Against the Tide (20 page)

And then she saw him.

Sitting two tables away, staring directly at her across the reading room of the Boston Public Library, was Alexander Banebridge.

She saw anguish in every line on his face as he sat motionless, watching her. She did not believe for a second that his presence was a coincidence. It had been months since she had seen him, but now here he was, gazing at her with all the longing of the world in his eyes.

She looked away. A sensible woman would want nothing to do with him. For months she had been staggering through life, feeling like half her soul had been ripped out because he couldn’t be bothered to take a chance on her. The temptation to walk away clawed at her. She had finally regained some semblance of a normal life, and now he was back to throw chaos into her path once again.

But if he wanted her back—if he was ready to let her live alongside him and undertake whatever risks or joys came with hitching her life to his—she needed to know.

She closed the medical book, draped her cloak over her arm, and walked over to his table. The room was silent except for the sound of the occasional turning of a page, so she lowered herself into the seat opposite him at the table, leaned forward, and spoke in a discreet whisper. “I should think you have better things to do than stare at me like a besotted teenager. It is embarrassing.”

He cocked a brow at her. “You mean because I am so much prettier than you?”

“I never should have told you that.”

His smile was a little sad. “Probably not.”

Lydia hurt at how easily they slipped back into their old banter. Bane was the only person with her same sense of humor, and it was oddly comforting just to be in his presence again. But it was dangerous as well. Not for the reasons Bane believed, but because Lydia did not know if she could withstand another rejection from him.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, praying he would say that he missed her, that he thought of her every day when he awoke and as he drifted off to sleep at night. That he made a mistake and would do anything to have her back in his life.

“I need a translator.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” she snapped in a full voice. Her words echoed off the high ceilings and marble floors, causing every head in the reading room to swivel toward her. The librarian shot to his feet and leveled her with a warning glare.

Bane leaned forward and spoke softly. “Lydia, I need you.”

“No you don’t; you need a
translator,
” she said in a fierce whisper. There were more disapproving scowls from the patrons surrounding her, but Lydia had no interest in continuing the
conversation. If Bane had asked her to board a ship with him and set sail for the edge of the known universe, she would not have hesitated. The only thing she would deny him was a request to translate a document. She headed to the door, Bane following directly behind her.

A wall of cold air smacked her in the face the moment she stepped onto Boylston Street. She jerked the ties of her cloak together and set off at a brisk march toward the nearest streetcar station.

“Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” Bane said. “There is a café across the street.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“I’m paying.”

She stopped so fast he bumped into her from behind. She glared at him. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. I lost
my job
because of you.
My apartment!
”

He blanched at her words. Since Bane was usually so cool, the sight of raw pain clouding his face rattled her composure. It made her want to console him, which was insane. She whirled away and kept striding toward the station. If she spent even another second with Bane, she would be in danger of getting drawn back into the whirlwind. She hastened her steps, darting around schoolchildren and a couple of businessmen blocking most of the sidewalk.

He grabbed her arm, swiveling her to face him. “Hit me.”

“What?”

The din of street traffic made her doubt she had heard correctly, but Bane pointed to his jaw. “Go ahead. Back up, take a good healthy swing, and smack me hard, right here. I deserve it and we both know it.”

“Don’t be asinine.”

He didn’t back down. “I am responsible for getting you into this
mess, and I’ve felt guilty about it for months. If taking a swing will make you feel better, I want you to do it. Plant me a good one.”

Busy pedestrians bumped into her. Lydia felt ridiculous, standing in the middle of a public walkway and arguing with the man who had broken her heart. “I don’t want to hit you, Bane. I don’t want to speak with you; I don’t even want to
look
at you. Just leave me alone.”

She set off toward the station, but he followed. “You once told me that you wanted to be like one of the great explorers,” he said. “That you wanted to do something important with your life, something that no one has ever done before.”

“Foolish dreams of a girl with too much time on her hands.” But for a few magical weeks she had felt like his ally in a noble crusade. It was a powerful and thrilling feeling, but now he just wanted to use her. “There are plenty of other people in this city who speak the languages you need. Go hire one of them.” She hoped the pain she felt did not show in her voice.

“I think you are the only person who can accomplish this,” he said. “The lives of at least two children depend on it, and I know you can help save them.” He spoke the words with the utmost sincerity, and despite herself, she was intrigued.

