Chapter 40
Murphy’s Law #1
“If something can go wrong, it will. If something can’t, it will anyway.”
August 20th
“Will we be there soon?” Melissa’s question was playful, but the carriage ride was becoming unbelievably frustrating. The morning’s wedding and the following breakfast was all she could have wished for. Though shocked by the costs of the special license, she had no complaints. She snuggled in her husband’s arms as the coach rumbled closer to their new home. Happiness and anticipation left her giddy, her wildest dreams realized. Her own man, her own home.
Rig’s hands would not stay still, much to her delight. However, after ten hours of dedicated kissing and petting, she yearned for far more lovemaking with far less clothing. Maddening.
“We need to keep our clothes” —she giggled and unsuccessfully attempted to still his hands— “and, ah, hair unmussed.”
“You mean mussless?”
Melissa gave him a playfully chiding glance. “You say the staff will be expecting us? When we arrive?”
Rig chuckled. “Yes, very soon now. I understand they have a dinner planned for us. Then we can retire to our bedroom.”
“What? As mistress of the house, am I not provided my own bedroom?” She gave him a teasing smile.
“It can be arranged, but I seriously doubt you will be using it much.”
“That is my hope, my lord.”
The sun sat on the horizon, still contemplating ending the long day. Melissa hoped the light would last long enough for her to see Aston Abby and the surrounding lands.
“I’ve written to expect us about this time. They should have everything ready. Are you hungry?” The carriage swerved to the right, passing through a brick archway.
“For more than food, my lord.”
Her husband chuckled. “I do hope I am on the menu tonight.”
“Aye, I would hope so too, if the accommodations are all that you claim them to be.”
Out the cabin window, Melissa caught sight of the Abby, golden in the afternoon sun, and slid down the window glass to get a dust-free view. It sat proud, solid walls covered with honey-suckle, a score of windows reflecting the mottled light beaming through the surrounding great oaks. “Oh, it is magnificent, Rig. I had no idea.”
“It needs work, but I have the time and money to see to it. I am glad you approve because you are stuck with it as much as I am.”
She gave him a reproving glance at his droll comment. She didn’t feel ‘stuck’ at all.
The sunset only added to the beauty of the surrounding lands. Stepping down from the carriage, Melissa stood absorbing the details of her new home. The Thames sparkled in the far distance, the green fields, and hedges rolling on forever in every direction.
The staff formed up along the walkway to be introduced to the new mistress of the manor, the tenants crowding behind on both sides. There had to be a hundred or more. Melissa did her best to set the names of the staff to memory.
They appeared to be competent. Their spoken heart-felt concerns for the estate were encouraging. They appeared reassured that the estate would again have a lord and lady to oversee everything.
The tenants’ spokesperson welcomed Rig and Melissa. Rig introduced Calley as temporary steward of the estate. Calley’s embarrassment and deference at recognizing her was appropriate, she felt.
When the introductions were done, Rig and she were ushered into the dining room. The polished wood paneling and oak table for twelve gleamed, the several servings of food far more than either of them could eat. Before dinner was finished, candles were lit.
Melissa glanced at Rig. He smiled and nodded. The bedroom awaited them. As it was, the hall clock chimed nine before they were able to excuse themselves, and ascend the stairs to the master bedroom. The upstairs maid, Mary, showed them to the door, offering a shy smile and curtsy before she left.
When they were alone, Rig grabbed her, holding her tight. “Is it customary for the groom to carry his bride over the threshold?”
She gave him a wry glance. “I believe that is done at the front entrance, my lord, not the bedroom.”
“Well, after that seductive look, I don’t want to miss the opportunity completely.” His arms slipped behind her knees, and he lifted her up. They both laughed as she leaned over to raise the latch and Rig kicked the door open. Kissing as the threshold was crossed, Rig pushed the door closed behind them.
Turning toward the bed, they froze. The flame of a single lamp bloomed. A man sat at a table in the center of the room, the lamp illuminating his hard features.
