Vintage Love (11 page)

“Valmy?”

“Yes. If Napoleon did escape, there is no question that Valmy was behind it. And he means the former emperor no good. He will use him and then destroy him.”

She nodded. “That is what Felix Black says.”

“In that he is surely right,” O’Meara said. “As to the rest I’m not sure.”

“That is why you will not take part in it?”

“Yes.”

Felix Black returned and advised them that Mrs. Glenn was ready for them. Betsy noted the expression on his sallow face and felt he was secretly amused by something. And she had the odd feeling that he somehow knew that Dr. Barry O’Meara had warned her against the enterprise.

Dinner went well. There was no hint of rancor between the two men. Both were well read and familiar with the political situation, and she enjoyed listening to their discussions of the many colorful personalities of the time.

When dinner ended, Dr. O’Meara excused himself almost at once. He said, “I have a meeting to attend at one of the coffeehouses.”

“I assume it has to do with Ireland,” the old master spy said.

O’Meara smiled. “You know my interests too well.”

“You must come again,” Felix Black told him. “I have other aspects of Napoleon I would like to discuss with you.”

“You know where to reach me,” O’Meara said. And then he turned to Betsy and with great sincerity said, “It has been good seeing you again. I shall never forget the days on the island. Do take care of yourself.”

She nodded. “I shall.”

Felix Black saw him and out and then returned to her. The spidery man in the shabby dark suit said, “What did he talk to you about when I was absent from the room?”

Flustered, she said, “I’m not sure that I remember.”

“I’ll refresh your mind,” he said. “He told you I was mad.”

She gave the master spy a frightened look. “How could you know that?”

“I have learned to guess what people around me are thinking. You must also cultivate the gift. It may come in useful to you.”

“I shall try,” she promised. “As for Dr. O’Meara he is a very emotional person. I don’t think you should hold his occasional rash judgments against him.”

The thin man smiled bleakly. “He is Irish. That explains a good deal.”

“He seems unable to believe that Napoleon is alive.”

“Because he has been thinking of him as dead and writing of him in that manner,” Felix Black said. “He has brainwashed himself.”

“No doubt.”

“The things that happen to us are often beyond our wildest imaginings,” he pointed out. “When you were kidnapped by Parson Midland, it was beyond anything you could have conceived.”

Betsy said, “Without a doubt.”

“So it is in every phase of life. O’Meara has told himself that Napoleon is dead. He is sure of it. So he will not accept my story. He calls it fantastic! But much of life is filled with fantastic twists.”

She said, “I have come to learn that. And he did not change my mind. I’m still eager to be part of this adventure.”

“Good girl,” the master spy said. “That is another thing I have learned: to be a shrewd judge of character. I counted on you from our first meeting.”

The next morning Mrs. Higgins and her young ladies came again. There was another round of fittings and fussing, but happily it did not last as long this time. Also Mrs. Higgins brought her a number of underthings as well as a selection of nightgowns.

“Best from my stock, my dear,” the stout woman said. “The dresses will be ready in a day or two. I may be able to deliver the first one tomorrow.”

Betsy was pleased with this promise and the way the various outfits were shaping up. At ten o’clock she joined Kingston and Eric Walters in the study as Felix Black lectured them on the first section of their journey. They were taking a stage to Dover, crossing to Calais, and from there taking a coastal vessel to Marseilles. He told them the length of time it would take them and what they should bring with them.

When it was over, George Frederick Kingston took her out to the drawing room and told her, “I have some information for you.”

Eagerly she begged him, “Please tell me!”

“First the parson is dead. Toby tore his throat open before Hannah finished the dog by stabbing it with a carving knife.”

“I thought she would do something like that,” Betsy said. “I must admit I shall be troubled by all this for a long while.”

“She found the lad in a drunken state and threw him out into the street. A cobbler in the next building took him in.”

“And?”

“Hannah has vanished. She locked the place up as soon as she made burial arrangements for the parson. No one knows where she went.”

