Page 56 of The Traitor
“St. Clair has a talent for knowing when somebody is telling the truth, and he has a talent for knowing how to make them want to tell that truth—to him.”
In Milly’s experience, this was accurate. Based on very little information, St. Clair had realized she could not read well.
“And these officers, they did not want to tell him anything?”
“Their names, their regimental affiliations—the same information they’d impart if they’d been captured in full uniform. If they told him that much, there was a chance St. Clair could negotiate a quiet and thoroughly improper ransom for them, though he was under no obligation to do so. They knew, though, that the price for that ransom was information.”
A sense of dread washed through Milly while, across the field, Sebastian clapped his gardener on the back. “He made traitors of them.”
“No, he did not. He had most of them at least nominally beaten by the guards, limited them to scanty rations and inadequate warmth. He fashioned some scheme of pain and deprivation for each man, calculated to most efficiently part that man from whatever scruples guarded his tongue. They each surrendered something to him, and in fairly short order.”
“They surrendered their honor, their self-respect, and so they must hate him for it.”
“That was his plan and his gift to them—that they suffer at his hands so they might hate him for it enough to survive, rather than hate themselves, but his plan was flawed.”
Milly waited for the rest of the explanation, while Sebastian stopped to pet the donkey. The creature would always bear scars, but it held still for a good scratching under its hairy chin—all trust had not been destroyed. There was hope.
For the donkey.
“The flaw in his plan was that he measured his captives by his own standards,” Mr. Brodie said. “Had he been taken prisoner and some truth flogged out of him, he would have understood it to be part of the normal course of war. He would not have wasted years later hating his gaolers, or hating himself for his humanity. He might hate the memory, hate all war, but not the people involved.”
“These captives of his, they hate him so they need not admit they hate themselves.”
“You perceive the problem.”
Milly understood that Mr. Brodie’s disclosures were made out of a charitable impulse, though from him it was a scarred, battle-weary version of kindness. He was acquainting her with the horror Sebastian endured daily and nightly, because Sebastian was unlikely to burden her with these truths himself.
The donkey butted Sebastian’s hand, begging him for one last scratch.
Milly folded up the little handkerchief and stuffed it among her inquires to the agencies in Yorkshire.
“The Duke of Mercia acknowledges St. Clair, Mr. Brodie. Surely that example must carry some weight with the rest of the officers?”
“Mercia was the exception. He gave up nothing, and in a sense, St. Clair guarded him more closely than any of the others—also tortured him the worst, though much of that must lie at the feet of St. Clair’s superiors. It’s not my story to tell, but you should ask him. Mercia is not to be trusted.”
This from a man about whom nobody in the household seemed to know much of anything? “Is anybody to be trusted, Mr. Brodie?”
“St. Clair has the special license.”
That was a qualified “yes.” Mr. Brodie—was that even his name?—trustedher, somewhat.
“His lordship and I are agreed a quiet ceremony will serve best. How do you know I’ll not leave him standing at the altar?” Mr. Brodie standing beside him, of course.
This question earned her a smile, a sweet, unlikely, charming smile from a man who snooped, stole correspondence, and was like no valet Milly had ever heard of.
“I can’t allow it, Miss Danforth. You’ve learned to dodge and duck, to bluff when you had to, and to remain out of sight to the extent possible. You would have been a wonderful spy, particularly given that you never forget a word of what you’ve heard. I’ve concluded, though, that St. Clair is right.”
Across the field, a homely little love-struck donkey watched her new favorite turn and stride in the direction of the bench.
“Right about what, sir?”
“St. Clair could not care less about your penmanship or your letters. What he treasures is your trust, my lady. You are acquainted with the salient features of his past, and yet, they move you to neither pity nor horror. You accept him, and he accepts you.” Mr. Brodie rose and extended a hand to her. “Don’t you think it’s time you accepted yourself?”
Milly rose, shook out her skirts, and tried to pretend Mr. Brodie’s question didn’t land at her feet like a lit Catherine wheel, sending sparks flying in all directions.
“You stole my employment inquiries because, upon reflection and after trying to talk St. Clair out of this marriage, you think I will make a passable baroness?”
“You will make an excellent baroness, and I only borrowed those inquiries. If you try to send them again, I will not stop you. But ask yourself, Miss Danforth, do you truly want to turn your back on a worthy man who esteems you greatly, and consign yourself to a life of quiet, lonely anonymity? Do you deserve only that?”
