The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott
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isn’t the first claim.’ Jonathon buttered his toast and she recognised his need to talk, his need to keep busy.
She brought her plate to the table and sat. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, the first time was four months after Waterloo. We received a ransom note. I was too weak to travel to France and check the validity of the claim. Owen Danvers checked for us and it turned out to be a fraud. The second time, however—’ He broke off, his eyes moving over her shoulder to a point by the door. He rose hastily, brushing the toast crumbs from his hands. ‘He’s here, Claire.’
The man in question was wiry in build, with dark hair and strong Gallic features in his sallow face. ‘Je regrette, monsieur,’ he began in heavy French, clasping Jonathon’s hand as he explained how the tide had not allowed the ship to dock, how they’d had to be rowed in from quite a distance. ‘I would have been here before dawn, otherwise.’
The man had no English. Claire glanced at Jonathon. His features were tight with concentration as he made his response.
‘Il n’y a rien.’ He gestured to a chair at the table, continuing in French. ‘Please, come and sit. Eat. There are fresh rolls. You must be tired.’ The man shuffled forward, eyes darting towards her. He was as suspicious, perhaps as anxious, as Jonathon was.
‘This is my wife, Claire.’ Jonathon hadn’t even hesitated over the declaration. Claire felt herself flush. The man seemed to relax. Perhaps it was a good sign that he, too, was nervous.
The man sat and buttered a roll. ‘I have travelled a long way,’ he began, his dark eyes narrow and assessing as they watched Jonathon.
Jonathon nodded, his own features hard. ‘Owen Danvers tells me you have news that is worth the journey.’ This was the diplomat, the negotiator coming out—the man who could create polite, veiled messages. Even more impressive was watching him do it in French. This was one more side of Jonathon she’d yet to see in action.
Jonathon reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a money clip. He slid the money on to the table between them, an indication of what the journey was worth. A reminder, too, that the man was being paid well. No favours were being done here, this was business.
The man eyed the money clip. ‘Danvers promised me more than that.’
‘He did,’ Jonathon agreed easily. ‘There will be more when we hear what you have to say. Neither Danvers nor I am paying for lies.’ Claire’s gaze slid between the two men.
The man held up his hands in assent. ‘I deal only in truths. I will tell you what I know,’ he said in affronted French, accompanied by a sneer at the insult. ‘There was a wounded man who was taken in and nursed at one of the farms on the Lys River. He was there for some time, I’m told—’
‘Attendez!’ Jonathon interrupted, the sharpness of his tone taking Claire by surprise. ‘You were told? Your information is not first-hand?’
‘Non, monsieur. I am the messenger only.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
The man’s gaze held Jonathon’s. ‘Because I have this, monsieur.’ He took a small object from his coat pocket and pushed it across the table. Claire strained to see the item.
‘Thomas’s ring.’ Jonathon reached for it, visibly paling as he held up the thick gold circle set with an emerald. ‘It was from our grandfather,’ he explained, his eyes touching hers. But his shock was fleeting. He was terse when he turned his attentions back to the informant. ‘Rings fall off, are lost in the mud, sometimes for years. Rings are also stolen, perhaps pried off the hands of unconscious soldiers. This is proof that someone, somewhere, encountered Thomas, nothing more.’
The informant was undeterred. He reached inside his pocket. ‘There is also this.’ He placed a polished seashell on the table, a trinket of no value and yet Claire would have sworn she heard a moan escape Jonathon. He took the shell in gentle fingers, treating it like the most delicate of objects.
‘No one would bother to steal a seashell,’ the Frenchman said softly. ‘Vous comprenez?’
Claire swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The shell meant Jonathon could no longer argue the items were stolen and merely passed along. A seashell had no value except to the person who possessed it.
‘Our family went to the seashore one summer,’ he said softly to her in French, perhaps for the informant’s benefit. ‘We stayed with an old friend of my father’s. Thomas and I played on the beach every day. We were only eight or nine and he cried the day we had to leave. He loved the ocean so much.’ Jonathon paused, his throat working fiercely against the emotion of memory. She wanted to go to him and wrap him in her arms, but he would not want to be made vulnerable in front of this stranger who held so much power in these moments.
‘My father threatened to thrash him if he didn’t stop his crying. I slipped him this seashell when Father wasn’t looking. I’d found it on the beach our last morning there and I’d polished it up. I told him it was lucky. He carried it everywhere with him.’ Even to war. Even to death. Claire knew what he was thinking and it broke her heart. She would spare him this pain if she could.
The informant smiled kindly, the first friendly expression Claire had seen him give. ‘It is a good story, monsieur. You and your brother were close.’
Jonathon gathered his self-control. ‘How did you or your master come by these things?’
‘My master owned the farm where this man was nursed. They became friends during his convalescence. The man...’
‘Not the man,’ Jonathon corrected. ‘Thomas. The man has a name.’
‘Très bien. Thomas recovered from his wounds, which was no small accomplishment. He’d been shot several times. He was suffering from fever when his horse wandered on to our farm. To this day, we don’t know exactly how they came in our direction, we are a bit off the beaten path. It was clear though that they’d wandered for days. He’d probably got lost and then disoriented. We thought he’d die. But he didn’t. He lived.’ Here, the man paused, his eyes full of sympathy. ‘My master says he was never quite himself. He didn’t always know who he was. He thought his name was Matthew.’
‘That was his second name,’ Jonathon supplied.
‘Some days though, he knew he was Thomas, but not much else,’ the man offered in consolation. ‘But the wounds, the war, had done something to his memories. He’d scream in the night like soldiers do.’ Jonathon nodded and Claire wondered what nightmares came to him.
‘You said he recovered?’ Jonathon pressed.
‘To a point. He helped out around the farm. He liked working with the animals. On good days he rode his horse like the devil. He was something to watch. I’ve never seen a rider like that. But there weren’t that many good days. We knew he didn’t belong with us, but my master had no way to contact anyone, didn’t know who to contact. Then, last year, Thomas took sick. His wounds had damaged his health and the winter was harsh.’ The man shook his head as if he still didn’t believe what had happened. ‘One day he told my master, “My name is Thomas Lashley.” He gave my master this ring and that shell and went out riding. He wasn’t well enough and the lord knows his horse wasn’t either. The winter had ruined both of them. That horse was twenty if it was a day. He didn’t come back. That evening his horse limped in to the barnyard, coated with mud. It had been ridden hard. We fed it, cleaned it, made it warm, but the horse laid down and was dead in the morning.’
Claire covered her mouth, stifling a sob. Jonathon reached out for her hand and she let him take it, knowing that touching her was not only for her comfort but his. ‘Oh, Jonathon.’
Jonathon was bravery itself. He nodded his head, acknowledging the story. ‘Thank you for telling me. May I ask? Did you find a body?’
The man shook his head and Claire thought she saw a spark light Jonathon’s eyes. ‘We went out the next day to look