Prelude to Love Read online

  No, let the fellow sleep, for it was likely all a sleeveless errand, this quick dash down to the sea, to listen once again for the splash of French oars. He had learned that a French oar was indistinguishable from an English one. Oftimes he had stood with his heart hammering, his finger cocked on the trigger of his pistol, only to hear the familiar dull voices of the local fishermen, complaining of the cold and damp, or the paucity of their catch.

  The night was dark and eerie, with a light wind soughing through the trees. There was a sudden flutter of wings as a great owl darted from a tree to catch an unwary nocturnal animal. A terrified squeal signified the owl's success, then silence descended again. He walked on, down to the shingle beach, looking and listening while the waves lapped at his feet.

  The beacons on the hill were not visible from here. No matter, the lads couldn't see anything in this fog in any case. Boney might come tonight or tomorrow night or any night, and Forrester would be lying in a drunken stupor, or sitting in some lady's saloon. He pulled out his watch, reading with difficulty the hour was three-thirty. Nonsense. He'd go home to his warm bed. He was tired, with that old ache in the chest that limited his labors so severely. Seeing a large rock in his path, he sat on it to catch his breath.

  Then he heard it, the telltale lapping of oars, out of rhythm with the louder lapping of the sea. As often as he had heard it, his heart still quickened. Listening more intently, he realized it was only one boat, and relaxed. Not the invasion, then. It might be smugglers, which was of interest only inasmuch as he hoped for a safe delivery. He liked his brandy very well. The boat, to his surprise, was landed, pulled with a quiet rasp up on the shingle beach. He was about to arise and make himself known when he heard a man say in a very low voice, "Que penses-tu?" He sat rigid, every nerve taut. Frenchmen! He could not see them, and assumed that he was equally obscured by the heavy fog. "Pas trop mal, hein?"

  A second man replied, also in French, but was understood by the colonel, who numbered French amongst his accomplishments. They were only two—youngish men, from their voices. The next speech brought the colonel to rigid attention.

  "Looks like a good spot to me," the other man answered. "We'll scout farther along and see if there's any defense. Our general thinks not, but who can trust spies of any nationality?"

  "Easy landing," the first speaker pointed out, the whole talk in French.

  "Yes, but where the devil are we?"

  "That place with the lights just northward must have been Hastings. We're a few miles from it. I'll go this way, you that. One of us is bound to meet our contact. We'll meet back here in an hour. If he says all is quiet here, no troops or guns in the immediate area, we shall suggest this spot to the general."

  "A pity he hung back. We could have taken the anglais easily enough tonight, no?"

  "You forget we wait for General Vachon and his men to join us from La Rochelle. It won't be before two weeks. Be careful."

  They separated. Not even a shadow in the fog showed their routes. Bradford sat frozen to his rock, willing himself to silent invisibility. He heard their stealthy steps recede, and knew he had gone undetected. After a safe interval, he crept to the boat and searched it, but wasted very little time on this instinctive chore. They were not bringing messages or hiding plans in their small boat.

  Impossible to credit they had made the crossing in it. No, they had come most of the way in a larger ship, certainly. And now one of them was going to meet a spy. He longed to learn the traitor's identity, but with two to follow, and with the fog to shroud them, it was difficult. He knew too that he was an old, disabled man. If he were found out, this precious information he had gleaned would be lost forever to England. His first duty was to get himself to safety, and the information to London. The name Forrester occurred to him, only to be rejected. He did not wish to have this priceless news treated as a joke, the hallucination of a quack, or worse, publicly discussed amongst the officers. It must be quickly delivered to the ears of some highly placed, trusted man in power, perhaps the secretary of state for war. A soldier himself, he had an innate mistrust of politicians, and sought about in his mind for another recipient of the news. He settled on Sir Giles Harkman, an ex-general turned privy councillor, a man he had served under in India and a trusted friend. He was now attached to the War Office in some capacity, which made him eminently suitable.

