by Don Jacobson
“And, I tell you both…if the safety of the nation counted on the Prince Regent’s sudden and permanent demise, I would pull the trigger myself! Nobody is indispensible.
“However there is an alternative, a second option that will be dangerous but not necessarily lethal for any on our side.”
Fitzwilliam’s plan was audacious, yet once outlined, stunning in its simplicity. It gained strength by playing upon the central assumption held by Winters and his master. The Cecils were assumed to be operating under the mistaken impression that the original attack was a random event and would have lowered their guard as a result.
The inside man—Winters—would defeat any defenses in place. He would overpower the single maid assigned to monitor Margaret during the overnight hours. Since the House was operating under normal Town rules with no additional security beyond locked doors, Winters would be able to move his hostages from the opposite—and unexpected—direction; going out instead of in.
All in the library agreed that their biggest strength was Winters’ complacency. He would be so confident of success that he would not anticipate any sort of resistance to his activities. Fitzwilliam believed that the as-of-yet-unidentified ringleader would be guilty of the same failing.
“I think ringleader will be so certain that Winters will carry it off that he will be less alert than he might be otherwise.
“That will work in our favor, as he will not suspect what we have up our sleeve. He seems arrogant enough to assume that his plans are foolproof.
“I am hoping he will ignore the first military dictum; that of knowing the ground of battle. Do you think the Duke just popped onto the heights of Mont St. Jean on the morning of June 18th and said, ‘Oh, this a pretty place?’ No, he had Uxbridge and me scouting that spot for two days knowing that Quatre Bras, Wavre and Ligny were all battles designed to push Bonaparte to that dot on the map we know as Waterloo.
“However, I have to remind you that the master is our target, not Winters.
“If Winters is a one-page letter of news and gossip, his leader could be the Encyclopedia Britannica, filled with in-depth articles about the espionage networks infesting the country. We will need to tread delicately to catch this delightful fish.
“Thus, we cannot betray our foreknowledge to Winters for fear he will bolt and alert the spy.”
After his summation, the General dropped heavily into his chair and stared into the remains of the fire guttering in the hearth. Annie and Henry sat on the sofa, their minds racing at the implications of the plan. After a few minutes, Annie stirred and caught Fitzwilliam’s eye. He nodded for her to proceed.
“My Lord…your plan is sound, but you have identified one problem and ignored another. You need solutions for both.
“While I imagine Mr. Wilson could hold his composure throughout the day tomorrow, I seriously doubt if I could be trusted not to claw out that cockroach’s eyes at the first opportunity. That would put paid to catching the infiltrator.”
At Fitzwilliam’s prompt, she continued with a demure dip of her head, “I do have an idea that may keep me out of the way.
“Am I correct in thinking that your visit to Miss Bennet’s uncle was successful—that he agreed to your courtship? Then, perhaps, you might anticipate an engagement by seeking to establish yourself in your own home. Perhaps you might go house hunting tomorrow…and take Mr. Wilson and me with you. Our presence would be necessary because you, having lived under canvas for fifteen years, have no idea about stables, kitchens and furnishings.”
Fitzwilliam sat back and admired the young lady’s maid calmly sitting across from him with her ankles primly crossed and hands folded in her lap.
How like her Aunt—quick on the uptake, and having accepted the mission, dealing with the small things just like Colonel Hogan…and of such small things intelligence victories and disasters are made.[xxxvi]
“T’is true Annie. Mr. Gardiner gave me permission to court Miss Bennet. T’is also true that my mother, the Countess, ironically yet again just this morning, has made rather broad and repeated suggestions that while she loves me dearly, she feels that a man of my advanced years should not be living in his mother’s house.
“This would give us good cover for some preparations that we must make. I will secure Lady Mary’s permission for you to accompany me.
“Now what was the second item—the one unmentioned?”
Annie hunched her shoulders, showing her distaste for her next thoughts, “A central part of the plan is for Winters to actually drug Miss Margaret and then force the maid to carry the child from the room.
“I fully appreciate that we do not want Miss Margaret sensible at any time, even though she will never leave the house. The fright she would receive might scar her for years. So I have no objection to ensuring that she is sound asleep…even if that slumber is drug-induced.
“Frankly, my Lord, Winters is a cretin. Do we know what drug his master gave him? What promise do we have that Winters will not, even unintentionally, administer a fatal dose?
“We cannot allow Miss Margaret to drink anything prepared by Winters’ hand. I think you understand what I am saying, my Lord.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. He whistled below his breath and said, “Sergeant, take this woman’s words to heart. They say that the female of the species is deadlier. Your Miss Reynolds has just argued that we ourselves must drug the child tomorrow evening.
Chapter XIX
December 2, 1815, London
The day dawned clear and cold, but also early, perhaps earlier for Anne and Henry given that neither had slept after the council of war in the library had broken up around two o’clock. They had relieved Sarah and Michael in the family quarters shortly after sunrise, but had little to do until Miss Margaret and Miss Bennet awoke. Henry had taken his post by the Miss Bennet’s door and could easily observe any activity down the hall at the child’s chambers. Annie busied herself in Miss Bennet’s dressing room.
