I wish I could stay here forever and watch you sleeping. But I have been praying and praying while you've been so ill because of me, and I made a promise that if you could be all right, I would never again be the cause of hurting you or anyone else, and so I have to go away. I really didn't intend to write this letter before I left, but I wanted you to know that I'm grateful.
How I wish there were a better word than that! You taught me what courage and loyalty really are. You're the best friend I ever had, or ever will have.
Mustafa tells me you are doing very well at the Sultan's court, and I wish you all the honors you deserve. Please do everything the doctor says about your arm, as he is a very good doctor. We were afraid you would die. And please be generous to this nonsensical count, even if he seems like a terrible rascal, because he really has taken care of all of us, and he found the doctor, and he's made all the arrangements for me to travel safely. He's hoping you will have him made into a pasha. He talks often of the dancing girls he looks forward to keeping in his hareem.
I will not forget you, Sheridan. I wish I could change the mistakes that I made, all the stupid mistakes that hurt you and other people. I wish I could have helped you when you needed help, but I don't seem to be very good at that. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. I just didn't know how.
I don't want to kiss you now, because I don't want you to wake. Think of Vienna, and a grand staircase and music, and remember me when you go there. That was the best time. That is my kiss goodbye.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I failed at everything.
Olympia
Twenty-Eight
* * *
Sheridan folded the letter carefully once again, staring into the campfire. Around them, the trunks of tall trees seemed to tremble and shudder in the light of the leaping flames. The tin implements their Tatar guide had hung out to frighten demons clattered tunelessly under a gypsy servant's tireless hand.
Raban gave him a dry look. "Haven't got it by heart yet?"
Sheridan stretched his right arm, testing and exercising it against the soreness. "Be damned to you," he said with abstracted venom. He couldn't summon much resentment for Raban's gibes. It required too much concentration, and against his better judgment, he'd actually developed a certain degree of attachment to the rogue.
"A fool in love." Raban tossed a twig into the fire. "Poor devil."
Sheridan watched the flames. Was that it? Was he just another miserable sod dumped by a woman? He remembered a carpenter on one of his ships—one face among hundreds at the first mail call in months—stricken, stunned; bullied and stuck in the ribs by the others. "Come along, Chips, cheer up like a man. You'll never see her again; square yards and don't let a petticoat make a fool of you."
But it shook everyone; they all depended on one an-other—it was bad for morale if the fellow took it too hard, so he was hounded for his weakness with unfeeling cruelty. There wasn't room for sympathy. Sympathy was poison; it reminded everyone they were out there watching their lives slip away in hardship and boredom and battle while the world went on unheeding.
Not me, Sheridan had always thought. You'll never catch me with that look on my face.
But it stung. It upset him that she'd left him while he could not think.
He had nightmares every night now, woke up in a whimpering sweat that had nothing to do with the fever he'd contracted in the mountain drizzle. He felt as if he were riding deeper into the bad dreams; that with every step his mount took on the road back to Stamboul, he went a little farther toward destruction, stretched the barrier that protected him from crisis a little thinner.
He was going the wrong way.
He knew it. He did not know where she'd gone, but whatever direction it was, it wasn't this one.
But he was afraid to turn back. He'd made a choice. The nightmares were bad, life hurt: the things life made him do. The anger hurt. The fear and defiance and survival cunning—all of it. But that was his choice. That was what he was going back to. Deliberately, the way he'd always chosen to go back to the navy, even though he despised and feared it. Because he knew how to live in that world; he trusted nothing, and felt safe; he knew how to numb and isolate himself there—while he was adrift and exposed in hers, and that vulnerability was more terrifying than the worst of the dreams.
And yet he remembered her eyes: glazed…frightened and angry, her face wild in the mountain rain—and God, how he knew what it felt like inside that look.
How could he leave her alone with that?
The most precious thing in his whole existence; and he was deserting her. He was running away.