  He hastened home at a pace that threatened his heart. He was gasping as he got through the great double doors of Levenhurst, to drag himself up the broad oaken staircase and fall onto his bed, exhausted. He lay for a quarter of an hour, catching his breath, and making plans to go to London at once with his important message. At the end of that time, he doubted he could even get out of his own clothing without Parkins' help, much less go to London. Perhaps he would feel stouter by morning. He would rest till dawn, and see whether it improved his condition.

  He was still asleep when Parkins peeped his head into the room the next morning, to enquire in a condemnatory tone what he was about, sleeping in his jacket and boots.

  Bradford considered informing Parkins of his discovery, then decided to keep it to himself. He ordered a valise packed and the horses put to for a drive to London.

  "Not if I know anything, you're not going to be jostled to death in a carriage!" Parkins said sternly, staring up from his five feet three inches of wiry strength into the towering face of his master. "Wheezing, you are, and if you haven't got a chill, out prowling them beaches in the dark of night and sleeping without a blanket thrown over your body, it's more than I know."

  Bradford prepared to set his batman down, but was seized with a bout of coughing that pained his chest badly. When it was over, he sank, weak and panting, on the side of his bed, perfectly aware that he was in no shape to deliver the message himself. He'd have to send Parkins. He ordered breakfast in his chamber, along with writing materials. While he ate toast and sipped tea, he wrote out in precise detail for the eyes of Sir Giles Harkman exactly what he had experienced the night before. Then, with a somewhat malicious smile, he went on to outline the mismanagement that was taking place under Colonel Forrester's command. He had been itching to do it for a long time, had restrained himself only out of a sense of respect for a fellow officer, and the fear of not being taken seriously. Imminent invasion was of sufficient importance to make his task a pleasant duty.

  In an accelerating rush of enthusiasm, he went on to outline his own plans, filling two sheets with closely written lines. He folded them into an envelope, applied hot wax and stamped his seal on it. His daily mail was brought up as he finished this job. He recognized Sir Giles' own writing in the small pile of letters, and pulled it out eagerly. The two ex-campaigners kept in fairly close contact by correspondence. The letter informed him that Sir Giles was taking a short respite from his duties, at his home in Ipswich, a hard two-days' drive from Levenhurst. London could be reached in one.

  This set Bradford frowning in distress. Harkman was the perfect man to tell his news to. The invasion was far enough in the future that the extra day could be spared. The next problem was that he was not well enough to part with Parkins for four full days—two there and two back. Feeling poorly, as he did, he needed this pair of legs to look after him, and to oversee the volunteer brigade's activities.

  He sat considering who to send in his stead. A mad dash from the Bradford household might alert the spies in the neighborhood to the nature of the trip, and cause interference. In particular, he feared the unknown spy who had met the Frenchmen the night before. Having selected Bradford's very doorstep as the invasion spot, it was logical the man was keeping a sharp eye on himself.

  But his daughter and her aunt—who would ever suspect two tame ladies of being involved in anything serious? Nothing would be suspected if Miss Bradford should go to visit her friend Lady Harkman for a week. It would be taken for a mere social visit. She must leave immediately to be halfway to Maidstone before anyone knew she was gone. In that way, it was impossible she should
be overtaken.

  Balls played so small a part in the colonel's life that he was only vaguely aware of the pending ball, did not even realize it was to occur that same evening. Vanessa was called to his chamber for instructions.

  Chapter Three

  Vanessa awoke that morning with a heady feeling of excitement. At last the long-awaited day had come! Papa was not at all biddable in allowing her to attend social functions at the military base, but a ball in the assembly rooms had miraculously been permitted. Her eyes flew to the gown hanging on the back of her door, the filmy white confection with the large spangles now all in place on the underskirt.

  She had gone to bed with the cucumber lotion on not only her face, but her hands as well, which were covered by old white cotton gloves to save the sheets from stains. She hopped up, removing the gloves to see what miracle they had wrought. The only miracle was that the cotton had absorbed the lotion. She lifted the hem of her skirt, admiring the dainty apple-green velvet ribbon used for trim. A length of the same ribbon would be wound through her curls, to match her eyes. A pair of green kid slippers sat on the floor, looking ready to start dancing by themselves.

