Authors: Christine Trent
More importantly, how could Darden have cared so much for his duty while intending to betray his nation?
That’s what traitors do. Pretend one thing while doing another.
Was I so completely mistaken in what I thought was his intense and guileless feeling for me?
But surely Fox and Grey knew what they were about, and if they thought Darden was a traitor, there must be truth in it.
I believe I just developed a reason to hate Darden Hastings.
Marguerite immediately had a lock installed on her workroom door and did not give her helper a key, telling him it was just temporary without telling him why. If her assistant was curious, he kept it to himself. Each evening after the exhibition closed, she retreated to the workroom to continue her work on the Ferdinand wax figure, which she had decided to sculpt in a seated position, since he would be shown most often riding about in carriages across the Valencia countryside.
Brax had delivered several good likenesses of the Spanish king’s son, which made her job easier. But either Fox or Grey was sending a message nearly every day through Brax inquiring about her progress. After a week of this, she became peevish.
“Please tell Mr. Fox and Lord Grey that the figure is being completed as quickly as I can possibly construct it. It takes time to find the right color eyes and get the hair arranged properly, not to mention sewing a costume for a member of royalty. If they wish it to be produced instantly, they may both come down here themselves and work on it.”
“Ah, Marguerite, I have distressed you. Please accept my apologies.” He swept a bow. He hadn’t attempted to kiss her again since the evening after dining with his parents, evidently unsure of his status with her now that they were involved in an intrigue together.
“I’m not angry at you, Brax. It’s just that, honestly, Mr. Pitt never plagued me like my new masters do. He just let me do my work. I do know that swiftness is critical.”
“You are certainly the most intelligent of women. Never fear, I will convey your assurances that the figure is being worked on expeditiously and will be completed in the shortest time possible.”
Without Fox and Grey pestering her, the work progressed faster. She held thoughts of Darden at bay as she worked far into the night, reminding herself repeatedly that a traitor cannot be countenanced.
No matter how the man I thought I knew contradicted the man the government had unearthed.
You’ve been a poor judge of wickedness and dishonor these past few years. And remember that you are playing your part to bring a Judas to justice.
Yes, but it’s little consolation.
Once this task is finished, you should think about Brax. He obviously wants to marry you. You could have a happy life with him, especially since you will undoubtedly grow closer after this.
I suppose. I’d just hoped to feel what I felt with … Darden.
Yes, yes, I know. The traitor.
Marguerite wrinkled her nose. The whole business was so distasteful and upsetting. Thank God, though, she was at least doing her duty.
But she should have known that doing one’s duty generally meant involvement in distasteful and upsetting events.
She was nearly finished with Ferdinand, and one evening was applying additional flesh-toned paints to his face to increase his natural qualities. Marguerite stepped back to observe her work. She thought she had captured his features well and that he could easily pass for the real man, especially passing by crowds in a carriage.
Even locked in her workroom she could hear the insistent knocking on the exhibition’s front door.
Drat it all, she thought. The building is dark. Why do customers
think they can have the exhibit opened up especially for them at all hours of the night?
She considered ignoring the rapping, but its continued repetition was too vexing to be disregarded. She sighed, put down the paintbrush, and wiped her hands on a rag before picking up one of the candlesticks positioned around the workroom to illuminate her work.
She hastened through the exhibition, calling out, “I’m coming!” which at least ceased the infernal racket the visitor was making. She unlocked and opened the front door, and held up the light to see who her visitor was.
Darden Hastings.
He looked considerably better than he had the last time she’d seen him. Well, she supposed she looked a bit more polished, too. Although she was undoubtedly wearing paint across her nose and under all of her fingernails. She self-consciously wrapped her hand tighter around the light to hide her work-worn fingers.
Darden wore a crisp, new uniform that bore his captain’s insignia on the sleeves, over which he wore a long, woolen cape. His own dark hair was neatly pulled back in a queue. He no longer smelled of sweat, blood, and gunpowder, although the faintest whiff of tar still lingered about him. And it was not an altogether unpleasant smell. In fact, she felt rather nostalgic about it.
