Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3) Read online

‘Walk,’ she said.

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To the other side of the room. Don’t try to be clever. I have a pistol pointing between your shoulders.’

  He felt the hardness of the barrel push against his jacket.

  ‘It would seem I have no choice.’

  ‘None at all. Move.’

  Very slowly Jackdaw stood up, his eyes rapidly running over the room for a means of escape. There was nothing but the door, beyond which lay the spiral staircase leading up to the inn.

  ‘There has been a mistake,’ he said loudly. ‘I am Louis Dubois, nicknamed the Jackdaw.’

  ‘If you can prove that, then all will be well,’ answered Papineau calmly.

  Reluctantly, Jackdaw took a few paces forward. Right behind him he could feel Marie, her breath on the back of his neck. He thought he must be going a little mad for, at the same time as knowing that he was in the most grave danger of his life, he desired her, wanted desperately to make love to her. He had the wildest notion that she was the girl he had seen in his dreams but that somehow the name was wrong.

  ‘Well?’ said Papineau.

  Marie hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think he does limp.’

  Papineau sat up straight.

  ‘Let me see for myself. Move aside, girl.’

  Very slowly she did so and at the same moment her gun lowered — but whether by accident or design who could say. Jackdaw seized his chance. He hurled himself through the door and up the spiral stairs faster than he had ever moved in his life before. Behind him he heard Papineau shout, ‘Shoot him. What’s the matter with you?’ But no sound rang out.

  But the raised voice had alerted the patrons of the inn and Jackdaw fled up the stairs to a scene of incredible violence. The other two trappers — in reality Major Tom Rourke of the Grenadier Guards and Captain Thomas Snow of the 4th Foot — were on their feet and punching with all their might and as Jackdaw reached the top a loose and bloodied tooth shot past him like a pellet.

  The sounds of crunching knuckles and winded groans were unbelievable and Jackdaw’s voice shouting ‘We’re discovered’ was crowned in the uproar.

  He managed to crouch as a huge man went for him with a chair and dodged just in time to see it smash against the floor rather than on his head. But then came a man with an axe, blood running down the back of his hands, and bearing the most evil snarl. A side door opened somewhere and Jackdaw was whisked through it as the axe blade split the panels of wood. A second later and he would have been decapitated.

  He knew without turning that he had been saved by Marie but as he whirled round he saw that she was hurrying back into the inn, a despairing expression on her face.

  ‘Wait,’ he shouted.

  But she was gone and Jackdaw did the only sensible thing in the circumstances — he ran into the darkness as far away from the place as he could get, more afraid than he had ever been in his life before.

  And the fear would not leave him for the knock on the hotel room door, the next day, set Jackdaw’s heart racing.

  Nonetheless he called, ‘Come in,’ softly, at the same time taking out a pistol which he had hidden beneath his pillow.

  The previous night he had run from the inn till exhausted and had finally slept in a disused workman’s hut. But the following morning he had come to the Hotel Reine — a seedy establishment in the rough area of Quebec, yet the agreed rendezvous point should he, Major Rourke or Captain Snow ever get separated.

  Then he had broken every rule that he had been taught in the Army. He had bribed a child to take a letter to Marie. Even as he had written his name Jackdaw had known the risk he was taking. Quebec swarmed with revolutionaries; the child might betray him — or even Marie herself — and if Papineau should happen upon the note, Jackdaw could start counting his days.

  Now he pointed the pistol towards the door, supporting it with both hands.

  ‘Come in,’ he said again.

  The door opened a crack and the urchin’s dirty face appeared.

  ‘I did it — I did it for you, M’sieur. Don’t shoot. I gave it to her — to Marie.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No. She was alone. Papineau was out.’

  Jackdaw lowered the pistol. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She gave me this.’

  A grimy piece of paper in an equally grimy hand was thrust towards him. Jackdaw flicked his eyes over it, half his attention still on the boy and the open door behind him.

  It simply said: ‘I will be there by midnight. If I am not, sail with the tide.’ She had signed herself, rather formally, ‘Marie Papineau’.

  ‘Is that all right? Can I have the other half of the money? You did say.’

