Corkstown was gone.
What had once been a thriving nest of commotion and drama was now a half-groomed road, winding along the edge of the canal, stuck between the water and the woods, no more remarkable than any other spot along the way. The burnt husks of the shacks there had been carted away before the ground had thawed, the valuable bits stripped and sold, and the rest dumped into the canal to be washed away forever.
Where families had lived, grass now grew. The old reality erased like it had never been.
To the side of the road, not far from where that violent scene so many months ago, there was a chair. It had survived the blaze, survived the recovery and the looting and everything else, just sitting in the grass facing south-west, like a ghost was waiting for their ship to come trundling up the waterway. But it wasn’t a ghost, it was a woman. Lost in a book.
The young man had been walking for quite some time, by the looks of him. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, a heavy pack weighing down each step, and his fair skin was burnt from the unrelenting sun. When he got to the centre of the spot where Corkstown had stood—not that he or anyone else knew that anymore—he unhooked one of the straps from his shoulder and set his bundle down in the dirt.
“Good day, miss,” he said to the woman while struggling to catch his breath. “How far to Bytown?”
Béatrice lowered the book partway. “Not far enough.”
He frowned, but then smiled at a joke he thought he’d heard between her words. “What you readin’?”
Béatrice turned the book to see the cover, as if she wasn’t sure herself, then shrugged. “Something to pass the time.” She nodded toward his pack. “Salesman?”
“Entrepreneur,” he said, with a wide smile. “Engineer by trade. Up from Kingston to make my mark and—”
“You came to the wrong place, sir,” she said in French.
The man’s face shifted into that awkward kind of smile one gets when not understanding a word, but trying not to let it spoil the conversation. “Pardon me now?”
“I said welcome. Do you have a place to stay?”
He looked north, toward Lowertown, and shrugged. “Figured I’d find an inn or a boarding house or somethin’ and—”
“Those will all be full,” she said. “It’s the summer, so the lumbermen pour into town, take all the beds, eat all the food, drink all the wine, chase all the women. They sleep three to a room through to November—”
“Ah, so—”
“—but they don’t like to share.”
The man looked like his confidence had taken a beating. He’d walked almost two hundred miles in the middle of summer with a heavy wooden box on his back, and now that he’d arrived, he wouldn’t even have a place to sleep? He looked back over his shoulder, at the long trek home, and Béatrice took pity on him.
“The church, north-east, by the Bywash. The priest there keeps spare beds for weary travelers. Enough to get your footing.”
He winced awkwardly. “I…I’m not Catholic.”
“Very few of us are, in Bytown, despite our religion.” She pointed north, then east. “Sussex, York, straight to the water. You can’t miss it.”
He picked up his pack, slung it onto his back again, and gave her a polite nod. “Much obliged, miss. Good to know the folks in Bytown are a decent lot.”
Béatrice smiled, going back to her book, and said in French: “Tell me that again in the morning.”
He walked only a few steps before pausing, turning back to face her. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said. “Why are you out here all alone? Are you waiting for something? Someone?”
Béatrice lowered the book again, eyes looking south-west, down the canal and into the distance, and sighed. “I’m waiting to be sure that someone’s really gone.”
Bowen paused before drinking his tea. “Gone? Are you sure?”
The other soldiers in Bowen’s cottage, all busy reading and writing and transcribing letters, did their best not to look like they were eavesdropping. They were already having trouble not staring at Ada’s odd clothes—trousers and a waistcoat—so they failed miserably. Ada sipped her own tea coyly, a slight smile on her face.
“Mr Carlyle claimed the weather was too extreme, but I have it on good authority his southern investments were drawing attention in London. Of the taxation variety.”
Bowen glanced over at his secretary. “Carlyle’s paid up?”
The secretary had already flipped to the page and was tallying numbers. “June, yes. July…no. And August…”
Bowen smacked his hand down on the table, making the tea set jump. Ada stayed perfectly still, though, sipping her tea like nothing was amiss.
“Who was on Carlyle?” snapped Bowen. “Which man?”
“Rogers, sir,” said the secretary.
