when Cromwell burned the manor in Thinch. One night, when she was out with Papa and they were hiking quietly through the woods, finding their way around using the stars, Papa had showed her where Cromwell’s troops marched over Thinch Hill and explained why they had come that way instead of another.
She ate watercress, putting it leaf by leaf on her tongue. Papa was in France, being clever against Napoleon, although she was supposed to tell anyone who asked that he was in Bristol on business. They didn’t know about Papa in the village.
Down the stream where the bushes were thick a hand emerged from the greenery, and then a face under a black shawl, and then...
“Justine!” She did not run headlong through the slippery wood to her sister. She looked around first to see no one was watching, then tangled Friquet’s reins in a bush and walked, fast but oh so carefully, along the bank. She dipped her head and ducked into the bushes and crawled between the leaves and scratches. They were together inside the arched, dark space. “Justine.”
Justine had beaten down the ground between the bushes to sit and wait for her. There was room for both of them. When they had embraced and Justine sat down, she climbed into her lap. She was far too big for this now that she was seven, almost. It was comfortable for neither of them. But still she did it. When she took Justine’s face between her hands and studied her, their heads were on a level. Justine’s skin was cold, so cold. “You are well? You have not been hurt?”
“But those are my words, petite. Are you well? Are you happy? Tell me everything.”
There was so much to say and they had very little time. Justine was an important spy for France, though she was only sixteen. When she came here and concealed herself in these bushes, it was no game. She must not be found on English soil. It was especially dangerous for her here, near Papa’s house. Papa and her sister must never, never meet.
So much to say. There had been a trip to Oxford to the dentist with Molly, who was the upstairs maid and had a toothache. There were puppies at Mr. Richard’s farm, and she had been allowed to pick which one she wanted. It was a bitch puppy and she had named it Harmony. It would come home with her in two weeks, when it was old enough. She was reading La Fontaine with Monsieur Rochambeau who sniffed and sniffed when he went into the rose garden.
She snuggled close to her sister, trying to warm her.
“La Fontaine.” Justine stroked her hair. “I carried a book of his fables for a while, until I lost it. I have them memorized.”
More news. The kitchen cat had kittens in the barn. A girl had come to be the nurserymaid. She was like Pascal the groom, one of those called the Cachés, which meant “hidden,” because they were French but pretended to be English. She cried a great deal in all the corners of the nursery, but then the old ladies who were not really her aunts missed her and decided that it did not matter that she was an imposter. “Hawker came to take her back home. He said she was a right little misery and we were well shut of her.”
Friquet pulled his reins free and wandered off to sample the banquet upstream.
“Move a bit. Let me . . .” Justine took a bag from the pocket under her skirt. “I have brought this to you, through perils uncounted.”
The bag was filled with twists of paper, a little discolored by water. Inside each paper, sugar drops. The first one she opened was blue and white and red, colored like glass from Venice.
“They are from Paris,” Justine said. “They may taste of salt. I had the merest whiff of difficulty coming ashore.”
If Justine brought them, they would be the most perfect of their kind. The seawater was not important. Not at all.
She sat on the ground and leaned against Justine’s knees and sucked upon a peppermint drop. Justine said, “I’ve been in Italy. That’s why it has been so long since I came to you.”
“There is a war there.” When Papa was home, he read to her from the newspaper, after dinner, when he and Maman sat close together with her on the sofa in the salon.
“The fighting is over for a while. There will be a treaty.” Justine put one arm around her. They watched barn swallows swooping over the lawn that ran from the parterre down to the river. It was not really raining if the swallows were out. “This is a pretty place. I like to think of you being here, in that house.”
“I will think of you in Paris, if that is where you will be.”
“Perhaps.” Justine’s voice said she would not be in Paris. She would be somewhere more dangerous.
She could feel Justine getting ready to leave. Quickly, she said, “Wait. Just a minute more. Did you get my letters? All of them? I sent you pictures.”
“I have all of them. They were in Rome, at the embassy, when I came through.”
“I have three letters from you. The one with the canary, the one with the black-and-white cat, and the one with the bowl of broth.”
“There will be six more, if they all come. Alas, they never do.” Justine made a gesture. She was very French in her gestures, like Maman. “I must go, petite.”
She held Justine tight, loving her and always, always frightened for her. “You will be careful.”
“There is no need. My life has been boring as a piece of bread these last few months. I sit and drink coffee in the café. I write reports and walk in the countryside all day. It is a healthy life, I assure you.” The last thing, as always, Justine kissed the top of her head. “You will tell Marguerite I was here.”
“After nightfall.” That was as always. Justine would not let her keep secrets from Maman.
When she had watched until Justine was gone and the bushes were quiet again, she went to catch Friquet. He did not much mind being caught because he knew they were going to the stable where they would fuss over him and give him bran mashes and carrots. He was muddy up to his hocks from wading in the stream.
Because she wanted to make the meeting with Justine last as long as she could, she walked through the meadow and up the lawn, leading Friquet home, sucking a peppermint drop, remembering every word.
She would tell Maman about Justine’s visit after dinner. They would not find Justine.
Eighteen
JUSTINE DID NOT LINGER NEAR THE HOUSE OF WILLIAM Doyle. He knew she came here from time to time to see her sister. So far, he had not tried to stop it. She did not fool herself into thinking she would come so close to his stronghold unless he allowed.
Just lately she had not endeared herself to the British. There had been an incident in Italy. The English really should not involve themselves in the wars of Italy.
The route of her retreat involved much crawling through mud. She followed the small stream and the cover of bushes. In the day and a half she had waited for Séverine, she had spotted several men patrolling. There were two now, one in the garden and one on a hillock in the woods, who made only the smallest pretense of working. And . . . Yes. She pulled back a stand of gray-green weed. The grim young groom who accompanied her sister everywhere leaned at the wall of the stable, polishing the metal of a bit, his attention on the patch of bushes where he had left Séverine.
Her sister was well cared for. She was held within that mansion as in careful cupped hands. She was given the pretty riding habit and the sleek, playful pony. Given the tutor—he had been a great scholar in France before he was broken and tossed aside by the Revolution. That was another soul Marguerite gave refuge to. Alert, dangerous veterans of the war, some missing an eye or an arm, patrolled the perimeter. Three monster dogs coursed the grounds after dark. If there were any peace and safety in the world, William Doyle folded it around his wife and the children in his house.
She came to the green swath of lawn where the river widened. When Séverine arrived at the house there would be less scrutiny in this direction.
Rain fell around her, soft and intricate, the tap of it becoming indistinguishable from the splash of the stream. It was not possible to tell where gray sky ended and gray rain began. After so many months in Italy, England seemed very wet.
She stood with her back to a tree, letting emotions run over her and around her as if she were a rock in a
