1862

Chapter Twelve

The State Department of the United States was located on Fifteenth and Pennsylvania, a short walk from the White House. Made of red brick and only three stories tall, it was totally dwarfed by the U.S. Treasury Building, which was both adjacent and overwhelming in size.

To Henri D'Estaing, the difference between the two buildings, Treasury and State, was symbolic of the problems inherent with the United States. The United States of America, now the truncated Union, was far more interested in money than in matters between nations. In short, the United States was a nation of shopkeepers and had no soul, and she would never have one until she realized that it was necessary to exist with other nations. Indeed, existence with other nations was far more important than the making of money. It was, in his opinion, what had made France great and would once again. France understood nations and, under Napoleon III, was well on her way to a degree of primacy that she hadn't had in generations.

As he entered the smallish State Department Building, he smiled as he recalled Valerie's comment that it more resembled a college classroom building than a place where a great nation's foreign policy was developed. How perceptive she was, he thought proudly.

He found Secretary of State Seward's office and presented himself to Seward^’ s assistant. While he waited, he seated himself and wondered just why he had been summoned. Again, it was so untypical of a great power. There was no earthly reason for the secretary of state of any nation to ask to see a mere commercial attache, even one from the great nation that was France. Although he was curious. Henri had no great urge to have his curiosity quickly satisfied. Seward was an angry, bristly sort of man who, in Henri's opinion, was totally miscast as a diplomat. Subtlety was a diplomat's stock in trade, and Seward could be as subtle as a bludgeon.

Henri was escorted into Seward's office. “Be seated,” said Seward. He neither rose nor offered his hand. What is the matter now? Henri D'Estaing wondered as he tried to ignore the slight. “I've asked you here for two reasons,” Seward said. “The first is that I wish you to take a message back to France telling your emperor that his troops must leave Mexico immediately.”

“Shouldn't you be telling this to the ambassador, sir?” Henri asked in astonishment. “I am only the commercial attache.”

“You are, sir, what is here in Washington at the moment. The ambassador is away, and, besides, I wish this handled informally. I do not want diplomatic notes or diplomatic niceties cluttering up or delaying what needs to be done. Just go to France and tell the third Napoleon that the United States is angry that his troops remain in Mexico. Also tell him that the last thing the United States will tolerate is an Austrian emperor trying to run Mexico. France's presence in Mexico is a violation of the Monroe Doctrine and not to be countenanced.”

“But, sir, the presence of a king or emperor in Mexico City would provide stability for a nation that is torn by warfare and is totally bankrupt. Don't you agree that the stability it would bring would be for the good?”

“No.”

Henri tried another tack. “Sir, I believe it is what the people of Mexico want.”

Seward laughed harshly. “Don't insult me with that fatuous argument. If the Mexican people wanted French help they wouldn't be fighting French soldiers, now would they? And even if they did want French help, you're missing the point. The United States doesn't want French soldiers in Mexico, and there shall be no further discussion of the topic. Tell your damned emperor to get them the hell out of Mexico.”

Henri D'Estaing was sweating. He was way out of his depth in this conversation. “And if my government rejects your unofficial entreaty?”

“Then both your third Napoleon and whoever is placed on the Mexican throne will regret it. So will your army, for that matter.” Henri paled. This was too much. “Are you threatening war?”

Seward glared angrily. “A war is what you already have. Mexicans are killing your soldiers and your soldiers are killing Mexicans, or haven't you noticed? What I am threatening is to make it more miserable for France than it already is. If your government does not see the light, then the industrial might of the United States will be used to support those loyal Mexicans who are fighting the French. We will provide the Mexican people with the arms, ammunition, and the training necessary to chase you people back across the Atlantic.”

D'Estaing understood perfectly. The long border from California to Confederate Texas was wide open to the shipment of war goods to the Mexicans, and the monstrous industrial might of the United States had more than enough capacity to do exactly what Seward threatened.

“May I discuss this with my ambassador?” Henri asked.

“Of course.”