“Do come in.”
~ ~ ~
Capitaine Antoine LaCroix held the flintlock pistol as steady as he could. His driving need, his struggles to know about the black pistol lying before him on the table made him tremble, so close to his goal. In a thick accent, he motioned with his pistol to the chair opposite him and said, “Captain, sit and let us talk.”
The man set his bride down and stepped in front of her. She did an odd thing and reached into her bodice, extracting a necklace. Her husband stopped her from taking it off with a hand on hers. He pushed her toward the door as he approached the intruder.
“Ah-ah, Captain. I would not want to shoot your belle Nouvelle épouse as she shot me, in the back. She stays.”
This Captain Sparhawk, looking grim, came and sat across from Antoine. “Capitaine LaCroix, how did you get in here without the staff seeing you?”
Pleased, he said, “Ah, you remember.” He cocked his head toward the window. “Your staff obligingly left it open, I suppose to cool the room.”
“I see you’ve recovered.”
“Yes, as luck would have it, wet powder and a broken rib saved me from serious harm.”
The woman came up behind her husband, placed her hands on his shoulders, saying, “What do you want?”
Rig answered, “He wants to know how my Beretta works.”
“It has a name? Mais non, that is why I am here.” His lips thinned before he spoke. “I outraged my colonel taking leave of the regiment. I emptied my purse arranging to be smuggled into England. The moon-cursers operating out of Calais were expensive.” LaCroix barked a laugh. “Discovering where you had gone required months of searching, very difficult for a Frenchman.”
Now he faced his consuming mystery. He gazed at the calm surety of the woman as she stood behind her husband, hands on his shoulders, her direct gaze formidable. In all ways, her partner’s equal. A flash of envy shot through Antoine. If only he could find such a woman.
The two men studied each other before the American spoke. “Captain LaCroix, you are a soldier, and as such have a practical approach to things.” Raising a hand toward the black gun, he said, “I am sure you have already had gunsmiths examine it and attempt to recreate it. I can’t tell you much more than they could.”
“Captain, I do not wish to shoot your wife, but I will,” he said, setting another flintlock on the table. “And of course, you. Tell me how it works.”
“Antoine, there isn’t really any point. You can’t replicate the pistol and won’t be for another two hundred years.”
“You are speaking nonsense. Tell me!” He waved the pistol.
“You can’t manufacture the gunpowder used in such a small cartridge, you can’t manufacture the percussion caps at the end of the brass cartridges that ignite the powder, and no one can make the metal for the precision springs and other internal parts. You know that.”
Antoine glared at the man. He did know and had driven the gunsmiths mad with his badgering them to recreate the pistol. But he didn’t understand what the pistol represented.
Standing suddenly, pointing the pistol at the captain, he shouted, “You know how the gun is made. TELL ME!”
Neither of his captives moved or appeared frightened. It was maddening.
In a quiet voice, irritatingly reasonable, the man said, “Like you, I am not a gunsmith. I can tell you how the weapon works, but not how to make them or the precision machining required.”
What he said held too much truth. Glaring at the pair’s strangely serene composure, Antoine sat, deflated, setting the flintlock on the table. Seven months of pain, struggles, deprivations, and anxious needs crashed in on him, his quest ending in defeat. Rubbing his side, drained, he asked in a similarly quiet voice, “Qui êtes-vous, que vous possédez de telles armes?” Antoine scowled, that in his despair, he’d spoken in French. “Who are you, that you possess such weapons?”
Sparhawk stood and retrieved another chair, giving his wife one, and he sat again in the other. “I can tell you, Captain, but will you believe me?”
“I could not convince gunsmiths and generals of what your pistol could do, and I had it in hand to show them, with survivors’ testimony.” With a deep breath, Antoine waved him on. “I am all attentiveness, Monsieur.”
