Wrapped

by Jennifer Bradbury

  So at the appointed time, I found myself in my presentation gown, lined up with so much other silk and lace just outside a ballroom at the palace.

  “You look remarkably well, Agnes,” Julia said to me as we gathered in the hallway outside the grand room.

  I wasn’t sure if she meant in spite of my ordeal or if she was simply paying me a compliment. “Thank you, Julia. And so do you.” We did look beautiful, and under different circumstances, I’d have been thrilled to be here, to be sharing this moment with her, to be as perfect as Mother had been preparing me to be in a dress that was made in every detail for me. . . .

  But it all felt a bit hollow. A bit like it was missing something. As if the story I was about to settle into would always pale next to the memory of the brief, wonderful chapter I’d just concluded. Would there ever be that kind of adventure? That feeling of partnership? That . . . love?

  “I’m so sorry about Showalter,” Julia said quietly, nervously fingering the gold pendant at her neck.

  I leaned in close and whispered into her ear. “I’m not.”

  She drew back wide-eyed in shock at my words. But when I smiled and winked, she relaxed and began to giggle. “Is it speaking ill of the missing or whatever he is to say that I never thought him your equal?”

  Father had sworn me to secrecy on Showalter’s true nature, but this once, I couldn’t resist. “Nothing you say about him could be too unkind.”

  At that, Julia shook her head. “I should be upset with you for making it harder for the rest of us again.”

  “You’ll find someone perfect,” I said to her. “And Rupert will let himself be caught soon enough if you’ll consent to have him. Besides, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll marry at all.”

  “Agnes Wilkins! Don’t say such things!”

  I laughed. But the doors opened and I saw the porter whisper to someone standing inside the room, who then turned and announced the first girl in our procession.

  “Miss Emily Woodhouse!” he shouted, as a terrified and glamorous young woman stepped forward into the ballroom and passed from our sight.

  “I’m so glad I didn’t have to go first,” Julia said after a long silence in which we imagined the girl making her way through the room.

  I nodded. “Suddenly I just want to remain out here—”

  “Miss Agnes Wilkins!” the voice boomed.

  Oh dear.

  I stepped out of my place in line and shot a nervous backward glance at Julia. She smiled encouragingly and clapped her gloved hands silently.

  And it began. Faces of every age stared as I did my best to sail down the open pathway in the center of the ballroom. I caught Mother beaming in the crowd about halfway down. Rupert stood behind her, and I daresay even he looked a bit proud.

  Father was nowhere to be seen.

  Most of the other faces I saw as I moved toward the prince seated at the far end of the room belonged to strangers. My train glided on the polished marble floor behind me, and I was glad that Mother had relented on the longer one, glad that I didn’t add to the spectacle of the moment by requiring someone else to come along behind me to carry the end of my dress.

  And then there were the faces of the young men and other chaperones. They bore the same appraising looks I’d seen when Father had let me accompany him to a horse auction when I was small. The feel of their eyes and the thought of the judgments they formed in their minds made me want to turn and bolt from the hall, leaving every one of them behind.

  But this was the life I was born to. The one I’d prepared for. And aside from my recent adventure, it would be the only one I’d ever know.

  I told myself I should feel blessed to have an audience with the prince regent. Not every debutante enjoyed such a privilege. But as I drew nearer and my nerves grew more frayed, my anger grew warmer at the injustice of it all. I was having very little fun by the time I curtsied deeply just a few feet from where the prince stood.

  I studied the gleaming floor below. Saw my face and the width of my dress reflected back at me and waited. Waited for the prince regent, the sovereign of England, to dismiss me and commend me into adulthood, marriage, children . . . duty.

  But instead of merely nodding and smiling as I was told he would do, the prince moved toward me.

  A current rippled through the crowd behind me.

  But still His Excellency moved forward. I kept my eyes down, staring at the gleaming leather of his fine boots as whispers grew to murmurs.

  And suddenly the prince spoke low in my ear.

  “Well done, Miss Wilkins,” he said simply. “Extremely well done.”

  I was so confused that I forced myself to look up at his face. His expression remained that royal mix of stoicism and superiority, but his eyes sparkled. He gave a slight nod, and then leaned in again.

  “There’s someone eager to meet you in the salon. An escort is awaiting you through the door to your left. There will be a distraction. Take your opportunity to exit then.”

  I nodded, unsure of what else to do but rise from my curtsy. He took two steps backward as I retreated slowly away and moved to join the first girl, who was now positioned against a bank of open doors lining the west wall. I could feel her staring at me, wondering what I’d done to merit the breach in the evening’s prescribed events.

  I avoided her gaze and the stares of the rest of the room. The porter announced another girl, but half the eyes in the room stayed fixed on me. How was I ever to slip out?

  Four more girls were announced and entered until we were standing in a cluster at the side of the room. I made sure to position myself in the rear of this small pack, my back to the door. But still I felt the stares of the crowd, even the sideways glances of the other girls, all wondering what the prince had said to me, why he’d singled me out.