“Sir, you said there was a second reason for involving me? May I ask what it was?”

“Simple. I want you out of the United States. You think we're all totally stupid here and not aware that you've been bribing congressmen to support France. I've got a number of them willing to testify to that in a hearing that would be embarrassing to both you and France. You would have to be expelled, and that would result in one of those ridiculous tit for tats where we throw you out, and your government throws one of our people out of our embassy in Paris. No: you just go back to France and stay there like a good boy.”

Henri D'Estaing reeled. Like a good boy? He was being chastised as if he were a child. Yet, like a child, he was helpless. He had diplomatic immunity and was safe from real prosecution, but both he and France could be horribly embarrassed if his actions were made public.

“How long do I have?” he asked plaintively.

Seward shrugged. “Take a couple of weeks, but no more.” The meeting was over. Henri departed Seward's office and was ushered out into the sunlight. He staggered as if he had been punched and several passersby stared at him, wondering if he was ill or drunk. He gathered himself. He would talk to Valerie. She would know what to do.

But then it occurred to him that everything was going to be all right. He would be out of this pigsty of a provincial burg and back in Paris, the city of enchantment. Better, he had a message intended for the ears of Napoleon III alone. However unsatisfactory the message might be, he would be able to speak directly to his emperor. He would also be able to couch the message in words that would be favorable to himself and show Napoleon that Seward was little more than a barbarian. Valerie would be surprised but not displeased.

For Lord Palmerston, the Royal Navy's attack on New York had been as much of a surprise as it had been for the Americans. On hearing of it, he had wondered whether he would have forbidden it had he been forewarned. But he had not been, nor had he expected to be. Even with the miracle of the transatlantic cable, he could not permit himself to manage the military campaign he had put in the hands of his admirals and generals. Nor did he expect them to have informed him of everything. Other than wasting his time by involving him needlessly in the minutiae of campaigning, there was the danger of the loss of security.

On the good side, the overwhelming victory at New York had wiped away much of the stain of the defeat at the hands of theMonitor and the resultant sinking of theGorgon andAsp. Newspaper headlines had been gleeful, and articles had gone so far as to speculate that theMonitor herself had been sunk, although there was no confirmation of that. On reflection, Palmerston and his military advisers deemed it unlikely.

What was to be regretted was that the attack seemed to have galvanized the Union and may have caused them to discover Canada.

Intelligence from the United States came from several sources and usually very slowly. There were spies and British sympathizers, but they had to first find the information and then somehow get it to Canada. While there were a few pro-British sources in Washington, there were damned few out in the field where it counted. Sources in Washington had picked up on the rumor that a Union army would invade Canada, but there was no real information as to when, where, and in what strength.

Newspaper reports from Ohio and Indiana reached Canada many days after they were published, if they made it at all, and what generally got to Canada was fragmentary. What they did report, however, confirmed the fact that the Union was up to something and that Canada was the target.

General Ulysses Grant, the victor at Fort Henry, Fort Donelson, and, most recently, the bloodbath at Shiloh, had been moving his army northward. Just how large his army was and where it was headed was not known. Estimates indicated that Grant's army numbered at least thirty thousand men, which made it a serious threat to Canada.

“A report from the city of Cleveland says that trainloads of Union soldiers are arriving,” said Foreign Secretary Lord Russell. Palmerston was puzzled. He had never heard of Cleveland. “Where and what might that be?”

“Cleveland is a small city in the state of Ohio on the shore of Lake Erie. It is a new town founded around eighteen hundred and is named after a surveyor named Cleveland, although he may have spelled it differently. It has recently become an industrial city of some note with a specialty in making locomotives.”

“Enchanting,” said Palmerston while Russell grinned, “and thank you for the tour. All I really need to know is whether an American army can depart from this Cleveland to Canada.”

“Possible, but not likely,” Russell answered, still smiling. There was a map on the wall that would have told the prime minister precisely that had he bothered to look. “While it is directly across Lake Erie from Canada, there are no landing points, and such an endeavor would require both substantial shipping and a naval presence to protect it, even from the handful of ships we have on the lake. No, I am assured that Cleveland is simply a waypoint on a greater journey.”

