Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  There, relief moved through his warm brown eyes, and a smile creased his face. A more handsome officer she had yet to meet. She ought to feel more for him than she did.

  Perhaps she would, were he not her main source of information to be passed along to Robbie. But how could she ever love someone she saw mainly as a conduit of intelligence?

  Though on the other hand, how could she ever attach herself to someone who couldn’t help her with her cause?

  He squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Are you going to rest for a few minutes? Have a nice cup of tea in solitude, and I imagine you shall be yourself again directly.”

  “Exactly my thoughts, Colonel.” She dipped a curtsy. “I shall look forward to our dances and supper together.”

  “As shall I.”

  She had barely gained the sanctuary of the hallway when Grandmother’s clawlike fingers gripped her arm. “Winifred Reeves, whatever are you doing?”

  She gritted her teeth at the misnomer. Grandmother despised her given name and usually shortened it to “Winnie.” But when in a temper, she deliberately chose to pretend Winter had been named after a distant Hampton cousin rather than Father’s aunt.

  Grandfather, on the other hand, always used her correct name. And oh, but he could convey in those two syllables how low he thought her. How much he despised her. That she was a blight upon his name and a reminder of what he deemed her mother’s unforgivable betrayal.

  Winter drew in a long breath to bolster her courage and seized the excuse Colonel Fairchild had provided. “I am sorry, ma’am, but I need a few moments of quiet. I have a headache coming on, and I know you would prefer I fight it off now rather than being forced to my room when the ball and supper are underway.”

  Grandmother released her grip, though her flinty eyes remained hard and biting. “You may have fifteen minutes, no more. And I have changed the supper arrangements. Mr. Lane has arrived, and you will dine with him rather than with Colonel Fairchild.”

  Panic snapped its jaws around her throat. “Grandmother—”

  “I shan’t hear a word of protest. No matter how partial you are to the colonel, Mr. Lane is the better match. I expect you to do your duty and try to win him. Obviously you must still keep Colonel Fairchild’s favor in case Mr. Lane does not propose, but that is the union you will vie for. Am I understood?”

  For a long moment, Winter stared at her matriarch. How had sweet, gentle Mama ever come from this harsh, ambitious couple? Then she inclined her head. “You are understood.”

  “Fifteen minutes.” Proclamation issued, Grandmother stormed back to the gathering.

  The tears wouldn’t be held back any longer. Winter rushed down the hall and into Grandfather’s study, the closest room she knew would be empty and could offer some solace. Her eyes burned, her throat felt tight as a fist. She tossed herself onto the window seat, pressed her forehead to the cold, wavy glass, and gave her emotions free rein.

  Most days, it didn’t bother her. Most days, she could pretend so well.

  But it was Christmas. A day she should have spent with her family, her real family, those who loved her. A day of quiet, of somber reflection on all her Savior did for her by coming to earth as a babe, of how great was her heavenly Father’s love, that He would send His precious Son to be born as a lowly human. It should have been a day of peace. Of joy.

  Not of drunken laughter, mercenary comparison of gifts, and reminder after reminder that she was not, could not be the person who lived within her.

  She wanted to scream. Wanted to pound her hand against the glass until it released her from this terrible place. No, she wanted to lock herself in her room and hold the rest of the world at bay until it was just her and her Maker, communing in prayer.

  She could do none of that, not now. She couldn’t even cry. Tears stuck in her throat, suffocating her.

  Movement outside caught her attention, and she moved her burning eyes to seek it out. Freeman stood in the dormant garden, his dark brow creased as he watched her. Thumb and pinkie out, middle knuckle higher than the others to form a W, he tapped his chin twice in one of the gestures he and Father had devised for her deaf Grandmother Reeves. What is wrong?

  A few drops trickled out of her eyes now. How she wished she could go outside, to Freeman’s room at the back of the stable. How she wished she could spend the day with the closest person she had to real family. Instead, she splayed a hand over her heart, then pointed her index fingers at each other and twisted them. My heart hurts.