He moved a stone with the toe of his boot, looking down, watching shadows lick it haphazardly in the firelight. "Raban," he said suddenly, "do you know what courage is?"
There was a little silence. The young count looked up from a chip of wood he'd been whittling idly. "Are you going to tell me?"
"I'm asking."
"What courage is." Raban held up the wood and turned it in his hand. "As Socrates so succinctly put it: 'That's certainly not a thing that every pig would know.'"
Sheridan pushed one stone next to another. "I don't suppose he said anything more to the point than that?"
"Of course he did. Have you completely forgotten your Plato, old man? To hear him tell it, the lads were constantly chewing it over on every bloody street corner in Athens."
Sheridan nudged a third pebble into the pile. "Never read Plato," he said in a low voice.
"Ah." Raban closed his eyes. "How does it go? 'And now, Laches, try and tell me—what is that common quality called courage?'…and Laches replies: 'Well, Socrates—I'd say courage is a kind of endurance of the soul.' Which seems a damnably good answer to me, but of course it isn't good enough for Socrates; nothing ever is, and he's got to argue. 'But what would you say of a foolish endurance?' he asks. 'Isn't that evil and harmful?' And poor slow-top Laches turns red and shuffles his feet and says, 'Well, yes—can't argue with that, I s'pose.' 'So'—Socrates reckons it's time to drive in his big point—'then according to you, only a wise endurance is courage.'"
Sheridan watched the fire.
"Is that Greek enough for you?" the young count asked.
"Quite."
Raban chuckled. He went back to idle whittling.
Sheridan closed his eyes. He thought of living out his life in Stamboul, of the inevitable nightmares, the numbed fortitude it seemed to require simply to face each day. And then he thought of his princess, of what it would be like to face those nightmares with his heart open, without the numbness to protect him.
Courage and loyalty. You taught me what courage and loyalty really are.
But he was afraid. He wasn't brave. He'd endured, yes—he hadn't killed himself, he hadn't taken that final escape, but he'd wanted to. He still did. His fearless involvement in the brutal intrigue of the Ottoman court was nothing but another kind of suicide—slower, somewhat more interesting, but just as surely fatal in the end. He knew it. He'd known it all along. He wasn't brave.
Only a wise endurance is courage.
He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know what was wise or foolish. He only knew that she needed him. Her face had said it. The letter said it.
"Raban." He spoke quietly. "I'm going back."
"Back? To Oriens?"
"No."
Raban flung the wood aside. "You bloody born fool. Are you going to look for that damned princess?"
Sheridan worked his arm restlessly. He didn't bother to answer.
His companion rolled his eyes skyward. "God save us. Where're you going to start?"
Sheridan slanted him a look. "You're sure she never said anything? Nothing at all about where she might go?"
"Not a peep. I told you—after she found out she'd lost her throne, she just sat there in the corner for three days and sulked. Didn't offer to help, didn't say anything—just wrung her hands and stared at you as if you might disappear any minute. Wouldn't even eat, the silly chit. An
d then all of a sudden, the minute you start to regain your senses, she wants to leave." He shook his dark head. "Women!"
Sheridan rubbed his lip. "If I go to England, I'll be arrested for debt."
"Will you really?" Raban sounded interested. "And here I thought you were rich."
"Your greed's made you overly optimistic. I'm down to the tune of a half million at home. It'd take about twenty more summer palaces from the Sultan to pay that off."
Raban retrieved the chip of wood and began whittling at it again. "You're too modest. We'll do well enough in England."
"'We'?" Sheridan asked mockingly.
The charming grin was guileless. "Certainly. Do you think I'd desert you now?"
"I can't reckon why not."
"Act of Parliament, entered into the record March 18, 1828, or thereabouts. I won't quibble over the date."
Sheridan frowned at him.
"Birmingham to Liverpool railway, old chap. Remember?"
His jaw tightened. "What are you saying?"