  She glanced to the window, where the sun, a relative stranger here on the coast, beamed through the leaded panes, promising a gorgeous day. She would risk her complexion in a brisk ride in the morning—go to Miss Condie's home and confirm that the Fischers were having Forrester and two majors to dinner. Mrs. Fischer had withheld the news from Aunt Elleri, but the whole village was buzzing with it. In the afternoon she would lie down for two hours to ensure that her eyes sparkled as hard as everyone else's at the dance, then she would have her hair done up in papers, have a bath and begin the final stage of preparations.

  It was not often she had a day of such unparalleled pleasure to consider, here in the quiet countryside. She hoped Papa would do nothing to spoil it. She was not so well acquainted with her father as most daughters are, owing to his absence during her growing up. He was always away at some war or other. She knew him mainly from letters, till two years ago, when he had come home, a cranky invalid.

  A further blow had been added by her mother's death soon afterwards—a sad irony that his wife should have died so soon after his return. It almost seemed he blamed her for it. He had not been so ill-humored before becoming a widower. Mama could always laugh and tease him into humor, but lately he did nothing but jaw at her for being a vain, frivolous, silly girl, and at Aunt Elleri for adding to her vanity.

  There was a tap at her door. Without waiting, for an answer, Elleri Simons came tripping in, elegant in a pale mauve morning gown, her coiffure already in exquisite place. As her chief interest in life was elegance, her first thought was to examine the gown for flaws. She knew, of course, that an invasion was often spoken of, but any thought she spent on it was to wonder how one addressed a French general, and whether he should be asked to tea.

  "Good morning, dear," she said gaily over her shoulder. “I have had the most ravishing idea. The new issue of the Belle Assemblée is here. I want to get at your hair at once. I shall do it in the chérubin for the ball. I must nip off the bits over the ears, and do it up in papers."

  "Oh, Auntie, you cut it last week. Please don't take any more off, or I shall look like a boy."

  "That is exactly the point, pet. Only an inch, I promise you. After you see the model in the magazine you will know I am right. It will be divine. As soon as you have seen your papa I shall do it. Come to me as soon as you have eaten breakfast. But of course you must see your papa first. He is asking for you. If he means to cancel the ball, I shall be ill. Don't let him do it. Promise him anything—that you won't speak to Colonel Forrester, or stand up with him, or do a thing but run him down." Her eyes turned back to the gown. "I wonder if we were right to stay with the large spangles. I have the smaller ones in my room, but to remove these and put the others on will take the newness out of the material. It does soften it, so much handling. But we'll decide later. You had better see your papa and be sure we are to attend the ball."

  "He couldn't be so mean!"

  "I'm sure he would not, but he has had the horses put to, and whatever can he have done that for? He is not well enough to go anywhere, and it is the old traveling carriage that is being washed down."

  With an expression of the utmost fright, Vanessa threw on her dressing gown and hurried out the door. She burst into his room, wearing a worried frown.

  "Don't worry, my dear, I am not dying," her father said, in a comforting way. "I expect the servants have frightened you half to death."

  She noticed then that he was paler than usual, his face bearing traces of his suffering, in the deep lines that gouged ruts from nose to chin. She felt sorry for him, and some remorse for her selfishness. It must be horrid to be an old man, sick and unable to enjoy any of life's pleasures. It was enough to put anyone out of humor. "You look pale, Papa. Can I do something for you?"

  "It happens you can," he said, and went on to outline what was demanded of her. All her sympathy and remorse evaporated. He was doing it on purpose to make her miss the ball.

  "But I can't go today, Papa!" she exclaimed.

  "You can and must," he told her, not stridently, but very firmly.

  "What can be so important it cannot wait till tomorrow?"