  Jackdaw’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed the boy’s collar, pulling the poor wretch so close that they were nose to nose.

  ‘Did you betray me?’ he hissed.

  ‘No, M’sieur — honest.’

  ‘If anything happens to me there are those who will come looking for you.’

  The child gave a yelp of fright and wriggled in Jackdaw’s grasp. He looked near to tears.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. Please let me go.’

  Jackdaw went ‘Humph’, released the boy and reached in his pocket for a coin.

  ‘There you are. Now be off. But no tricks, mind.’

  ‘No, M’sieur.’

  The boy scuttled away like a spider and Jackdaw was left to read the note again.

  He had written to beg Marie to meet him at the Quay d’Orleans — one of the many harbours that dotted the banks of the great St Lawrence river; and from which, by means of a small charter boat, he intended to make his way to Newfoundland and there pick up one of the great trading vessels headed for England. He was duty bound to wait till nightfall for Rourke and Snow and then, if they were still missing, proceed without them. Those were the instructions given to all officers serving in intelligence: if one’s cover was destroyed, no brave attempts at saving companions; simply lie low and then head back quickly by the safest route possible.

  He thought to himself that he must be mad to risk all by asking Marie to go with him — yet that clouding hair seemed so familiar. He felt almost certain she was the girl whose dream self he had loved for years — yet something was not right. But he pushed away the nagging doubt with the thought that she would probably refuse to come. Why should she give up everything for a man she had known barely an hour?

  He fell asleep on that uncomfortable hotel bed and had the oddest dream. He dreamed that he walked along the sea front at Hastings with Helen, his mother. Beside him, on his left, trotted a man he did not know but whose round, jolly face grinned at him like an amiable moon.

  ‘You really ought to wait,’ said the jolly man — pointing vaguely in the direction of the castle.

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen, nodding anxiously. ‘Do be patient, Jackdaw. You are getting so headstrong.’

  ‘She’s up there, you see,’ the jolly man went on, totally ignoring Helen and waving his cane aloft again.

  ‘Who?’ said Jackdaw.

  The man laughed uproariously.

  ‘As if you didn’t know,’ he chortled.

  ‘But I don’t know.’

  ‘Then look for yourself.’

  Jackdaw peered and saw that standing on the battlements — reduced to a dot by the distance — was a Princess from a fairytale, or someone who resembled one. Yet there could be no mistaking the gleam of that autumn head beneath the high day sun.

  ‘Marie,’ he shouted.

  Helen and the jolly man looked astounded but said nothing. The figure waved its hand.

  ‘I’m coming,’ called Jackdaw, trying to hurry forward but finding that his limp had grown suddenly worse and he could scarcely walk.

  The figure blew a kiss and disappeared from view. ‘Come soon!’ she shouted over her departing shoulder.

  ‘You see,’ said the man.

  ‘See what?’

>   Jackdaw was near to tears. He could hardly move an inch, his leg hurt him so much.

  ‘English,’ said the man triumphantly.

  ‘Oh go away.’ Jackdaw had suddenly lost his temper.

  ‘Who are you anyway?’

  ‘Hicks. Algernon Hicks. May I present my card?’

  He did so, bowed — and vanished into thin air. And with a shout Jackdaw awoke to his dreary and dangerous surroundings and a mood of lurking depression.

  *

  ‘Oh, Mr Hicks,’ said Mrs Webbe Weston, ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean you have not been formally introduced.’

  Francis smiled disarmingly.

  ‘No, Ma’am. I met your daughter in a field where we both were pursuing our hobby of painting in oils. But allow me to assure you of my bona fides. I am the son of the late Samuel Hicks, Esquire, and brother of the present Algernon Hicks — also Esquire. I am studying medicine at St Bartholomew’s Hospital with the hope of ultimately taking up surgery.’

  A faint gleam appeared behind Mrs Webbe Weston’s vacuous eye. She had been a ‘martyr to her health’ — her own words — ever since they had moved to Pomona House.

  ‘Oh — er — well, in that case ... I would ask you to stay to supper that you might formally present yourself to my husband but ... such difficult times you see ...’

  ‘Nonsense, Mother,’ said Caroline roundly. ‘Father brought in two large hares the other night. Could we not have those jugged?’

