The Black Hawk

Seventeen

FRIQUET WAS SMALL AND BROWN WITH DELICATE hooves and a way of nosing gently among the tangle of grass and weeds that grew along the bank of the stream, taking this plant and leaving another. When Séverine rode out with Pascal the groom, she could not allow Friquet to indulge himself in weeds. Pascal had strong opinions about what ponies should eat and worried about Friquet’s digestion ceaselessly.

Pascal was French, though he had no accent. He had a sad history and had been sent here to be healed by Maman, although he did not know it. Eventually he would stop being nervous and angry and go away to school. There had been several such grooms.

She was not supposed to know that part of his job was to protect her. Papa worked for the government and was very important. He was a spy. Her friend Hawker was also, though he was less important because he was younger. There were always several men working in the garden or the stable who protected everyone.

Pascal had gone onward to the stable. She was allowed to be by herself once she had crossed the stream and was within sight of the house. Friquet waded into the water and ate his watercress and chickweed in peace. She could pick her own watercress to eat and think about things. Pascal could not say she was not allowed to eat plants from the stream, but he looked disapproving.

It was raining a small amount, but that did not bother her. She sat under the tree where it was all moss and she would not get her dress muddy. The tree kept most of the rain off. It was an oak and had probably been here 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.