“Then to where?”

“I have had discussions with our generals and they are of the opinion that Grant will move towards Buffalo and, from there, across the Niagara peninsula, and then move northerly towards Toronto. With his rear covered, he would then be able to move along the St. Lawrence and towards the ocean, which would imperil Ottawa and Montreal.”

“And our generals feel that this is what Grant will do?”

“Nobody knows with certainty, Prime Minister, what someone will do until they do it. However, they feel that this course of action fits Grant's persona.” It was Palmerston's turn to laugh. “We know enough about him to discern his persona? A few months ago we weren't aware he even existed.”

Lord Russell had the nagging feeling that Great Britain might have always been better off if they hadn't heard of Ulysses Grant, but said nothing. Why add to his friend the prime ministers problems?

“From what little we do know of him,” Russell said, “he is a street fighter who goes for the jugular. There will be nothing fancy about his efforts.”

“And he is a drunk, isn't he?” Palmerston added hopefully.

“There is that rumor.”

“Then what have our generals decided?”

“Lord Cardigan already has about ten thousand men facing the United States at the Niagara peninsula. These troops are well fortified and dug in. They will be reinforced from the bulk of the army in Canada, which is currently at Toronto. It will shift westward and south to meet a threat from American Niagara and Buffalo. Not surprisingly, Cardigan has already asked for more troops. He has about twenty thousand regulars and an almost equal number of Canadian militia, which he says are totally useless.”

Palmerston walked to the large map on the wall and examined it. He quickly found Cleveland and dismissed it as anything more than what his generals said. It would be a place through which Grant's army would pass, and not launch itself at Canada.

It seemed apparent that any American attack would indeed be up the Niagara peninsula. It made no sense for the Americans to go farther eastward and toward the ocean while remaining on the south side of the St. Lawrence. British warships were present in sufficient strength to prevent any attack from that quarter. Thus, Grant and his army had to go through the Niagara peninsula.

It was also apparent that Lord Cardigan's regular army would indeed be outnumbered. Even with the strongest of forts protecting him. Cardigan would run the risk of being overwhelmed by a larger Union force, which was what Palmerston had feared since the beginning of Britain's involvement in the American Civil War. Palmerston siiently damned Cardigan for being so quarrelsome that he'd managed to offend many of the Canadians who were pro-British. He would like to have had someone else in command, but no one else had wanted the job.

This was not a new situation. Throughout England's stormy relationship with first the American colonies and now the United States, her better-qualified army and naval officers wanted no part of a war with their North American cousins. This had forced England to go with second- and third-rate commanders. In the American Revolution it had been Gage, Clinton, and Burgoyne. In what the Americans called the War of 1812, the Duke of Wellington, fresh from his victory over the first Napoleon at Waterloo, had simply declined. Palmerston wondered if the Iron Duke, now in his grave for a decade, would have declined this war as well. Probably, he decided.

At any rate, England was stuck with Cardigan in command in Canada.

“We must get him more troops, but from where?” asked Palmerston. He had hoped that the Royal Navy's dominance at sea and the Confederacy's abilities on land would have made the Union see reason. It would not be so, at least not for a while. It appeared that the Union needed another lesson.

“India,” said Russell, “and the other colonies to the extent that they have forces to spare. Again, I've spoken to our generals, and they are of the opinion that a large number of Indian soldiers could be sent to Canada. We certainly cannot send any more British regulars without weakening ourselves in India and elsewhere; therefore, we must use non-British troops.”

Palmerston agreed and gave the order. He wondered just how Indian soldiers would endure in the cold Canadian winter. He decided he didn't care, at least not overmuch. It was far more important to save Canada than to worry about some brown-skinned soldier freezing his brown-skinned arse in a Canadian snowbank.