"Only that I made the acquaintance of a certain Mrs. Plumb a while ago, who can be quite talkative when plied with a proper excess of champagne and romance. Charming woman. Apparently Parliament had a heavenly visitation in the form of certain irate merchants who were quite impatient for the railway to open. So Parliament opened it. The first half year's profits paid off your debt. And you own it all, my friend. Every bleeding share. It had the lady in a blue funk, I'll tell you. Seemed to take it as a personal affront."
Sheridan sat still, trying to let the information sink in. The railway. The debt. He was rich, and he didn't care. After a long silence, he said disgustedly, "She would."
Raban lay back against a carpet-roll, grinning.
"Confound you. You knew I didn't know," Sheridan said.
The count shrugged. "I'm regularly vexed to postpone our trip to Stamboul. I'd really prefer dancing girls as a reward for my faithful service. Plain cash is so—unimaginative. Not that I'd be churlish enough to question whatever you might choose to offer…" He trailed off hopefully.
"Bastard," Sheridan said, and rolled over to sleep.
It was raining in Wisbeach, a gentle spring rain that made silver circles on the calm surface of the river and weighted the heavy heads of daffodils with transparent drops. Sheridan stood in front of the closed house. The knocker was gone; the shades were drawn. The housekeeper next door said no one had lived there for half a year.
He walked along the muddy road. He had not thought it would leave him so empty, this defeat. He had not realized how certain he'd been that she'd come home.
There was some hope still: that Mustafa would find her in Rome, or Raban in Madeira—those had seemed the next likeliest places to Sheridan, but in his heart, he'd been so sure he'd find her here that he'd hardly given the possibilities any thought, beyond their value as excuses to be quit of his helpful, diligent and undesired companions.
He'd even been to see Fish Stovall. That had been hard—to admit to the silent old man that he'd failed her, lost her. He'd stood in the neat, poor cottage in the fens, his hat gripped between his fists, and asked if she'd come to Fish. And Fish had looked at him for a long time, and then said slowly that she hadn't.
Sheridan had fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the harmonica. He'd held it out to the fenman.
"Keep it," Fish Stovall said.
It seemed to Sheridan that there was an infinity of condemnation in those simple words. He put the harmonica back in his pocket and left. He kept walking. The misty fens spread out on all sides below the elevated cart track.
He supposed, vaguely, that he ought to go back to Wisbeach in time to catch the Norfolk coach. Mud sloshed beneath his boots. He stood on the edge of a dike and saw the grim towers of Hatherleigh Hall in gray outline across the flats.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, his head down. More mud. Matted grass and a burst of sound as his passing frightened a nesting bird into flight. He found gravel beneath his feet; then stone steps. He looked up at his father's black granite monstrosity.
He had no key. There was no reason to go in. He wandered along the perimeter of the house, the crunch of his boots the only noise. He stopped outside the stained-glass window of the little study. Inside, he could just see the withered fuchsia plant she'd brought him, a sad skeleton on the windowsill.
A whiff of smoke came to him on the heavy air. He hunched in his cloak, feeling damp to his bones. It made him think of the island: the peat smoke and chill. He closed his eyes and imagined the sound of the surf, the wind in the tussock grass and her body, warm and waiting for him, innocent passion and infinite quiet peace.
He walked onto the grass, the sound of his footsteps dying into muffled stillness. The house sat like a great sphinx in the mist, ponderous, full of absurd corners and pointless projections. He circled it slowly, trying to think, trying to formulate some plan for what he would do next. But his mind seemed lost in memories and fog. He stopped and leaned against the dark bulk of a flying buttress. At his feet, the dewy grass was crushed down in a little path some other intruder had made. He gazed at it indifferently.
The scent of smoldering peat grew stronger. He frowned, looking up as a waft of smoke drifted past the buttress. There was wet mud on the little track in front of him, freshly smudged across the rain-soaked grass. He hefted himself off the wall and followed the trail, around the corner to the back of the house, where the servants' wing made a gloomy bay between two overhanging ramparts.
