Today's Reading
Victoria and her mother would be without a home, unless they went to those relatives in the north, who could have died or changed circumstances by now. Victoria could already be betrothed—or even married—to someone. Hell, Morris's wife and daughter could both be dead themselves.
Jon shoved that thought into the dungeon of his heart where he dumped nearly everything lately. Otherwise, he'd have to consider the possibility that his own mother might be dead. Or his two half brothers might be mistreating her and his sister without him or their late father around to stop it.
Best not to dwell on that or he wouldn't be of any help to Morris.
Jon heard the clank of a key in the iron lock, and before he could prepare himself, the prison door opened to admit his two closest friends.
First came the youngest of their group at twenty-eight—black-haired, green-eyed Rupert Oakden, the ninth Earl of Heathbrook ever since his father, the eighth earl and a fellow détenu, died at the detainee camp.
Right on Heathbrook's heels was the next youngest at twenty-nine—Captain Quentin Scovell, third son of the Marquess of Glencraig. A naval officer and commander of the HMS Willoughby, captured near Egypt, the Scottish Scovell was a true prisoner of war and thus technically not a détenu.
"How did you get permission to come here in the middle of the night?" Jon asked. The separate cells for détenus and officers were generally locked from 8 PM to dawn.
The two men exchanged glances before Heathbrook answered in the quiet tone one used around sickbeds. "Napoleon has abdicated the throne. The guards and commandant are waiting to hear what will happen to all of us, and no one is paying much attention to what we do or where we go. Indeed, it was a guard who let us in, and he left the door unlocked."
Jon's blood stampeded through his veins. "So the rumors are true. The war is over."
Scovell's scowl matched the skepticism in his dark eyes. "I won't believe it until I see proof. They've given us false hope too many times."
Jon nodded, fighting the ever-present despair that was their daily burden.
"How is Morris?" Heathbrook asked.
With a glance at his mentor, whose moans grew apace, Jon pulled them aside. "The surgeon says he's dying."
Scovell didn't bother to hide his pity. "What will you do about him if they do set us free?"
"Surely that will take time, like everything else in this cursed place."
"If it doesn't?" Scovell persisted.
"Then I'm not leaving him here to die alone. Besides, when he passes, I want to arrange his burial and speak a few words over his grave. So, if we are indeed freed, you should both go on without me."
When the two men protested, Jon added, "I insist. Someone must tell his family and mine what has happened to us." Jon drew out a letter he'd written once Morris had taken a turn for the worst. "If one of you would give this to my mother when you reach England, she'll make sure Morris's wife and daughter know what the situation is here with him. Tell everyone I'll return as soon as possible."
The earl took the letter. "Since Scovell may have to rejoin his ship, I'll carry your correspondence with me as long as you promise we'll meet again in London."
Jon nodded. "I'll send a message as soon as I arrive in that fair city."
Another détenu burst into the prison cell, his face alight. "Talleyrand has signed the order freeing the prisoners of war!"
"What?" Jon's heart took a leap. "Are you sure?"
"It's in all the papers!"
"Does that include freedom for the détenus, too?" Heathbrook asked.
The other man broke into a smile. "Everyone. We're leaving this damned place for good. Despite confusion concerning how and where we are to depart France, we could walk out of Bitche right now, and no one could stop us."
At last, some good news. Jon hurried over to Morris and grabbed his arm, hoping to encourage him to rally. "Did you hear that, sir? We're free! We're going home at last!"
Morris gave no answer. His skin was cold and gray, and his eyes stared up at nothing.
...
