Thad twisted the reins around his hands and clicked Electra up into an easy trot. At least the president had been alarmed by the news from Europe, but to launch an effective campaign against the British, secretaries Jones and Armstrong had to take action.
And from what he had seen, that was unlikely.
Heat welled up inside. ’Twas like April 1810 all over again. That dread expectation. That knowing he had been right but without the power to change anything. And then looking into the hollow eyes of a weary sailor and hearing the words that sealed his future. Arnaud is dead. Barbary pirates took his ship and killed everyone but me.
Now the harried script of the ambassador in Ghent. There is an outcry for vengeance. With France surrendered, the populace of England is now demanding they teach America a lesson. That they burn our cities and punish us for our audacity. Our shores will soon be covered in Redcoats again.
Four years ago, there was nothing he had been able to do. He could not go back in time and tie Arnaud to a chair to keep him from taking that voyage. He had been able only to go to his widow, hat in hand, and tell her his premonition had been right. Watch as the pain shattered her gaze and then bent her back, sending her into labor with Jack. Swear to her he would keep them safe.
He clenched his teeth together as Electra clopped her way from dusty road to cobbled street. He would not sit idly now and be ignored. He would not merely utter a prayer and then dismiss that tug in his spirit that cried Do something!
He would act.
Mother’s face filled his mind, her emerald eyes sober and gleaming with purpose. He could see her once again handing over the crate filled with their legacy. The codes she and Father had rewritten. The invisible ink they had perfected.
The mantle.
“Welcome to the Culper Ring,” she had said that day in 1811, when war was still but a whisper on the lips of sailors enraged by the impressment. “You will answer to Congressman Tallmadge, code-named John Bolton. He will refer to you as Samuel Culper III. Whenever you bring someone into the Ring, assign them a designation, either a name or numeral. But Thaddeus.”
She had gripped the crate tighter rather than releasing it. “This is no game. Only those you trust most implicitly can know about the Culpers. Anonymity is the best tool in this box.”
With that advice he had never wanted to argue. It was her next directive that had grated.
“We do not take direct action. We merely put information into the hands of those who need it.”
We do not take direct action. Thad had known that was one tenant he could not obey. It had proven itself right for Mother and Father, when action had nearly undone them, but he had learned his own lessons about what one could lose when one did not act.
The key, in either case, was to obey that Voice in the spirit, of the Spirit. That whisper that said go or stay. Act or wait. That murmur that told him now the fate of his nation could not be left solely to the politicians.
He turned down the road that was the most direct route home—and pulled Electra to a halt when he spotted the Wesleys rolling his direction in an unfamiliar wagon. “Mr. Wesley?”
Though his wife merely folded her arms and averted her face, Mr. Wesley regarded him wearily. “We are going to Canada, Captain Lane. If we can without passes. And from there, home.”
Thad’s horse shifted. “You are abandoning her?”
“’Tis hardly abandonment.” Mrs. Wesley huffed and lifted her chin. “She is safe enough, though cold-hearted and cracked in the nob.”
“Now, Georgetta—”
“The girl left her father to die, Marcus, and now she is trying to blame it on her uncle.” The woman’s sniff seemed to be holding back tears. “Next you know, it’ll be us she turns on and leaves slain somewhere.”
Mr. Wesley sighed. “I admit she ain’t been right since we got on that ship. But—”
“I’ll not stay with her, Marcus. When I think of how she ran out of that house and never once hinted at what she left behind her—” Mrs. Wesley pressed a hand to her lips, but it did nothing to contain the sob. “The poor general.”
Thad drew in a long breath as the rope within him went taut. One side pulled him to help, to calm them, to offer them whatever support he could. To convince them Gwyneth had not hurt them; she had been hurt herself. But he saw no crack in their armor. Getting through to them would take more time than they would grant him.
And he must hurry home. Gwyneth was no doubt hurting anew too.
“Here.” He reached into a saddlebag, drew out a piece of paper, and handed it to Mr. Wesley.
