“How could you be so meeeeeean to meeeeeeee?” I keen, my hands holding what was supposed to be my bridal veil to my open mouth. Tears course down my cheeks and into the filmy white fabric. “I was going to my wedding, for God’s sake! How could you be so cruuuell to meeeeeee?”
Mr. Peel, the head of British Naval Intelligence, once again stands behind Sir Thomas Grenville, First Lord of the Admiralty, who sits at his desk and gazes at me, while tapping his fingers on some papers that lie in front of him, as once again in a state of abject misery, I am seated before them. The black-suited Carr stands guard at the door, and the identically clad Boyd is at the window, to make sure I don’t try that way out. And Bliffil—yes, that very same vile Alexander Bliffil—stands directly behind me, ready to shove me back down in my chair should I try to rise. And, incredibly, standing next to him is the possibly even more vile Lieutenant Harry Flashby. A part of my shattered mind realizes that the pair, indeed, were the other two men at Mairead’s door not a half hour ago.
Good God, could things get any worse?
“We are afraid that that particular blessed event must be indefinitely postponed,” pronounces Peel, without a great deal of sorrow in his voice. “You are going to be assigned another mission.”
“Another mission?” I wail. “Haven’t I done enough for you? What about my Mr. Fletcher? What must he think?” Oh Jaimy, we were so close to being united, so close! Alas, poor Jaimy, alas, poor me . . .
“Why don’t we ask him?” Mr. Peel turns to Flashby and says, “Bring in Lieutenant Fletcher.”
What? Jaimy?
Flashby opens the door and goes out while I return to full-scale bawling. The Black Cloud rolls in and I cannot stop it; I can’t, I—
“Jaimy!” I exclaim, astounded upon seeing him brought in to the room. I try to rise to go to him, but Bliffil puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back down. He leaves his heavy hands there and squeezes hard, and I wince and cry out.
Jaimy, furious, shakes off Flashby’s arm and glares at those about him, especially at Bliffil, who still has his heavy hands on my shaking shoulders.
“Just what the hell do you think you are doing?” cries Jaimy, enraged. “Get your filthy hands off her!”
Sir Grenville now speaks. “Lieutenant Fletcher. You have already been told that you are to hold your tongue when you are in this room. I am First Lord of the Admiralty and, as such, your ultimate superior officer, save the King himself. Do you understand? Good.
“We have brought you here, Mr. Fletcher, for a good reason. You will observe these proceedings, and then both you and this girl will be offered a choice. You will find out shortly exactly what that choice is, but for now you will remain silent. Now, Miss Faber, as for you . . .”
He turns his attention to the papers laid out before him. “Ahem. To recapitulate your rather checkered past—in 1803, Ship’s Boy on HMS Dolphin, made Midshipman, found to be female. In 1804, sent to girls’ school in Boston. In 1805, left said school under a cloud, soon discovered onboard HMS Wolverine, made Acting Lieutenant on that ship. Took command upon death of captain, seized prizes, relinquished command of Wolverine, departed on the bark L’Emeraude, one of the prize ships. Became known to this agency by revealing to us a spy ring she had uncovered and was given a Letter of Marque. Renamed the bark the Emerald and set sail as a privateer. The King’s Treasury then discovered that she had taken four prizes and turned in only three, keeping the aforementioned Emerald for herself. The Letter of Marque was revoked and a warrant issued for her arrest. Captured off the coast of France and her ship sunk, she escaped in the confusion at the Battle of Trafalgar.”
Here Grenville pauses to catch his breath and to clear his throat. Now he goes on.
“In 1806, appeared again in Boston and was briefly recaptured, but escaped again and was later found in the interior of the United States, where she interfered with British agents who were negotiating with our Indian allies in the region, causing injury to one such officer”—here he looks up at Flashby, who is looking down at me with a certain amount of pure hatred—“and the possible fatal loss of another. Several months later she was taken from her schooner, the Nancy B. Alsop, by our frigate the Dauntless. That ship, in turn, was taken by the French, and she spent some time in a French prison. Our operatives in France were able to extricate her from that place, and she was brought here and given a mission to Paris to gather information—”
“Totally against my will,” I say, and sniff, looking down at the bunch of poor, wilting flowers that I still hold in my hand.
