"I'm not happy to see you."
He dipped his head, shrugging in that way he had as he lifted one
arm to rub the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. I figured a woman who told
me not to call wouldn't be overjoyed." In the dim light, she caught his
smile – she realized it went into both sides of his face, a balanced,
first-rate smile. "But, see, I got the job after all," he explained.
"Or sort of. It's a slightly different job. But it's a pretty good one. I
thought you might change your mind—"
"I haven't."
"Ah." He looked down.
"You have to leave."
"All right." He turned.
"No," she said.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Not just now. Not the portico. The house. Here. You have to
leave my home."
He let out a breath, shook his head – whether in negation or simple
disbelief, she couldn't tell.
Then he turned and walked back into the house without saying a
word more. Through the door's sidelight, she watched him climb the stairs
again, returning, where in the dining hall, she knew, he would be the tallest,
handsomest, straightest shooter in the room.
*
Sam
returned to find that the ladies had left the large dining room. The men were
up from their chairs stretching their legs, while Wendt himself traveled the
room, pouring brandy. A morbidly thin servant followed him with a silver tray,
offering cigars – like little corpses lined up side by side in an open,
polished rosewood casket.
"No, thank you," Sam said to the cigars.
On seeing him, Wendt set the brandy bottle onto the tray and
walked toward him, carrying two snifters, each with an inch of amber liquor.
"Cognac?" he asked.
"Thank you." Sam took what turned out to be very good
brandy.
Wendt offered it along with a raised brow. He asked, "Pieters
says you were originally coming over to open negotiations on the canal in
Central America?"
"Yes."
Two other men joined them, the first English charge, Sam realized.
Either by design or practiced instinct, they more or less circled him. With the
good Senator Pieters right behind. He walked toward the little gathering, at
last free of the foot of the table so as to cause trouble, if he so chose.
"The Senate didn't confirm you," he said as he came up.
Sam held out one hand. "What can I say?"
"So how is it," Pieters asked stonily, "that,
having failed to be approved as lead in a negotiation, you are now in charge of
the entire embassy?"
"Interim Ambassador." Sam shrugged. "Patterson
needed to go home. Meanwhile, we can't just close the embassy. I was here. I
have a good idea of international U.S. concerns from having worked on the
treaty in Paris in December." He smiled amiably. "Until the president
can appoint someone whom the Senate will approve, I'm holding down the
fort."
"Interim, hmm," said the shorter of the two unnamed
Englishmen, who then exchanged glances with Wendt in a way that said they
thought England didn't have to deal with him, that they could simply wait for
the next fellow.
Sam told them, "The canal will be my main focus while I'm
here. The president has asked me to bring home a draft of a new treaty."
"There is a Central American canal treaty already in place
between our countries."
"A lot changes in fifty years." Sam laughed
good-naturedly. "It's old."
"A lot changed in the past year," Wendt accused.
He was referring to the extraordinary U.S. victory over Spain in
the recent and very short war between the two nations, a conflict that had
bestowed the dubious honor of imperialism on Sam's country. The U.S. had gained
Cuba, the Philippine Islands, as well as special authority over Puerto Rico and
Guam.
The United States, a country of two oceans, now had concerns in
both of them that made it, for the first time, a world power. And made a canal
more necessary than ever.
"These days," Sam said, "a lot changes in fifty
minutes. I have a direct telegraph line to the president, and he tells me daily
he wants this new treaty. He's like a dog on a bone."
A point Sam didn't have to mention was that, last year, once the
dog in question had decided on war, he'd gone to the people to finance it: and
raised fifty million dollars, all but instantly and freely given. Such a feat
had not gone unappreciated by Europe. Not only had the war given America new
territory, it had given her people, their affluence and government, a new
respect abroad.
Wendt asked immediately, "What's your position and what are
the limits of your authority?"
"That a canal's necessary. That we're going to build one and
run it. And no limits. I speak for the president."
"The Clayton-Bulwer treaty gives Britain half interest in
running a Central American canal, which you can't deny makes sense. We have
experience with the Suez."
"The Suez isn't on our back doorstep. Trade within our own
country will depend on the American canal. We can't have our internal routes
controlled by foreign hands – not even friendly ones." He smiled.
Wendt was not amused. He came back with, "Say it outright.
You want to take away control of the canal from England."
Sam again smiled agreeably. "Yes, I do."
Silent stares.
It was perhaps the first time any of them had heard the
unvarnished truth.
Almost in unison, the three Englishmen looked down into their
brandy glasses, nothing to say but mutters. Wendt drew on his cigar. Pieters
stared at Sam with open hostility.
Before anyone could grill him further, Sam said, "I hope you
will excuse me. I'm going to get a breath of air before we join the
ladies."
