“It is not what I want, no.” The truth of that pierced him like his brother’s sword. “But I want, above all, for you to be safe and well.”
Her lips parted, but apparently she could think neither of truth nor inanity to say. Her gaze fell to the ground, she curtsied, and then she glided her way to the couch to sit beside her grandmother.
Ben stayed at the window and wished for a rousing thunderstorm to shake the panes and match his mood. All he got was his mother’s company a minute later.
She touched his arm and drew in a long breath. “You actually care for her, don’t you? I cannot understand why. But if that is where your heart is inclined, I will be reasonable. We will host a few dinners and balls, and I will get to know her better to see if she can at least be molded, or else will be willing to let others do her managerial duties in her stead. Will that please you, Bennet?”
Would it? He leaned into the window’s frame and stared out at the gray street. “I don’t know, Mother. I don’t know.”
Eight
Frost etched lace onto the pane of her window. Fragile beauty, as deadly as it was short lived. Winter traced its outline with a lazy fingernail, looking more at it than the icy world outside. January was well on its way to February, and these past weeks she had rarely been permitted out of the house. ’Twas too cold, they said. The streets too messy.
She thought it more because they wanted no one to see the mottled bruise upon her cheek, and it had taken a dreadfully long time to fade. Grandmother forced her to apply concealing cosmetics whenever they had company, but the Lanes were the only ones she invited. No doubt, bruised or not, her grandmother didn’t want to risk Bennet Lane forgetting her. They had come often enough to keep her thoughts in turmoil.
Her breath of mirthless laughter fogged up the window. His reactions to her seemed to oscillate like a pendulum. One moment all concern, the next determined to keep his distance. Frustrated with her for not laying bare her soul, amused by her supposed misinterpretations. He liked her—but he didn’t seem to want to.
Ah, well. Winter touched a finger to her cheek. The pain had gone, finally, as had the discoloration. Grandmother had at last deemed her passable for other company, so tomorrow she would entertain Dosia and Lizzie. After weeks of nearly unbroken solitude, Winter was actually looking forward to an hour or two with her supposed friends.
Much of the past weeks she had spent remembering winters in Oyster Bay. How she would love to strap on her ice skates and glide over the pond in their back field again. To spin round and round with Sally and Mary Townsend until they were so dizzy they fell, laughing, to their bottoms on the ice. To have nothing more to think about than the mulled cider that would be heating over the fire when they returned.
And if she were dreaming, then she would put Mother there, awaiting her return. Reading, perhaps, or spinning wool onto the spool of her walking wheel. Forward and back, round and round, onto the skein until the weasel popped after the one hundred fiftieth revolution.
Temple against the cold glass, Winter closed her eyes. “God of my end,” she whispered, “hear the cry of my heart. I feel as though You have put me on a path with no one to walk beside me. Yet I know You are there. If this journey has been given me so that I might draw closer to You, then help me, my Father in heaven, not to squander the opportunity. Help me to seek You in every moment of solitude, to hear Your voice in every echo of silence. And strengthen me for what lies ahead, for I know there are rapids coming upon this river.”
Something pinged against the window. Her eyes flew open, and she spotted Freeman on the lawn below, smiling. He motioned that she should come, nodded toward the stable, and made their sign for Robbie.
Finally. Winter sprang up from her seat and sneaked into the hall. Spotting no one, she dashed down the servants’ back stairs and outside, not stopping to grab her cloak. Moments later she gained the hay-scented haven of the stable, where Freeman waited with a grin.
“I showed him down.”
“Thank you.” She checked to make sure no one else was about and then descended into the hidden room herself.
The candles were lit and a lamp burning, and her old friend sat at her table, a book before him. His smile was warm, but his cheeks seemed hollower than the last time she’d seen him, at his store. Winter frowned with concern and sat beside him. “Have you been ill, Robbie? You look a bit peaked.”
He waved it off. “No, nothing to speak of. Just the stress of the times, which eased considerably when I got a note of thanks from Washington himself for the information about the stolen paper.”
“Did you?” That made her smile. Such a letter would certainly put his mind at ease—always appreciated, as he tended toward bouts of melancholy and dark moods.
“I must share the acclaim with you, of course. Privately, at any rate.” He grinned, though it faded as he studied her. “And you? How have you been? I thought to see you again by now, but you have been nowhere. I began to fear something had happened.”
Not knowing how long they would be able to stay down here, Winter gathered up the stain and counter liquor along with some paper and a new quill. “A bit of a disagreement with my grandfather, is all. I have not been allowed out, and no one has been invited but the Lanes.”
“Not Fairchild?” He reached for a sheet of paper but then halted, eyes wide. “Winnie, is Bennet Lane courting you?”
A chuckled slipped out. “Sometimes I think so. Sometimes I think he is only studying me as he would one of his scientific experiments.”
Robbie’s nostrils flared, and he shook his head. “But he laughed at you. In my store, two weeks ago.”
“No, not like you think.” Why did defense of him come so quickly to her tongue? She shook her head. “He is not convinced by my display of witlessness and thinks me quite clever when I spout mindless babble.”