The house was still quiet when she slipped out into the hallway and approached Wilson.
Anne could feel his aura as she moved closer to the tall footman. A sense of quiet confidence and utter dedication spread around him. Walking into it relaxed her nerves and settled the butterflies batting around beneath her ribs. Her fear for the upcoming operation disappeared to be replaced by something approaching joy as she watched a brilliant smile split his tanned face.
Keeping her voice low, she addressed him, “I know it is your military training, Mr. Wilson, but how can you look as if you got your full eight hours even though we did not turn in but a few hours ago?”
He chuckled, “The Army taught me many things, Miss Reynolds, but amongst the most useful was how to drop off to sleep quickly and, barring bad dreams, sleeping soundly. In fact, old hands like Daniel Hagman and Pat Harper would nod off when Cap’n Sharpe would give us five minutes during a quick march. That and eating when and what we could made the 33rd a nasty surprise to the frogs when we would show up where they least expected us.”[xxxvii]
Anne, in her youth and inexperience, could not imagine the hardships Sergeant Wilson had endured over the past decade. Whatever they had been, each nick and scar had shaped a kind and dedicated man with a warm sense of humor. He had risen above what might have ground others underneath its hardened wheels. She loved how his eyes crinkled when he smiled and squinted tightly when he threw his head back in mirth. And last night…the way he had cradled her in the circle of his powerful arms as she had trembled in fear…left her wondering just how deeply his tenderness would run.
But she had little doubt that he could be equally ferocious if those he loved were threatened. The rocks and shoals of this man intrigued her as much as the rich flowing currents of his gentle regard.
Rewarding his candor with a smile of her own, she brightly replied, “Well, I imagine I should get on with checking in on our little girl. Miss Margaret, like us, is going to have a busy day.”
He watched her gently sas
hay down the hall.
She puts on a good show, but Miss Reynolds is as worried as I am about the outcome of our deception.
Securely bundled against the cold breeze, Reynolds and Wilson waited out in front of the house for Fitzwilliam. Although the coach had already been brought around, neither presumed to enter it in spite of the cold blast that drove the few remaining leaves from the trees opposite where they stood.
The General frowned as he jogged down the front stairs.
“Wilson,” he admonished, “Why have you not assisted Miss Reynolds into the carriage. She will catch her death standing out here in the wind!”
Wilson calmly regarded his commander before responding, “General, sir, no disrespect intended, but that is something just not done. If this had been my carriage, Miss Reynolds would have been safely inside, her feet atop two heated bricks.
“You forget, sir, that I am but a servant here at Cecil House. I own neither horse nor a coach. Putting on airs like that would be a sure path for both myself and Miss Reynolds to be severely disciplined.
“However, if you had ordered me to hand Miss Reynolds up into the carriage while we waited for you…”
Richard realized the correctness of Wilson’s modest reproof.
Just as the attics and the kitchens are off limits to the gentry, so too are the comforts of a warm coach with the Cecil coat of arms on the door barred to servants. The sooner we start to break these hidebound rules of privilege, the sooner this country will move ahead!
“My apologies, Miss Reynolds, for not attending to you sooner. I assumed that you would be able to shelter yourself and would not be inconvenienced while I dallied over my coffee.”
Annie’s eyes widened to hear an aristocrat offer his regrets to a servant.
The General is a different sort. He is not so full of himself to think the rest of us to be dirt beneath his boots. He will be good for Miss Bennet…and perhaps he is the only type of man who could stand up to her spirit.
She tried to minimize. “General, it is nothing. Recall that I was born and raised in Northamptonshire. While not as chilly as your native home further north, when the wind comes rolling down from Derbyshire, we lean into it!”
Fitzwilliam let out a guffaw, “All right, Miss Reynolds, I will grant that you are a hardy example of Midlands’ womanhood. However, I will not have one of my recruits freezing herself to the pavement. From now on, when we travel together, you and any other female in our company will enter the coach to be warm and safe. Am I clear on that?” Annie nodded her agreement.
With seating proprieties sorted, the threesome embarked on their expedition.
As they settled into the squabs, Richard gazed across at the couple. His business was a dark one. Few, if any, he encountered in his line of work could ever be trusted to act in the nation’s interest without fail. The majority of Fitzwilliam’s class worshipped at the altar of Mammon—bowing before any master who would line their pockets and allow them to pursue their basest desires. He had tried many, but found them wanting.
Some had been sent back to their estates unaware that their failings had betrayed them. Others simply vanished—‘lost at sea’ was a favorite excuse—when their perfidy was uncovered. Only three had been given the grace of dying in the face of enemy fire. One or two had been publicly exposed, their estates and wealth becoming forfeit prior to their date with the hangman at Tyburn.
However, Wilson and Reynolds were different.
The big man’s loyalty to the nation had been forged in fire and blood. While there would be those who would scorn the circumstances of his birth, Fitzwilliam believed that he discerned true nobility in Henry Wilson. He imagined Wilson on St. Crispin’s Day striding on the fields of Agincourt as one of Henry V’s men at arms, his rich blue eyes locked on the French Marshal’s ensign. Bathed in the glorious light of victory, he would have become one of Britain’s greatest knights, celebrated in song and story.