The man didn’t so much as unfold it. “What is this?” Suspicion saturated his tone.
“A pass to get you into British-held territory in the north. You shouldn’t encounter any problems until you near the Canadian border.”
The suspicion traveled from voice to eyes. “Why do you have one of these?”
“Apparently for such a time as this.” He urged his horse forward until he was just past the wagon’s bench. “She is not the one to blame for this, my friends. Her father was already dead. There was nothing she could have done. Nothing but obey the last words he spoke to her.”
The woman stared straight ahead. “Let us away, Mr. Wesley, before we lose any more daylight.”
Mr. Wesley tucked the pass into his pocket and picked up the reins again. Snapped them. But he at least met Thad’s eyes again and nodded.
Not enough, not nearly enough to compensate for what they were doing by leaving.
Electra snorted as he clicked her up again. “I agree, girl.” He patted her neck and let her head toward home. “It was a mite crowded anyway.”
Once he reached his house, he entrusted Electra to a grim-faced Henry, grabbed his saddlebags, and ran toward the kitchen door.
Rosie met him, a spoon in her hand and her mouth in a thin line. “You see them leaving?”
“I did.” He patted her arm and eased past her so he could put his things away before she scolded. “I gave them my pass.”
She tossed the spoon into the sink. “You should have let them get stopped. Serves them right, taking their grief out on that poor girl like they done.”
With a sigh he put a hand on Rosie’s shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “I did it not for them, Rosie Posy, but for Gwyneth. She needs nothing more to cause her worry.”
“True enough.” She stood still long enough to pat his hand and then retrieved her spoon. “You think her uncle is gonna come like she fears?”
“Hard to say without knowing why he did it.” But his gut said yes. “She isn’t alone, is she? She must be upset.”
Rosie waved the spoon in the direction of the doorway. “Your mama spent the morning with her, the two of them crying and reminiscing about General Fairchild. Your father’s with her now, reading to her, I think.”
“Oh, saints above. She may not survive it.” He ducked under the lintel and managed two strides.
“Thaddeus.” Rosie poked her head out after him. “The day had some good in it too. She slept the night through. She woke when you left, but not until. No nightmares.”
“Praise God.” It nearly soothed the fray and frustration. Nearly. He nodded his thanks and headed down the hall.
His first thought was to deposit his bags in his study before searching them out, but that whisper inside stayed him. Show her.
Thad sucked in a quick breath. Really, Lord? Now?
Nothing. If the Lord had eyebrows, he imagined He was arching them, giving Thad the look his parents had both perfected. The one that said, “If I did not mean now, would I have told you to do it?”
He lifted his hands, saddlebags and all, in silent surrender and then turned toward the sound of Father’s reading voice in the library.
“ ‘…I shall waive giving any process for it here; especially as every book which treats of the chemical pharmacy contains one.’ ”
Thad stepped into the makeshift laboratory, his gaze moving from his fa
ther, who sat in his usual chair with a book before his nose, to Gwyneth, perched at the table with pencil and unmarked paper. He let his saddlebags fall by means of announcing himself. “What are you doing, Father, trying to put her to sleep? From what Rosie tells me, this is the one day she ought not need such assistance.”
Father flashed him a grin over the tome. “’Tis The Handmaid to the Arts, Thad. Our dear Gwyneth was regretting not bringing her copy, so I found one. We are now reminding ourselves of the use of mercury in creating a fine enamel paint.”
“Riveting.”
Gwyneth put her pencil down and pushed herself up. Her lips bowed, and for once the circles under her eyes were faint. But those eyes were bloodshot, and fine posture could not overcome the stoop to her shoulders. She stepped around the table in his direction, but then drifted to a halt as if unsure she had taken the wise course. Still, her smile brightened for a second. “How was your day, Thad?”
“Frustrating, but probably better than yours. I brought you something.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin leather pouch.