She stopped in the middle of the walk and turned to look at him, scanning his face for deception or guile. What she saw was a man who looked at her with a combination of hope and desperation.

It was maddening, but she still loved him. And she knew down to the marrow in her bones that he loved her back. Last autumn he had pushed her away because he was afraid to let her into his world. Now he was opening the door again, just a tiny crack, but it was enough. If she could wiggle her way inside, make herself indispensable, and let him see she could be brave enough to live in his world, perhaps someday he would allow her to stay. The only
way to make that happen was to reach out with both hands and prove to him she was not afraid.

“Let’s get lunch,” she said.

Unfortunately, Bane’s plan made her very afraid.

They sat in the tiny café Bane had mentioned while he explained that the admiral’s son had been kidnapped by the Professor, just as Bane had been kidnapped.

“The admiral must be devastated,” she said in a shaking whisper. No matter how harshly Admiral Fontaine had treated her, he was a fine man who loved his family. She had only seen his children from a distance, but his devotion to them was unquestionable.

“I know there is at least one other child living at the mansion,” Bane said. “The customs inspector at the port of New York lost his son, Dennis, to a kidnapping three years ago, and I believe he is still there.”

It sounded like something out of a gothic horror novel. Bane described the mansion as a remote fortress in the northern wilderness of Vermont, near the border of Canada, where the Professor stored his prized collection of rare books.

Bane had a plan for Lydia to infiltrate the mansion. “In January, the Professor bought an extremely rare manuscript, a ninth-century Byzantine Greek copy of some first-century writings, found by archeologists exploring a deserted monastery on the Anatolian Plain. He took it straight to his fortress in Vermont.”

Lydia had a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “How does this involve me?”

“Two weeks ago, I learned that the Professor is on the hunt for a translator. He wants someone willing to relocate to Vermont to translate that manuscript.”

“Impossible,” Lydia said. “Byzantine Greek is very different from the Greek language of today. I am not qualified for the job.”

Bane was not dissuaded. “Lydia, I’ve spoken to a rare book dealer who told me it is not as difficult as classical Greek. He sold me a book that has tables and charts that can help someone who is fluent in modern Greek make sense of ninth-century Byzantine Greek.” He set the thin volume on the table before her. “I know you can do it.”

Lydia opened the book and flipped to a page of Byzantine Greek text. She might as well have been looking at Chinese for all the sense she could make of it. “It would be a disaster. I can’t do it,” she said. “I could never pass myself off as some ancient scholar. He would never hire me.”

She pushed the book across the table toward Bane, but he slid it right back. “That’s where you are wrong.” Bane’s voice was unequivocal. “The Professor may
think
he is in search of an ancient languages scholar, but he can be easily distracted. Especially by someone who shares his same exuberant appreciation for rare manuscripts. All you need to do is demonstrate some basic ability, then veer the conversation toward the wonders of the rare book world.”

Lydia stared at the untouched cup of coffee before her, unable to even contemplate putting anything into her nervous stomach. “I don’t know any more about rare books than I do about ancient Greek.”

Bane did not miss a beat. “But rare book lore is easier to learn in a hurry. I will work with you and coach you on what you need to know. It won’t be difficult to land the job.”

He said it with such conviction that it was easy for her to believe him. “And once I am inside the house? What then?”

“Then the real work begins,” Bane said. “You locate where the
boys are being kept and observe their schedule. They will be closely guarded, so you won’t be able to snatch them and run. You probably won’t even be able to see or speak with them, so it will take a while for you to gather the information I need. We will devise a method for you to communicate these things to me.”

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “I won’t ever be far away.”

And that was enough to persuade Lydia. There were two terrified children out there who needed her. And Bane needed her. She would show Bane she was no trembling flower too afraid to live in his world. If she had any hope of joining her life with Bane’s, she needed to prove she was as fearless as he.

She squeezed his hand and locked her gaze with his. “Teach me what I need to know.”

22

I
t was late before Lydia returned to her boardinghouse that night.

“There was a delivery for you this morning,” her landlady said as Lydia walked in the door. “I put the package in your room. What a charming young man,” the landlady said, a flush blooming across her features.

Lydia blinked. The landlady was usually as cheerful as a hungry bullmastiff, but today her eyes gleamed and her voice was as breathless as an infatuated girl. This must be Bane’s doing. When Bane wanted to, he could charm the varnish off the hull of a ship.

