Jack had expected to feel frustrated by the slow progress they were bound to make and had reconciled himself to long stretches of boredom. But he quickly realised he was in for a surprise, because there was something deeply satisfying about the way the gleaming canal pointed the way ahead while the old horse plodded steadily at his side.
Even the night-time stillness proved deceptive, for evidence of the natural world became more abundant as his senses grew accustomed to the dark. His attention was caught by the bright eyes of water voles peering up at him from waterside verges or by bats darting past, and once he even spied a long-legged heron standing still as a statue among the reeds. But otherwise Jack had time to reflect—too much time, in fact. Because he was thinking, I am a cheat and a liar.
He had lied outrageously when he’d agreed with Matty that those ruffians were after her. For the men who’d attacked the wedding party were enemies of his. It was he, Jack, who needed to escape from the city and fast. He’d recognised the men straight away, because they were the very ones who’d delivered that message about the stolen bracelet and told him to get the hell out of London.
They were Fitz’s men.
He’d antagonised Fitz badly and unfortunately his stepfather had friends in powerful places. Tempting though it was to stay and deal with him, Jack knew he needed to lay a foolproof plan to outwit his enemy. Most of all, he needed to leave London before Fitz had him slung in gaol for the supposed theft of that bracelet.
But just while he’d been pondering his next step, Matty had arrived on the scene. It was bad luck indeed for her, but for himself he couldn’t have wished for better timing; because the minute she’d mentioned that treasure field and the country house she and her father had visited, his heart rate had speeded up. He’d realised that she was talking about his home. And what she’d said next was even more incredible, for she’d told him what she’d found in the library.
Once Jack had realised Fitz had married his mother and taken over the Charlwood estate, he’d consulted lawyers, but they’d all come up with the same conclusion. ‘It’s no good,’ they’d told him. ‘Your mother married Sir Henry, so all of her property is his. That’s the law.’
‘She only married him because he told her lies!’
‘Can you specify these lies? Have you actual written proof of Sir Henry’s fraud, Major Rutherford?’
Jack didn’t. Yes, he’d always been quite certain that Fitz had faked the ransom letter his mother had seen, but had no proof of its existence other than his mother’s testimony—his fragile mother, who would surely crumble under any rigorous questioning.
But now he’d met Matty. And this enterprising and rather unusual girl had presented him with a glimmer of hope. She had been inside Charlwood’s library two years ago, shortly before Fitz married Jack’s mother. Matty had told Jack she’d seen actual evidence that someone had been preparing a letter in French—she’d not had time to more than glance at it, but she did remember that it spoke of a place near Lille called Chateau Esperance—the Castle of Hope—which was wholly inappropriate, since it was the name of the grim fortress near Lille where Jack and other British prisoners of war had been chained for two long years.
Quite a few of his comrades hadn’t survived captivity, but Jack was made of steel. When the news came of the official prisoner exchange, he’d done his utmost to rally his fellow inmates. ‘We’re on our way home,’ he’d urged them. ‘Do you understand, lads? We’re going home!’
Several of the weaker ones had died on the journey; but for Jack there was a different kind of darkness, because he’d arrived in London to discover that his mother had married Fitz.
He remembered how that fresh blow had come close to achieving what the years in prison had failed to do. He would never forget the gloating look in Fitz’s eyes as he put his arm round his wife and said to Jack, ‘Aren’t you going to offer congratulations to your new stepfather, Major Rutherford? Oh, I nearly forgot—you’re not in the army now, are you? Two years a prisoner of the French. Not exactly a glorious end to your military career, was it?’
Jack had only just refrained from punching Fitz’s teeth right down his throat.
And now, as he trudged along the towpath through the night, something about his emotions must have conveyed itself to Hercules, because the horse turned his head and gave Jack a soft whicker that might even have been an expression of sympathy. Jack reached out to pat the horse’s neck. ‘You’re a good old creature, Hercules, aren’t you? And loyal to your mistress, too, I’ll be bound.’
Hercules, Jack reckoned, wouldn’t be nearly so friendly if he understood what Jack was really up to. In fact, he would probably use those big hooves of his to kick Jack straight into the canal; because Jack was using Matty to reach Charlwood and show him where she’d seen the draft of the ransom letter Fitz had been working on. There was only a slim chance it would still be there—but it was worth the risk.
‘Have you actual written proof of Sir Henry’s fraud, Major Rutherford?’ those lawyers had asked him.
Not yet. Not yet. But with luck he would have, very soon.
He glanced back and saw Matty standing in the boat’s stern with her hand steady on the tiller. ‘I’ll be aiming to keep us pretty much mid-channel,’ she’d told Jack as they set off. ‘We can count on deeper water there. And we’re unlikely to meet anyone else at this time of night, but call to me if you spot an oncoming boat. You should see its lights before I do.’
She’d taken off her hat so that the moon shone full on her alert face, on those large dark-lashed green eyes and her cropped chestnut hair. She could, he thought suddenly, be really very pretty if she discarded her boyish clothes...