“—which mission she did accomplish, up to a point. Sometime later, she, on her own accord, got herself up in military uniform and joined the French army as a messenger. In that capacity, she delivered many messages between high-ranking French commanders, even those from Napoleon, himself. At the Battle of Jena, she was given a message from Bonaparte directing Marshal Murat to charge the Prussian line. She did deliver the order, Murat charged, and the day was won for France. Had she not done so, the outcome might have been very different.”
He stops and looks at me severely. “Do you wonder why we sometimes grow impatient with you, Miss Faber?” I slump down further into my chair.
“To conclude—we were able to get her out of France but lost a very valuable operative in the process,” he says. “And here we are. So, what do you have to say for yourself?”
I don’t say anything for a while, but then I lift my head and begin to explain.
“When I went to join the French army—to avoid being placed as a common camp-following prostitute, by this very Service, I might well add—it was my intention to volunteer as a simple messenger. I thought in that capacity I would garner much valuable information, and I was right. But instead of assigning me right off to that position, my battalion commander gave me a squad of poor country boys—raw recruits, nothing more than cannon fodder—to train as we marched toward the battlefield at Jena. I believe he did it to establish my worth as an officer. I did work with them, and I gained their respect and loyalty. They watched out for me, too, and soon I had great affection for them as well.”
Here I stop and look the First Lord in the eye. “If you have ever been in a war before, my Lord, which I very much doubt, you would know what kind of affection I mean. When it comes down to it in a battle, you are not fighting for King and country, or for Emperor and empire. No, you are fighting to keep your comrades alive as best you can. When I rode across that battlefield with that message in my hand, I knew that if I did not deliver it, my men would be butchered—and I could not let that happen.”
“But your mission was—” interjects Mr. Peel.
“My mission was to be a spy, sir, to gather information, which I did. I did not believe I was sent as a saboteur . . . or as an assassin. If you think otherwise, then take me out and shoot me—or hang me, or cut off my head, or whatever—I don’t care anymore. I have faced all those things and I just don’t care anymore. You have stolen all of my joy today, so why don’t you just go ahead and kill me?”
Mr. Peel regards me thoughtfully. “Did you really meet Napoleon Bonaparte?”
“Yes. I carried many messages for him. I had breakfast with him on the morning of the Battle of Jena. I rode in his carriage. He gave me a medal. I’m sure you saw it when you went through my things.”
“Remarkable. You do have your ways, don’t you?”
“I try to do my duty. Wherever I find that it lies.”
“Ah, well. We shall now discuss your new mission.”
“My new mission?”
The Black Cloud comes rolling in again, and I am helpless before it, and, I’m sorry, Jaimy, that you should see me like this. Any shred of my dignity or courage is gone, but I just can’t help it. I can’t . . . Tears pour down my face as again I keen, “How can you be so mean to meeeee?”
“You really should try to calm yourself, Miss,” says Peel. “And as to our supposed meanness, I want you to listen to this. You should know that, in a certain way, you have been somewhat under our protection . . . Oh yes, you are doubtful of that, I can see. But should we cut you loose, the Chancellor of the Exchequer would be most interested in taking custody of you. He is the Lord in charge of the King’s Treasury, and he wishes to discuss a certain matter of theft of the King’s property. I do not think it would end well for you. The judicial branch of government is involved in this as well. They think it sets rather a bad precedent. One judge has declared within my hearing at the court, ‘If we let her get away with it, we will have legalized thievery. I am afraid she must be hanged.’”
“I don’t care, just do it.”
“Oh, you do not care? Very well,” says the First Lord, picking up yet another paper from his desk. “Do you care about this, then? We have here a young French royal, a certain Monsieur Jean-Paul de Valdon, with whom you were recently romantically involved, and who, we believe, was instrumental in the death of our very valuable spymaster Monsieur Jardineaux. Just what did happen on that beach in France, Miss Faber? Hmmm? Do you want us to investigate further? Do you want us to instigate inquiries within the French Republic?”
I shake my head. “No. He is an honorable man. Please don’t hurt him.” I glance over at Jaimy and see that he is standing ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on the wall. I’m sorry, Jaimy . . .