Curiosity simmered as Lydia wiggled the key in the lock on her rickety door and pushed the door open. Her dingy room looked as it always did, with the sad coverlet and sparse furnishings, except for a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string sitting in the middle of her bed.

Bane’s handwriting was scrawled across the top of the package:

I couldn’t salvage your furniture, but I was able to track this down.

She pulled the string, tossed the paper aside, and saw her cherished book about Lewis and Clark.

The breath left her body in a rush. This book had been sold at the auction last autumn with the rest of her belongings. The faded dust jacket still covered the book, its papery feel comforting as she clutched it to her chest. Bane hadn’t needed to do this for her, but she loved that he had. In those difficult years when she worked at the fish cannery after leaving the Crakken Orphanage, this book had been her salvation.

As much as she longed to sink into the pages of her favorite book, the translation manual Bane had given her in the coffee shop must be her only priority. She had but a week to memorize the Byzantine Greek alphabet and grammar.

The text was frightening in its difficulty. Many of the root words looked the same, but the syntax was different. The strange letters and odd diacritical marks made no sense to her. She stared at a single sentence for ten minutes, but could not unlock its meaning without help from the transliteration tables and translation charts.

Alone in her room, without Bane’s steady resolve, Lydia felt her confidence drain away. How on earth was she going to learn Byzantine Greek in the space of a few days? The rush of anxiety felt like acid in her stomach. She stood and started pacing the narrow confines of her room, but tension still wriggled along her spine and into her arms, making it hard to stop twisting her hands. She knew this sensation well enough to accept that no amount of pacing or hand-wringing would bring relief.

In the next week she needed to learn not only Byzantine Greek but also the minutiae of the rare manuscript world. She thought it best to fight only one battle at a time, and she could battle Mrs. Winslow after rescuing Jack Fontaine. Lydia uncapped the little blue
bottle on her windowsill and took a sip, sighing as relief trickled through her. If ever she had needed courage, it was now.

Bane scrutinized Lydia’s face as she studied the antique etching of the Greek island of Seriphos. It dated back to 1790 and was not particularly valuable, but her finger was gentle as she traced the edge of the document that depicted two dragons cavorting in the sea off the coastline of the island. Her lively eyes scanned the whimsical map. “It seems a shame to give such a charming map to Professor Van Bracken. I rather fancy it for myself.”

Bane cleared the café table of books and papers as the waitress brought their lunch. For several days he had been meeting with Lydia at the Long Wharf Café to teach her about the world of ancient manuscripts and the quirks of Professor Van Bracken’s behavior.

“I’ll buy you a dozen just like it once this is over,” Bane said. “But the expression of reverence you had when you first held that document . . . work on maintaining that whenever you speak of old manuscripts to him.”

He had bought the map for Lydia to bring to her interview as a gift for the Professor. It was unconventional, but he wanted to throw the man a bit off-balance. The inexpensive antique was the perfect way for Lydia to prove she was a kindred spirit. Bane pointed to the water damage that marred one corner of the map. “Tell the Professor your father worked for a map dealer in Greece. Apologize for the shoddy condition of the map, but tell him the story of how you helped your father rescue stacks of maps and rare etchings during a flood. As a reward, the shop owner let you keep any map that was damaged. Van Bracken will love a story like that. It will make him
identify
with the map.”

“Identify with a piece of paper? You must be joking,” Lydia said.

“Not at all. Professor Van Bracken is on a crusade to rescue rare documents, whether it be from a flood or from crude people who do not value them as much as he does.”

There was so much information he needed to pump into Lydia’s head, and only two days left to do it. Van Bracken had responded to Lydia’s application for the position, and she was going to meet him at the Boston Athenaeum on Thursday morning to discuss the position.

“As other people dote on their children, Van Bracken dotes on his books,” Bane said. “You can never show too much curiosity or appreciation for his treasures. At some point in the interview, imply that people who don’t love books are ignorant. Stupid. You feel sorry for them, since they lack appreciation for such fine things.”

“I would feel a bit snobbish saying that.”

Bane shook his head. “Don’t think like that; think like Van Bracken. The Greek document he wants translated is over a thousand years old. He does not want his precious manuscript fingered by an ill-bred translator who is only looking to earn a dollar. Prove to him you are a kindred spirit.”

He studied her as she sat across from him, idly stirring her cooling cup of coffee. The morning sunlight cast glints off the russet tones of her hair. He teased her about his being the more attractive of the two of them, but truly, there was no sight he loved more than Lydia Pallas. Even the way she held her head on her slender neck was an enchanting combination of grace and undaunted strength.

