The Tide Watchers (22 page)

Rue Laboratoire, Ambleteuse, France

September 11, 1802

T
HOUGH IT WAS BUT
September the day was pea-soup thick, half dark in the early afternoon and getting colder by the moment, surrounding the funny-looking house that was the inventor's current home. She'd been given warm stockings and
pantalon
with the dresses made up for her, but still she shivered. The ship's surgeon told her the blood loss she'd suffered could make her feel a bitter cold where none existed, until her body made up for its lack. He'd ordered her to drink beef broth with every meal, but it didn't seem to make much difference.

Lisbeth pounded on the door with its odd diamond-shaped insets, but her undamaged left hand was too weak to have much effect.

At last thudding sounds came down toward her from the top of the house. Standing out of range, the commander nodded and moved into the gorse bushes on the sandy path.

Crouching like that must hurt his leg.

Turning back, she frowned at the Gothic house with its slanting roof tiles, lost in a tangle of gorse and blackberry brambles. Did Fulton really work here? Was the submarine the British were so desperate to have in this house, or was he working on his bombs?

A man with two kinds of bombs, God knew where in his house, who made products of death for a living, and she was only nineteen. What was she
doing
here? She half turned—

The door jerked open to reveal a dark-haired man wearing a dirty smock over crumpled, dust-covered gentleman's clothing. He was younger than she'd expected, thinner and pale, as if he'd locked himself inside the house for weeks on end. But it was a good face, a kind face.

Shaking, she sketched the submissive curtsy of the domestic servant. “
Bonjour,
m'sieur.”

He was looking her over in the same manner. Seeing her arm in a sling, the healing cut on her cheek, the suspicion in his gaze softened. “
Bonjour,
mademoiselle. How may I help you?”

With her second glance at Robert Fulton, she knew the commander hadn't lied. Even if his hair and clothing weren't a crumpled mess, his thin build and spectacles askew, the touch of loneliness hidden deep in his eyes told the story. If ever a man needed a carer and confidante, it was Robert Fulton. “M'sieur, I hear you seek a housekeeper?”

“How do you know, mademoiselle?” he replied like a sheathed sword, the edge still there, making her gulp. There was no trace of accent in his French. Fulton might need a housekeeper, an assistant, a friend, or—God help her—a woman, but he wasn't a man to underestimate.

“M-Martine Latisse in the Wimereux store told me, m'sieur.” Indeed, after a look at her, the owner of the only store in the hamlets of Ambleteuse and Wimereux showed Lisbeth the notice board. Word of her injuries would get about; and since she couldn't help paling and shuddering when Madame Latisse asked about her family, she hoped the town would notify her if—
when
Alain came for her.

Let him come. It gives the commander's men a chance to take Edmond.
Thinking of her son, how she missed him—the longest fifteen days of her life—gave her the impetus to keep her gaze on Robert Fulton, eyes wide, a young and anxious girl.

Fulton nodded. “Ah,
certainement
. I did put an advertisement on the board.” He glanced over her shoulder again, as if he'd seen a shadow or a movement.

Returning to her, he took in the soft amber redingote and dress she wore. Though the look wasn't sexual, she felt like a butterfly in a net. The outfit flattered her figure, and even with the facial scar and the sling, her youth and blond hair almost painted a target on her.
Fulton likes pretty young things.

In the end, the sling and bruises, or the pitiful sack holding her luggage, commanded his compassion. “You're unwell, mademoiselle?”

This was the critical moment—but instinct told her that to solicit his pity at first meeting would be too much for Fulton to swallow.
Fulton doesn't like me,
the commander had said.

“I am Madame Elise Dupont,” she mumbled, going for a half truth. “I can tell you no more about where I'm from, m'sieur, except that I'll never go back.”

Fulton released his grip on the door. “My name is Robert . . . Monteaux. Pray, come in, sit down, Madame Dupont.” He led the way inside to a small parlor, cold and dark without a fire lit, and waved her to a chair. “Might I say you do not seem old enough to have been married?”

And to have left your husband.
The curiosity hovered in the air, unspoken. And though she trembled, she didn't sit.

“Madame?” Fulton prompted in a subdued tone.

Pulled out of her thoughts, she started like a deer ready to bolt, making her head spin. “I . . . I am sorry, m'sieur, I—I thought I could do this, but—”

“Madame, you have nothing to fear here.”

With her good hand holding the doorpost, she looked into eyes that were both sincere and kind. But Alain had been gentle and romantic at the start . . .

Forget Lisbeth Delacorte. You are Elise Dupont. You're here to save Edmond.

Fulton waved a hand. “Please sit down, madame. I assure you, you are safe.”

Hand into glove she slipped into the role.
I am Elise Dupont.
Yet she hesitated before every step. Touching the walls for balance, she walked to the chair he indicated. The room was dim and faded and smelled of dust and metalworking.

“You need not answer my question, if it makes you uncomfortable, madame,” he said gently, once he'd helped her into a large, padded wing chair, touching only her hand.