Wendt asked quickly, "Will you be staying?"
"Pardon?"
"I'm inviting you to stay at my home here for a few days. Do
you hunt?"
"Some. And it'd be my pleasure."
"We won't discuss politics."
Sam laughed. "I make no promises on my side. Though I'm
always available to discuss the matter in London, if that's what you'd like
instead. As I said, the canal is my first priority. By the time I leave
England, I intend the issues of it to be outlined, if not settled." He
leaned to set his snifter on the passing tray, then nodded politely.
"Gentlemen. I will see you in the drawing room." He turned.
As he moved away, the men let him hear their conversation among
themselves; they made no attempt to lower their voices: "Bloody
belligerent son-of-a-bitch."
"Motmarche says he was bugger all in Paris."
"They had to spirit him away, replace him, by the end: What
he doesn't resolve be apparently heats up to such a degree that people want to
kill him."
"He's doesn't sound like much of a diplomat."
Half a dozen feet away, Sam pivoted around to walk backward,
facing them again. He just could never resist this sort of thing. "I'm a
specialized sort of diplomat. I'm here to do business, not make everyone feel
good. If people are being horses' asses, I make sure they see it." He
smiled with gleeful distemper. "It's a kind of skill when you think about
it."
"Some say you are one, sir" – the youngest Brit of the
foursome spoke. He was the one, Sam realized, who'd stood near Lydia before
dinner.
Sam held out his hands amiably. "There you go. You see, I
don't mind being one." He smiled broadly. "I have no pride in the
matter. Quite the opposite. I'm damn happy to be an asshole to the right
people."
The gentlemen blinked, staring. Wendt took a sip of brandy.
The younger man beside him narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps we
are, too," he said.
Sam raised his brow and made a single nod, assent. "Glad to
hear it. You see? We've made progress already: We're in agreement that we're
all being idiots. Now all we have to do is think what is reasonable for each of
us to give and to gain."
He turned again, walking away with a bounce as his weight left the
heel of each boot. There were times when he loved being the crude ol' cowboy he
was. In business – even the business of diplomacy, the way he practiced it – it
could be a strength to be an aggressive, ornery-tempered son-of-a-gun. It sure
gave him the upper hand over those trying to keep their dignity intact, hogtied
by their own ideas of civility.
Then he got gravy on top. As he was leaving the room, he heard in
a pretty loud voice full of a nice taste of outrage, "This is
intolerable." It was Pieters. "I don't know how he got here, but if
that man is staying, Wendt, I'm going. And taking my entire family with
me."
Oh, yes, please! Sam thought. And don't forget
Gwyn
.
16
If
you want a red rose … you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
with your own heart's-blood.
The Nightingale and the Rose
, 1888
L
ydia
retired early,
but had a restless night. She didn't know what Sam intended. With a word, he
could ruin her. Not that she expected him to, but his presence, the inadvertent
possibility, left her feeling at risk. She hoped the morning should find him
gone, a disturbing dream vanished back into wherever it came from.
Disturbing dream
. She shouldn't
have thought the words, because somewhere in the early hours of morning something
brought on a terrifying one: She was in a vast place, a castle, a keep, though
not exactly. It was dark and dank. There was a man far away, before an old
stone wall – there was only one wall. She could barely see him from where she
sat in a chair, her fingers clutching its wood arms. She was frightened.
Somehow, she dare not move. The man at the crumbling wall was mixing something.
It clinked in front of him. It was for her. Oh, no—
The next thing she knew, he was near, and the dimness of the place
had turned to black. She could feel his presence, yet couldn't see him. With
panic, she realized, a dark sack had somehow gotten over her head, and her arms
wouldn't lift to pull it off. The man took hold of her by her shoulders and
drew her to him purposefully. He was going to do something, something
unpleasant. She called out. "Your Excellency! I can't see! Help me!"
Sam? Was she hoping the stranger was Sam?
He neither confirmed not refuted, only pulling her head against
him while she struggled, blind. He was so much stronger. She could feel his
power in the lock of his arms about her, in the hardness of the chest against
her forehead and cheek. Behind, at her neck, he drew her hair up. She felt
something cold there, a tingle. The feeling poured down into her spine,
entering her, spreading, filling her as with liquid needles … or millions of
tiny, cold-sparking stars—
Lydia jerked awake in her bed to a bright morning, her heart
pounding, the dream vivid. Sam. Her strange nemesis in the dream had been his height.
Tall, long-muscled, broad-chested. His chest. It was Sam. What had made her
mind construct such a bizarre phantasm of him? What was she afraid of? The
dream, its questions, made her shiver. The fear in it felt so real and horrid.
Yet there was something else … something horrifically fascinating
within the dream as well. And
that
made her feel truly off-kilter: a stranger to herself.