He wanted to haul her into his arms and never let her go, but it would be unforgivable. Lydia was off-limits to him. It didn’t matter that she would gladly rekindle their romantic relationship, as he still could not afford to have a woman like Lydia in his life. Even her company as he tutored her in the arcane world of rare
manuscripts was a subtle kind of torture. Everything about her appealed to him. Her humor, her intelligence, even the meticulous way she arranged the cutlery on the table charmed him.

It was time to snap himself out of these thoughts. He rolled up the map and slipped it inside its tube. “Tell me how your study of ancient Greek is going.” Anything to get his mind off how much he wanted to run away to a Caribbean island with her.

Lydia pursed her lips. “I hope I never encounter the man who suggested learning Byzantine Greek was not all that difficult,” she said. “The transliteration tables are the key to decoding those unfamiliar symbols into modern Greek letters. I’ve tried to memorize the tables, but it is hopeless. It will take me at least a year to master the language. Without that book, I don’t think I’ll be able to pull this off. Is there any way I can smuggle the book into the house with me?”

Lydia’s possession of that book in the Professor’s house was problematic, but if she needed it, there was nothing else to be done. “I’ll get you the dust jacket from another book to wrap it in. Try not to flaunt it about, though.”

“You can be sure I won’t.” The tension eased from her face. When she looked at him with her cinnamon-colored eyes, laughter and warmth and love glowing behind them, he was surprised the temperature in the coffeehouse did not burn the building down.

“Quit looking at me like that.”

She didn’t stop. “Like what?” A little foot nudged his boot. He nudged back.

“None of that either,” he said. “Remember, I’m a choirboy, not some reprobate bent on leading you astray.” There was nothing he would like more, but one of them needed to be strong, and it looked as if Lydia had no intention of behaving herself.

He drained the last of the coffee in his cup. “Come on. Let’s go
explore some antique book stores.” Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to resist her if he had to focus on steering her back to the study of the intricate world of rare books.

They took a streetcar to Cambridge where they wandered the old colonial streets, darting in and out of shops so Bane could show her the sort of books and manuscripts she needed to learn about. He had already taught her the difference between a folio and an octavo, between an etching and an engraving. Reaching high onto an old wooden shelf in an antiquarian shop, he brought down a fat leather volume.

“Tell me about this book,” he said. Flipping open the cover, he pointed to the emblem of an anchor and a leaping dolphin at the bottom of the page. “What is the name of that symbol?”

She glanced at it for only a second. “A colophon. The symbol of the man who printed the volume. The anchor is Aldus Manutius’s colophon.”

“Excellent.” By heaven, he adored this woman. How had she managed to retain all the information he’d been pouring into her? He wanted to tug her into his arms and spread kisses across her face. Instead, he kept peppering her with questions. “And where did Manutius do his work?”

She did not hesitate. “Venice. Sixteenth century.”

“Touch the page and tell me what it’s made of.”

It was made of vellum, but she was resolute in her answer. She stepped so close to him he could smell the clean scent of her soap. “Parchment,” she said softly.

He froze. Her mistake shouldn’t disappoint him. He had crammed the equivalent of years of study into a single week, but still, these details would be important. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Do you want to rethink that?”

“No, Bane. It is parchment.” She slid closer and pressed a kiss
against his cheek. Bane glanced over the top of her glossy hair, but the elderly shopkeeper was distracted by a woman with two toddlers who had just walked into the shop.

He swallowed hard and took a step back. “Lydia, I need you to dig deep. Remember what we discussed about sixteenth-century bookbinding. What was the strongest, finest material used in the printing industry? What would a printer of Aldus Manutius’s caliber use?” His back was to the wall of bookshelves and she had him pinned. “I need you to quit kissing my neck and concentrate here.” How was he supposed to be noble when she was so relentless?

She smiled into his eyes. “Bane, I’m tempted to conk you over the head with that book of parchment, which is a general term for any writing surface made of pounded animal skin, but, in this particular case, happens to be
vellum,
which is a subset of parchment. You dullard.”

His sides shook with laughter, but he allowed none of it to escape his lips. “Tell me,” he said in a calm voice. “Is it the Greek side or the Turkish side that makes you so vexing?”

She winked at him. “It is the American side,” she said with a smile. “That’s who I am now.”