He rose, very slowly, sliding the chair back. Turning, he placed it between them.
‘Hello, Louisa,’ he said.
If it were possible, she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She must have walked quickly for there was a flush to her cheeks, her brow, snowflakes melting there, trails of water like wayward teardrops running down her face. Some little crystals still lingered on her eyelashes enhancing those which needed no help, her eyes. Yet within them was a look he had not seen there before, a coldness to go with the ice.
He looked down at the gun in her hand. It was a Dragoon pistol, heavy, expensive, he could see the distinctive Lazarino stamp on its barrel. It was by no means a ladies’ pocket weapon. And it was not wavering a jot.
‘Will you mourn for me again, Louisa?’
She did not speak, carried on regarding him in a way he could not read. Silence, he realized, could lead to action. In dialogue there was delay. ‘John André has already lost one Jack Absolute to a bullet. I doubt he’ll care to lose another. And neither, may I say, would I.’
At last, she spoke, her voice as firm as her regard. ‘I think that production is cursed. Whatever happens to its Jack, its Lydia will not be in the city to play.’
‘Going somewhere?’
‘I think I must … now.’ The pistol point moved a fraction away on the word but only to gesture to the diary on the desk, goose down exploded from its cover like guts from a freshly slaughtered bird.
‘Ah, yes.’ Jack glanced back to it. ‘I don’t suppose Lydia can be portrayed by a traitor.’
No hesitation now to her words, which came quickly, angrily. ‘I am a patriot, sir, and more loyal to my cause than you are to yours.’
He spoke softly to calm her anger, the possible consequences of it. ‘And how do you calculate that?’
‘You have doubts as to the merits of your loyalty. I have none. Your eloquent defence of American rights? I am sure that were you born on this side of the Atlantic you would be wearing a blue coat now rather than that red one.’
‘You may well be right,’ he murmured, sinking back till his red coat-tails rested on the desk’s edge. His good hand too went slowly backwards, hidden from her, eventually finding what it sought – the hard edge of a crystal inkwell. He continued, ‘Nevertheless, I have other loyalties. To honour. To a man.’
‘Burgoyne? I am sorry for that, in a way. I like the General. I hope that after our freedom is gained he will recognize that I did for my country what he strove to do for his – merely my duty.’
‘Duty? It can be a burden sometimes.’ His hand had tightened on the crystal and he was alarmed to feel it shaking, ink spilling down his fingers. By contrast, Louisa’s hand was firm; but, then again, she was holding a pistol.
Jack looked at it and suddenly couldn’t help the soft chuckle that came.
‘You laugh?’
‘I was thinking back to another gun, the one I used on the man at the Tarrytown ferry. I thought I was rescuing you from your recklessness, the consequences of the gold coin you tossed him. But I was actually shooting your comrade, wasn’t I?’ She looked to speak but he went on. ‘I should have known when your saddle slipped. You, the consummate groom, mistie a cinch? Impossible! Yet there you were upon the ground with Washington’s cavalry galloping to your aid. You’d let them know, somehow, hadn’t you? The rendezvous was long arranged?’
‘Not long,’ she murmured.
‘Of course. For you needed someone to bring you to it.’
He raised himself from the desk, stood, still holding the inkwell. He did not step near, but she took a step back anyway. His voice became softer. ‘And would you have watched me hang, Louisa?’
There! The pistol point wavered, just a little. His ink-slick fingers tightened on the crystal. But her voice, unlike his, did not soften. ‘I would not have seen that. I did not loosen Doughty’s cinches. I presumed, with luck, that he should carry you free.’
‘You presumed much.’
‘I did. One must take chances, make … sacrifices … in our secret world. There are things that I have done—’
He raised a hand, the splinted, unstained one. ‘A word of advice, Louisa. From one spy to another. Don’t tell me too much. Even if you intend to kill me. You might, after all, miss.’
‘I will not.’ Her jaw tightened. ‘I might regret it. But I will not miss.’