‘There’s a bridge coming up, Jack!’ she called out just at that moment. ‘And Hercules is nervous of going under them, so hold him steady. And remember to duck your head!’
Hmm. Maybe she was a bit too fond of giving orders for his tastes. He raised his hand to acknowledge her instructions. ‘Aye aye, Captain,’ he called.
But she had a lovely trim waist! And he was fascinated by the way those trousers clung to her very pert, very feminine behind... He clamped down on the sudden all-too-male tingle of interest surging in his loins, while at the same time Bess’s warning words came back to him. ‘You take good care of our Matty... D’you understand?’
And Jack, leading Hercules by the halter beneath the bridge, thought, Bess was right not to trust me. She knew I wasn’t telling her—or anybody—the truth.
Jack’s time in that French prison had altered him. His opinion of humankind had sunk low and, when he got out, freedom did little to change his mind—because it seemed that his old soldier comrades had been cast on the scrapheap. Yes, the public praised their victorious battles, but they wished to see as little as possible of the often damaged and maimed men who’d actually won them.
Fitz had the right idea. He’d scuttled out of the army, then found himself a cosy job in the War Office, where he could display his campaign medals and talk military tactics at his London club whenever he felt like it, safely away from the actual conflict. There were too many men like Fitz.
There were also, thank goodness, people like Matty’s friends, the barge folk, who were hardworking and loyal to one another. And there was Matty herself. She was only nineteen, but she had not a hint of either self-pity or feminine guile. She was tough. She was a survivor. She would be fine.
And then he thought, Yes, she would be fine—just as long as some scoundrel didn’t wriggle under her defences. He clamped down hard on his wayward imaginings. Just make sure the scoundrel who seduces her isn’t you, he told himself sternly. Besides, any false move on his part and her canal friends would probably arrive in full force to inflict a rather nasty punishment.
They’d passed through the tunnel by now and the moonlit path was becoming wider again; Hercules snorted in relief and Jack patted his neck. Somewhere in the wood bordering the canal an owl was hooting. It was all quite simple really. With young Matty’s help he was going to get inside Charlwood Manor, where he’d do his damnedest to see if that draft of the cursed ransom letter still lurked. Yes, simple. And utterly treacherous of him, to use her so.
I hope you’re proud of yourself, a little voice said.
No. He wasn’t proud of himself in the slightest. Matty deserved far better. But the desire for vengeance burned inside him like the stars he could see blazing overhead in the night sky.
And so, his jaw set in fresh determination, Jack fixed his eyes firmly on the towpath ahead and marched onwards.
They travelled through the night past quiet fields and sleeping villages, disturbing nothing more than the occasional heron that would rise like a ghost from the canal with its great wings slowly flapping. At around two in the morning Jack had his first experience of a lock and he listened carefully as Matty gave him precise instructions.
‘Take Hercules to the far side of the lock gates and tie him to that post over there—you see?’ She held the lantern up to point it out to him. ‘After that, he knows to just stand and wait.’
Then she told Jack how to open the heavy gates with a windlass and rope up the boat within the lock’s confinement. Told him how to ensure the vessel remained steady while the incoming water entered the compartment and lifted them to the next level, also warning him that only then would it be safe to open the second set of gates so The Wild Rose would be free to float out along the next reach of the moonlit canal.
‘Marvellous,’ Jack said. ‘Whoever invented the first lock was an engineering genius. Who was it? James Brindley?’
Matty showed amusement, and he noticed for the first time that she had a rather fascinating dimple at the corner of her mouth when she smiled. ‘You’ve got your dates slightly wrong. It was the ancient Greeks.’
‘Really?’ He was genuinely astonished. ‘As long ago as that?’
‘As long ago as that.’ She’d begun coiling the ropes she’d used to hold the boat while the water level changed. ‘My father used to say that many of our so-called revolutionary ideas were in fact rediscoveries of old methods that were lost along the way.’
‘Like the Romans, with their skill in road building?’
‘Exactly.’ Jack was glad to note she was actually showing some pleasure in their conversation. ‘My father knew all about such things.’
‘He was an Oxford scholar, I think you said?’
‘Indeed.’ Her voice was softer now. ‘He was offered a permanent teaching post at the university, but he didn’t want to be confined to any one place—though he was very fond of Oxford.’
Briefly she described the town to him, with its colleges and churches, but by then it was time to move on through the second set of gates. Matty took up her place by the tiller while Jack harnessed Hercules to the boat—and on they went. If Matty was tired, she gave no sign of it. As for Jack, he was startled to find himself feeling something of the unexpected peace he used to experience during the night marches in Spain, in those long hours when time seemed infinite. When he and his fellow soldiers tramped over rocky tracks while humming the old songs in unison.
Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules...
He patted Hercules’s neck. ‘You’ve got the name of a hero, my friend. Did you know that?’ The horse nodded in response, as if he understood.
And the stars rode high above in the night sky, just as they had in Spain.