Of course, that presumed that the reinforcements from India arrived in time, which was highly unlikely when the distances were calculated. He amended the order. Despite concerns, reinforcements would be sent to Canada from regular forces stationed in England and Ireland, while recruiting efforts were stepped up. On their arrival in Great Britain, some Indian soldiers would be sent to Ireland, while others were retained in England. This meant a time gap during which there would be precious few British soldiers in either England or Ireland. Thankfully, there was little chance of invasion by a foreign power, and the only threat was of rebellion in always rebellious Ireland. He would have to take the chance.

It occurred to him that the obstreperous Irish would hate being governed by dark-skinned Indian soldiers even more than they did by white-skinned English ones. It was a problem to be dealt with in the future. So, too. was the possibility that Indian soldiers might someday defeat an army of white men if they ever did fight the Union. Right now, though, he had to find more troops for Lord Cardigan.

“In the absence of reinforcements, what will Cardigan do?” Palmerston asked.

“He will shift westward from Toronto to Hamilton, which will put him in position to maneuver in the defense of the Niagara peninsula.”

“Very well.”

“Sir, it may come to pass that Cardigan will have to give ground,” said Russell. 'Canada is vast, and he should be allowed to do so if appropriate. To try and hold on to everything would be absurd. However, he must be compelled to understand the importance of the Niagara peninsula and Toronto. If the Niagara and Toronto defense lines fail, then American forces can move unimpeded along the Lake Ontario coast to the St. Lawrence. That must not happen. He must attempt to hold Niagara, and he absolutely must hold Toronto at all costs.”

“Again, agreed,” sighed Palmerston. This was not going as he had planned.

“Cardigan also desires more ships to protect Lakes Ontario and Erie. Right now he has only a handful of armed sailing schooners and civilian steamers that he's seized and armed. He greatly fears that the United States will build a Great Lakes fleet as it did in the War of 1812.”

“Can any ships be spared him?”

“No, and even if they could, there's no way to get them to him. Cardigan seems to have misplaced the fact that the St. Lawrence is not navigable through to Lake Ontario. The only connection between Montreal and Lake Ontario is by way of the Rideau Canal, which connects Ottawa and the Ottawa River to the lake. Sadly, it is only five feet deep.”

Palmerston sighed. “Then Cardigan must make do with what he has, or can create. At least there is one good thing in our favor.”

“And what is that, Prime Minister?”

“This Grant is an inexperienced general and a drunken street fighter. Even a mediocrity like Cardigan should take him handily.”

Russell smiled and nodded at his friend. Yet he was not as confident as Palmerston. Grant might be inexperienced, but he had shown no signs of incompetence. Also, while Russell had never had the dubious honor of fighting a drunken brawler, he understood full well that such a person could be terribly dangerous.

The water passage from Lake Michigan to Lake Erie first flows southward down the St. Clair River to Lake St. Clair, and then down the Detroit River to Lake Erie. Neither the Detroit River nor the St. Clair River are rivers in the true sense of the word. More precisely, both are straits connecting the lakes in question. Regardless of the precise geographic term, both waterways are wide, deep, and swift-flowing, and Lake St. Clair is a large body of water that would be impressive on its own merits if it weren't for the presence of the truly Great Lakes it is sandwiched between.

As a result, that portion of Canada fronting Michigan could have been easily defensible. However, the shortage of British regulars and the inadequacy of the Canadian militia meant that little had been done to prepare the area facing Michigan for war. A number of gun emplacements had been dug, but few contained cannon. Fort Maiden, just south of Detroit at Amherstberg, contained a handful, but they were obsolete. Farther north, fortifications had been dug directly across from Detroit in Windsor and fronting the U.S. batteries at Fort Wayne. An additional fort had been built in Windsor directly across from Belle Isle. There were no cannon in the Windsor fort.

Belle Isle is a good-sized island almost directly in the center of the Detroit River and only about a mile upstream from downtown Detroit. Lushly forested, Belle Isle was used for recreation by many local people. It was a very large park that they felt compared favorably to New York's Central Park. The Canadian battery had been built as a response to an American one constructed on the island.