A question punctuated her expression as she came a few steps nearer. “You thought to get me a present during your frustration?”
“Technically, it was before the frustration. But, yes.” For the first time in hours, he felt like smiling. “You seemed to be in need.”
She was finally close enough to take the pouch, and when she sent him a quick glance of curiosity and thanks as she opened it, he felt it all the way down in his stomach. By Neptune, she had the loveliest eyes. And they got all the more beautiful when she unwrapped the set of paintbrushes and joy lit them. “Thad—how did you know I needed these exact ones?”
“They seemed the scraggliest of your set. Did I get the sizes and shapes right?”
“Exactly so.” For a moment he thought she might embrace him, the way she leaned onto her toes and strained forward, but proper breeding apparently won out—blast it to pieces—and she merely clutched the brushes to her chest. “You cannot know what this means to me today. Or perhaps you can, as you always seem to divine what people most need.”
A snort slipped out, and Thad paced to the open window. “If only everyone agreed. Sometimes trying to convince them feels akin to bashing one’s head against a rock.”
“He is always like this after a trip to Washington City,” Father said. Normal, everyday words. But Thad heard the note of warning hidden beneath the syllables. And certainly didn’t miss the sign he made. Careful.
Thad leaned into the windowsill and folded his arms. “A letter arrived yesterday from Belgium. The ambassador in Ghent reported that the British people have been crying against us, demanding retribution for our perceived audacity. Tallmadge said—”
“Ah, good ol’ Ben.” Father all but leaped to the edge of his seat, his hard-glinting eyes belying the bright smile on his face. He brushed his right hand twice over his left fist. Enough. “An old friend of ours, Gwyneth.”
Thad sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, half wishing he could obey the silent commands. “Madison called a cabinet meeting this morning. They all dismissed his concerns.”
“And already it is the subject of gossip?” Father chuckled.
A question that deserved ignoring. “We must take action. An attack is coming, and we are grossly unprepared.”
Father’s false mirth faded to sobriety, but still Thad could see the protective wall shuttering his eyes. “There is only so much we can do, son. You can talk with the leader of your regiment—”
“There is much we can do, Father, but it is going to require creativity and something I know will make you and Mother uncomfortable—the Culpers need to act.”
“Culpers?” Though she could have no familiarity with the name, Gwyneth had obviously noted the tension pulsing in the room and had backed herself into the edge of the table. “Who are they?”
Father stood, a tic in his jaw. “Thaddeus Lane, you are not—”
“—a child,” he finished for him. “Nor am I alone in my feelings. Tallmadge agrees. It is not enough anymore to ferry information from one location to another, not when those who should be acting on it continue to twirl their thumbs!”
The clatter of wood on wood interrupted, and one of the paintbrushes rolled to his boot. Gwyneth went deathly pale, her eyes round, her lips quivering.
And she was looking at him as though he were a masked highwayman waiting to relieve her of her jewels. “You…you are a…spy?”
Father muttered a choice word—in Latin, which was all Mother ever let slide—and tossed The Handmaid to the Arts onto his chair. “Thad!”
“Spy is hardly the best word.” He couldn’t quite restrain his smile. “I am no cloaked fiend out to steal secrets and pass them to the highest bidder, sweet. Merely someone in a position to help my country by keeping its leaders abreast of the goings-on.”
“Someone who will have a tanned hide once his mother gets ahold of him.”
His father’s mumble stole his attention for only a beat. Far more concerning was the way Gwyneth shook her head as if in a trance. “Why are you telling me this?”
Father folded his arms. “Yes, Thaddeus, why are you telling her this?”
He looked from sire to guest, the answer more a certainty in his gut than a fact he could put upon paper. And all the more trustworthy for that as facts were so easily twisted. “Because,” he said, silently bidding her to meet his gaze and waiting until she did, “she is already involved.”
Fifteen
Gwyneth wished, prayed she would wake up and prove this scene nothing more than another nightmare. But despite the table corner biting into her palm, the image wouldn’t waver. Instead, Thad’s words kept echoing through her head.