“I was a foolish girl,” she answered at last, forcing a quiet dismissal
into her tone. No matter what the commander advised, her instincts told her to hold on to the mystery.

The room's smell reminded her of the smithy at home, but it seemed to waft down from above.
Surely he's not melting metals in the attic!

Dust flew up from the cushions as Fulton sat across from her, and she sneezed. “I beg your pardon, m'sieur,” she muttered.

“I understand. The place came furnished but was unused for months.” Fulton grinned, softening his pleasant, gentlemanlike face. “As you can surely see, I'm in need of someone to look after the house. I may also ask you to help me with things you may deem strange, without question . . . or gossip. And if anyone asks who I am, you know only that I am Monsieur Monteaux, an amateur scientist.”

He tossed the last at her like a child's ball, a gentle challenge. Again, thinking of Edmond gave her the strength to hold his gaze. “If you will allow me my secrets, m'sieur, I will respect yours. I will not associate with outsiders. Your need for privacy is precisely what I require.”

“I see.” His eyes tinged with pity. “Ah, do you have references or relevant experience?”

The way he asked showed his greenness with employing household staff. She fought a smile. Since he believed both sides were chasing his inventions, Fulton would suspect a quick change in her personality. “I worked as a tavern server and cleaner in—my last town. I can cook soup and stews, bake bread, and I can clean. I cannot give you references. I . . . left suddenly.” The vision of LeClerc sprawled across the commander's front step, the stair sticky with his blood—

“I left Le Havre rather suddenly myself. The times in France demand, ah, flexibility.” Fulton's smile was almost naughty, as if they were fellow conspirators. “Can you start today?”

A lump rose in her throat. A stranger from a foreign country had given her kindness without agenda, or risk to her life or reputation. Why it made her miss her mother with a fierce ache, she couldn't understand. “
Certainement,
m'sieur, but I'll be a slow worker with only one useful arm,” she replied calmly, with a tinge of relief: the woman
with nowhere else to go. “I cannot lift anything heavy for ten days or more.”

“I predict you'll still be more proficient than I at any household tasks, madame.” He was laughing at himself.

The commander had known his intended victim well, setting up Lisbeth to play the perfect part. Yet Fulton's self-deprecating wit disarmed her. “If you could assist me with the heavy things for a little time . . . ?”

“I'll feel less of a useless clod, madame. I thank you for the opportunity.” With another grin, he sketched a mock bow.

Far earlier than she'd planned, she was smiling. Against her will and her fears, she liked this man; his air of confidence mixed with self-deprecating charm was a neat counterpoint to his brilliance. Yes, she and Fulton would become friends. Then the cut on her cheek stung to the bone, and her smile vanished.
Trust no man. You are here for Edmond, only for Edmond.

Start disarming him.
She mumbled, “Monsieur Monteaux, I—can you please give me a small advance on my wages for—for necessary items?” She felt herself blushing. “I need slippers to wear in the house while cleaning, an apron and cap. I will need oils for cleaning, herbs for my pain and . . . um, feminine needs.”

Which of them was blushing more? “Certainly. W-will three francs suffice?”

If she were really a starving waif, it would represent a fortune. Her look held hopeless gratitude and budding admiration. “
Merci,
monsieur.” Ashamed, she looked at her lap. It wouldn't be long until her first task of disarming any suspicion on Fulton's part was complete.

You called him monsieur twice.
Stick to the lower-class m'sieur from now on.

She couldn't afford another slip.

IT WAS PAST MIDNIGHT,
yet candles were still lit on both the second and third floors.

Duncan paced the sandy path a quarter of a mile from the house, where he'd set up a black tent that would be packed up before sun
rise. Why was she awake? Couldn't Fulton see she needed rest? He'd thought the man a gentleman . . . if he was forcing her to—

Breathe, man. Fulton isn't the kind of man to force himself on her.

No matter what Duncan told himself, the image of Lisbeth's cut and battered face returned to haunt him: an eternal reminder of the damage he'd done just by entering her life.

I can't become involved. She's a pawn for king and country. Like me, she is—

But he was already at the house, clinging to the shrubs and shadows.

When his men helped Fulton move in, Duncan had ordered the tiny pantry window to be left unlocked. He'd told Lisbeth to inspect the house tonight and leave the pantry door ajar. He'd never get through it, but he could at least listen.

With painful slowness he pulled the top of the little window toward him. Though he strained his ears, he could only hear creaking of the floorboards. Someone was walking.

A whisper came from behind him. “Monsieur, I'm here to report.”

He wheeled around, causing his almost-healed leg to twinge. The boy's whole bearing was taut with nerves. So his first attempt had failed. Without a word, Duncan led Argenteuil to the tent to give him everything he'd need for the next part of his mission.

Inside the house, pacing the floor of her room until she was sure Fulton would be lost in his work, Lisbeth decided it was safe to begin her initial tests. “First step up from the landing squeaks in the middle,” she whispered, to help her remember. “Fourth floorboard from the landing window is also loud. Walk against the banister.”