General Ulysses Grant had made no real attempt to hide his army, at least not at first. In a nation with free speech, a free press, and a propensity to gossip, he knew he could not keep his move to Cleveland a secret. He had more than forty thousand men on the march and they did not hide very well at all.

At Cleveland, however, he sent cavalry north to Detroit to seize all telegraph and rail communications. As a result, a section of the country that was rarely heard from in the first place went silent, and no one noticed.

When Canadian observers in Windsor, the pleasant and prosperous farming and fishing town across from Detroit, caught the hubbub of trainloads of soldiers and their equipment arriving, it was too late. They frantically telegraphed Cardigan in Toronto that the enemy was at their doorstep and were told that nothing could be done to help them. The few hundred Canadian militia in the area were all that was on hand to protect Sarnia, Windsor, Amherstberg, and the scores of small villages in and around the vicinity. Even the handful of small British fighting ships were being husbanded at the other end of Lake Erie. They would not be risked against American batteries at Fort Wayne and elsewhere.

Two days after the beginning of Grant's arrival at Detroit, concerned and frightened Canadians awoke to realize that the artillery battery on Belle Isle had been enlarged overnight. Instead of a half-dozen guns, more than twenty were aimed at the Canadian emplacements.

While this message was being relayed to Cardigan, the cannon began to roar. Their shells chewed up the Canadian fortifications and damaged many of the civilian homes and businesses in the area. Fires burned and civilians fled. It was New York in miniature and in reverse.

As the bombardment raged, three steamers pulled into view from where they had been hidden behind Belle Isle. The flat-bottomed stern-wheelers were jammed with blue-coated Union soldiers, and each ship trailed at least one barge filled with infantry.

From Belle Isle to Windsor is only about half a mile, and the distance was covered quickly. The steamships nudged against the shore and disgorged their human cargo, which scampered up the gentle slope from the river. The embankment was quickly churned into mud: but it was no deterrent. Those soldiers were followed by the men in the barges. Within minutes: a full regiment had been landed and a perimeter established. Observers on the U.S. side clearly saw Union skirmishers moving unopposed through Windsor and beyond. The Canadian militia, outnumbered and totally outgunned, had prudently departed.

As the steamships returned for more human cargo, scores of smaller boats moved from Detroit to Canada, again loaded with soldiers. Within an hour a brigade was ashore and. within two, a division.

From the fire watchtower on the east side of Detroit. Nathan Hunter watched through his telescope. He was well away from General Grant, who, like McClellan at Culpeper, had far more important things to do than speak to a civilian observer.

Nathan laughed when he thought about it. He was no longer quite the civilian he had started out as. Grant had been adamant that no civilians would accompany his staff. “It^’ s bad enough that I have to have reporters tagging along, but I will not have other civilians cluttering up the place. I don't care what you did with McClellan, you will go as an officer or not at all.”

As a result, Nathan wore the uniform of a full colonel in the Union army and was attached to Grant's staff. This made him one grade senior to Rawlins. who was surprised at first, but soon got over it. Nathan carried papers supporting his appointment, and Grant had assured him of a prompt discharge, should he want one, when he wished to return to Washington. Nathan was no longer so certain that he wished such a discharge.

When he had mentioned it, Grant had laughed. “Hell, it might not matter. I don't know if it's legal for me to make you a brevet colonel in the first place, much less discharge you.”

By nightfall, construction was well apace on the first of a couple of pontoon bridges. They would be completed the next day. after which the steamers would depart for Cleveland. Grant had future plans for them.

All in all it had been a breathtaking lesson on military efficiency. Grant had utilized the extensive American rail system to transport his army and its equipment quickly, far too quickly for the British to react and respond. Then his move across the Detroit River had been as well choreographed as any dance could be.

Nathan clambered down from the tower and found Colonel John Rawlins, who yelled at him. “Damn it, Hunter, you ready to go or not? We're not going to wait for you to get your ass over here.” Irascible and profane, Rawlins was excited and in fine form. Nathan happily ignored the outburst and followed him.

