Page 79 of The Spy and the Nightingale
“Yes.” She still couldn’t quite believe it. “I could not have done it without you. I am quite sure I would still be wandering the streets had our paths not crossed.”Or worse.
Not so long ago, she’d wondered if falling into his hands was thatworse. How wrong she’d been, although she could not have known that at the outset.
“Do you have what you need now to bring down Compton? And Dubois?” Please let this have been a successful conclusion for him as well, even if it was not yet entirely finished. They were moving on Dubois and Compton sooner than they might otherwise have done. Nathaniel was recognized outside the theater; she’d learned that from Mr. Monroe.
“Aye, we have enough now. We don’t have them cornered yet,but we’ll run them down soon enough.” He reached towards her face but just as quickly withdrew his hand. Realizing they were not alone, perhaps. It would not surprise her if Mr. Quinn and Mr. Pereira knew the truth, but in an ironic reversal, without the necessity of acting as lovers, they were now constrained by propriety to pretend they had not been.
“I will not forget what you have done for me. I will not forget...” Her throat hurt. “You.”
He looked as though he meant to speak but instead made a slight shake of his head; for himself, she thought. Two long fingers tapped the wagon.
“Be well,” he said finally. “Be happy.”
“I shall try,” she whispered through the tightness in her throat. “You as well, Nathaniel.” Maybe the last she’d speak his name aloud.
He raised her hand to his mouth, fingers strong over hers. “You are made for laughter, Isobel. Meant for joy.” His lips brushed the bare skin of her hand before he released it.
As the wagon bumped over the road in the direction of Dieppe, Lucy half asleep against her shoulder, she determinedly turned her mind towards the future. She must not dwell on the past right now, recent or otherwise. France to England and onwards to Scotland would be a journey of weeks. She would have more than enough time then to consider the past few months and to make whatever reconciliations with herself she must.
They would travel first to London to see her father’s solicitor. There was a cottage yet in Kirkcudbrightshire originally in Maman’s name, a dowry of sorts from Da. It was now hers, although she’d never seen it. She would take Lucy there. It would be a fresh start for them both.
She counted in her head: only eight days. She’d only known Nathaniel eight days.
Chapter 23
A little over four months later . . .
early March 1817
Whitstable, Kent, England
Nate stood in All Saints Churchyard in Whitstable on a cold and desolate day near the end of winter, the smell of the nearby estuary in his nose.
Why am I here?
He’d been born in the village of Chestfield in Whitstable Parish. The majority of his happiest memories, however hazy and long ago they were, were tied to Chestfield. But his family was long since gone; only these stones in the parish churchyard remained.
It was just over four months since the early morning when he’d seen Isobel Graham and Lucy Muir off, the wagon driven by Pereira trundling through the Porte Saint-Denis on its way to Dieppe by way of Gaillon and Rouen. A little over three months since his operation concluded, Compton chased to Boulogne andat last run to ground in a London alley. The operation that had spanned nearly a year across multiple countries was finished.
Once he’d submitted his final reports in London, he’d been at loose ends. It wasn’t for lack of potential work: There were always investigations requiring skilled agents, especially one in command of multiple languages. He could have pivoted directly into another operation had he so chosen, but he’d asked for time away from field work. The Foreign Office granted the request.
The stones marking the graves of his mother and father were well tended despite his absence. Parishioners, likely. His parents had both been well-liked.
His mother had been gone all of twenty-three years now, his father nearly fourteen. This marked the first time he’d returned since the raw spring day when his commission into the Rifles was purchased, just after his father’s sudden death. The landowner to whom his father had been faithful steward for two decades had seen to it, an act of kindness for a boy of sixteen whose future security had suddenly become nebulous.
His life had, from that day forward, been circumscribed by duty. The Rifles had him for nine years. He’d spent two years on detached status after Badajoz, tracking French troop movements and coordinating ambushes with Spanishguerrilleros, operating entirely outside the Anglo-Portuguese Army’s rules but sanctioned unofficially by Wellington. The Foreign Office had made use of him as a shadow agent ever since Napoléon’s exile to Elba.
He’d done every job asked of him. Had done them well. He knew his value, first as a soldier and later as an agent. He’d always taken pride in his work. He’d been a crack shot with a rifle and a natural leader, skills surpassed later in usefulness to the Crown by his gift for languages.
He barely remembered the boy he’d been. It was almost half his lifetime ago since he’d stood here.
Why am I here? What am I hoping to find?
Everything was wrapped up neatly as far as the Foreign Office was concerned. The treasonous ring was broken. Compton was dead, but that was no great loss. English money was no longer finding its way into the hands of French factions looking to overthrow the newly restored Bourbon monarchy. Or rather, not via the network created by Compton and Dubois. British-made guns weren’t leaving the country illegally in the belly of Compton’s ships. Cezares, the French minister of police, took charge of Dubois—Étienne Baudelaire saw to that. Cuvelier ultimately kept his freedom, stripped of his title and most of his wealth. He’d left France in disgrace.
The Foreign Office was satisfied. It was as successful a conclusion to the operation as could be hoped. Other than a few minor players who slipped away, justice was served, one way or another.
Beyond the immediacy of his work, he’d never much considered the future. It had seemed, well, pointless. Soldiers died or were eventually released to something else if they survived. It was the same for spies.