“And then there is the matter of cavalry captain Lord Richard Allen, now stationed in Kingston, Jamaica,” continues Peel, consulting yet another damning paper. “It seems there was some sort of . . . affair . . . between the two of you, and there is some question as to whether he willfully disobeyed the orders of certain superior officers last summer. Charges could be brought.”
I look up at Jaimy again to find he is no longer looking at the wall but rather at me.
I sigh and take up my bouquet again. Amongst the other flowers, I see a daisy and I draw it out from the bunch. With thumb and forefinger I begin to pluck the petals and let them fall to the floor, one by one, while chanting softly in a singsong way, “He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me—”
“Please don’t play the simpleton with us, Miss.”
“He loves me not—”
“I suspect, Miss, that in spite of all your depredations against proper maidenly behavior, the poor man does indeed still love you, and is to be pitied for it,” says Peel briskly. “But be that as it may, here are the terms.”
He directs his attention to me first. I sit dejectedly indifferent. To hell with him and his terms.
“Ahem. Miss Faber, you will reboard your schooner and set sail for the Caribbean Sea to gather information on the doings of our Spanish enemies in the area. You will sail under your American colors, so the Spanish will not bother you, as they are not enemies of the United States. Your cover will be that of a scientific expedition . . .”
My chin lifts and my eyes begin to widen at this.
“. . . gathering specimens of the local flora and fauna. You will be accompanied by Dr. Stephen Sebastian, with whom you are acquainted and who you also know is a member of our branch of service. He will be both your control and your guardian. We know that you have some command of the Spanish language, picked up during your buccaneering cruise there in the summer of ’05 and your . . . association . . . during that time with a certain Hispanic pirate named Flaco Jimenez.”
How many more names from my past can they dredge up with which to wound poor Jaimy . . . or me?
“Although you will have nominal command of your little craft, you will be under the direct orders of Captain Hannibal Hudson, who has been given command of HMS Dolphin, a forty-four-gun frigate with which you are both familiar and which will be on patrol in the area, not only to harry Spanish shipping, but also to accept your periodic reports.”
What? The Dolphin? Can it be?
Mr. Peel seems to be done with me and now looks to Jaimy.
“As for you, Mr. Fletcher, to show that we are not completely cold in matters of the heart, you will be assigned as Third Mate on said Dolphin, so that at least you will be in the same area as your . . . lady . . . and you might even get to see her occasionally—from afar, of course. It is an excellent posting, as you well know, Third Mate on a forty-four-gun frigate at your young age. But you might well wonder why we are doing this. The reason is that you have an excellent record and come highly recommended by all your former commanding officers, and you should be rewarded for that service. And, too, we wish to keep an eye on you, Lieutenant Fletcher, to make sure you do not raise a fuss over what has just occurred. You will keep your mouth shut. You will inform all who were involved in that aborted wedding that you each had a change of heart. Oil will be spread on the waters. Is that clear?”
Jaimy says nothing.
“So those are the choices,” states Mr. Peel. “Should either of you refuse to comply, you, Mr. Fletcher, will be assigned as a low-ranking officer on an Arctic expedition about to set sail to seek a Northwest Passage around the North Pole. And I would like to point out that the last two such expeditions never returned, so I would also suggest that you invest heavily in foul-weather gear. And as for Miss Faber, should she refuse this present assignment, she will be given over to the Treasury people, who will joyfully receive her into their solicitous care. She will be thrown into Newgate Prison, eventually taken to court, charged with Theft of the King’s Property, put up in the dock, given a speedy trial, and then condemned to hang by the neck until dead. She will be returned to Newgate to await her turn, and she will fester there until the day when she will be taken out into the square, to mount the gallows. The rope will be put around her neck, the trap will be sprung, and after a few minutes of struggle, that will be it for her. Well?” inquires Peel of us. “You may speak.”
“It is not much of a choice,” growls Jaimy through clenched teeth.
“I am afraid it is the only option you have, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Why can’t we be married and still do all you ask of us?” I say, ever the eager, if not very hopeful, bride-to-be.
“Because we have no use for a pregnant agent, and especially this agent,” says the First Lord, then sniffs. “And in that regard, you must both swear on your honor that you will not have any sexual congress with each other.” Here he looks at me. “And in your case, Miss, anyone else, for that matter, until the mission is over and done.”