Even on the edge of the stairs to the attic where he worked, a stair squeaked. All movement ceased above. Holding her breath, she retreated to her room and snuffed the candle. Soft squeaks followed her all the way down, stopping outside the closed door.

In a panic, she made the muffled sounds of a woman crying into her pillow.

The squeaking steps as he returned to the attic hovered in her ears, echoes of her self-disgust. So this was the life of a King's Woman—
deceive and betray, using feminine wiles—and for Edmond's sake, she hadn't even hesitated.

She closed her eyes, but sleep was elusive. How many mistakes had she made today—and how long could she use the part of the bird with the broken wing to cover her errors and he'd still believe her?

Ambleteuse, France

September 13, 1802

L
ISBETH FOUND THE NOTE
in the triangular pantry, right beside the tiny window he'd asked her to leave open.

Madame, it's been two days. Why have you not come to me? It is imperative that I know what you have learned.

“Are you well, madame? Do you need something?”

Lisbeth froze in place. Fulton had come up behind her, as she was about to make her escape. Every time she turned around he was there.

Even with her back to him she felt his presence, watching—like LeClerc and Tolbert. Like Alain. “Please don't creep up behind me, m'sieur,” she whispered.

The silence conveyed his dismay. “My dear girl, I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . .”

I have but six weeks to save Edmond.
She shrank from his reaching hand. “I—I just wish to walk for a little. I still need to purchase, um . . . ?” This time it had the advantage of being true.

“Of course, madame, I beg your pardon. I forgot,” he mumbled, his face burning.

The awkwardness of cohabiting strangers hovered in the air: the awkwardness and intimacy she must foster, maintaining his instinct to protect while preventing him from forming any suspicions. “May I go now?” She heard the quiver in her voice, hating the lie by inference.

“It looks set to rain. If you wait—” He stopped when she cringed
again. “You're free to come and go as you wish, madame.” He sounded mortified.

Crushing a wish to reassure him, she shoved the commander's note into her sling and pinched her aching arm before turning her white, battered face to his. “M'sieur, I need those three francs . . . ? If you can give me a little also for food . . . ?”

“I am a fool in every way.” He crossed the room and out, to his library. She heard a drawer open and close again. Within a minute he returned with a handful of coins, his cheeks still flushed, his eyes filled with remorse. “Use what you need, madame. Count no cost.”

Knowing his limited pocketbook, she smiled, slow and diffident. She hated manipulating his chivalrous instincts. She slipped the coins into her cape pocket. “Thank you, m'sieur.”

“Please return soon, madame, lest my anxiety engulfs me and I begin hunting for you.”

Though meant as a joke, she felt the veiled threat. Her smile faded. Wheeling around too fast for her injured body to cooperate, she walked through the door, and closed it behind her.

Trying to keep balance on the uneven path in a hard salty wind, she was halfway along it when she heard a rustle in the blackberry brambles and a hard whisper. “Madame, I'm here.”

She started, jerking her arm in its sling. Sudden, savage pain hit her shoulder; her head spun, her legs wobbled and she began to fall.

The commander caught her against his shoulder, making her feel warm and safe for a moment; then he laid her on the cold, damp sand. “Fulton was watching you from the attic. He'll be here any moment.” She barely heard him through the whining wind. “Madame, I beg your pardon. I should never have demanded your presence before you were completely recovered.”

The echo of Fulton's words annoyed her. “I'm not a child.”

“I know that.” With a tiny rustle of brambles, he was gone.

The sound of pounding feet reached her ears. “Elise!” Fulton sounded frantic. “Thank God I was watching you.” He lifted her in his arms. She flopped against him like a cloth doll.

In his dirty smock and a coal smudge on his cheek, his pince-nez askew and eyes wild, Fulton was the most unlikely knight she could imagine—but she could only be grateful for his care. Sudden, swirling rain turned sleetlike before they reached the house, wetting them both.

In her room, he laid her on the bed. “You must change out of those damp things. How have you coped until now? I ought to have asked. Madame, may I help you to—to undress?”

Before he'd finished his question, she'd scurried to the other end of the bed, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and snatched up Luc Marron's knife from under her pillow, tears streaming down her face. Instead of Fulton's kind, shocked face, she saw Alain's vivid triumph as he'd left her broken and bleeding a year ago, LeClerc's blazing excitement as he'd jerked her skirts up . . . “Don't touch me. Don't you
dare
touch me!”

Fulton was white around the mouth. “Oh, dear Lord.” He took a step back. “I—make a list of what we need at the store; I'll buy it. I'll build you a fire and bring an armchair in. You can sit and dry your dress in peace. You need to rest and eat. I-I could toast bread over the fire, with butter and cheese. And—tea, yes? Ladies like tea with milk. The farmer delivered milk . . .”

Still in mid-babble, Fulton turned and bolted from the room—and Lisbeth burst into tears, crying as though she'd never stop. It seemed Fulton was already emotionally involved. But she had to learn how to ensnare him sexually, or she'd never get the boat, or save her son.