Both he and Nathan clambered aboard a ship with Grant and the rest of his staff. It was time to change the army's headquarters.

It was dark when they finally crossed, and the only light came from the stars and the moon, along with a little help from hundreds of campfires, pipes, and cigarettes. The fires in Windsor had either gone out or been put out. Grant's ever-present cigar was a dim glow in the bow of the steamship.

There was a slight jarring as the steamship grounded. A long board was dropped from the steamer to the muddy riverbank. Grant ignored it and jumped in. The water was up to his knees, and the rest of his staff followed, laughing and swearing.

“You need help?” Rawlins asked in reference to Nathan's bad leg. Grant had made a point of asking about it and Nathan was surprised that Rawlins had remembered it.

“Nope.”

Like Grant's drinking, constructive activity and doing something useful seemed to drive away the pain in his leg. It had been disappearing for a long while, and now it seemed totally gone.

Nathan slipped once in the mud, but climbed the few feet up the damp and slippery embankment, where he clearly saw the destruction wrought by the bombardment. It was extensive, although he saw no sign of any casualties. Perhaps they'd been removed. Perhaps, he hoped, there hadn't been that much in the way of human suffering. He hoped not.

All around him, ships were unloading while still more units moved inland. There was no resistance, and no one could recall whether the Canadians had even fired at the invaders. A few handfuls of Canadian civilians watched stoically. Their expressions did not betray the anger they must have been feeling.

Messengers raced up to Grant, and Nathan quietly moved as close as he could to hear their reports. Fort Maiden had fallen without resistance. To the north, a small Union detachment had crossed the St. Clair River south of the American city of Port Huron and had taken the Canadian city of Sarnia.

The landings had been a complete success. There was a sense of pride and exultation in the air. The United States was taking the war to goddamned Great Britain. There would be vengeance for New York and Boston.

Alan Pinkerton crept slowly through the overgrown field towards the country house that Valerie and Henri D'Estaing called home. It was a large, rich-looking farmhouse and, since his sources in the State Department had said that Henri D'Estaing had been ordered back to France by Seward, it was a possible source of corruption and spies. It certainly had never been used as a farm recently. While the house was well kept, the fields were a collection of weeds.

He was further intrigued by the fact that, while Henri D'Estaing was not at home, his amoral wife was, and that strange widow Rebecca Devon was her guest.

In a city where human spiders spun webs of intrigue, the relationship between General Winfield Scott and Nathan Hunter led to Rebecca Devon, and then to Valerie D'Estaing and her corrupt husband. It was a path that needed to be explored. At the least, Pinkerton thought he would find that Rebecca Devon, a woman whose late husband had been as rotten as a long-dead and sun-ripened pig, was somehow involved in influence peddling. At the most, Pinkerton hoped to find information that would destroy Winfield Scott and bring General George McClellan back into favor. The country needed McClellan. He would end the war on honorable terms for the Union.

On a personal note, Alan Pinkerton, too, needed to be returned to power by McClellan, his mentor and, hopefully, his savior. Once a very important man, Pinkerton now found himself on the outside and not taken seriously. It wasn't his fault that his estimates of Confederate numbers were considered inflated and ludicrously unrealistic. He had done what McClellan had asked of him and now ridicule was his reward.

The sound of muted female laughter carried from the second-floor window, and Pinkerton wondered just what was going on. There was only one way to find out.

Slinking through a farmyard was not something Alan Pinkerton would ordinarily do himself, but he had no other operatives available for the task. Besides, he told himself, he needed to do something like this on a periodic basis to keep his hand in the game. As the head of the Chicago-based detective agency that bore his name, he had performed a number of clandestine tasks similar to this. The last time he had spied on someone directly, he had climbed a ladder to peer in the second-floor window of the Confederate spy Rose O'Neal Greenhow. Mrs. Greenhow had been arrested and awaited her fate in the Old Capital jail. She would either be hanged or deported. Either way, Pinkerton considered it a triumph.