  And still I waited for the promised distraction. Just when I was sure I had missed it, the porter announced the next girl. I looked up to see her standing in the doorway, saw her take her first steps into the room.

  But I saw something else. I saw the poor girl’s train find its way beneath the foot of the porter, saw the girl lurch when the fabric held fast, pinned against the floor, her arms flying out as she fell into the crowd of onlookers.

  And I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the porter wink.

  Certainly I couldn’t hope for a greater opportunity. All eyes were now on the unfortunate girl, which meant that no one observed my exit.

  I slipped as quietly as I could through the doorway. It was more difficult than usual owing to that infernal train, but I managed without being seen. And if I had been, I hoped anyone paying attention would chalk it up to nerves at my strange preferential treatment by the prince regent.

  “This way,” Miss Dimslow said, taking my elbow.

  “You?”

  “I’m the relay,” she said. “There’s someone you need to talk to.”

  “You’re not really just a chaperone, are you?” I asked. And then I saw Miss Dimslow smile for the first time.

  “No more than you’re just a debutante.”

  She escorted me down the hall, the music from the ballroom fading. We stopped in front of a closed oak door.

  “I’ll wait out here,” she said, reaching for the knob and pushing it open.

  “Thank you,” I began as she thrust me inside and shut the door, barely avoiding sealing it on my skirts in her haste.

  The room was dark, only a pair of lamps lit in a corner beyond the table.

  “So sorry to steal you away like this, Agnes, but it was the only way to arrange a meeting without raising suspicions.”

  “Father!” I cried, running toward him.

  He nodded, took my hands, and raised them to his mouth for a kiss. Then he pulled back and studied me at arm’s length. “You are stunning, daughter,” he said. “Absolutely stunning.”

  Someone else cleared his throat.

  I turned and was surprised to find two more men standing in front of their chairs by the
hearth. The first commanded my attention at once—because it was impossible to ignore the high military dress, starched collar, and decorated jacket. He seemed to take up far more room and space than just his simple form allowed. He was no broader than my father, and certainly no taller, but all the same, he seemed to carry with him the confidence and spirit of ten men.

  Before I could inquire as to his name, I noticed his companion. I broke into a broad smile and walked briskly over. “Deacon!”

  He returned my smile, accepted my embrace, and laughed quietly. “Miss Wilkins,” he replied.

  “Deacon, I tried to write to you at the hospital, but my letter was returned. They claimed you’d been released, but they had no way to forward it to you, and when I sent a note with a messenger to your lodgings near the Tower—”

  He raised a hand to silence me. “I’m sorry to have worried you. But you should know that your adventures of late have left a great many of us scrambling to keep up. I’ve been very busy filing reports on your and Caedmon’s behalf,” he said, patting my hand gently. The bandage from his head had been removed, a raised pink scar curving over his eyebrow the only visible remnant of his interview with Tanner.

  “Are you well?”

  “Quite, miss, quite,” he said.

  “And Caedmon? You’ve heard from Caedmon, then?”

  “Patience, Miss Wilkins. We’ve very little time before you’re missed at court, and there are much more important things to discuss at present. Allow me to introduce you to Sir Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of—”

  “Wellington,” I whispered. I turned to face the man credited with the strategic genius of defeating Napoleon at Waterloo. The man whose name I’d heard spoken in reverent hushed tones through Father’s grate. The hero of all England.

  I bent my knees, afraid they might fail beneath me, and managed a semblance of a curtsy. Wellington accepted it, allowing a tight smile. “Miss Wilkins.”

  Father led us to the sitting area clustered around an ebony table, where a tray bearing a bottle of port and four glasses sat. I perched on the edge of the small sofa next to my father, opposite Deacon and Lord Wellington as they settled into winged chairs.

  Wellington’s eyes fixed on me for a long moment before anyone spoke again. Finally he said simply, “Extraordinary.”

  I looked nervously to my father, fearful I’d done something wrong. But my father looked at ease, smiling as if I’d just played him a tricky piece on the forte.

  “Pardon, sir?” I asked.

  “How many years have you?” Wellington asked, the Irish accent in his voice like one of Deacon’s scars—all but gone.

  “Seventeen, sir,” I said quietly.

  “And how many languages?”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Languages you speak? How many?”

  I was confused. “Ten, sir.”

  He nodded. “You’ve learned some of them on your own?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Now he looked to Deacon. “When you told me what this girl had done . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose I expected her to at least look a bit older.”

  Deacon smiled, the same proud smile my father wore.

  “Tell me it all again,” Wellington commanded, in a way that made me know what it might mean to be in his service and receive an order. I did so, relating how I found the key, how I stumbled on Caedmon, and how together we recovered the standard and delivered it safely to my father.

  “How very fortunate she happens to be your daughter,” Wellington said as I concluded.

  “None so fortunate as I for that,” my father said so softly he might have been talking to himself.

  Wellington nodded his assent, and then surveyed me again. “Extraordinary,” he repeated. “Do you know how many men have tried and failed to do what you and Mr. Stowe have accomplished?”

  “I’m sure I only did my duty, sir,” I said, starting to feel embarrassed at his praise.

