Brodie took out his pipe, then filled the bowl. I cupped my hands around it to block the wind as he lit a match. His fingers wrapped around mine the same as dozens of times before, yet different, and I wanted to hold on. For just a moment that dark gaze met mine as he bent his head and took several puffs, then blew out a stream of smoke once the tobacco glowed.
We stood there as the last of the passengers boarded, then filled the cabin of the ferry. Those more adventuresome souls came out onto the deck to take advantage of the sun and fresh air in spite of the sharp wind that whipped from off the water.
The signal that we were departing went out and we steadied ourselves at the railing as mooring lines were cast off and the ferry slowly edged away from the dock. It then turned out into the channel as clouds of steam billowed overhead from the steam engine.
That fragrant pipe smoke wrapped around me like a memory, then disappeared on the wind as I stared out over the water.
“Ye could have refused to be part of the case,” he commented and took another draw from the pipe.
“I wanted to be finished with the agreement I made with him.” It was as simple as that. After this, I owed nothing to Sir Avery or the Agency.
“That agreement.” He tamped out the contents of the pipe at the deck railing, his mouth thinned in a line surrounded by that dark beard. It was the first we had spoken of it.
“The agreement I made to save your life. I would do it again.” I turned and went back inside the cabin.
He remained on the deck for the rest of the trip, returning only when darkness fell across the water and the lights from the port of Calais drew closer.
Calais was an ancient seaport used in medieval times for channel crossings. According to my great-aunt, our ancestor had crossed from there into Britain when he set off to conquer everything he came across.
The old part of Calais with its stone and wood beam residences and inns was just beyond the port, while the more modern part of the city that included the rail station spread to the south of the port.Modern, of course, meant within the last two to three hundred years.
It was very near nine o’clock in the evening when we disembarked and the last train to Paris had departed earlier.
According to the travel itinerary Alex had provided, we had a reservation for the night at an inn rather than at one of the hotels in the city, and nearer the rail station for our departure in the morning.
Weather that had followed us across the channel had finally set in with a drizzling rain. Brodie found a driver and we made the short ride to the inn.
A boy appeared as soon as we arrived and retrieved our travel bags in a rapid flow of French.
“You are English,oui?” he asked as he followed us into the inn. “We have many English guests traveling to Paris.”
The inn was typical of older residences found in Calais and other places in France that had been transformed into inns to accommodate travelers from England and other places.
It was built of brick with timber-framed windows and exposed beams in the Norman Style. Shutters on the windows were painted bright blue, with flower boxes glimpsed overhead in the halo of an electric light from second-story window openings as we entered the inn with another couple.
In heavily accented English, the sightly balding man behind the counter informed them that supper could be provided to their room.
“Oui, monsieur?” he inquired as Brodie approached the desk and gave the name for our reservation.
“Ah yes, it is here. And supper for you and the lady?’
Neither of us had eaten since leaving London. Brodie nodded and signed the guest register. He was then handed a key.
The same boy who had assisted with our travel bags when we arrived escorted us to our room on the second floor. He deposited the bags near the door, then turned to Brodie with a toothsome grin and was rewarded with a coin. The grin spread even wider.
“I will bring your supper when it is ready,” he informed us as he went to the door, undoubtedly in anticipation of another coin.
“He reminds me of Rory,” I commented after he left.
They did seem to be of about the same age.
Brodie merely nodded.
He had not spoken of him at length, yet I knew from Adelaide Matthews that he had been a frequent visitor over the past months.
It seemed the boy had become quite attached to him and looked forward to his visits, something that he undoubtedly needed, having never known his father. And then there was that question that still remained.
Was he Rory’s father?