That, however, was in the past. He needed a new coup. He also needed a ladder. He swore under his breath and walked stealthily to the barn. The door was open and he slipped in without making a noise.

Pinkerton was so engrossed in his task that he never heard the soft footfalls behind him and never felt the small sack of sand colliding with his skull until his consciousness went out in a blaze of red before his eyes.

As he lay on the ground, former sergeant Fromm first checked that Pinkerton was alive. Satisfied that he had done a good but not lethal job with his sand-filled blackjack, Fromm bound and gagged Pinkerton and slid a hood over the unconscious man's head.

General Scott had asked him to do a favor for both the general and for Mr. Hunter. He was to make life miserable for Pinkerton and discourage him from following Rebecca Devon. Fromm liked Hunter. He had given Fromm good advice regarding Bridget Conlin and he figured he owed Hunter one.

Fromm was very strong, and he easily carried the inert Pinkerton to where he'd hidden his carriage. He then retrieved Pinkerton's carriage and tied it behind his own. Mr. Pinkerton was going for a very interesting ride.

Women's laughter came from the house and, for a moment, Fromm thought he'd been seen. No, whatever it was, he decided, didn't involve him. There was more laughter and Fromm grinned. He wondered just what the devil was going on up there.

The second-floor bedroom was its own wing, which meant it had windows on three sides. Thus, even in the heat of a Washington summer, there was usually a relatively comfortable breeze blowing through. Light screening kept the insects out, so anyone within would be quite comfortable.

Rebecca and Valerie had sketched, painted, eaten, and now were enjoying a couple of glasses of champagne before turning in. Rebecca would spend the night, and a second bed had been moved into the room. The two women wore only thin robes, and the only light in the room was a candle.

“How much more time?” Rebecca asked.

“We will be leaving in about a week. There is so much more to pack that I do not think I will ever be ready.”

“I will miss you.”

“And I you.”

Rebecca took a deep breath and looked puzzled. “I feel a little light-headed. The champagne must be stronger than I thought.”

Valerie smiled. It wasn't the champagne; it was what she had added to it. “Are you warm?”

“Yes.”

“Then lie down on the bed and let me tend to you.” Rebecca lay down on the larger of the two beds while Valerie walked over to the dresser and poured a pitcher of water into a bowl. She dipped a cloth in it and wrung it out. Then she placed it on Rebecca's forehead.

“Feel cooler?”

“Yes, but I still feel like I'm drifting away. It's very strange. It's as if I'm conscious but not in control.”

“The heat has been terrible. Here, let me help you.”

Without waiting for a response, Valerie untied Rebecca's robe and guided her out of it. Then she removed her own. Again, she compared herself to Rebecca. Where Valerie was soft and rounded, Rebecca was slender, almost boyishly lean and with much-better-defined muscles, particularly in her thighs and calves. It came, she supposed, from Rebecca's habit of going for long walks that were more hikes and forced marches than gentle strolls. Thank God the fuller-figured woman appealed to most men. Valerie hated exercise like the plague.

“You're just too warm.”

Valerie took the cold, damp cloth and guided it across Rebecca's naked body, pausing to touch her breasts and thighs.

“Do you like this?” Valerie whispered. She knew her answer. Rebecca was breathing deeply, and her nipples had stiffened. “Then you will like this even better.”

Valerie dipped her hand in the water and let her cool fingers dance across Rebecca's body, pausing briefly at the burn scar on her neck and shoulder. Then she caressed Rebecca's breasts with one hand while, with the other, she slowly and gently began to explore the suddenly moist softness between Rebecca's thighs.

“Oh, God,” Rebecca moaned. It was nothing she had ever felt before. Her own body was glowing with a radiant and glorious heat. It shouldn't be happening and she knew she should stop it but she was unable to make her body move. It was as if she were paralyzed. She could only lie there and receive the pleasure that came on her in increasing waves.

