Jack Absolute (36 page)

Invisible ink appeared only on certain pages, swiftly ascertained by a stroke of the brush down their length. The ones that
did had a lot of writing, as cramped as that in blue was luxuriant. It was in code but it was a code that Jack had already
broken once on board the
Ariadne.
He did not trouble to transcribe it all, one page was enough to show that the writer had noted the strength of certain regiments
in the city, the level of their morale, which Loyalist Commanders were wavering, could be bought, blackmailed, seduced. From
that one page alone, he was sure the book would yield up a pretty exact rendering of General Howe’s entire command.

He sat back, rubbed his eyes. He still did not want to believe it. Closing the book, he pressed his finger into the sponginess
of its cover. On a whim, snatching up his penknife, he slashed the point down and across. The linen parted and his fingers
did indeed encounter goose down, but underneath it lay something else. Jack’s fingers closed on an edge of material. Slowly,
he extracted it, laid it on the desk, spread it out.

It was the decanter-shaped mask, the one ‘lost’ on the road to Saratoga, and as soon as Jack saw it, he groaned. The
replica mask he’d created from a handkerchief did have a similar shape to this original. But it was different in one important
detail. His copy had not had the small flap, almost a curling tail, that came off the bottom and to the left. There was a
cut in that tail that would isolate further words, another key part of the message.

Jack had kept one of the fair, exact copies Captain Money had made. It was in his coat pocket along with certain other papers.
Fetching it now, he unfolded it, lay it down beside the diary, laid the silk mask atop it. He was pleased to see he had at
least gotten the main part of the letter. But it was the tail that came, of course, with the sting:

Dear Coz.

Have you lately seen that cur
Will
Piper? He owe me

5 pounds and so his vile
attempt
to avoid me is contimtible.

I mean therefore
to push ahead
with your order, for because

I riecievd
on Hudson’s
looms a delivery of fine cloth. Shall

make coats then go fort’sell ’em. Give kind’st to my financee,

Marge. I see her in
two or three weeks but
it will seem no more

nor
less than three thousand.

Yr. Affectionate Coz.

T. Rhodes

He stared at the new words isolated: ‘but less than three thousand’. Clinton had stated that he was coming with too few men
to make a difference. He was advising Burgoyne to retreat, without taking the responsibility of ordering him to do so.

Jack picked up the paper, scrunched it into a ball, hurled it into the corner of the room. This betrayal had cost Burgoyne
his army. It might yet cost England the war. All caused by the theft of such a little thing, this small piece of silk, by
one agent known as Diomedes.

Jack picked it up, ran it over his fingers, then crumpled it again, stowing it in the pocket of his waistcoat. He would save
it for the General. When his conduct of the campaign was questioned at the court martial – the surrender of an army would
certainly require one – the stolen mask would be proof of just how treacherously he had been undermined.

The bedroom door creaked behind him. He had not heard the tread on the stair but he heard it now as someone quietly entered
the room behind him.

He did not turn. ‘Diomedes,’ he whispered. The spy who’d helped lead Burgoyne to disaster, who now sought to do the same to
Howe. The spy he’d vowed to see dead.

‘Hello, Jack.’

He turned then, to the voice, to the woman standing in the doorway. One gloved hand lay on the edge of the frame. In her other,
she held a pistol.

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.