Silly goose! A traitor stands before you and would slit your throat if he knew what you were up to, and you’re feeling sentimental about his scent?
Darden cleared his throat. “Were you going to let me in, or must I remain out here, chilled to the marrow?”
Marguerite debated. Why was he here? Did he know about the wax figure she was finishing up in her workroom? Was she in any danger?
Please, dear God, they must be mistaken about him.
But they have evidence.
Quiet! I won’t listen to this.
You know your duty. Pretend nothing is wrong.
“Of course.” She held the door open to allow him in, then shut it against the cold. The single taper’s light kept them together in
an intimate, warm glow. It was unnerving. “I was just a bit surprised to see you. Especially so late in the evening. How did you know I was here?”
“Your landlady said you’ve been keeping late hours at the exhibition. I’m glad to see you remembered my advice about lodging with widows.” Darden removed his cape and hung it on a hook near the door.
Marguerite gritted her teeth. Whereas she had been proud of following his advice mere weeks ago, now it seemed like she’d been blithely following the devil.
“What brings you to London, Captain Hastings?”
He self-consciously touched his insignia. “What, am I no longer Darden?” he asked with a crooked smile.
She wanted nothing more than to rush into his arms, cover his face with unladylike kisses, and assure him that he was her Darden and she was his Marguerite.
You know your duty.
She ignored the question. “I suppose you’re on some leave? Or are perhaps surveying some strategic fortifications?”
“Yes, among other things. I’m sorry for the lateness of my visit, but I’ll be leaving soon on a mission and wanted to see you, since I’m not sure when I’ll return.”
“All of a sudden? You’ve been absent a long time.”
“Yes, well,
Victory
didn’t get into Portsmouth until November, then I had many duties surrounding Nelson’s funeral in December. I spent time on leave with my family in Somerset, and only just came back to London in recent weeks to receive my promotion and a new assignment.”
“And where will you be heading on your new assignment?”
Darden shifted his weight to one foot, the one that had been injured at Trafalgar. A full recovery, apparently. “I can’t really speak of details. It’s confidential, you might say.”
“Yes, I see.”
“After you left
Victory,
I realized I was most unhappy with our parting, and just wanted an opportunity to convey to you my … regret … over things.”
“Your regret, Captain?”
“Yes. That further association was not possible at the time. Given our circumstances.”
“Our circumstances? What are those? I’m just a simple waxworker’s apprentice trying to ply her trade.”
Darden laughed. “Simple? To the contrary. You’re as complex and varied as a blustering headwind.” He reached out a hand to touch an errant curl that had slipped out of her bandeau. She jerked away from his touch.
He held his hand in the air as if confused by her reaction, then dropped it back to his side. “I suppose I deserve your disdain.”
“Why, Captain, you deserve neither my disdain nor my appreciation. I believe things are very clear between us.”
He sighed. “But they aren’t. There are events occurring you cannot possibly understand. Which brings me to another reason for my visit. To caution you. Certain national affairs could place you personally in great danger, and I want you to promise me you’ll be as careful as possible. I’m afraid it’s my fault you’re in this position.”
“This is all very mysterious, Captain. Please speak plainly, or not at all.” She set the taper down on a nearby stand and crossed her arms in front of her. It provided a physical barrier that brought her comfort.
“I can’t. I shouldn’t be here at all. It was wrong of me to come. I just couldn’t let events unfold as they might without seeing you one last time.”
So he’s admitting to it all.
The Darden Hastings she knew aboard
Victory
was a sham, a fake, a forgery. Standing before her now was the real man: a scoundrel who was gladly trampling on his honor to fill his pockets with French livres.
She could almost hear the metal cage slamming shut around her heart.
“Well, then, I must certainly thank you for the notable risk to your livelihood you undertook to warn me against persons and events unknown. Is that all, Captain?” She picked the taper up and moved toward the door to let him out.