“He…Winnie.” Robbie slapped a hand to the paper and leaned closer, eyes wide. “You mustn’t let that go on! Had I realized…I hate to see them laughing at you, but it is safer than if they know the truth. No one must know you are more than you seem. ’Tis too dangerous for you.”
“You worry too much.”
“Nay, you worry not enough.”
She covered his hand with her own. With most young men she knew she would never dare be so forward, but he had been a friend all her life. Practically a brother. “Robbie, Mr. Lane is nothing to worry about. He thinks me more intelligent than I pretend to be, yes, but he also thinks I hide it solely because of my grandparents’ dictates—which, if you recall, was the truth until six months ago.”
He took off his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes. “I ought never to have gotten you involved in this.”
“Oh, stop speaking nonsense.” She punctuated her command with a playful slap on his arm. “You have given me purpose, and I thank you for it.”
“A purpose far too perilous. I believe in our cause with my whole heart, but ’tisn’t worth our lives.”
Her eyebrows stretched upward. “My father seems to think it is. As do thousands of others.”
“That is different.” Turning in his chair to better look at her, he shook his head. “Taking up the colors has honor to it. If soldiers are captured in uniform, then they are treated as prisoners, not traitors. But spies, Winnie—there is no honor in what we have taken upon ourselves. If we are caught, we are executed. There are no second chances.”
The chill of the room finally struck her, and she shivered. She wrapped her arms about herself. “I know all that, Robbie, but we are not mercenaries, selling information to the highest bidder. That sort of spy deserves ill regard. We are only trying to do our part for our country. Quietly, where the Lord has placed us.”
“They will not see it that way.”
“They will not have to because we will not get caught. All that matters is that we have the respect of those we work for. Washington, Tallmadge—they know we do this out of love for the Glorious Cause. Certainly we must be careful, but th
e point remains that what we do is worthwhile. Worth the risk. Now.” She sat up straight and tapped the paper. “Teach me how to be careful.”
He sighed and put his spectacles back on. “Very well. First, you must always use the whitest paper possible, as the stain is temperamental and develops best on good stock. Washington has recommended we use books where necessary, writing in the margins, or between the lines of an innocent-looking letter.” A smile finally emerged. “I have been writing about false orders of merchandise to a fictitious customer. Always signing, of course, with Samuel Culper, Junior.”
Winter pushed aside the older yellowed paper and pulled forward the best she had available. “This will have to do for now, though I will find better.”
He nodded and uncorked one of the vials. “This is the sympathetic stain. It is difficult to make, I understand. Woodhull told me in our last meeting that the brothers Jay have requisitioned gallic acid from hospitals to create it. So we must use it wisely. We have already run out once.”
“Certainly. Do we use it as regular ink, with a quill?”
“Yes.” He picked up the fresh one she had brought over, dipped, tapped, and wrote. Other than a slight glint from the flame, she couldn’t make it out at all. “As with the homemade invisible inks, you must be careful not to let it overlap your false text, as it will cause telltale runs.”
She leaned forward to try to see whether it formed any waving in the paper. Minimal, so far as she could see. It would be easily disguised by that of the visible ink. “Are the letters containing messages in stain still marked?”
“With an A for the acid counterpart rather than an H for heat.” He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. “We must let it dry thoroughly before applying the counter liquor. Tell me more about this disagreement with your grandfather.”
Rather than look at him and risk him seeing too much truth in her eyes, she kept her gaze on the paper. Spots of ink had already dried completely, invisibly. “He tires of my presence, I think. No doubt I remind him too much of Mother and what he deemed their failure with her.”
Robbie loosed an exasperated breath. “Your mother was happy and well cared for, well loved. Why is that not enough for them? ’Tisn’t as though your father were a pauper or ill respected.”
One corner of her mouth pulled up. “Respected in Oyster Bay, yes, and comfortable enough there, but we both know Father was nothing in the City of New York, which is all that matters to them.”
“So he tires of you.” His gaze bore into her. “What does that mean for you, Winnie? Ought you to leave? Go back home to Oyster Bay?”
Her head was shaking, her heart pulsing with a deep ache. “Would that I could, but there is nothing left for me there. I have no one, and I cannot stay on the farm alone.”
“You could stay with my family. They would take you in happily. You know they would.”
They may at that. The Townsends were a fine family. But they were not her family, and so she would feel like an imposition there as much as here. And if she were going to impose, she would rather be an inconvenience to the grandparents who, frankly, deserved to be put out after their treatment of Mother.
Robbie rapped a knuckle on the table. “I see you will dismiss that idea. What, then? You cannot compromise any more of yourself—there is little enough left. What will pacify him?”
She wove her fingers together. Not so long ago, her hands were calloused from hard, honest work about the farmhouse. Now they were as soft as a babe’s, lily white, and mostly useless. Winter squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then met his gaze again. “My marriage.”
“Winnie.” He rested his forehead in his palm. “To whom?”
She lifted one shoulder. “He did not specify, though Grandmother has said she wants it to be to Mr. Lane, or, if he does not propose, Colonel Fairchild.”
