Chapter Twenty-Two
Giselle rediscovered the colors of her world whenever she opened her eyes to find Clive, tall and dark, a silhouette in grays and earnest hopes, beside her bed. His familiar form remained through many a night, asleep in a large chair into the pale-blue dawn and the gold of midday.
He remained, ever present, ever watchful and smiling, feeding her endless cups of broth and tea.
“You must rest,” she rasped one day.
“I will when you are better.”
She blinked fat tears away, unable and unwilling to argue with him.
Whether it was the next evening or numerous ones later, she reached for his hand, twined her fingers in his. She had to know how she was saved and if her captors had gotten away. “Tell me what happened.”
“We came out when you were so helpful as to feign illness. Three of us—Langley, Kane, and I—heard you from our own posts. My friend, Lord Halsey, was on the front door. We three had little problem subduing the three men, but Halsey was caught off guard by the fracas. When the woman came out the front door, she was firing her own pistol.”
“La Mère,” she whispered.
“Is that her name?”
Giselle shrugged and gasped, regretting her movement and the sharp pain it sent down her wounded arm.
“Don’t worry yourself,” Clive said. “Whoever she is, she’s a devil. Halsey caught one of her bullets in a thigh, but it is, thank God, more a graze than penetration. What those fiends did to you, I will never forgive. You have been through hell, and I will see you healthy once again.”
Breathless, she still had to know one thing. “And the woman? La Mère? Did Kane capture her?”
“No, I am sad to say. She ran. Halsey was unable to follow her, bleeding and limping as he was.”
“She was their leader. Save for a man they called the Falcon, or Faucon.”
“Is he one of the three men in the cottage?”
“No. He came a few days ago, then left after talking with all of them. He has contacts to take information—and me—across the Channel.” She caught her breath, a hand to her chest.
“I wear you out.” Clive kissed the knuckles of her good hand. “Rest.”
With that assurance, she closed her eyes again. She slept without the dreams of being tied and prodded.
Perhaps it was the next day or the next week when she sat up for the first time, enjoying bread and jam as other questions came to her for Clive.
“Who is La Mère really, I wonder?” she said.
“Do you have any clues?”
“She wore a mask in my presence, so I can say she is lovely, but I might not be able to identify her. Or even draw her.”
“You can try later. When you are up to the task.”
“I will. I will say that she speaks well, with a Parisian accent. She’s had an education.
What’s more, she claims to have known my mother.
I cannot imagine who she might be. But I will think on it, forever if need be.
And then…there is one more minor fact. She is elegant in her attire.
Why dress like a woman with flair, even though you are a cipher?
Does it not make you distinguishable? Noticeable? ”
He grew pensive and sat forward, his hands clasped, his brow furrowed. “Her clothing may be one of the marks of her status.”
Giselle raised a finger. “One of the ways her men recognize her.”
“Do you think she is an aristocrat?”
Giselle thought long and hard on that, only to shake her head. “New or old, I have no idea. But why does she work to secure Bonaparte’s success? No. No, don’t answer that. I know.”
“She may work to remain in his good graces.”
“Exactly. To get her lands or wealth or position back—or acquire new holdings.”
“Many do,” he said, his gray gaze probing hers. “You have worked to defeat him.”
She perceived the train of his thought. “My father’s influence is gone. The land too. Bought by friends of the empire. My brother is dead. The line of the Viscount of Touraine is gone for my family.”
Clive sat forward once more and took her hand. “What you have done for the cause is wonderful. No matter your motive. It has worked.”
She saw on his face the pleasure in his words. “You have news?”
“We have word from an agent in Ostend that the Emperor of Austria has joined the United Kingdom and Russia in a coalition.”
She jerked forward, her heart pounding in her chest. “Bonaparte will have to fight on two fronts. A nightmare to be pincered between Britain and the Austrians and Russians, too.”
“London is pleased that he will have to divide his army and navy.”
She caught the note of caution in his voice. “But…what?”
“If he wishes to attack us, we think he will come now. Momentarily.”
She squeezed his hand. Remorse had her sagging against her pillows. “Oh, disaster. My drawings of Brighton will never go to him.”
“No, but—”
“I did not complete my mission.” She clamped both hands to her lips.
He took down her hands. “Listen to me!”