  Mrs Webbe Weston made a feeble move and then groaned.

  ‘It is when I try to stand suddenly you know, Mr Hicks. I get this dreadful pain that shoots down into my ankles from my back. I often wonder what it could be.’

  Francis stood up.

  ‘If you might allow me just to examine your upper back, Ma’am. I am most interested in the orthopaedic skills. Miss Webbe Weston should stay in the room but if I could ask the Captain to step outside. It will only take a moment, I assure you.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Webbe Weston. ‘But that would not be seemly. I mean here — in my sitting room!’

  ‘It will not be necessary to remove more than your shawl. An experienced hand can feel bone through a blouse as light as the one you are wearing now — which does suit you most enormously, I really must add.’

  Mrs Webbe Weston fluttered and over her head Caroline and John Joseph exchanged a wink.

  ‘I’ll go and look for Father,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed him rather a lot.’

  Much as Mary had predicted Mr Webbe Weston scrubbed at his eyes with reddened knuckles.

  ‘My son! Soldier, eh? By Jove. Choked in chest. Ha ha. Capital turn out. What?’

  John Joseph felt enormously gratified. Funny old buffer his father might be, but a parent’s praise and approbation is a unique part of every human need. How wretched to be treated with coldness in the face of one’s best effort. But Mr Webbe Weston knew nothing of such fine cruelties and threw his arms round John Joseph, guffawing and sniffing with joy.

  ‘Always knew. Needed to go. Get away. No good.’

  ‘How is Sutton Place?’

  ‘Rotting. Hopeless. No tenants. Fall one day. Good job.’

  ‘I hear that Cloverella has left.’

  ‘Yes. En ceinte. Father unknown. Ho ho.’

  John Joseph swallowed and said, ‘It could have been me, you know.’

  It was the first time he had ever spoken to his father man to man but Mr Webbe Weston bellowed with laughter.

  ‘Farm lads. Or Jackdaw.’

  ‘Jackdaw?’

  ‘Not half!’

  ‘Then you think I need not worry too much?’

  ‘Lord no. Wild oat. Manhood.’

  They went back into the house and saw Mrs Webbe Weston pink in the cheeks with excitement.

  ‘Oh, my dear, this is Mr Hicks — a new acquaintance of Caroline’s. He is staying at the Angel and has diagnosed that I have a tired back — he is studying at St Bartholomew’s.’

  The resourceful Francis bowed to Mr Webbe Weston and said, ‘How do you do, sir? I am here to pay my compliments to you and your wife in the hope that I might be allowed to call upon your daughter.’ There was just the suspicion of a wink in his eye as he went on, ‘The cure for your wife’s condition is a little mild exercise. Too much lying on the sofa is not advantageous. Even a little gentle gardening could be in order.’

  ‘Capital,’ said Mr Webbe Weston. ‘Capital. Ha ha ha. Call Matilda. Family together. Sherry Sir? I’m indulging.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hicks, I can’t say what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance.’

  Mrs Webbe Weston was radiant, already flushed with two large glasses of sweet lunchtime sherry and now the comforting thought that she had at least a week — if not perhaps a lifetime if her little scheme came to fruition — to talk of her ailments to a professional ear.

  She smiled knowingly at her husband who chuffed into his whiskers and cast his eyes appraisingly over Caroline, the youngest and by far the prettiest of his daughters.

  ‘So you wish to take my little one sketching tomorrow?’ she said.

  Francis smiled. ‘With your permission, Ma’am.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I will not be able to act as chaperone. The sun, you know. But of course if Matilda were to accompany you ...’

  ‘And John Joseph,’ Caroline put in. ‘We are dying to paint him. Will you come, long lost brother?’

  ‘No, not tomorrow. I’ll pose for you another day. I have an assignation to keep.’

  ‘Oh?’ Caroline’s dark brows rose in surprise.

  ‘With Sutton Place. I must see it again. I believe I have a love-hate feeling for the place.’

  Francis said, ‘Perhaps we could all go. I’ve been longing to have a look at it ever since I first heard the legend.’