The hand that had held the door now came to support her wrist. Lazarino barrels were heavy. But in case the movement meant something else, a gathering of will, he spoke quickly. ‘There is one secret I would know, before we put your accuracy to the test – come, Louisa, we both know the business of this Scene even if we are not completely sure how the Act will end.’
Her gaze was still steady. ‘What secret?’
‘Your diary. Is it all encrypted?’
‘You decoded it, didn’t you?’
‘Not all of it. Enough. I do not refer to the invisible ink, however, but the blue.’
‘The blue? I do not understand.’
‘Did you mean what you wrote?’
He saw it come then, her understanding; saw, for the first time since she’d entered the room, some doubt, even confusion. She wavered, if her pistol point still did not, and her voice, when it came was, at last, gentler. ‘The space between the lines belongs to Diomedes. The blue-inked words … are mine.’
‘And the tears? What of them? They fell between the lines.’ She stayed silent, looking at him. ‘Did you mean them, Louisa? Did you mourn when you thought me dead, rejoice at my resurrection? Did you truly regret the word I’d given to your father before we went into the forest?’
‘Yes, yes, and yes, I did, damn you … and stop! Stop where you are!’
He had pushed himself off the desk, abandoned the inkwell, moved past the chair. He raised his hands to his side, never stopped moving slowly towards her, never stopped looking into her eyes, into the indecision there, waiting for the moment she decided, not certain what he’d do when she did. When he reached her and there was still no change, he stepped in close and pressed his chest against the barrel.
They stood like that for a long moment. He had not really stared into her eyes since he’d arrived in Philadelphia, had almost forgotten their extraordinary green. Almost. He stared now and, finally, whispered, ‘You honoured me with a title once, there in our forest camp. You called me a fool. So prove to me how I deserve it. Prove to me now how great a fool I am.’
Her eyes moved back and forth, focusing now on one of his, now on the other. In the movement, he saw the doubt. He could have grabbed for the gun. He might have wrestled it away.
But then he would never know.
At last he said, ‘You’ve broken my heart already, Louisa. You may as well put a ball through it.’
Her voice now came in a whisper. ‘You know of my love now, Jack Absolute. You have read of it. But what do I truly know of yours? How can I believe it is strong enough to … do what must be done?’
‘Pull the trigger and you’ll never find out.’
He felt the gun begin to shake and he closed his eyes. Then he felt it withdrawn from his chest, moved away from him, and he opened his eyes again to hers. The challenge in them was gone. ‘Oh Jack,’ she said, simply, wearily. ‘Oh … Jack.’
He reached down, took the pistol from her, uncocked it, went to set it on the chair. She kept her eyes downcast, staring at the floor. Only when he moved back did she look up, speak. ‘So … what shall we do now?’
He raised his hand, reaching to the side of her head, touching her there, a light pressure, letting his fingers slide further up and into her red-gold hair, still pinned high for her role. He found the pins there, tugged gently at each one till it came away, one by one, dropping them to the rug, till the whole thick mass tumbled down. He brought the other hand up, used his fingers like the teeth of a comb and her head leaned into them as they worked at every knot, resting her weight against his palm as every tangle came free. His healing wrist hurt a
little as she did and he didn’t care. It was only when it all lay spread over her shoulders that he replied.
‘This is what we shall do,’ he said, taking her hand, pulling her towards the bed.
She resisted, just slightly, a little smile coming. ‘Whatever impression I may have given you to the contrary, Captain, I … I …’ She gestured to him, to the bed. ‘I am not … not greatly …’
‘Experienced?’
There was the slightest of nods though her smile grew and held little nervousness. Nonetheless, Jack moved to the table, turned down the lamp, which guttered, died, the only light in the room now coming from the snow-reflected moon and the fire behind its guard.
The kiss was long, began slowly, lips finding lips, tongue-tips tongues. Then it sped up, while hands went to their work. Yet if his clothes were hard enough to remove while their mouths met, hers were impossible.