  Free touched his chest, pressed his palms together in the universal symbol of prayer, and then pointed to her.

  A few more tears broke loose. Winter touched her lips and lowered her hand toward the window in thanks.

  Freeman nodded, offered a tight smile, and strode away. She watched him go with a sigh. When Father took up the colors and joined the Patriot army, she knew Freeman had wanted to go with him—and knew he stayed behind solely because Father had asked him to take care of her and Mother.

  She’d never imagined he would take that oath so seriously as to come here with her too. He was treated no better than a slave in her grandparents’ household, despite his technical freedom. That was family. That dedication, that loyalty, that fierce, protective love.

  A throat cleared behind her, and Winter spun around on her seat.

  Bennet Lane stood in the center of the room, his lips pressed together and careful curiosity lighting his eyes. She knew better than to hope he didn’t notice the droplets on her cheeks.

  He bowed in greeting. “Forgive me for interrupting, Miss Reeves. I just spoke with your grandmother, who informed me of the change in supper arrangements.” Half a smile tilted his mouth. “I suppose that would make me cry too, were I you.”

  A laugh slipped out in spite of herself. She wiped away the tears. “Are you enjoying your Christmas, Mr. Lane?”

  He tilted his head and shrugged. “’Tis not the kind of Christmas I grew accustomed to in Connecticut. I confess I have come to prefer quiet reflection on the day.” Stepping closer, he arched his brow. “And you?”

  Try as she might, she couldn’t summon her mask, not fully. “I grew up on Long Island in a Congregational home. Our Christmases were quiet as well. This—” she waved a hand toward the house at large “—makes me miss my parents all the more.”

  “They are…?”

  She focused her gaze on the bookshelf across from her rather than on his compassionate face. “I lost my father some three years ago.” Her grandparents insisted she say he was dead—killed by the random fall of a roof slate, of all things—but she couldn’t bring herself to lie on this holy day. “My mother succumbed to a fever last year, rather suddenly. Though she had time to write her parents so they could take charge of me.”

  “I am sorry for your losses.”

  Not so sorry as she. But she dug up a smile. “The Lord has sustained me.” Though for so long she wondered why He had bothered preserving her, only to lead her to a place where she must deny all He had made her. It hadn’t become clear until Robbie approached her six months ago about gathering intelligence. Now she could see the Father’s hand in it all.

  This was what she’d been created for.

  Winter stood and smoothed a hand over her embroidered stomacher. “I ought to get back.”

  But Mr. Lane didn’t move from her path, though he studied the floor as if its patterned wood were the most intriguing thing he’d ever seen. “Miss Reeves…your grandmother led me to believe she and your grandfather would fully approve if I were to pay you court. Would you…? That is, I realize I am…apart from my family and our recent…” He huffed to a halt, and then he lifted his gaze to her face. Whatever he saw seemed to bolster him, though she thought she’d emptied her countenance of any telling expression. “Is your heart already set on Fairchild, or have I a chance at winning your affections?”

  Oh, how she wished he had phrased it in a more complicated fashion so that she could play her usual role a
nd act the imbecile. But a question so direct could not be misinterpreted even by pseudo Winter. She cleared her throat. “If my grandparents sanction your court, then certainly I shall receive you when you call.”

  The set of his jaw looked at once amused and frustrated. “That is not what I asked.”

  Winter took a long moment to study his penetrating eyes, his pleasant face, the uncertainty in his posture. She took a moment to recall how endearing he was as he bumbled his way through all the balls they had both attended, how many smiles she had tamped down as he stuttered through each introduction to eligible females, yet spoke with eloquence to the gentlemen on topics of philosophy and science.

  Her heart seemed to twist within her. She could like this man, could enjoy his company, but she dared not. He knew nothing that would interest General Washington; she would be beyond useless if she attached herself to him. She would be no more, then, than another Loyalist daughter, seeking her own merriment above the call of freedom.