“And what about the boy, Gimpy?”

The actor looked sad. “I’m afraid it’s the streets for the poor boy. The cobbler who kept him overnight can do no more than that. He has too many mouths of his own to feed.”

She said, “If he’s left to the streets, he will soon die. He is not well.”

“That is plain to see,” Kingston said.

“What can I do for the poor lad?” she wondered.

The actor said, “Would you resent a suggestion on my part?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“I have a cousin who is a watchmaker,” Kingston said. “He has a busy shop, and he’s always on the lookout for smart lads anxious to learn the trade. Not only that but he and his wife give the apprentices room and board in their own lodgings over the shop.”

She said, “It sounds ideal. Gimpy is too frail for any heavy work.”

“That is what I was thinking,” the actor said. “This is an occupation where he would be able to remain seated for long hours and only use his eyes and hands.”

“Do you think you could persuade your cousin to take the boy on?”

“I could, miss,” the actor said. “But he expects a fee of ten pounds for the apprenticing. He returns it later when the lad has proven himself and is able to turn in a proper day’s work at the trade.”

“That sounds fair enough,” she said. “I shall give you an order on my account for the ten pounds, and you take Gimpy to him.”

Kingston looked pleased. “You’re making no mistake, miss. I promise you that. I’ll go to him straight off. I know where to find him.”

So this was settled, and she felt much better for it. Gimpy’s poor twisted body and wistful face had haunted her more than she was willing to admit. While she wanted to put the rest of the horrible experience out of her mind, she could not forget the lad who had befriended her.

Felix Black came to her after lunch and said, “I should like to have some evidence of your skill with a pistol.”

“I have not used one since my father’s death,” she admitted. “It was he who taught me how to shoot.”

“I have a room in the attic designed for target practice and other tests of skill,” the old man in black said. “You will follow me up there.”

He led her slowly up two steep flights of stairs to the attic of the old house. There she found herself in a room empty of furnishings of any kind. There were two windows to let in light, and the walls were unfinished boards. He went down to one end of the attic and put up a board with circles on it. Then he returned to her and handed her a pistol which he took from his pocket.

He indicated the target and said, “I want to see what you can manage.”

She weighed the small pearl-handled pistol. “It is just about right for me,” she said.

“I thought it would be when I selected it,” he told her. “You can begin whenever, you like.”

He stood back and let her aim for the bull’s eye on her first shot. She fired, and the bullet went far astray. It struck the outside edge of the target board.

She turned to him in dismay. “That was dreadful.”

“I’ve known worse,” was his encouraging comment. “I have had students whose first shots didn’t land near the board. You try again and keep on trying.”

Her second shot came much closer. She said, “I think I will come back to it after a little.”

“I’m sure you will,” he said. “You have a good eye.”

But it wasn’t until several shots later that she managed to hit the target next to the bull’s eye. She turned to the old man who had continued to watch her. “I’d best end this now. If I keep on, I’ll only get worse.”

He nodded assent. “You are right. You’ve shown great progress today. By the time you leave, you’ll be able to handle the weapon as well as you need to.”

“I like the pistol,” she said about to return it.

“No. Keep it,” he said. “It is yours.”

She looked down at it. “I’m not sure I could use it against anyone.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Circumstances will take care of that.” And they went back downstairs.

It was not until later that she realized the full meaning of his words. He had been telling her in a casual way that she would not hesitate to use the pistol if it meant her life. She was moving into a situation where weapons might well be directed at her, and she would be forced to defend herself. There would be no time for meditating on moral scruples.

She thought she had finished the period of testing, but she had not reckoned with the kind of instructor Felix Black was. When she and Major Eric Walters joined him in his study later that day, he had another surprise in store for her.

He told her, “This morning we tested your ability with a pistol. You did well.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“This afternoon I wish to find out if you are as expert a fencer as you have suggested,” the master spy went on.

She blushed. “I made no claim of being an expert.”