“I want him on bridge patrol by evening. And dock his pay.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Bowen turned his attention back to Ada, mimicking her pleasant expression. “Thank you, again, for your insights, Ms Honeywell. They are invaluable to me, in these precarious times.”
Ada grinned. “Indeed. It can’t be easy, wrangling such disparate personalities in service of the greater good.” Bowen shrugged like it was all part of a day’s work, until Ada added: “How is construction going, anyway?”
Bowen chuckled. “I forget how far you see, sometimes.”
Ada leaned back in her chair like an empress beholding her lowly subjects. “There’s not much else for a woman of my stature to do in Bytown but gossip,” she said. “It’s either that or marriage, which is no choice at all, as far as I’m concerned.” Her smile shifted. “So I hear it’s a two-storey house? Stonemasons from the bridge commissioned?”
“Yes, and yes. The basics should be in place by winter, and be ready for my retirement by spring.”
“Ah, I was wondering if that was in the cards,” she said. “Retirement. Well-deserved, too. I’m sure they’ll name a street after you to celebrate.” She sighed wistfully. “What will we do without you, Captain?”
Bowen sipped his tea, pleased with both the compliments and support. “I’m not gone yet, Ms Honeywell. There’s still work to be done.”
“Indeed,” said Ada, and set down her cup. “Which brings me to my other reason for visiting this morning: lawlessness. Catholic lawlessness.”
Bowen’s face tightened. “What have they done now?”
“It’s not so much a question of what they’ve done as what they haven’t. It seems as Rideau Street grows, so too does the effect of drunken debauchery. I had a fist fight on my back lawn just last week. A fist fight!”
“That’s a long way to go to cause a ruckus. What did the magistrate say?”
Ada rolled her eyes. “He saw no such activity. Which makes sense, since he never leaves his house past sundown. But it does nothing to safeguard the civil members of society.”
There was an awkward pause, and Bowen scratched the back of his head like he was trying to dislodge some tact for what came next. “And, well…” he said. “I see where you’re going with this, Ms Honeywell, I do, but I’m afraid the issues you speak of are, unfortunately, outside of our jurisdiction.”
Ada’s face broke into a smile, like she thought he was joking. But when she saw he wasn’t, that smile turned to disbelief, bordering on ager. “Out of your jurisdiction?” she asked. “How is anything in this town out of your jurisdiction? The whole country is your jurisdiction, is it not?”
“In broad strokes, yes, we are in charge of peace and security across the entire country, but within Bytown itself, we delegate certain responsibilities to—”
“Then delegate better!” snapped Ada. “This magistrate and his constables are as good as looters themselves, most days. Calling them for support is a gamble at best, and more often than not results in one of their number defecating in my garden!”
“I do apologize, Ms Honeywell, but—”
“But?”
His patient smile got more patient. “But it is a Catholic part of town you’re living in. Across the canal, I mean. In such proximity to—”
“Are you blaming me for my own misfortunes, sir?” she snapped, and the other soldiers all looked down at their work with extra focus.
Bowen tried to find the right path to walk, because her accent and her reach made her someone he couldn’t afford not to talk to. “Of course not. Never. But you must admit if you were to build a home by the river in Uppertown, like me, you would have a much easier time of things.”
Ada leaned forward, elbows on the table, glaring across at him. “I do not want a home by the river in Uppertown, Captain. I want the home I’ve already built to be safe from these Irish marauders. Today, they’re using my flowers for latrines. Or accosting my maid, the poor girl! Tomorrow, they’ll be breaking down my doors for God knows what…”
Bowen’s eye twitched at that. He said nothing, but his face said she’d struck a nerve.
“All I’m asking, Captain, is that the King’s justice apply equally to the Catholics, as it does the rest of us.”
“And it does, Ms Honeywell,” he said. “So long as you’re on the right side of the water.” He nodded to his lieutenant. “See Ms Honeywell gets home safely,” he said. “And if you see any stragglers on her property, shoot them.”
Béatrice dropped her keys into the dirt at her doorstep and she nearly swore. Her brow glistened with sweat in the blazing sun, and she was in no mood for delays. Bytown in the summer was a horrid, dusty place, and the sooner she got indoors, the better. By the time she recovered her keys, they were coated in a brown film that she knew would be impossible to clean off completely. She grumbled unhappily, unlocked her home, and went inside.