How could it be true? She tried to draw in a breath deep enough to soothe, but an invisible hand pressed on her chest.
Thad was a spy. Whatever he wanted to call it, that was what it came down to. That was why he heard so often from all his sailor friends. That was why Mr. Whittier had sought him out in his last moments. That was why he disappeared at odd hours. Because he was involved in espionage. Perhaps not the filthy kind, perhaps not for gain. But still he went slinking around in the dark, still he passed along information to those for whom it was not intended. Still he sought to undermine the British cause. Not openly, honorably, on a field of battle, but underhandedly.
Why, then, did her feet still want to pull her his way?
She gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles ached. “I most certainly am not involved.”
“Not willingly.” Thad pushed off the windowsill, and for half a pulse she feared he would come to her.
He walked past, to the door, and her heart sighed in disappointment. Fickle thing.
A moment later she heard him opening one of his saddlebags, though she didn’t turn to watch. Couldn’t. What did it matter what he was pulling out? Culpers. The name still reverberated, though she had no notion why it would or what it mattered.
“This arrived on the same ship as the news from Belgium.” His voice drew nearer again, but then his steps halted. “Mother, there you are.”
Gwyneth finally convinced her head to move, though the rest of her frame remained rigid. Mrs. Lane entered the room with caution in her step, her gaze wary. Her eyes were still red rimmed, her lovely face swollen with grief.
Tears threatened Gwyneth’s eyes yet again at the sight. It had been a solace to grieve with someone who mourned Papa as well. She had felt, sitting beside Mrs. Lane on the couch, as if she had a real friend again, someone who could be there when she so desperately needed Mama.
Now she wished she could spare her this truth about her son.
“What is it?” Despite the evidence of her sorrow, Mrs. Lane’s gaze was sharp as she glanced around the room. “Tell me there is no more bad news.”
Thad merely cleared his throat and motioned for her to move toward his father. “I was about to explain to Gwyneth and Father ho
w, whether she wished to be or not, Gwyneth is irrevocably involved in our Culper business.”
Our? Gwyneth sagged against the table. They could not possibly all…
“Thaddeus.” Mrs. Lane’s outrage rang differently than Gwyneth had expected. “This had better be an exceptional explanation.”
Thad lifted the folded paper in his hand. “Like this, perhaps? ‘When we captured the ship, one rather smirking sailor told us there would be no stopping the British now that their forces were free from Europe, especially after the murder. I asked him what in thunder he meant by that, and he made mention of a beloved general, slain in his home. Said he heard from the lips of the general’s brother-in-law, who holds a government office, that an American spy was most likely responsible, and that he planned to personally see to retribution.’ ” He lowered the page and captured Gwyneth’s gaze, though she tried to look away before he could. “Sound familiar, sweet?”
She shook her head, sending a loose curl to irritate her cheek. “I have no uncle in the government. Two are in the House of Lords, but that is not exactly an office.” Although a beloved general, slain in his home…who else could it possibly mean? There was no other general so beloved in England.
“I believe you do, in fact.” He folded the page, his every move slow and quiet, as if she were a rabbit he feared startling away. “There is a Gates in the Home Office. I was not sure at first it was your Gates, but I have been convinced.”
“The Home…” Her head would not shake quickly enough to show how completely she rejected that idea. “Nay. My uncle is a…a writer.” Was he not? I deal in words, he had said. What if…? What if those words were not written in some Gothic novel, but in…this?
Images flashed, lightning-fast portraits, frozen in time. And then Papa’s accusation came back to her. The Home Office has decent men in it yet. A few at least, though you are not one of them.
How, why had she forgotten that so long? Her knees wanted to give way, but she held fast to the table. If she let herself fall, Thad would be at her side in a heartbeat. He would lift her and carry her to the couch. Touch her face and smooth her hair.
Whispers from the Shadows Page 13