A flush comes to my face and I look down. Am I really that bad?
Jaimy speaks up, addressing Mr. Peel, “I cannot imagine why this girl is of such interest to you and your kind.”
“Why, my dear sir, there are any number of reasons. This girl is fluent in French, has some Spanish, is not loath to use disguises—some of them male—has led soldiers and sailors in battle, is a thoroughgoing seaman and expert in both small arms and large, has killed by her own hand a certain number of men, is a passable forger and lock pick, has been in difficult circumstances many times yet managed to get herself out of them, and has contrived to get herself into Napoleon Bonaparte’s very presence. You may be sure, Sir, that no other operative in this service has managed to do that!”
The usually very calm and collected Mr. Peel has worked himself up into quite a lather. Jaimy doesn’t reply but merely glowers, and Peel continues.
“You may also wonder why we should hold such a person valuable, in spite of her frequent lapses in judgment. Well, I must say we do—and the fact that she owes King George at least forty thousand pounds and several very sincere apologies, all the better!”
“All right, enough,” says Lord Grenville. “You both know the terms of the agreement. Do you so swear to those terms, Miss Faber?”
I take a breath—thinking how much this scene is so like, in a twisted way, the marriage ceremony I was so cruelly denied—and finally say, “I do.”
He turns to Jaimy. “And do you, Mr. Fletcher, so swear?”
Jaimy looks down at me, and I nod. There’s no way out, Jaimy . . .
“I do,” he manages to choke out.
I now pronounce you the world’s most star-crossed lovers, I think to myself, all forlorn.
“Very well,” says Mr. Peel. “I think it would be best if Mr. Fletcher left now, to report to the Dolphin. She lies down at Bournemouth. Messrs. Carr and Boyd will accompany you to pick up your gear at your home and then escort you to your ship. Once boarded, I suggest you stay there. Good day, Mr. Fletcher.”
I speak up then.
“You have had your way with us, Sirs, and now I wish to say goodbye to Mr. Fletcher,” I say, and try to rise, but Bliffil’s hands hold me fast.
“Oh no, you don’t,” says Bliffil.
“Oh yes, I do,” says I, pulling the hatpin that holds Higgins’s flower to my breast. The orchid falls into my lap, but I put the five-inch needle into the back of Blif-fil’s hand.
“YEEEEEOOOOW!” he screeches, lurching backward and away from me, clawing at his hand.
“Do not worry, gentlemen. I will harm no one else,” I say to the astounded others, and go to stand in front of Jaimy. “Nor will I try to escape. After all, I have given my word.”
I look up into Jaimy’s face. “Goodbye, Jaimy. I will see you on the other side, and we will talk about . . . the things that were said about me. Just know that I’m still your lass, Jaimy, body and soul, if you still want me.”
He tries to respond, but I put my fingertips to his lips. “Not now, Jaimy. Later.”
He puts his hands on my shoulders, draws me to him, and kisses me—and I kiss him back. When we come apart, I pat him on the chest, and with tears once again on my cheeks, I say, “Go now, love. Fare thee well.”
Carr and Boyd come up on either side of him. He bows stiffly to the First Lord, takes my hand, and bows over it. “We have been sorely tested, but we will someday come together for good and ever, Jacky. I know that. Till such time as we meet again, farewell.”
With that, he kisses the back of my hand, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.
After a few moments of quiet weeping, I return to stand yet again in front of the First Lord’s desk. Flashby keeps a careful eye on me, while in a corner Bliffil curses over his hurt hand.
“All right, my Lord. Let us get on with this. I hope you do not think that I am stupid enough to believe that I, accompanied by a fully manned Royal Navy frigate, am being sent on this errand to pick up what little scraps of information I might gather from drunken Spanish sailors in dismal bars in the Caribbean.”
Mr. Peel smiles. “We think you are anything but stupid, Miss Faber. And no, we are not sending you on this mission because of your abilities as a spy, which are admittedly meager.”
“Why, then?” I demand.
“It is because, Miss Faber,” says Mr. Peel, smiling one of his very rare smiles. “It is because you can swim.”
What?