.

She looked past him, to Madame Mallette sitting in the stuffed chair by the window, counting her beads; to the bright sunshine sparkling beyond, and the bleak, dead trees. It seemed such a
contradiction, the bright sunshine and the dead trees—much as her life would be, she thought, if she went back to him. In time, something inside herself would break, perhaps her courage, perhaps her love. Something vital.

That was why she could not do it. But she could have today. She could have this time with him, just have it and keep it as a gift of fate.

“Are you well, then?” she asked him. “You look very dashing.”

“I’m well, thank you.” He gave her a small, wan smile. “I’ve brought you something.”

She recalled, vaguely, seeing an object in his hands when he came through the door—perhaps the basket that she noted now, sitting on the dressing table behind him. She supposed he would fetch it for her, but instead he did something most peculiar: he bent forward and began to unlace his boot.

She watched him, too bewildered to see any meaning in it except that he might be hurt. Or perhaps it was just a piece of gravel, for he took the boot off altogether and reached inside, groping as one might for a stone. But what he extracted was a long piece of foil. He opened it and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her gravely. “Would you do me the honour of reading this?”

It was the most official-looking piece of paper she had ever seen, with a coat of arms printed at the top. She thought it was the Queen’s coat of arms, but she was not sure. Below, in fine black script, was printed:
Colony of British North America, Office of the Governor.

She looked at Erryn in astonishment, but he said nothing. She read what followed:

Engaged under my authority as an agent of the British crown …
Awed, she stroked the paper softly, briefly, and then handed it back. She felt dazed with happiness, and at the same time painfully small. She had judged him so ill.

“You’re … you’re a …” She hesitated, glancing uncertainly at Madame.

“A
spy,” he finished calmly, “just as you thought. But not for the Southern Rebels. For us.” He leaned forward. His voice was still quiet, even gentle, but she had rarely seen more passion in his eyes. “I wanted so much to tell you. The night you came to the club—the things you saw and heard there—I could see how much they hurt you. But of course we were told to keep it from everyone, no matter what. I shouldn’t have listened, I know as much now. I should have told you everything. I’m sorry, my heart. I’m sorrier than I can ever say. Can you forgive me?”

Could
she
forgive
him?

She reached for his hand and, when he gave it, drew it close and covered it with kisses. For a small time they huddled together, each of them rushing to speak, swearing they had been wrong, that the other had absolutely nothing to forgive.

“I was so cruel,” she said mournfully. “All those dreadful things I said!”

“No, my heart. You took me at my word, and everything you said was right. I was so proud of you then, you have no idea—”

“Proud of me?”

“Utterly.” He brushed her hair back from her face, kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. “Devastated, I’ll admit, little pieces
of me lying all over the carriage floor. But proud nonetheless, and thinking, God, how strong she is, and how courageous! I mustn’t lose her! I simply mustn’t!”

It astonished her that he would say such things. She had no idea what to say in response.

“Whatever did you tell Madame?” she asked. “To persuade her to speak for you?”

“She left me no choice. I had to tell her the truth.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Then you’ve trusted both of us with your life.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “But if I hadn’t, I would be spending the rest of that life knowing you hated me. And every time I thought of it, it seemed quite as horrible as dying.”

“I never hated you, Erryn. I couldn’t.”

“You were trying hard,” he said. “I was afraid you’d get better at it with practice.”

She laughed then, a tiny cat’s laugh that ended in a cough. It hurt, but it felt wonderful. She had not laughed for so long.

He wrapped both of her hands in his own. “I still want to marry you,” he said. “Just so you know. Nothing has changed. Someday soon, when you’re all better, I shall take you to dinner, and tempt you with bonbons and rich wines, and we’ll go walking in the moonlight by the sea. And then, who knows? Perhaps you’ll say yes.”

Yes, perhaps I will. I adore you, Erryn Shaw. Whatever happens in the end, whatever becomes of us, I adore you, and I will until I die.

F
OR DAYS
E
RRYN’S
most constant companion was fear. Fear stalked him in the streets, and huddled night after night in the shadowed corners of his room. It sat brazenly on the window ledge by Sylvie Bowen’s sickbed, tormenting him in every breath of silence:
She could die. Her lungs are wrecked from the mills, and she could die …
Twice a week he went with Madame Mallette to visit her, and each time he found her much the same, thin and pale, with a cough he feared would shatter her to pieces. Sometimes, after leaving, he could do nothing more than slip away to a quiet spot by the sea and put his head in his hands and weep.

Only his work took his mind off his fears, and he was grateful when Matt Calverley sent word to arrange a meeting. It would be good, he thought, to talk for a while about the public world. It would be better simply to see his friend.

They could no longer meet at Matt’s boarding house, even in the dead of night. A Confederate operative had moved in—for no other reason, Matt was certain, than to keep an eye on him.

“It seems I have a reputation among them,” he said. “‘That God damn Yankee-loving son of a whore—he plots, he lies, he follows us everywhere. The bloody bastard’s always up to something.’ You’ve heard, I suppose?”

“Oh, quite. I’ve heard you’re on Jabin Romney’s payroll, too. Come to think of it, maybe all your new neighbour really wants is to sneak in your room some night and steal the wad of Yankee greenbacks you’re hiding in your mattress.”

“Maybe I should leave him a note.”

In a heartbeat Erryn recalled another note, the one he left on a bench in Place Viger:
Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree…

“No,” he said. “No notes. I tried that once, remember?”

“I wasn’t serious.” Matt reached a little and turned up the wick on the kerosene lamp. They were in a small, ill-furnished office just off the waterfront. The one window was heavily curtained. Outside, since it was spring now and the weather pleasant, a drunk took his ease near the door, wrapped in an old, half-ruined blanket—a drunk who, when the men inside had left, would quietly go home, bathe, and return to his ordinary life as a member of the Halifax constabulary.