The Last Refuge (15 page)

I curtseyed, Jack bowed, his forehead glistened with sweat. We traced an invisible Z on the dance floor, passing each other diagonally without touching. I sniffed. Jack smelled like a combination of old sweat and Earl Grey tea. We joined hands to the right. ‘Sir,' I said, ‘what is that cologne you are wearing?'

We joined hands to the left, turned. ‘It's called Number Six,' Jack said. ‘First introduced in 1752 by an apothecary in Newport, Rhode Island named William Hunter.'

On the next pass, both our hands came together in a chaste little turn, before we ended up in the corners where the dance had begun. As Jack escorted me to the sidelines, he added, ‘Number Six is George Washington's favorite. He even sent some to the Marquis de Lafayette as a gift.'

I curtseyed. ‘Your attention to detail, sir, is extraordinary.'

‘It's astonishing, isn't it?' Jack said with a slight bow. ‘Not only can we live, eat and play like colonials did back in 1774, we can smell like them, too.'

‘Astonishing,' I deadpanned.

‘Caswell-Massey still makes Number Six,' Jack informed me, chest puffed out importantly like a banty rooster. ‘Perfumes are like fine wine, Mrs Ives. This one, now, has a delightful undertone of anise, with bergamot and lemon in the top notes. In the middle, there's a faint lavender tone.'

I flipped open the fan attached to my wrist by a silken cord and began flapping it furiously in front of my face.
Locker room in the top notes
, I was thinking,
with a faint undertone of old tennis shoe
.

French, released for the evening from her kitchen duties by papal dispensation, bounced into the hall just then, clean-scrubbed and beautiful, dressed in one of my gowns. She grabbed Michael's hand, and they joined us for the reels and country dances. Everyone danced with everyone else, and at one point, we all hummed the tune aloud so Amy and Alex could join in.

‘I don't know how they did it,' I puffed to Colonel Washington as the reel finally ended. ‘Dancing is a lot like work!' I pointed in the direction of the punch bowl with the tip of my fan. ‘I fancy another glass of punch, sir. How about you?' When Washington nodded, I served us each another ladle. ‘We can drink the water these days, sir, I
know
it's safe, but back then?' I took a sip from my glass. ‘Our founding fathers must have been staggering around from sunup to sundown. How they got any work done, let alone came up with the Constitution of the United States of America is a complete mystery to me.'

Washington raised his glass. ‘We are made of stout stuff, madam.'

I smiled up at the future Father of our Country. ‘Indeed.'

Jack sidled up to Washington just then, picking up where he had left off at dinner about the
Peggy Stewart
situation. I seized the opportunity to excuse myself to tell French to help Karen spread out the buffet supper in the dining room, then suggested that everyone join me in the parlor for a game of cards so that Amy and Alex could give their musical fingers a well-deserved rest.

After we'd eaten supper, dancing began again until everyone was drooping with exhaustion. Even Derek and Chad seemed to have fallen asleep on their feet, propped up in their respective corners, the red eyes on their cameras relentlessly winking.

Around ten o'clock, we adjourned to the parlor for a second round of cards. Eventually, French dropped out to help Karen put away the food. That's when I noticed that Gabe had curled up on a loveseat in the parlor and fallen fast asleep.

‘Amy?' I gestured at Gabe with the cards in my hand.

With a sideways glance of apology to Alex, Amy laid down her cards and in a rustle of silk, rose from the table. ‘It's time the children were in bed. I'll take them. Michael,' she added, ‘will you play out my hand?'

Michael assumed Amy's chair and I invited Alex to take mine, leaving the four men to play on while I observed from the loveseat that Gabe – grinding his fist into his eyes – had just vacated. In the meantime, Jeffrey Wiley, our reliable valet cum butler, kept everyone's wine glasses full.

At the end of the next round, George Washington stifled a yawn with his hand, then excused himself, with apologies, from the game. He bowed to Jack. ‘I thank you, sir, for your generous hospitality.'

I jumped to my feet when George Washington did, and he made a beeline for me then, took my hand, kissed it and said, ‘Thank you, madam, for a most delightful evening.'