  “But few mortals enjoy a duty that allows them to save the lives of thousands of others, to have a hand in the defeat of the world’s greatest tyrant, to preserve the crown and glory of England herself.”

  “I’m sure my contribution pales in comparison to those who fought at Waterloo, or sail with the navy like my brother, or any who know their duties as patriots—,” I began before he cut me off.

  “My dear,” he said. “You’ve something singularly rare. Something far less common than mere duty.”

  I couldn’t speak as I looked to Father. He merely nodded and smiled.

  “Did you enjoy searching for the standard?” Wellington asked.

  I glanced at Deacon quickly before turning back to my father, afraid of embarrassing him with my response. But lying to Wellington felt a bit like lying to God Almighty himself. “I did, sir,” I said. “Even the dangerous bits.”

  He nodded. “I suspected as much. And don’t for a moment believe that your contributions were not vital in that damned Frog’s defeat. If he’d had that standard, I can’t begin to think what might have happened. Certainly his men would have fought like animals even more than they did. And if it could do what it is rumored to be able to . . .” He trailed off, all of us imagining that grim possibility.

  “But we’ll never know. England won’t use it, won’t trifle with things of that sort. England will win her battles on the conviction of its principles, the justness of our cause, and the favor of the Lord, nothing more,” he promised.

  “Hear, hear,” my father said.

  “Of course, sir,” I said meekly, realizing that even Wellington believed in the power of the standard, in the possibility of the supernatural. “Then the standard has been hidden again?”

  He nodded, studying me, those stern, dark eyes looking down the considerable length of his elegant hooked nose.

  “If I had my way, we’d melt it down for cannon shot, but I’m satisfied it is as secure as it can be.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “Then you’ll be relieved to learn that all traces of its former whereabouts have been erased,” Deacon said. “The obelisk from Showalter’s garden has been destroyed. They’ve even amended the Rosetta Stone so that partial glyph that led to your and Caedmon’s breakthrough is no longer visible. Even the Ptolemy references have been, well, taken care of.”

  “You’ve altered the Stone?” I said, aghast.

  “Not so much that it matters. And not so much that any of the rubbings that exist won’t look like they simply missed a few marks here and there,” Deacon said apologetically.

  “Allow me to return to an earlier point,” Wellington interrupted. “You seem to have some passion for languages; your father tells me you are inclined to travel, and you have demonstrated and admitted to an appetite for the sort of intrigue that led you to do what you call your simple duty in England’s service.”

  I nodded.

  “Miss Wilkins,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, his brown eyes finding a kinship in mine, “you have discovered the rarest of gifts among men. For when duty and passion align, they produce a calling. And I submit to you, that your calling has found you.”

  I thought of David’s words regarding his own service. Tears stung at my eyes.

  “Sir, I appreciate your confidence, but I cannot imagine what this might mean for a young woman in my position.”

  “If I may?” Deacon interrupted, looking to the duke for permission. He nodded his assent.

  “I believe what Sir Wellesley is saying is that England might have use for someone of your unique abilities. A place where the calling he speaks of might be fully realized, should you be so inclined to exercise those gifts in further service to the Crown.”

  I turned to Father. Now his eyes were rimmed with tears, but the smile remained.

  “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “We’d like to engage your services,” Wellington said. “Deacon’s been pressing me for years that women could play a more active role in intelligence, and after what you’v
e done, I’m inclined to allow him to expand our ranks. Besides, that damned Blalock woman had half of London fooled, so there’s something to be said for the fairer sex dabbling in the game. Not to mention the indispensable Miss Dimslow.”

  “Miss Dimslow?” I said.

  Deacon nodded. “Uncommonly resourceful, that one. Does frightening things with knitting needles. You’ll learn a great deal from her.”

  “You mean . . .” I couldn’t finish.

  “Nothing untoward, you understand, but we feel your talents and disposition make you an ideal candidate for the kind of work we find we need done,” Wellington explained.

  “Intelligence?” I whispered. “You want me to be a spy?”

  “It’s far more complicated than all that, but in short, yes. We believe there are ways for you to continue making the kinds of contributions you have made of late,” Deacon said.

  I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. “Does this mean that you’ve been reinstated?”

  He smiled and cast his eyes down. “In a manner of speaking. Seems your adventure resulted in my redemption as well.”

  “But how would I manage to explain to Mother or our friends and neighbors my unlikely choice of vocation?”

  “Oh, you’d explain nothing to anyone!” Wellington thundered. “And in any event, the terms of this conversation are to be guarded with the utmost secrecy. As far as explaining, your recent . . . misfortunes . . . regarding your intended actually prove quite fortuitous.”

  “He wasn’t my intended. We’d no private or public understanding—”

  Deacon interjected. “What my lord means is that your abandonment in the eyes of your peers gives you leave to make a change of lifestyle. We’ve already discussed this all with your father. If you choose to accept our proposal, for all anyone else knows, you’ll be residing in a convent in the Swiss Alps, recovering from the scandal and heartache brought about by these recent events. That should give us ample time to train you at least, though you’ll enjoy regular visits back home as any ranked officer might.”