“But you do know how to handle a blade?” he asked.

“Yes. I have had fencing instruction.”

“Excellent,” Felix Black said. “Major Walters is also a veteran at fencing. He will judge your competence. For this test you had best wear trousers and a shirt to give you full freedom of movement. Mrs. Glenn has left these items in your room. You will go and change, then join Major Walters in the attic.”

Eric looked embarrassed. “I promise you I’m only a very ordinary swordsman!”

She told him, “I will go to the attic as soon as I have changed.”

The trousers and shirt were on her bed as the master spy had promised. She slipped off her dress and bustle. Then she put on the tight-fitting black pants and the shirt which she left open at the neck and loose at the wrists. She stared at herself in the mirror and was amazed at the great transformation in her. She looked like a lithe young boy!

Her hair was swept up, and she feared it might get in her eyes if it tumbled down, so she unpinned it and tied it back with a ribbon. This made her look younger and even more boyish. She smiled at herself grimly and wondered whether Eric Walters expected her to have any true fencing skill. Her teacher had actually been one of Napoleon’s officers who had filled in time by working with her patiently.

Once the emperor had come upon them fencing and had actively encouraged her. Her father had also been proud of her skill in this field. But again she had not fenced for a long while.

When she reached the attic, Eric Walters was there alone, waiting for her. He had taken off his jacket and vest. His shirt was also open at the neck, and he had loosened his shirt sleeves. He was testing a blade when she joined him.

“You may have your choice,” he told her, offering her the blade to test.

She held it, moved it about, and balanced it. Then she tried the other blade and decided. “I like this one.”

He went to the corner and found masks and gave her one. As he fitted his own on, he said, “No use being without protection.”

“No,” she agreed, adjusting the straps on hers and putting it on.

He stood facing her, sword in hand, seemingly loath to begin. “I will take it at a slow rate,” he promised.

She raised her eyebrows. “For my benefit?”

“Of course.”

“But you mustn’t,” she protested. “Otherwise how will it be a proper test of my ability?”

“I’m a man,” he said. “You’re a mere slip of a girl.”

“The blades do a good deal to even that.”

He smiled. “I like your spirit. I hope you’re still not feeling hatred toward me for what happened so long ago.”

She said, “I will always think of it.”

He still hesitated. “I’m sorry about that. I think it important for us to be friends.”

“Why is that necessary?”

“We are moving into great danger — an expedition from which none of us may return.”

“So?”

“We need a close alliance. A feeling that each can depend on the other.”

She eyed him coolly. “As far as our work together is concerned, there is no reason why you cannot depend on me. My personal feelings are something else.”

His handsome face took on a bitter expression. “You prefer to cling to your hatred as a drowning man clutches at a spar.”

“I think we have discussed it long enough,” she said.

He nodded. “On the ready!” And he bent a knee in fencing position.

“Ready!” she called back and took the same stance.

Each hesitated for a fraction of a second, then they moved in, their swords clashed, and the combat between them began. She was light on her feet and very sure. He had the advantage of strength in handling his blade, but he was not as quick.

Several times she darted back just as he had the advantage, and then she moved in again to engage his blade and further taunt him. Her style was cleaner than his, and he began to hack the air at times and assume dangerously careless postures.

The duel went on. They were both breathing heavily from the unusual exertion, and she could see the streams of perspiration running down the cheeks of her handsome opponent. His eyes kept fixed on her, and he tried to corner her with an aggressive motion of the blades, but she was able to free herself and engage him on her own terms.

The battle seemed equal since her superior skill was matched by his sheer strength and staying ability. She knew that she was tiring and soon must begin to falter. Then, when she least expected it, something startling happened! He was slashing at her in one second and in the next his knee buckled and he stumbled.

Her extensive training came to the fore. She could not help but take advantage of his faltering. With an expert twist of her blade she sent his flying to the floor beside him. In the next moment she was up to him, the point of her blade poised on his bare throat!