It was late afternoon, and the heat and humidity had finally gotten to her. Her dress was stuck to her body like it was trying to suffocate her—she had to be free. She started undoing her top layer, fiddling with strings and laces just out of reach, which did nothing to improve her mood.
At the counter, she splashed stale water on her face and neck, washing away the sweat but not feeling an ounce cooler from the effort. If anything, it made the humidity worse. She went back to work on her dress, finally losing her temper with the laces, nearly tearing the fabric trying to get free.
She threw open the window, letting the flimsy excuse for a breeze blow hit her. She shook herself side to side until her dress slid off, and she stood there in her undergarments, trying to remember winter again, remember how wonderful the biting cold was.
There was a creak behind her. Faint, but there. She froze.
She could hear breathing.
“The French don’t rule this town,” said a low voice with a British accent. “And neither do you.”
Béatrice closed her eyes tight. “Mon Dieu, I hope you did it better than that.”
“I thought it sounded pretty good,” said Liam, from the shadows
She turned to face him so he could see her rolling her eyes. “You sound as English as my grandmother.”
He limped into the light. His nighttime outfit was gone, replaced by breezier clothes and a half-open shirt. He was clearly better at handling the heat than she was. “I thought your grandmother was from London.”
“Not her,” said Béatrice. “The French one.”
Liam laughed, and moved a little closer. “Any word?”
“Non,” she sighed. “All I did was cook myself, standing in the sun all morning.”
“I can see,” Liam said with a smile, eyes lingering a little.
“I cannot help but notice you waited to announce yourself,” she said, moving away from the counter, toward him.
He shrugged. “You seemed busy.”
“Hmm,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “You did interrupt me.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” he breathed.
She smiled, and kissed him. It was a long kiss, and greedy, as she pulled herself closer, his hands traveling down her back to tuck her in. When they paused, faces so close, she whispered: “You didn’t kill them, I hope?”
Liam grinned. “No,” he said, lips brushing her cheek. “I was careful.”
“Good,” she said, and pulled his shirt off. “This calls for a celebration.”
He lifted her up, carrying her back toward the bed, their mouths never separating for more than a heartbeat. He set her down in the sheets, leaning down, and—
There was a knock at the door.
Liam froze, hand at the side of Béatrice’s face, lips so close to hers, squeezed his eyes shut.
“We can ignore it,” he whispered.
“We can,” she nodded, and pulled him closer.
The knocking returned, but louder.
Liam and Béatrice blocked it out, concentrating on the feeling of each other’s skin and the smell of their sweat and the sound of their breaths as they—
There was a key in the door. A key in the door!
Liam spun around, eye wide open as the door creaked a bit, and—
“Oh goodness,” said Ada, flashing them a grin. “I’m early. Or late.” She thought a moment. “Or just in time.” She snuck in and closed the door behind her. “It’s hot as Hades out there.”
“Yes it is,” said Béatrice, sitting up and wrapping herself in a sheet, as Liam limped back across the room and snatched his shirt off the floor.
“You’ve an uncanny ability to interrupt things, Ada,” he grumbled.
“Ah, well, I do what I can to keep things tense,” she said with a wink.
Béatrice joined Liam at his side, resting her head on his shoulder, and gave him a nudge. “Say it for her.”
Liam glowered. “No. You’re just going to make fun of me.”
“Pour moi?” she said, squeezing him a little.
He sighed. “Fine.” He spoke in his English accent again: “The French don’t own this won. And neither do you.”
Ada had no reaction at first, but then she frowned. “Oh dear. They’ll think the Scandinavians are invading.”
Béatrice burst into laughter as Liam pulled away, sulking near the window like a petulant child. Ada and Béatrice shared amused smiles as the older woman walked into the centre of the room.
“I had the most productive of conversations with Captain Bowen this morning,” she said. “After which he had his men escort me home, in a very cramped carriage ride indeed. Many uncomfortable moments, when things might’ve been lost or misplaced.”
She reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a small shiny object: a button, loose string still attached, from the red coat of a British soldier. Béatrice’s smile widened.
“What do you say we start a war?”