  That she could not do. She could not return to an existence without purpose.

  “Mr. Lane…” Her voice sounded uncertain to her own ears, so she paused for a slow breath. “I am surprised you would ask about my heart. Surely you have heard the rumor that I haven’t one.”

  He moved to her side and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. All the while his gaze bore into her, measuring her. “I know you are not the empty vessel you pretend to be, Miss Reeves. With your leave, I intend to discover what lies beneath this lovely surface.”

  Let innocence be your mask.

  Let your beauty hide your heart.

  Let your enemies count you a friend.

  And the most important of all her axioms:

  Let no one see your true self.

  Much as she might yearn to disregard that last one, she couldn’t. She gave him her loveliest, emptiest smile. “Best of luck with that, Mr. Lane.”

  Four

  Rob pushed through the back door of his store, unfastening his cloak with one hand even as he slid the now-empty crate onto a table with the other. His hands trembled. Most would think it a result of his hours out of doors in the cold—and he would let them think so.

  Washington was always interested in the state of the British fleet, in the numbers of ships in the harbor and the number of soldiers and seamen. Tallmadge had warned him not to guess—never to guess—not to exaggerate, not to round down. He must, at all costs, represent the true situation so the general could properly strategize. Thus far, Rob’s accurate information had earned him commendation and respect. He intended to keep earning it.

  Hence his hours-long trek through the city to the harbor and around military headquarters. Ostensibly to deliver newly arrived goods that had been ordered, but he had also been counting. Making mental note.

  And getting nervous. Being about such covert business while surrounded by scores of saber-wielding enemies…well, it was a relief to be back at the shop, where he had only to worry about his cantankerous business partner. And wonder again what in the world had possessed him to bring on a man like Henry Oakham the very summer he started spying for the Patriots. Of course, he and Oakham had already made the agreement before Woodhull had approached him about this business…

  Ah, well. Rob hung up his cloak and followed the sounds of voices to the front of the store, where said cantankerous business partner stacked fabric bolts for one Hercules Mulligan.

  Rob smiled and slid behind the counter. “Mulligan! How fortuitous. My father sent me back to the city with a message of greeting for you.”

  The older man chuckled and rapped a knuckle against stacks of fine worsted wool. “I thought you had gone to Long Island for Christmas, hence why I waited far too long to come in and unburden you of some of your stock. How is your sire?”

  “Excellent, sir. Thank you for asking. And I am so glad you came by. I tried to squeeze any interesting goings-on from Oakham here when I returned, but he is, as always, too silent.”

  His business partner rolled his eyes and stalked away. “Thank you for your business, Mr. Mulligan. Now I shall leave you ladies to your gossip.”

  Mulligan’s gaze went sharp, though his lips still held their easy grin. “I’m afraid I have no interesting gossip to share, Mr. Townsend. Though loud in revelries, nothing of note happened here while you were away.”

  He leaned in, down, as if studying the cut of Rob’s waistcoat. “Atrocious work. I do hope none of my tailors made it. Now,” he said in a bare murmur, “is there anything in particular you need me to keep my ears open for?”

  Rob smoothed a hand over the new clothing. “My mother made it, sir,” he said at normal volume. Then, quietly, “Not just now, no. Though if I receive instructions, I shall get them to you.”

  Mulligan straightened as he nodded. He had once been a tailor of middling ilk, but through an advantageous marriage and an excellent way with a needle, he had turned his operation into an emporium that outfitted the city’s elite—which meant he was in position to overhear invaluable information. Information he passed on willingly to Rob, unlike the many who gave him help without ever knowing it.

  The man looked ready to leave but then halted. “Ah! Buttons. I am in desperate need of gold buttons, if you can help me.”

  “Of course.” Rob pulled out a box and then straightened when the bell over the door jingled. A vaguely familiar gentleman walked in. Rob recognized him from the rounds of balls and fetes as well as from the coffeehouse of which he owned a share, but they had not been introduced. Which would soon be remedied, it seemed, because the man’s face brightened upon spotting him, and he approached the counter with a smile.