I curtseyed and thanked him right back. It's not every evening that you get the inside scoop on what it's like to portray Detective Michael Tritter on television, making life a misery for Doctor Gregory House.

‘I'm for bed, too,' Jack announced, and headed upstairs to Melody's room, while Michael set off for the west wing with Alex, who would be sharing a trundle in his room.

A colonial housewife never trusted the fine crystal to the care of her servants, so I collected the dirty glasses that were scattered about the house and carried them downstairs to the sink where French and I would wash them in the morning. Then, I headed for bed myself. The long case clock in the upstairs hall was striking eleven thirty as I crept past, the candle in my hand casting flickering shadows against the wall. Not wanting to disturb Melody, I pushed the door to my bedroom open slowly, then slipped inside.

A candle still burned on the bedside table, but the bed was already occupied. Amy had removed her shoes and stockings and was fast asleep, propped against my pillows with Gabe's head cradled in the crook of her arm. She'd been reading them a bedtime story – the book lay open, face down, on her chest. On the trundle next to the wall, Melody was snoring gently.

I tiptoed to the dressing table, removed my wig with a quiet sigh of relief and arranged the instrument of torture on its stand. Using my fingers, I fluffed up my hair, digging vigorously into my scalp. I doubted that I'd picked up any fleas, but it sure as hell felt like it.

I turned to consider my options. My bed scarcely had room for two, let alone three, so I smiled a motherly smile, blew out the bedside candle – waste not, want not, as Jack Donovan, the Patriot, had been known to say – picked up my own candle, still flickering on the dressing table, and quietly left the room.

I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the LynxE camera mounted on the back wall.
Time to make an executive decision, Hannah
. Shielding my candle with one hand, I tiptoed across the floorboards and descended the Chippendale staircase.

‘I cornered Amy on the back staircase the other day and gave her a kiss. Unfortunately, I think Hannah caught us at it. I hooked up with Amy later in the garden and we took up where we left off. As long as Amy's here, I think I'll be able to hack it.'

Alex Mueller, dancing master

L
ess than five minutes later, I stood on the second-floor landing of the west wing listening to Michael (or was it Alex?) snore. It had been a long night for everyone. With every muscle in my body aching, screaming out for rest, I slipped into Amy's room just across the hall from Michael's and silently closed the door.

I positioned my candle on the narrow walnut table next to Amy's bed, sat down and kicked off my shoes. I couldn't wait to get out of my gown and the underlying stays that had not seemed quite so tight that morning – before losing the battle against Karen's excellent food and Jack's fine wine. I unhooked my stomacher, slipped out of my gown and let it fall to the floor. Twisting and squirming like Houdini escaping from a straight jacket, I managed to reach the ties on my stays and release myself from their tyranny, too. Last came the stockings. Almost before they had time to reach the floorboards, I had crawled under Amy's coverlet.

I lay flat on my back, staring at shadows dancing on the ceiling. Damn, the bed was uncomfortable. I wasn't as sensitive as
The Princess and the Pea
, but something was digging into my back.

I hopped out of bed and knelt on the floorboards, lifted the mattress off the rope webbing that supported it. Nothing was underneath. I untucked the sheet, moved the candlestick closer so I could examine the mattress ticking. Horsehair was poking out through a four-inch slit in the seam.

Eureka!

I eased my hand through the slit, feeling around gingerly in the stuffing until my hand encountered the object that had disturbed my royal slumber – Amy's iPhone.

I extracted it from the stuffing, pushed the ‘on' button. When the screen lit up, I could see that the battery indicator was a thin line of red – almost exhausted – and the signal strength indicator read NO SERVICE. ‘Bummer,' I muttered, and returned the useless lump of metal, silicon chips and microprocessors to the mattress, tucking it well to one side where it wouldn't bother me.

That done, I crawled back into bed and pulled Amy's coverlet up to my chin. Using my thumb and forefinger, I reached over and pinched out the candle.

Immediately, the room was plunged into a darkness so absolute that I felt as if a black velvet bag had been drawn over my head. It was a moonless night, and no streetlamps – ancient or modern – shone into the room from the garden side of the house. The Naval Academy had even been persuaded to turn off the floodlights that usually illuminated the Chapel dome. After straining for a moment to distinguish something, anything – the bulk of a dresser, the outline of a chair – in the profound darkness of the room, I closed my eyes and fell instantly asleep.