‘Hold, sir!’ she gasped, staggered away from him, laughing. There were only a few of her ties that she could reach. Turning her back to him, she looked over her shoulder and gestured down with her eyes.
He was not a novice in the matter of ladies’ dresses. Each had their variation, a code to be deciphered. Her saque dress was exquisitely cut, one of Alphonse’s finest, and the concealed silk tapes that held the bodice’s covering pleats separated smoothly. But beneath, the bodice itself was intricately laced, the knots proving hard for his soldier’s fingers, his one splinted hand. He had to pull her close, brush the tresses of her long hair out of his way over her shoulder and his breath, coming faster as he struggled, fell on to her exposed neck. She tipped her head forward, closed her eyes.
He looked to the desk, to the penknife there. In a moment he had it, had slashed the fine steel the length of the bodice, the laces parting like wheatsheaves, scythed. And at their parting she groaned, shrugged from the bodice, stepped from the skirt still attached to it.
There was another layer of laces beneath. These joined her stays, that were, unusually, of leather and released now the heady scents of that material and her own warming body. These bindings were simply secured with a bow and when he’d undone it, he took hold of one end and slid the lace slowly past each of its restraints. As the string slipped from the last hole, he pulled the stays away, throwing the supple leather garment to the side. Louisa now only wore a knee-length chemise that fell from her bare shoulders to her scarlet stockings. She stood directly before the fire and her legs were silhouetted through the cotton.
He shed the remainder of his clothes as she watched. Soon he was clad only in a shirt that reached to just above his knees.
‘I discovered you fishing once dressed in just such a way,’ she said, softly.
He went slowly to her, stepping between her opening arms, bending to lift her, arms behind her knees at her back. Their lips met again as he carried her to the bed.
In midnight and noontime dreams, he had done this a thousand times. Yet the reality of her skin, her strong, long legs, her small, full breasts, that cascade of golden hair half-concealing them like a veil, all this, and secrets unimagined, proved dreams to be the poor imitation they were. He took his time, kissing everywhere he had always wanted to kiss, leaving little untouched by lips or tongue or fingers. She responded, tentatively at first, increasingly bold, going where his moans led her, as hers led him, until the heat grew too hot for them both, could only be taken off in one last way. Remnants of clothes fell away and they were joined.
The snow, newly falling, had built a deep lining in the leaded frames of the window before they parted.
*
It was not unusual for Jack to experience some sadness after lovemaking. He understood, from friends, fellow officers, that he was not alone in this – though Até mocked him relentlessly when he’d been unwise enough to confess it. It was usual, though, for the sadness to be general, to have no specific cause. Something to do with endings perhaps, of a wish fulfilled that could be wished no more.
This time the reason was plain, lay in his arms within the tangle of blankets, sheets and pillows that he had fashioned into a nest on the floor near the fire. His back rested against the bedstead, one bare foot exposed to the little flame that remained in the grate. Her fingers lightly traced the patterns of the Mohawk tattoos on his chest and shoulders, ran down the leaf wreathes, followed the jaws of a wolf.
It was her voice that put a question to his thoughts. ‘What now, Jack?’
‘What now, indeed.’
She pulled away, looked up at him, without words, the blanket over her back making a cave within which he stared at her hair, her face, her glowing body.
‘I presume we are not to be disturbed by your mother.’
‘I think it unlikely as she is in Massachusetts.’
‘Not sick then?’
‘In fierce health when last I heard.’
He smiled. ‘I invented an invalid aunt once, in Bath. Had to spend all sorts of time tending her. Or rather, going to her rooms and slipping down a secret stair that no one knew of. I grew fond of her. Was ever so sad when she recovered and moved back to Truro.’
She laughed and he joined her, both enjoying the moment. Until a new question came to him. ‘Wait. Does that mean your father—’
‘No. He truly is loyal to the Crown. I cozened him as I cozened you in that. It has given me much grief.’
Once questions came they came not in single spies but in battalions, no matter how awkward. ‘And André? Is he also your lover?’