Wilson’s loyalty had been tested that day a month ago. He could have crumbled, but he did not. He put another before him. Like the Last Centurion, he had stood guard over Miss Bennet without respite.[xxxviii] The danger to Kitty may have passed, but Wilson would never again allow his vigilance to slip.
Then there was his love for the little Lady’s Maid. He may not admit it yet, but Henry Wilson loved Annie Reynolds. Fitzwilliam knew because he, himself, deeply loved.
Nation, mission, and soul: these three made Wilson’s faithfulness unquestionable.
As for Miss Reynolds: Fitzwilliam had been surprised by her cleverness and her intuitive grasp for the tactics of subterfuge. Her resolve grew out of her almost monomaniacal devotion to her charges—Miss Margaret and Miss Bennet. While a threat would have to face Wilson first, Richard did not doubt that Annie would find a way to drive off an attacker.
She had taken in the Cecil family’s dedication to the Cross of St. George with her mother’s milk. For more than 240 years, one or more Cecils had protected England from foreign foes—always the French, but at different times the Spaniards, the Prussians, or the Russians. Annie Reynolds, although not a Cecil, was of that milieu.
Even as the coach clattered across the rough cobbles of London’s ancient streets, he could feel a steadiness radiate from her. There was no missishness, no female fluttering even now. Across from him sat a girl, mature but still only a few years away from that endearing coltish stage. Yet, Annie Reynolds was only a few hours away from playing a central role in a critical operation. Where did she find the strength? Fitzwilliam suspected that it was rooted in the fact that she had been born below stairs and not to pampered privilege.
She was more than just herself when she was with Wilson. He completed her—something utterly remarkable in one so young. Richard could sense the regard with which she held the Sergeant. She, too, was in love. And, in her heightened self-awareness of the moment, knew it and was totally satisfied.
Whatever game the Fates had played, bringing Annie Reynolds, Henry Wilson and Richard Fitzwilliam together would ultimately ensure the safety of Great Britain for the next 30 years.
Chapter XX
December 2, 1815, Cecil House
The sun had been down for over three hours when the gong rang out to remind the ladies and gentlemen to dress for dinner. Sarah’s task was to bathe Miss Margaret and prepare her for bed while Annie tended to Miss Bennet.
After the celebratory dinner honoring their courtship, the General had escorted Kitty back to the Gold Suite. However, his work was far from over. Just as he had considered and accepted Henry and Anne’s unswerving allegiance, so too had he measured Kitty’s fidelity. Her self-sacrifice, coupled with her Hertfordshire sensibility, convinced him that she could accept all of his secrets.
Sitting by her right side in the small sitting area of her chambers, he calmly related what was to occur over the next few hours. He included Annie in his conversation with Kitty.
Kitty looked across at her maid with the deepest respect before speaking, “Oh Annie, I have been thinking long and hard on what happened over a fortnight ago. Over that time, I became convinced that there was more to it than just some criminal taking advantage of an opportunity.
“What a wonder that you overheard Winters and that awful man. How horribly frightening it must have been for you! Thank the Lord that you were not discovered!
“I am worried that you are placing yourself in danger again. Richard is there really no other way?”
Fitzwilliam looked first at Annie and then at Kitty before replying.
“No, I fear not. We spent hours talking this over. The danger to Miss Reynolds is somewhat elevated, but only in the distance from Margaret’s room to here.
“As for the child, before returning home this afternoon, we visited my Leftenant Quartermain at our offices in Jermyn Street near the Haymarket. Q is also in charge of our toy department. He provided a sleeping agent that will be safe for the wee one.[xxxix]
Kitty gazed at her love and her friend as a tear slowly made its way down her cheek.
Around half eight, Winters left the kitchen bearing a tray holding Miss Margaret’s special cup and a small pot filled with heated milk. Mounting the back stairs, he stopped at the first landing and carefully set down the tray. He removed a vial from a pocket and emptied its contents into the pot. Then he pulled off a glove and stirred the warm brew with a grimy forefinger that he then wiped on his pants before continuing up the stairs.
Exiting into the carpeted hallway, he schooled his features and regulated his breathing.
Nuthin’ out o’ th’ ord’nary. Jist keep cool.
He passed the Gold Suite and heard Sarah chatting with Miss Bennet on the other side of the closed door.
Arriving at Miss Margaret’s chamber, he softly knocked. Annie spoke through the door to him, “Yes? Who is it?”
“T’is Jonas, Reynolds. I ‘ave Miss’es warm milk.”
“Oh, thank you. I am just readying her for bed. Please leave it on the table. I will gather it as soon as I finish.”
Winters grimaced but realized he could not force the issue. Annie would make sure the youngster got the drink while it was still warm. He left the tray on the short table next to the door and returned the way he came.
As the sound of the back stairwell door clicking shut echoed down the hall, the portal opposite Margaret’s softly opened. Wilson, clad entirely in black, stepped out, crossed the hall and picked up the tray. Retreating back into the Blue Suite, he faced the General who motioned him over. Richard carefully lifted the pot and poured its contents into a commode.