Far back in the corner, white peat smoke swirled and rose sluggishly out of the shadow. He walked forward, staring at the little camp huddled in a dry space beneath the intersecting eaves. Next to the fire was a carefully dressed catch of plovers, spread on a bed of fresh rushes. To one side a stack of peat had been laid to dry next to a pile of faded blankets.
As he looked at the blankets, he realized they were occupied. The bundle showed the lonely small outline of legs and torso and shoulders, head and face buried beneath damp wool. At one corner, spilling out between the drab folds, was a limp curl of reddish gold.
Sheridan walked closer, his footsteps soft in the grass. He stood looking down at her, his back against the wall. Slowly, unsteadily, he sank to his knees. He sat next to her sleeping form. Not touching. Not speaking. His vision blurred. His throat had a desperate block in it, pure fury, an ache like a wound that made it hard to breathe.
What was she doing here? Who had sent her to this? As if no one cared for her. As if she were no one, nothing—scrounging in the open like an orphaned animal.
His hands closed. He bent his head between his knees. This was it; this was what he feared—the flood of raw feeling, rage and love and despair with nothing between himself and the torrent.
He sat there a long time. The peat smoke curled upward. She'd built a good fire, banked it well: it kept going through the mist and drizzle.
Olympia woke with her feet cold. She had her fingers curled beneath her chin, her nose buried in the musty, smoky smell of the blankets.
She spent a careful time uncurling her fingers, then her legs and arms. She had found that if one concentrated on things like that, on the simple physical motions of existing, it kept other thoughts at bay. But it was necessary to be very thorough about it, to focus, and not allow anything else to slip into consciousness.
She peered out from under the blankets and sat up, brushing her hair back. It was a little mad, she knew, to live like this. But she didn't know what else to do. The British consulate in Naples hadn't wanted her; they'd seemed embarrassed and advised that she go to London and inquire there. She left the consul ashamed of her boldness. Why should they wish to help her? She sold the last of her jewels to pay passage, but when she arrived back in England, the bustle of the city and crowds frightened her. She'd been scared and alone, and glad to find a mail coach to Norfolk and then Wisbeach.
The fens had comforted her in their familiar desolation. But something held her back from going to Fish, or t
o the house where she'd lived all her life. She felt better here, alone, not talking or thinking or planning. Just existing.
She stayed hidden in the shadow of Hatherleigh Hall and only went out in the early morning and at dusk, carefully avoiding the rounds she knew Fish and the other fen tigers would take. She wasn't afraid of them. She just wanted to hide. It felt safe, hiding. She didn't want to answer questions.
Fumbling the blankets aside, she shifted stiffly into a cross-legged position, reaching toward the stake she used to tend the fire. It was then that she perceived her company, jerked back with a startled cry from the unexpected sight of a muddy boot behind her.
She thought he was a hallucination at first, like one of the intrusive images that jarred her sometimes at the edge of twilight, the upsetting flashes of something she didn't dare remember. But he didn't disappear. He sat against the wall, his arms on his raised knees, watching her.
"Why?" he asked in a husky voice.
His face was fierce. Anguished. That confused her. The question confused her.
She ducked her head.
"Why are you living like this? Princess—" Something seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his hand toward her.
"I'm not a princess," she said quickly, moving away. She picked up the poker, pretending she'd meant to stir the fire. She didn't want to be touched. She wanted to run away.
Sheridan watched the instant withdrawal, the wild, spooky look in her eyes. He rested his head back against the wall. He could not breathe right; his chest hurt. His vision swam again.
"Where's Julia?" he asked, and heard himself: guttural hoarse with the barrier in his throat, while she stared at him dry-eyed.
She blinked, looked away as if she'd heard something frightening in the gloom behind her and then looked back at him with a small frown. "I don't know."