Paul is wearing a midshipman's uniform. We're having a race, and I struggle to keep up. As Paul runs he glances over his shoulder, signals with his arm – C'mon Hannah! – laughing like a boy. He's leading me . . . where? Suddenly, he flings up his arms and disappears. I follow, panting. Wait for me! Wait! Then I'm falling, falling into darkness, suffocating darkness
.

I couldn't breathe.

A hand was clamped over my mouth, pressing hard against my nose. I flailed against it.
Oh my God, I'm being raped!
Desperately, I tried to remember what I'd learned in self-defense class:
Scream. Scream bloody murder
. But I can't scream, I can't even breathe with his hand pressing down like that, hard then harder.

Relax, don't fight. Not now. You need air.

‘Shhhh, shhhh,' his breath, rancid with coffee, hot in my ear. ‘It's me, Amy, it's me. Please don't scream.'

Beneath his hand, I nodded.
Mumpf.

I gulped air as his hand slipped away, traced my arm and found my waist, circling it, drawing me closer.

I breathed into the dark, eyes straining to see. ‘Alex?'

He stiffened, his cheek, rough with bristles, pressed against mine, his erection hard against my back. ‘Who's Alex?'

‘I . . .' I began.

But he didn't wait to hear. ‘Shhhh, shhhh.' His mouth wet against my neck, his lips seeking mine. ‘Oh, God, Amy, God.'

‘I'm not Amy!'

He froze, then catapulted out of the bed as if I had morphed into a bolt of lightning. ‘Christ!' Stumbling in the dark, feeling along the walls for the door.

‘Drew?' I stammered, heart still thrashing. ‘It's Drew, isn't it?'

He paused, breathing hard.

I had no way to relight my candle, but what kind of SEAL doesn't come prepared? ‘Do you have a flashlight?'

A barely audible rustle of cloth, a click, and a thin beam of light wavered across the floorboards, touched the foot of the bed, moved along the coverlet and found my face. I put up a hand to shield my eyes.

‘You're the woman in the front bedroom.' A fact, not a question. ‘Married to that flaming asshole.'

For a moment I was puzzled, then I realized he meant Jack Donovan, not Paul. ‘No, he's supposed to be my brother-in-law.' I wondered how long Drew had been watching me, and fought down the creepy feeling that crawled over me.

‘Where's Amy?' Where his wife was concerned, Drew had a one-track mind.

‘She's asleep in my bedroom with the two children.'

‘I need to see her.' The beam snaked across the floor, searching for the door.

‘Wait!' I whispered. ‘If you show up suddenly like this, you'll give her a heart attack. Amy believes that you're dead.'

‘I sent her . . .' Drew began, then clammed up.

‘She had an iPhone, but it was, uh, confiscated,' I lied. I had promised not to rat Amy out, and even though Drew was her husband, I didn't plan to make an exception. ‘No electricity in Paca House anyway,' I said, pointing out the obvious.

Drew's face, lit from beneath by the flashlight, stared back at me ghoulishly, like a creature out of
Friday the Thirteenth
. ‘Look, I'm sorry about what just happened here,' he said contritely. ‘I didn't know . . .' He paused, as if considering how much to tell me. ‘I've been watching the house for days. I thought this was Amy's room. Obviously I made a mistake.'

While he talked, I scooted into the corner at the head of the bed and drew my knees up to my chin, the coverlet along with them. If Drew was begging for forgiveness, he was standing on the wrong street corner.

‘Fuck. Why am I telling you this? I need to see Amy. Your room, then?'

The light flicked off.

I heard the door creak. ‘Drew! You can't! Not if you don't want to be seen by a couple of million people when
Patriot House
goes on the air.'

Another creak. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘You picked a hell of a night to break in, Drew. George Washington is sleeping in Jack's bedroom and they've got extra cameras set up everywhere. How did you get in, anyway?' I asked, knowing as the words left my mouth how dumb it was to warn Drew about the cameras and to ask him such a question. SEALs knew one hundred ways to get in and a hundred-and-one ways to get out of any dangerous situation, without being seen.