“Are you happy?” Valerie asked gently.

“Oh God, yes,” groaned Rebecca in a slurred voice. Now even her tongue had betrayed her.

“Then let me make you even happier.” Valerie lowered her lips over Rebecca's breasts and began to kiss her erect nipples while she continued to caress the other woman's thighs. Within a couple of moments, Rebecca gasped and spasmed, involuntarily clamping Valerie's hand with her thighs. Valerie smiled. Rebecca had just had her first climax.

“Did you like that, little Rebecca?”

“Yes,” Rebecca managed to gasp. Her own voice sounded strange, distant. Valerie still caressed her inner thighs. “That was wonderful.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want it to be even better?”

“Yes. No. It couldn't be. Yes.”

Valerie slowly moved her face down Rebecca's belly, gently licking at her slightly sweaty skin. When she reached Rebecca's thighs, she replaced her fingers with her softly probing tongue.

Rebecca groaned, then arched her back upwards while she tried to hold on to Valerie's head with her barely responding legs. In a couple of minutes, Rebecca had had her second orgasm. A little while later, it was followed by her third, after which Valerie allowed her to sleep.

The two women sat across from each other and nibbled at their breakfasts. Both were fully dressed.

“You used me.” Rebecca said.

“I admit it.”

“What was in the champagne?”

“A mild narcotic. A derivative of laudanum. It did a marvelous job of breaking down your inhibitions, didn't it?”

“What you did to me was despicable. The drug paralyzed me and made me helpless.”

Valerie arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying you didn't like it, received no pleasure from me?”

Rebecca flushed. “Of course I did. I couldn't possibly deny it, could I? I heard myself groaning and I know what pleasures I felt. I was just so helpless to stop it. You controlled me like I was a toy, not a human being.” It had sometimes felt like she was floating above herself, or, at other moments, as if she was a bug impaled on a pin. However, she had felt exquisite pleasure, not agony. “I knew everything that was happening but was totally unable to do anything about it. But what I find most discomforting was that you never told me what you were going to do. It was a sexual ambush, wasn't it?”

“Correct again. But I couldn't give you a warning. If I had, you'd have said no, wouldn't you?”

“Probably.”

Valerie laughed. “No, not probably, definitely. But now you know what your body is like and what you can do with it. As I once told you, I was taught such matters at a much earlier age, but one is never too old to learn. I can leave for France with the knowledge that you are finally a woman.”

“You used me,” Rebecca said. “Betrayed my trust.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

Valerie smiled. “How else could I have done it? Could I have brought in a strange man to service you? Or perhaps I could have sent you to bed with Mr. Hunter and hovered over you and given instructions. No, any suggestion of mine would have been overruled by you. As it is, what happened was beyond your control, which makes you blameless. Educated, but without taint.”

Despite her anger, Rebecca saw the twisted logic. “We can never be friends again.”

“Is that your wish?”

“It is,” Rebecca said firmly.

Valerie shrugged. “So be it. I have no regrets, and, when you've had time to think on it, neither will you.”

Later, as Rebecca's carriage and driver took her home, Rebecca reflected on what truly had occurred. Valerie D'Estaing was as depraved and as amoral as anyone could be. What was truly astonishing was that Valerie saw absolutely nothing wrong in what she had done and had absolutely no regrets.

Rebecca had no desire to ever again have such an encounter with another woman. Had she not been under the influence of Valerie's narcotic, she would likely be feeling enormous guilt. As it was, she could examine what had occurred with a degree of objectivity and with only a minimal amount of shame.

Valerie was correct in one area. Rebecca's knowledge of her own body had grown from virtually nothing to great substance. She reiterated to herself that she would never permit a woman to touch her. However, a man would be different, and if Tom had been a proper husband, she would already be aware of that difference.

Rebecca closed her eyes and tried to imagine Nathan Hunter caressing her and using both his lips and his tongue on her. It was an astonishingly pleasant thought, and she found herself growing even warmer than the summer day.