"Good morning!" Rose said as she entered the room with
Lydia's first-thing cup of tea.
It was their ritual: teacup in one hand, on her way to the bed,
the maid grabbed a handful of dark green velvet at the window and carried the
curtain with her. As she proceeded, behind her along the wide French window,
sun opened up, pouring in across the floor to make neat patterns, lace shadows,
that bent up and across the bed.
"Here you go." She handed over the tea as Lydia sat up,
then walked back, pacing off the length of the other side of window, its velvet
curtain in hand. The room brightened into full sun, a wavering contrast of
sun-filled lace up a dresser, an armoire, a painted screen, a vanity and padded
bench. One by one, Rose tied back the lace at the French windows. Through each,
one could see a bit more, like a triptych that came together: a rolling expanse
of green cut by a little stream to a distant pond and woods.
"Did you see who was here last night?" Lydia asked as
she stirred tea.
"The prince and princess," the maid said cheerfully as
she cranked open the first window. A light breeze entered, carrying the faint
smell of roses from the side of the house. "Though they left early this
morning."
"Oh, dear. Was I supposed to have been up to see them off? No
one said." With a frown, Lydia recovered her former train of thought.
"No, no, not them. Mr. Cody."
Rose looked over her shoulder, mouth pursed. "Oh, him. Yes.
Though for an ambassador, I can't say much for him. He doesn't have a
valet." She made a moue of disgust. "Which means I only know the
gossip from the kitchen and upstairs staff."
"Upstairs gossip? Is he still here?"
"Yes, miss, he spent the night."
Lydia groaned. "Oh, do tell."
Her maid recited like a litany: "He went to bed late in the
north guest room. He doesn't have but one bag, and that didn't arrive till this
morning from the inn at Crawthorne. The other two men from the embassy left
last night, as well as the American senator – there was some sort of rift. He's
here alone as his Lordship's guest, though his Lordship doesn't like him. They
got into a to-do last night also." She frowned, picked up a shawl that was
over a chair, then disappeared into the dressing room. From there, her voice
called, "The rest of the yesterday evening he was quiet and stayed to
himself, except around midnight, when Miss Pinkerton and Miss Werther managed
to involve him in a game of vingt-et-un, thinking they were teaching it to
him."
She materialized from the interior room, carrying a dressing gown
as she continued. "It turns out it's an American game, too. He beat them,
and the ladies liked that he did, so boisterously that the servants were still
talking about their shrieks and laughter this morning." She offered the
gown out.
Lydia drained the last of her tea, set the cup on the bedside
table, and stood, raising an arm into the gown.
Rose said, "You know, when we saw him last, he looked so
different. I shouldn't have thought it was possible for him to look so – well,
so genteel."
"His cheek and nose were swollen." Lydia puzzled a
moment as her open gown dropped down onto her shoulders. "Or something.
He's had a haircut. And of course neither he nor I was at our tidiest when we
parted."
Her maid nodded, as if a haircut and clean face explained the
difference.
Lydia risked looking at her and asking, "You think he's
handsome?" She fought a smile. She wanted to say, He is so handsome, you
can't imagine. His naked body is more beautiful than anything I've ever seen.
Rose looked bewildered by the question. "I suppose." Not
smiling at all, she added, "Though handsome is as handsome does: There is
a rumor he jilted someone, someone important, though I can't find out
whom." She scowled as if it were an equal offense: "And a gentleman
should have a valet. You would think an ambassador would maintain a certain
appearance."
If
only he would maintain a
dis
appearance,
Lydia thought. But, alas, Samuel Cody did not evaporate like a dream. Nor, when
she saw him, did he look the part of the mad monster – a Dr Miracle from
Hoffman
with flasks clinking like
castanets, as in an opera she'd seen recently, which seemed to have combined
with the moor and Sam to give her that awful dream. As to his more polished
good looks, they had something to do with his clothes as well. Aside from his
boots, his clothes were new and English-made – as if someone was advising him
on how to be less contrary, at least in appearance.
The impression of his belonging here was furthered when she saw
that Clive had returned from London – a day late, so typical – and sat at the
far end of the downstairs dining-room table, entertaining people over
breakfast, Sam laughing with him, along with Meredith, her fiancé, Frederick,
and Julianne Werther.
Behind them on the sideboard stood half a dozen heated,
silver-domed servers – very much Lydia's father's style, not her mother's. It
was the way her father arranged things on mornings when he, his neighbors, and
friends rode out to terrorize the foxes of the district. Not even the season's
cubbing, however, would start for a good several weeks, thus the arrangement of
breakfast merely pointed out the absence of Lady Wendt.