  ‘Now that is a splendid notion. Would you paint it, Mr Hicks?’

  ‘Let us make it a painting picnic,’ said Caroline, ‘all four of us. Matilda, what do you say?’

  Matilda, who had grown extremely drab and dull since he had last seen her — or so John Joseph thought — answered, ‘Well, I’m not terribly good.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a ninny. It is high time you went out more. Mother, you really must let her go and visit Mary in Paris. It would do her the world of good.’

  Matilda swallowed and stared into her lap and John Joseph said, ‘You are getting very bossy, Caroline. Just like Mary in the old days.’

  Caroline toyed with the idea of being annoyed and decided against it and laughed instead.

  ‘Yes, I probably am. But you see my ideas are always so terribly good.’

  Francis Hicks shot a most affectionate glance from his sparkling eyes and rose to his feet.

  ‘Then, if that is agreed by you, Mrs Webbe Weston, I shall meet the younger people tomorrow morning at Sutton Place. What time do you suggest, Miss Webbe Weston?’

  ‘Ten o’clock — while the sun is still high.’

  ‘Very well, ten o’clock it is.’

  He bowed his way out and Caroline, as soon as he was out of earshot, hugged her knees to her chin and laughed.

  ‘What are you so pleased about?’ said Matilda, a trifle sourly.

  ‘Because — though he doesn’t yet know it — I am going to marry him and be as happy as a bird. Oh, to think of it! You may come and stay with me, Matilda, and do the season. Won’t it be wonderful?’

  ‘And what if he is not agreeable?’

  ‘He will agree,’ said Caroline firmly, ‘to everything I suggest.’

  *

  Beneath his breath the fisherman sang an old French song as the boat nosed its way into the darkness and up the mighty St Lawrence towards the salty vastness of the Atlantic. And Jackdaw, gazing at the fast-fading lights of Quebec, experienced every kind of emotion. Above all he felt immense relief that he had got out of the place alive. But equally, and for the first time, he knew wild and unrestrained passion. He wanted to take the slim flame of a girl who now stood beside him and possess
her until she cried for him to stop. He had never felt anything like it before.

  ‘Why did you come?’ he said now, putting his hand on the wonderful hair.

  ‘Because I wanted to see you again.’

  ‘And that is the only reason?’

  She laughed in the darkness. ‘Perhaps.’

  Her voice was musical, soft — and she spoke French like a native.

  ‘Marie — I know it sounds ridiculous, but I believe that I have known you always.’

  For answer she only shivered and said, ‘Shall we go into the cabin? I do not like to think of such things. It makes me cold.’

  He put his arm round her waist.

  ‘You will never be cold while I have strength to warm you.’

  Her answer to the boyish protestation was to laugh and kiss him beneath the chin.

  ‘You are whiskery,’ she said. ‘Go and shave yourself.’

  ‘Is that all you can say when I desire you so much?’

  ‘Yes, it is all I can say.’

  But when he straightened up from the cracked china bowl and jug of cold water at which he had removed his six-month growth of beard, his heart nearly stopped in his chest. While his back was turned Marie had slipped into the cabin’s solitary bunk and now lay gazing up at the shadows on the ceiling which danced together in the candle’s guttering flame. In the faint light her hair glowed like a fire’s heart spread round her fine-boned face.

  Jackdaw could not speak. He felt that all his life had been leading up to this moment. He stood still, almost without breathing, taking stock of the past and the present which had now melded into one — or so it seemed.

  ‘I have always loved you,’ he said to Marie.

  He was past thinking. It did not occur to him to question the fact that the family scene into which he had wandered through the time boundary of his silly green marble had been one typically English, and that Marie — who lay so gently in his bed — was the daughter of a French-Canadian revolutionary; he cared nothing that he could face court martial for consorting with the enemy. He did not give a fig for his father’s opinion — nor even Helen’s — when they clapped eyes upon the girl whom he had already chosen to make his wife.

  But now he could wait no more — his blood was on fire for her! He crossed over and sat for a moment beside her, burying his face in the sweet curve of her neck. But it was difficult to be gentle — he would know no peace until he had kissed every sweet part of her, felt the small high breasts warm beneath his hands.