Tears burned her eyes. “After all this, I did no good.”
“Stop this! They have your other drawings.”
“Not Brighton.”
“No. But that town does not have the best aspects for a beach landing. I doubt the French would consider attacking there. It would certainly not be among the first locations.”
She sagged amid her pillows. “I wonder if they have my Hastings drawings.”
He expression fell as he stared at her. “What?”
“The French agent who works Hastings has been lax, not picking up my papers. The Ashleys and Ramseys told me that. As of a few weeks ago, before I was abducted, no one had picked up the drawings in a dead drop in a bookstore in Hastings.”
His hesitancy gave way to a glorious smile. “Halsey and Langley and I know that, too.”
“You know? You…checked?”
“We saw those drawings weeks ago. We left them there as lure for a French agent to pick them up, just as the maps of other cities had been. Since you were abducted, we’ve been working with Lord Ashley’s and Scarlett Hawthorne’s agents, so we know all this. Please know your work was a godsend.”
“Oh, Clive.” All she felt was misery. “We have no proof.”
“But we do. Hawthorne’s agent in Boulogne confirms that the landing flaps on the amphibious boats are all the same dimensions.”
Hawthorne’s agent in Boulogne had gotten word to Scarlett of this success?
“If the French come, wherever they come, my darling”—he took both her hands again and grinned—“they will not land.”
“But drown.”
He stood and bent to put his lips to hers. His kiss was brief and bold. “Rest and recover, my sweetheart. I want to take you home with me to London.”
His declaration filled her with a joy she’d rarely felt. “I do prefer your Richmond house,” she said with whimsy and a coy tip of her head.
“You knew of me there?” His brows went high.
“Not by name. But by aspect. I saw you a few times in town when I went to buy supplies. I thought to myself then, What a glorious man. To what lucky woman does he belong?”
He kissed her again. “I belong to you, Giselle Laurant. I saw you painting, drawing along the river.”
“When I lived in the old saddler’s house,” she reminisced. “After that, I went to Hastings to begin my drawings of there.”
Clive would not have her fretting over her work. “My telescope told me how lovely you were, how dedicated to your art. And my heart was captured then as it is now.”
She put a finger to his firm lips. “I am honored.”
“I love you, Giselle.”
The tears she had not yet shed now rolled down her cheeks. “I am honored even more. I love you too, Clive Davenport. You bring to me all the vibrant colors of a life of love.”
“Giselle,” he crooned, “listen to me. I want you—”
“Clive! Clive!” a man bellowed as he climbed the stairs, his boots clicking on the wood. “Clive!”
A brisk knock at their door was followed by it falling open and banging against the wall.
Langley stood there. His face white. His stance that of a dead man.
Clive shot to his feet.
Dread stopped Giselle’s heartbeat.
“What news?” Clive asked.
“Two hundred miles long,” Langley managed, breathless. “More!”
“What?” Clive grimaced. “The French armada?”
“No! No! The lines of the Grand Army!”
Giselle recoiled in horror. “How? Crossing the Channel? Where? At Dover. From Calais, the shortest route—”
“No!” Langley roared, beaming at them now. “The French go east!”
“East?” both Clive and Giselle gasped at the same time.
“Those two hundred thousand men of the Grand Army form lines hundreds of miles long! They march out of Boulogne toward Austria. Boney has declared war on them!”
Clive leaned over and gathered Giselle into his arms. “Success, my love.”
“He’s left Boulogne,” she whispered against his mouth. Then, as best she could amid her bandages and pain, she hugged him. “Bonaparte has gone.”
*
Giselle inched to the edge of her bed. She’d been moving slowly for a few days, telling no one because everyone urged her to remain still. Reminding them all she was not porcelain, she recovered her stamina more each day. She itched—no, really, she twitched to move.
So here she was, eager for a glimpse of the world beyond her four bedroom walls. Clive was gone to his morning ablutions and had promised to return with her broth and tea.
Once she left this room, this house, she would never drink broth or tea ever again.
She’d have roast chicken with potatoes and turnips in gravy.
Beef with summer greens. Spinach and oranges, tossed with vinegar and a bit of Italian oil on olives.
She’d make bread. Roll it and knead it. Shape it as she wished. Like a ball or a heart.
A heart.