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, shook her head.
‘But you encourage him?’
She sighed. ‘Jack, he is Howe’s intelligence as you were Burgoyne’s.’
‘So that’s why you made love to me?’ The tone of the question was half jest, half not.
‘No. Your usefulness in that regard ended with Burgoyne’s surrender.’
The cold way she said it – an item of commerce. It made him laugh again.
‘Well, I am sorry if I am no longer useful to you, madam.’
‘Nay, sir,’ she said, rising above him, throwing back the blanket, ‘now did I say that?’
Afterwards, he could sit no more. He dressed and she watched him, from the bed now. The sadness had returned to blend with his confusion.
‘You have not answered my question, Jack.’
He pulled on one boot. ‘Which was?’
‘What now?’
He pulled on the other boot, sat to tie his stock. ‘What would you have?’
She considered him. ‘We have discovered that I am a patriot. We have noted that you have your doubts as to the rightness of your cause. Is there not … some room there?’
He finished tying, put his hands on his thighs. ‘You would have me be a traitor.’ It was not a question.
‘I would have you follow your heart.’ She clutched the blanket tight to her neck, came towards him down the bed. ‘You are America’s friend, not its enemy. Yes, you have doubts about our cause, the hypocrisy of slavery, fears for your Native brothers. I share many of them. But do you not see that we will deal with those once we have our freedom? We will disagree and bicker and resolve as families must. It matters not that all Colonists agree on everything now – for what we do agree on is a principle. Such a principle! It is enshrined in our Declaration of Independence – the right to the pursuit of happiness.’ She stared above him for a moment, then laughed. ‘Happiness! When, in the history of the world, has that ever been a universal aspiration? When has it not been reserved only for the wealthy, backed by tyrannous power? We will make it something that every person can seek, no matter how lowly born.’
Jack sighed. ‘My fear, Louisa, is that, in seeking happiness for yourselves, you would coerce others into providing it for you.’
She reached a hand out to him. ‘No, Jack. This is a new world we strive to make now, based on new principles. I have heard you speak with passion on just such freedoms. You talked of your own mother’s quest for them. Why deny your truths, y
our blood?’
‘You do not know what you ask of me.’ He rose, lifted his red coat, held it towards her. ‘You would have me deny other truths, different blood. Bring dishonour to this uniform. To the name of Absolute. Give up that name, abandon my estates, my father. You would have me break faith with General Burgoyne.’ He was squeezing the material hard between his fingers. ‘I swore him an oath to see you dead, “Diomedes”.’ He shrugged into the jacket. ‘You are asking me to give up my life.’
‘One life! You have another. I saw you in the forest, saw how you love this land. And you have another name – for are you not Daganoweda of the Mohawk? There are estates here, greater than the whole of Cornwall, waiting for a man such as you to claim them. And as for family, you could start a new one … here.’ She pressed her fist into her chest.
He stared at her, her words resounding inside him. He had to get away, to consider answers for all this. They would be hard to find, while too many questions kept coming.
‘I followed you and André to that lodging house.’
She clutched the sheet tighter to her. ‘When? Tonight?’
He nodded. ‘He wore a black cloak.’
‘That … that was not André. It was another agent.’
‘Cato?’
Her eyes narrowed for a tiny moment, and Jack only saw it because he was studying her so closely. Then she looked puzzled and said, ‘Who?’
‘Come, Louisa! That first message I decoded in Quebec. It was meant for Diomedes. You! And no doubt you did receive one of the other two messages for your number – 642 is clear in your diary. But the message also talked of your superior, whose orders you would obey. Is the man in the black cloak Cato?’
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Does it matter? You know I cannot tell you his real name. Will not … until you have decided what you are going to do.’
He considered her, then nodded, reached for his sword belt, buckled it, put on his greatcoat. With his hat in his hand, he turned to her, to the question on her face.
‘I need time to think on all this. And tomorrow night – no, tonight, we perform a play.’