  "The letter you are to deliver to Sir Giles for me. Don't ask what it contains. I am not at liberty to divulge it to just anyone. You must take my word for it the matter is of great importance and great urgency. You will drive as hard as you can, stopping only when necessary. Don't speak to anyone—that is, I would not like you to act in any suspicious manner. Behave as though you were going for a social visit, but do it with all speed. Stay overnight at good inns, but be up and leave early in the morning. I cannot foresee any danger in it for you, if you leave promptly and set a hot pace. No one will know you are gone till you have driven safely beyond catching up. Speed and discretion—I cannot impress their necessity on you too strongly."

  "Just one more day, Papa," she said, disheartened. "Tomorrow ..."

  "Don't make me ashamed for you, Vanessa," he said. "You are singularly fortunate in being chosen to perform one worthwhile act in your worthless life. Do it with pride and pleasure. Much depends on it. I say with regret that I would not entrust this mission to you if I had anyone else I might send."

  "Parkins could ..."

  "My decision has been made," he said. "Leave, as quickly as you can throw your linens into a valise."

  She returned to her room, her bottom lip quivering, a tear forming in her eyes. She cast a loathsome glance at the letter to Sir Giles Harkman. It was all a hoax, an excuse to keep her from Colonel Forrester. Oh, it was cruel!

  Miss Simons awaited her, still examining the gown. "We have put on too many velvet bows," she decreed, mentally selecting those for removal. "The spangles we shall leave as they are."

  "By all means leave the gown as it is, for I shan't be wearing it. We are not going to the ball," Vanessa said, her voice grim.

  "My pet! You cannot mean it!"

  "I have an errand to perform for Papa. A most urgent errand, you understand. A letter for Sir Giles. You are to come with me, Auntie, so you had better pack a nightgown into a valise. We are to leave within the half hour, sooner if possible."

  "Half an hour! I couldn't be ready for a week. For London one requires ..."

  "Sir Giles is at home in Ipswich."

  "Ipswich? You are mad, or your papa is. No one goes to Ipswich. I should not mind going to London tomorrow, after the ball. The Season is spent, but with autumn coming on, it would be amusing."

  "We are not going for amusement; it is only to be a social call if anyone happens to enquire."

  "What is in this marvelous letter?" Elleri asked, her eyes narrowing.

  "Business. Military business, I suppose. A matter of the utmost importance. We are to guard it with our lives."

  There was a good deal of excited chatter, taking up ten minutes of the allowed
thirty before they were to leave. The colonel came along to his daughter's room to hasten her departure, and to give more instructions for the disposal of the letter.

  "Tuck it into the front of your gown," he suggested. "And don't let it out of your hands, even when you are sleeping."

  "Can't you tell me what is in it?"

  He considered doing so, but as Miss Simons chose that moment to stick her head in at the door, he hastily reconsidered. "Be sure to take an extra pair of kid gloves, Nessie. Gloves always become smudged on a journey," Miss Simons said.

  Nessie would in all likelihood tell that rattlepate of a woman what the message was. He could not trust Elleri Simons as far as he could throw a house. "I can't, but you may be sure of its importance, Nessie. I have to speak to Parkins now. Don't waste a moment."

  Her father turned to leave, then spotted her new ball gown, hanging on the door. "Sorry about your missing the dance. I see you have had a new gown made up. You shall wear it when you return—at your own ball. I'll give you a fine ball here at Levenhurst, Nessie, as a reward. Ask who you like to it." This was oblique permission to include the detested young colonel.

  Her old remorse returned to plague her. Papa was not depriving her of the dance on purpose. That the letter contained any message vital to the safety of the country, she could not believe for a moment, but that her father thought so, she reluctantly accepted. She went to the door and placed a kiss on his cheek. "Thank you, Papa. That will be lovely."

  He patted her hand, feeling a twinge of conscience that he did the proper thing, to send his helpless daughter on so dangerous a mission. "Be very careful."

  "I will, Papa."

  "Of course you will. You are your father's daughter, after all," he consoled himself.