Even in the soft reflection of the candlelight, she could see that his face was red, though from embarrassment or anger she couldn’t tell.
Without a word, he plucked his cloak from the hook, threw it about his shoulders, and stepped back out into the freezing night air.
Marguerite shut the door softly and locked it. Setting the taper down again, she put her forehead against the door and let the tears stream according to their own undisciplined will.
Once the wax figure was complete, Brax brought delivery instructions from Fox. They were to move the figure in the middle of the night one week hence.
“And so our little adventure will be concluded, Marguerite. At least your part in it will be finished. I have further, private instructions with regard to Darden.” Brax was practically standing on the balls of his feet in his excitement.
“Please, Sir Brax, I’ve no wish to discuss this further. Once we stow the figure, let’s not ever talk of it again.” She hadn’t confided in him about Darden’s visit, since it would serve no purpose—Darden would be arrested soon enough anyway—and the thought of his visit still pained her with excruciating force.
“You’re right. You know, I have an idea. What say we go to the theatre together to celebrate Ferdinand’s, shall we say, rebirth? It seems to be the most popular activity in London since we entered hostilities with France again. There’s a young actor, William Betty, whom everyone raves about in his Shakespearean roles. They call him Young Roscius.”
“Who is Roscius?”
“Some actor who rose from slavery to fame in ancient Rome. I guess Betty comes from the lower classes. He’s playing Hamlet at Drury Lane. It will be a night of entertainment away from all of the exertion you’ve been at these past few weeks.”
Wasn’t it absurd to sit down for lighthearted entertainment when the very outcome of the alliances against France might depend on the figure now wrapped in layers of muslin in her workroom? But what else was there to do?
“I suppose you’re right. A theatrical performance might be wonderfully distracting to attend. With a friend.”
“A friend. I am, of course, ever your devoted friend.”
Marguerite’s last act the day of their planned cargo transfer to the ship Lord Grey had arranged was to send a letter to Claudette. She said nothing of her planned intrigue, only that Brax had been assisting her and the exhibition had thus far proven successful. She hating being so deceptive with her beloved aunt, but hopefully soon she’d be able to tell her everything. And presumably there would be no need for Claudette to come looking for her. She waited anxiously after closing the exhibition for the evening, tense, if not necessarily fearful, of what lay ahead.
Brax tapped quietly at the same door Darden had nearly pummeled down just a week prior. Together they carried the bundled wax Ferdinand into a waiting carriage provided by Fox, and sat him up as a third passenger. Marguerite giggled in nervous tension at their fellow traveler, who looked as though he had been swathed in bandages from very serious burns.
The night was clear and not quite as chilly as it had recently been. Spring was sure to arrive soon. The moon hung full, low, and bright in the sky as it made its descent on the horizon. They would have to work quickly before the sun rose.
Unable to see much beyond the carriage’s lanterns through the vehicle’s smudged windows, she was only able to know they were arriving at their destination by the crunch of pebbles under the wheels and the nearby sloshing of water after nearly an hour’s journey. She stepped out of the carriage and back into the moonlight. The ship sat anchored out in the river, and a small launch was lodged on the shore, waiting for them. Brax and the driver silently lifted Ferdinand out and Marguerite followed them closely to the launch. A man sat inside, oars in his lap. Brax and the driver hoisted Ferdinand into the launch, then the driver saluted Brax before heading back to the carriage.
“He’ll wait for us to return,” Brax whispered to her. She nodded her understanding.
The man rowed them to the merchant ship without a word, the
only sound his oars slicing through the water as he maneuvered their craft as quickly as possible. The ship’s crew lifted up the launch, and another man, who was obviously the captain, silently escorted Marguerite and Brax, the figure balanced between them, down into the ship’s hold. As soon as it was positioned to Marguerite’s satisfaction, they returned to the launch and back to the shore. The edges of Marguerite’s dress were soaked and heavy, so she leaned on Brax’s arm as they made their way across the loose pebbles and stones of the shore back to their carriage.