  “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

  “Sir.” Rob nodded. “Might I assist you?”

  “I should think so.” The man held out a hand. “Bennet Lane. You look familiar, though I cannot recall learning your name.”

  Ah, yes. Rob had heard of the Lanes’ recent fortune, which made them desirable customers, indeed. He smiled. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lane. Robert Townsend at your service, and Mr. Hercules Mulligan besides.”

  Lane turned his smile on Mulligan. “How excellent. I have an appointment with one of your tailors next week, sir.”

  “I saw your name in the book.” Mulligan offered a small bow with all the aplomb he had learned through years of catering to his wife’s well-connected family. “It will be my privilege to take your measurements myself, sir. I outfitted your father for some time before he departed for England.”

  Lane chuckled. “I wish I had known that before asking every officer and gentleman I could find whom they would most highly recommend. I am afraid I have been too long in Connecticut to know my way about the city these days.”

  “You can certainly do no better than Mulligan’s,” Rob interjected. “He and my father have been friends for decades as well.” They had in fact known each other back in the days when one could confess one’s politics without being beaten and dragged from one’s house for them, or forced into the city with a blanket over one’s head.

  Rob took the buttons Mulligan selected and wrapped them up.

  Lane turned and faced Mulligan. “Your name is bandied about with respect as well, Mr. Townsend. I am told I can do no better for my dry goods. And my not-dry goods, if I incline that way, though I confess I am not overly fond of rum.”

  “Nor am I, truth be told.” Rob handed the package of buttons to Mulligan, along with the cloth. “But I am happy to help you with your other needs. We received a new shipment of mushroom catsup.” At the look upon his customer’s face, Rob chuckled. “Spanish olives, perhaps? Some Gloucester cheese?”

  Lane straightened, shaking his head. Unlike most gentlemen of his standing, he wore no wig under his hat. And was that cloak of homespun?

  Yes, he needed that appointment with Mulligan, to be sure.

  “What have you by way of stationery? I am in need of a good deal of paper, a new journal bound in leather,
and some ink, if you have it.”

  “Certainly. One moment.”

  Rob moved to the aisle containing the requested goods.

  “A good deal of paper, you say?” Amusement sounded in Mulligan’s voice. “Writing a book, good sir? Or perhaps a pamphlet?”

  The newcomer chuckled. “I am afraid I must plead guilty to all manner of scholarly pursuits. I am a professor at Yale in the subjects of chemistry and philosophy, and I have been known to fill many a winter night at work upon my treatises. Unfortunately, I left my home in haste and failed to bring adequate supplies with me.”

  “Upon hearing your family’s news, I assume. With your father gone, your mother is no doubt pleased to have you home.”

  Lane released a breath that sounded of laughter. “She may have been, had she remained long enough to receive me. It seems she had little faith in my arrival and went to visit her sister upon my father’s departure, as my brother is away on maneuvers as well.”

  Rob lifted a goodly amount of paper from its shelf, its color near white and its weight thick, and then he added the nicest of his leather-bound diaries. And, in case the man’s cloak was a testament to his spending habits, poorer versions of the same. After adding a selection of quills, ink, and a pen knife for mending nibs, he returned to the counter.

  Mulligan had gathered his notions together and nodded upon Rob’s return. “I must be away. I thank you, Mr. Townsend, for yet again coming to my rescue. Do give your father my regards when you write him. And I shall look forward to seeing you next week, Mr. Lane.”

  “Likewise.”

  “’Twas a pleasure speaking with you, Mr. Mulligan.” Rob smiled at the older man as he left, and then he spread out the writing supplies on the counter. “Here you are, Mr. Lane.”

  “Ah, thank you.” With the exact expression children usually wore when perusing his sweet selections, Lane flipped through the paper and examined the writing instruments. “A most excellent stock of paper, sir. Very white.”