Shaking his head, slowly and contemplatively, Robbie looked pained. “Perhaps they are both nice enough men, but Winnie—they are both bound to England, and likely bound for it soon enough. Have you considered that? That if you accept either of them, you will have to leave the country you love so well?”
“I know.” Her voice sounded so small to her own ears, so uncertain. “But what am I to do, Robbie? My grandparents are my guardians. They must approve any match, at least until I have gained my majority at twenty-one, and Grandfather will never suffer me for another three years.”
“Forget them. They may share your blood, but they are no family. Go home.” Earnestness saturated his face.
Baffled, she shook her head. “And do what? I cannot run a farm on my own, so I would be forced to marry anyway, and everyone else in Oyster Bay is as loyal as Lane and Fairchild. I may not end up in England, but I would still be wed to someone with whom I could not share my beliefs. And at home I cannot help the cause.”
He muttered something unintelligible, but whose vicious tone made her think it a curse. “What then? You will marry one of these men just so you can keep sending me information?”
Of their own will, her shoulders rolled forward. “If I must marry one of them, it might as well be the one beside whom I can do some good. Which would mean Fairchild.”
“Fairchild thinks you an idiot. You will not resign yourself to playing that part for the rest of your days.”
“But Mr. Lane is not…” She could find no words to put to the turmoil he churned up within her. How could she explain that he left her without the comfort of her pretense, that she enjoyed his company too much to allow herself to enjoy it at all? And that he seemed every bit as confounded by her? In all likelihood, he would never pursue her to the point of marriage anyway.
At least Fairchild was a career man. Winter would do better in those circles than as mistress of an estate like Clefton.
“I agree. He is no more suited for you. So marry neither of them. Find a better option.”
“There is no better option, not if I want to keep helping you.”
His hand settled on her shoulder. “Winnie, be reasonable. One of these days the war will be over. What will you do then as wife to one of them?”
“I…” She had no answer. How could she? It seemed the war had been brewing all her life. Perhaps fighting had only broken out a few years ago, but they had been long, earth-changing years. How could it ever end?
It couldn’t, not until England released them from her grip. If the British managed to squash this campaign, then it would be only a matter of time before the Patriots rose again.
If that happened, she would be there. Ready to help.
But if Washington’s army won, if these United States gained their freedom…well, she would have served her purpose. Perhaps then she could live her life with contentment, whatever life she was given.
A shadow seemed to settle deep within her. Contemplating the future had been nothing but peering into a dark tunnel ever since Mother died. Contentment seemed little more than an illusion, a flicker of light so far distant she knew she would never grasp it.
Why torture herself with such thoughts? She nodded toward the paper. “It is dry.”
Robbie sighed, but he pulled forward the counter liquor and extracted a small paintbrush from his pocket. “You will need this to apply it. Not much or it will be ruined. Here, try.”
She took the brush, dipped it into the acid, tapped the excess off, and then slid it over the page where he had written. After a moment, words began to appear in a pale green.
In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the earth.
Winter smiled. “Amazing. No scorched places. It all develops evenly. ’Tis rather faint, though.”
“Keep watching. It darkens with prolonged exposure. But put more on the last word here, so you can see what happens with too much.”
Nodding, she dipped the brush again and didn’t tap this time. The script was now blue, edging toward the color of a naval jacket. When she applied more acid to the word earth, it ran and smeared into an illegible puddle. “Ah. Yes,
that could make it a bit difficult to read.”
Robbie chuckled. “The rest of the words will darken to near black after a few more minutes.”
“Amazing. You need this exact counterpart for it to develop? None other will do?”
“Precisely.” He put the corks back in both bottles. Apparently her instruction was complete for the day. “Our code may be breakable, but this is not. When we combine the two, our correspondence becomes as secure as is possible.”
“I will use it sparingly.”
“Good. You are the only one of my contacts to whom I have given any, which ought to tell you how highly I value your information.” A grin won possession of his mouth. “It seems Washington values mine quite highly as well. He has asked me to find a more direct route for our letters to take, to bypass Woodhull and reach him the faster, to go through New Jersey rather than Long Island and Connecticut. I have my cousin out searching for a safe passage.”
Winter frowned. “Which cousin?”
“James.”
She undoubtedly looked every bit as incredulous as she felt. “Could no one else be found to do this?”
Robbie waved her concern away. “Washington recommended a few names, but I am unacquainted with them all. And as my neck is on the line, I will not trust anyone I do not know.”
“But Jamie?” She sucked in a slow breath, unsure how best to convey her reservations. “He is only sixteen, Robbie, and as of last year not entirely dependable.”
“Nonsense. He is a good lad, if a bit adventurous. Which will serve us well, I should think.” He stood and then stared down at her. “Winnie, promise me you will not make any rash decisions. Your father may be willing to give his life for the cause, but I daresay he wouldn’t like the idea of you risking yours. I will never mention you, never even hint that I have a contact in your position, but—”
“I daresay you don’t mention any of your contacts.” She hoped her smile would distract him from his warning. “That would be a bad idea, I should think.”
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