Had Lydia's mother spent the night, even breakfast should have
included liveried servants, a formal flow of food from the kitchen, and exact
seating. Apparently, though, with royalty gone, Lady Wendt found no reason to
stay. (Which meant that, once again, Clive had timed his arrival to coincide
with his mother's departure.)
There were perhaps twenty in all downstairs having breakfast at
the moment, some in the dining room, another half dozen having roamed to the
terrace – one wall of the downstairs dining room was nothing but doors. These
were all open this morning onto the long side brick terrace that overlooked the
rose garden, a breeze gently stirring the room's heavy curtains.
Lydia had no sooner spotted Sam than he looked up, and their gazes
fixed on each other. He immediately stood up, scooting back his chair, then
paused when she looked away and kept walking, scowling.
Don't do that, she thought. Don't come to me, don't look at me as
if we were lovers.
Oh, the thoughts, the fears that traveled through her head. She
went straight over to the line of servers and began loading a plate – eggs,
tomatoes, fried toast, marmalade. All the while her skin felt warm, colored by
knowledge. Could anyone tell by looking at her? Did they suspect? Would they
guess? Did it show? She felt guarded, afraid to look at him for fear of giving
away a part of herself she wished to keep secret.
Out the corner of her eye, she was aware he remained standing, his
hand gone into his hair the way it did when he was perplexed or frustrated.
Memory took over from there. The way he shrugged sometimes when he talked … the
way he slouched or straightened … his voice, his smell, the way he moved
against her.
Oh, stop, she told herself and scooped up a huge serving of
pineapple, only to realize after it was done that she had weighed down half her
plate with it. She frowned at the mound of food. It wasn't just the pineapple;
it was everything. She'd served herself enough to feed a small village.
Well, fine. She was ravenous after last night, and everything
smelled wonderful, thank goodness. She was better. She was perfectly all right
without her bloody tonic. She'd take her large meal out onto the terrace and
eat it, every last bite.
She was on her way toward the wide terrace doorway when someone
grabbed her from behind by the waist. She leaped and spun, ready to upbraid Sam
for all she was worth: and dumped food down the front of her brother.
"You shrew!" he said, laughing as he madly wiped himself.
Clive was a foot taller than she and thin as a reed. "You did that on
purpose. You always hated this vest."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." Leveling her plate in one hand, with
the other she brushed her napkin down Clive's loudest vest – a yellow, orange,
red, and blue thing she thought in fact quite ugly.
He was in unusual good spirits. "Not to worry. I never much
liked the vest myself. I only wear it to be perverse. You have ruined the
shirt, though, and it was nice."
"I shall buy you another." She threw him a smile.
"I cleaned up at Scorton. I took the ladies' Silver Arrow!"
"You didn't!"
"I did! And a tidy purse was attached to the honor, I must
tell you. I can easily buy you a new shirt."
"You shall do no such thing. We shall buy champagne to
celebrate the best archer in the family." He laughed. "And spill
that
on you."
Oh, my, she was suddenly so glad to see Clive that, food down the
front of him or not, she flung herself toward him on tiptoe – at six foot six,
his was a hefty height to scale. She attempted to hug him.
While he held her off. "Careful, careful, careful, or you'll
spill it down my back next." He jockeyed to balance the plate in her hand.
"A fine greeting. I don't see you for a month, and you throw food all over
me."
*
Sam
watched, fascinated by the open affection Lydia showed her brother, part happy
for her, part jealous: what he would have given for that greeting. Then – oh! –
to hear her unselfconscious laugh again, burbling, belly-deep. Hearing it, the
very first notes of it, was like hearing the opening bars of a familiar,
favorite symphony. It stopped him in his tracks.
He wasn't the only one: Conversations came to a halt. Across the
room, people turned, smiling, to listen. Because Liddy, caught in laughter, was
gorgeous. The sound was riveting, infectious; it made a man want to join in, to
laugh with her. The sight was wondrous. Her thin nose wrinkled. Her shoulders
shook. Her small breasts quivered, and her cheeks pinked. Her face lit.
He defied anyone to leave the room when Lydia Bedford-Browne was
laughing. Standing there, he forgot himself; all he could do was marvel.
Beside him, a man's voice said, "She comes with a piece of
England attached, one of the richest dowries."
Sam glanced down at the young Englishman from last night – Boddington,
he thought was the fellow's name. He'd plonked himself into a chair one place
down, with no breakfast, no food. He just sat there, offering information the
significance of which was lost on Sam, who shrugged. "I don't need
money," he said, "and I don't want a piece of England."
"I know. That's the point. You can't appreciate all she
is."
"She's more than a rich dowry."
"Absolutely," the other man agreed.
Sam's attention was drawn back to the brother and sister near the far
doorway as Clive Bedford-Browne's voice rose – he looked like Liddy, only much
taller, squared off, more masculine. His hair was a little darker.