~ ~ ~
Rig nodded, surprised by how calm he felt facing Antoine’s pistols, proud of Mel’s resolute presence. With the change in Antoine’s demeanor, Rig stood, gave Mel a seat, filled three flutes with the champagne from a decorated sideboard crowded with more bottles, glasses, and wedding treats. Such social niceties would help keep this conversation congenial. Setting the flutes on the table before each of them, Rig got comfortable and told Antoine his and Mel’s story.
It was well after midnight when Rig finished. “And so I am stuck here in your time.” He took Mel’s hand. “With this fine lady, I have no complaints.”
Antoine nodded. “Mais non, I can see that. I am jealous, as only a Frenchman can be with such a lovely bride.” He saluted them with his glass, finishing his Champagne. “A remarkable tale.” He paused, eyeing Rig, as though he just realized something. “You know the future.”
“Some, in a general sense, not much detail.”
“Does France destroy England? Do we win out against them, conquering Spain?”
Rig shook his head.
Sitting up, he asked, wide-eyed, “How long does the Empire stand?”
“Another six years. Then Napoleon will be defeated and exiled to, to . . . Shoot, I can’t remember the island’s name.”
Antoine’s mouth hung open. “Just six years?
When Rig shrugged, Antoine slumped and stared at the floor. “After all our victories, ruling all of Europe as we do?” Rig nodded. Antoine rubbed his face. “I suspected invading Spain, crowning a Bonaparte king, could not end well.”
After a minute, Antoine looked up, gave a sad smile, and slapped his thighs. Rising from his chair, he said, “I am confident this is not how you thought to spend your wedding night. I apologize for my intrusion.” He pocketed his two flintlocks and reached for Rig’s Beretta.
“Why don’t you leave that? It can do you no good, and will can create real problems if made public. No such pistols appear until the twentieth century.”
“What would you do with it?”
“Disassemble the thing and toss the parts in the Thames.” Rig walked to the window, latching it closed. “I’ll escort you to the front door, moncapitaine. I still have your sword.”
The Frenchman grinned, still looking melancholy. “Keep it. You are going to be the last soldier to feel it’s steel.”
Rig grinned and nodded. “You are welcome to visit once you are settled in England,” Rig said, “Or if you return to France, then in six years.”
Antoine shook his head in resignation, and before setting down his champagne glass, he saluted the new bride with “Bon chance.” Antoine joined the American at the bedroom door.
The American smiled and winked at his bride, saying, “I’ll be back soon.”
~ ~ ~
Melissa stood at the closed door, stunned, an astonishing sensation fizzing her brain. The instant she’d seen the Frenchman sitting in their bedroom, she’d grabbed the medallion, prepared to remove it but the heat from the metal made her pause. It didn’t burn but calmed her, Rig’s motion to stop her unnecessary. His expression told her he’d felt it too. She knew that this threat would resolve itself, however inconvenient and unwelcome it might be. Rig’s inviting the Frenchman to visit in the future had left her taen ti the fair, taken aback.
But what was she doing, standing here like a marble statue? She ran to her trunks. By the time Rig returned, she had changed into her dressing gown and lace night rail. He turned after latching the door and stood looking at her with such a sweet smile, she knew she smiled back, a shy blush warming her cheeks. He removed his coat, vest, and shoes as he approached her. He drew her to him, tight against his chest. It took her breath.
“I think we are safe from further interruptions. I locked the door and wrote out a note I hung on the outside latch, ‘Do not disturb until rung for.’”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. I’ve been dreaming of you and this moment for a long, long time. Considering all the trials we’ve been through, including tonight, I can’t help but think we were aided by your family’s lucky doohickey” He nodded at the medallion now wedged between her breasts.
“Doohickey? Honestly, Rig. The Nathair òir is ancient magic. Considering the past months, it is deserving of respect.”
“Yes, you are right, sweetheart,” Rig whispered. “Do you think you might remove it now?” He slid her robe off her shoulder to trail his lips up her shoulder to behind her ear.
The shivers were delicious. “I-I think you should remove it.”
So he did, but he didn’t stop there.