“Obviously,” Jonathan said superciliously.“Because you and your comrades are in the ports, disrupting trade, willy-nilly.Therefore, my employer needs reliable, expedient land routes.The maps are for that purpose only.”
“Who employs you?What is the name of this firm?”
Jonathan sighed, as if disclosing the company’s name would be a betrayal.“Diederichs and Son, based in Hamburg.”
He knew his story would be checked, and eventually, it would be confirmed due to prior arrangements.But that would take time.For the moment, it was clear they didn’t believe a word.Neither did they press him.Not yet.
The tall officer questioning him seemed almost amused.
“We have time, monsieur.Not endless, but some.You will find we are patient men up to a point.Until the Emperor tells us not to be.”
They left him with a thin blanket, in utter darkness except for the small window.And then he waited.No one questioned him the next day.Perhaps they were determining whether his identity truly was that of a civilian.If these were his final days, he wondered whether his parents would ever learn of his capture and his fate.
He’d considered telling his examiner who his father was, but being an English nobleman might make matters worse.Ransom would be demanded, and any chance of being believed a simple land surveyor would vanish.
Once daily, the guard returned alone, bringing food and water, enough to sustain the prisoner but not designed to satisfy.The educated officer returned periodically with questions, always polite, always patient.Sometimes he brought Jonathan’s confiscated maps and asked specific questions about routes and crossings.
Why had he made this mark?What about that one?
Deflecting and dodging, Jonathan invented plausible explanations, buying time for what purpose he couldn’t quite articulate.Perhaps he simply refused to believe this was the end.Or perhaps some part of him still hoped for a miraculous rescue, unlikely as that seemed.And then, there was Lise.Thoughts of her blue eyes and lush mouth soothed him.As long as she was in the world, he wished to live.
On the fourth day, they gave him no food or water at all.With a sinking heart, he realized his existence was about to become more uncomfortable.The following day, the guard came in without speaking and simply took the blanket they’d given him the first night.What next?He expected they would strip him, leaving him to the elements of his dank and cold cell.Maybe it would be his tomb.
Dammit!He was becoming morose, losing heart as he lost strength.To cheer himself, Jonathan recalled how he’d been stroked to a powerful release by the loveliest, smartest woman alive.That counted for something.
As if thinking of his angel brought him a honey-fall, he watched a bead of precious moisture trickle down the wall from ground level above his head, all the way to the cellar floor.Despite a plum upbringing, filled with comfort and finery, and his recent years of lavish self-indulgence — blended with some truly useful work, lest he forget — Jonathan couldn’t believe he was going to lick the stone wall.Yet he did precisely that.
It was the best damn drop of water he’d ever had.There was more where that came from, seeping between the cracks.Dragging over an old wine crate, he was able to get closer to the source.Tearing a strip off the bottom of his shirt, he placed this high overhead against the stone, smiling as it quickly dampened.In a minute, he was sucking the linen, enjoying the moisture as if it were a fine glass of cursed French brandy.
The sound of a horse cantering across the manor’s courtyard, its hooves loud upon the uneven fieldstones, snagged his attention.From his place atop the wooden crate, he could see out the window.One rider.A tall man who slid off his horse with grace and gave a soldier the reins.A moment later, two officers appeared, greeting the man with easy familiarity, the sort that came from regular acquaintance.
Jonathan watched as the small trio conversed, with one officer gesturing toward the manor.A level of excitement ensued, while the three clearly discussed something of importance before striding toward the house.
Whipping off his hat just before disappearing from sight, the rider ran gloved fingers over his hair.The face was familiar, as was the man’s stature, and even his horse.Unless Jonathan was delirious from thirst, Lise’s betrothed had just arrived.
The crate chose that moment to give way, the worm-eaten wood collapsing under him, sending him sprawling to the floor.
He stayed there, thinking.What could Friedrich’s arrival mean, if he was in fact the rider?An hour later, Jonathan found out.The guard came down to the wine cellar to fetch him.
“Upstairs,” the man ordered without preamble.
Jonathan went to straighten his clothing in the manner he had always done, as a member of nobility and one of London’s Corinthians, at that.It was a ridiculous and futile gesture.There was no helping the state of his coat or pants, not after sleeping in them on the thinnest layer of straw on the cellar floor.
With his flintlock musket, the soldier indicated Jonathan should precede him up the stairs.Not thinking anything beyond a welcome change of scenery and perhaps a conclusion to his entrapment, he began the climb, only to stumble halfway up, coming down hard on his shin.It happened once more at the top.
After a puzzled moment, he realized his uncoordinated weakness was from lack of nourishment.
Behind him, the soldier said nothing.Not gloating over how low they’d already brought him.Just as well, Jonathan thought.It wouldn’t have taken much provocation for him to turn and try to shove the man down the stairs.In his weakened condition, however, he knew he would’ve lost in a scuffle, even with the advantage of his higher position.
Very much a prisoner, Jonathan was escorted into a dining room with the barrel of a gun between his shoulder blades.Apart from containing a long table and a mismatched collection of chairs, the room was stark.No paintings or other artwork, no sideboard or other furniture, not even a wall sconce.Somewhat jarring, however, was a gaping hole in the smooth lime plaster ceiling where a chandelier had once hung.
Jonathan envisioned it being yanked down with the force of someone exceedingly angry.Perhaps by the home’s previous owner, moments before being evicted, trying to take everything that could possibly be packed in the amount of time afforded when one’s entire estate was confiscated.
Or the French had simply stripped the place clean, with the current detachment of soldiers selling the manor’s contents for food and contraband.
Jonathan’s quick perusal of the room yielded no sign of Lise’s intended.Perhaps he had made the man up in his head like a flight of fancy.
Still the soldier said nothing to him.Thus, without being asked, not caring if anyone gave a damn, Jonathan sat.It was the most comfortable experience in days.The velvet seat was practically as welcome as a down mattress, in comparison to the cellar floor.He didn’t even mind remaining upright against the slatted wooden back.
