Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  He shook his head. “I cannot. I cannot continue.”

  “Robbie.” Now her voice was a low pulse, incredulous and desperate. “Don’t say such things. I know you are upset. ’Tis perfectly understandable, but we cannot give up after one setback.”

  “A ‘setback’?” Finally he looked at her, at her perfect, earnest face. How could she not see that it was so much more than that? “Winnie, this could have been my ruin, our ruin. Do you not realize that? That we could, even now, be swinging from a tree had things gone differently? If my idiot cousin had not been so deeply immersed in his story, if he had shared the truth rather than a lie with a different set of pretty faces…how difficult would it have been to trace him back to me? Hmm?”

  Her expression changed—to peaceful. She even smiled. “I thought of that. And yes, it frustrated me and then scared me. But the fact that it did not happen that way is proof that the Lord is with us. He holds us in His palm. When things could have gone in the worst possible way, He instead led your cousin to friends rather than foes. And while the consequences still come with a cost, they are far less steep than they could have been. Perhaps…perhaps it happened to teach us caution. Or to urge us to our knees more faithfully.”

  He breathed a laugh and stood again. “Or perhaps it was to tell us to get out while we still have our lives.” Seeing her distress, the objection ready to spill from her lips, he held up a hand. “At least for a while. I cannot…I cannot, Winnie. Not now. I need to lie low and let things settle. Perhaps, if they decide to trust me again enough to ask direct questions, I shall endeavor to find the answers for them. But to be out seeking intelligence randomly…” He shook his head. “I will not invite calamity. It seems all too willing to visit my door.”

  She looked at him as though he had stolen the last ray of her hope. “You are making a mistake, Robbie.”

  “I am not. This is best, for both of us.” Forcing down a swallow, he waved a hand at her concerns. “I know you think it your purpose, but it is coloring your decisions too much. You have enough to contemplate with your grandfather’s ultimatum. This ought not factor into your decision of a mate. So I will remove it for you, and you can evaluate Fairchild on his merits rather than his loose tongue.”

  She dropped her gaze to her clasped hands and seemed to be struggling for control. After a moment, all emotion fell away from her countenance. The tension left her shoulders and emptiness reigned.

  He nearly broke then, seeing her slip on her mask because of him. But nay, he couldn’t be swayed. ’Twas too critical.

  She turned a hollow gaze on him. “What if I hear something of the utmost importance?”

  He sighed. “Then obviously you ought to get word to me, but we will take no more risks.”

  A nod, curt and dismissive, was all he received in response. Which was just as well. He backed up a step and tried to dig up a parting smile for her. “I will still stop by to visit. Keep you abreast of news from Oyster Bay.”

  Unable to suffer seeing her without feeling for another moment, he spun and strode away. He would go home, close himself into his room with a book, and try to beat back the wings of despair.

  This time, though, they seemed to smother him.

  Winter watched Robbie stride away, his shoulders hunched against the beast of anxiousness. Tears surged to her eyes. She hated seeing him like this, in the claws of his dark mood, and never had she seen it quite so bad, seen him give in to it so fully. Usually he would try to jest it away. He would never indulge it in her company for more than a few moments.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Father in heaven, pour out Your succor upon him. Help him…help me…please, Lord. I know not what to pray but “please.”

  A familiar movement made her open her eyes. Freeman knelt beside her. He also followed Robbie’s retreating form with his gaze. “Maybe this is for the best, Winnie. He’s right that this business should not influence your decision in a husband.”

  Shaking her head, Winter let a wisp of a laugh escape. “I don’t seem to have a decision to make about a husband, Free. And now I have no purpose besides.”

  His big hand settled on her shoulder, instilling decades of love and encouragement in a seconds-long touch. “Your purpose rests not with this, child, but with the Lord. We shall do what we have always done, and trust in His guidance. If He leads us to information that will not allow for silence…well, we will know then if this is still in His will.”

  Intellectually, she knew he was right, and so she nodded. But her heart still bled. The tunnel of the future seemed to close in on her again, with no light at its end. Nothing but an ominous threat and choices that would leave her forsaken of what truly mattered.

  No parents. No home. No friends.

  No hope.

  Thirteen

  July 10, 1780

  Never in her life had Winter dreaded every moment of a day as she did this one. When her father had left, the sorrow had been outweighed by pride and hope. When Mother had died, she had thought, up to the very last minute, that it would not—could not—happen. There had been no dread, though devastating grief followed.

  But today. Each ticktock felt like a spike through her mind. Each creak of the floorboards sounded like canon fire. Each open door loomed wide and vast as the ocean.

  She was out of time. And she dared not hope Grandfather would forget it, not given the dark, menacing satisfaction that had been gleaming in his eyes recently.

  “Are you well, Miss Reeves?”

  Bennet’s voice made her jump, and the overreaction set her nerves that much more on edge. She forced a smile, though she hardly dared to look at him lest she then do something foolish, such as toss herself upon his chest and beg him to marry her. “I am quite fine, Mr. Lane. Just off in my own world today, I suppose.”

  A world of shadows and devouring darkness. A world of foul stenches and painful moaning. A world of sickness and depravity.

  Colonel Fairchild straightened from where he had bent at the waist to smell a yellow rose. He turned a questing gaze her way and sent it over her face. “You do look a trifle peaked. If we are taxing you, my dear, you must let us know.”

  “Oh, but I am very well, Colonel. And so glad you all could come visit today.” She made sure her gaze included Dosia and Lizzie where they sat on the bench, though the girls were far too busy tittering behind their fans and batting their eyes at Major Lane and Mr. Knight to pay any attention.

  It at least served as a distraction. Grandfather surely wouldn’t toss her to the streets with guests present.

  But later…how would she survive in Holy Ground? For surely nothing good could ever exist in that den of iniquity, no matter if the church owned the land. The stories she had heard…nothing but harlot after harlot, in their dank, disease-ridden hovels. If Grandfather took her there—oh, how she prayed he hadn’t meant that threat.

  Yet she dared not put any hope in that prayer.

  The sun beat down with an intensity that made winter seem a decade away, though a refreshing breeze blew through the garden. Winter swished her fan and tried to focus on Bennet and Colonel Fairchild.

  The former regarded her as intensely as the sunshine. Her hand betrayed the tremble it caused, so she fanned all the faster and smiled at Fairchild. “Colonel, I have not seen much of you lately. You have been dreadfully busy. I do hope no campaign is underway that will take you from New York.”

  He smiled in return. “There has indeed been much afoot. I confess part of my time has been spent catching up with my friend Major André since his return to New York last month. But more, I have been assisting General Clinton in quietly mustering the forces.”

  Though she kept the motion of her fan from so much as hitching, her pulse kicked up. Life. She had scarcely felt it in three months. She made sure her smile was only mildly curious, partially bored. As he would expect. “Oh? Has a new shipment of mustard arrived? I do hope you saved some for us, Colonel, and did not give it all to your soldiers.”

/>   While Bennet chuckled and shook his head, Fairchild gave her a fond smile. “Muster, my dear. We are assembling troops and lining up transport. It seems the French have arrived and intend to join forces with the rebels. They think to surprise us, but the general has known for nearly a month now and has taken every necessary step to turn the surprise around on them.”

  How fortunate that the summer heat disguised the sweat that broke out on her brow. The French, here—and the British had known a month already. Had been making plans and seeing to provisions all this time.

  Would Washington be counting on catching them unawares with his newly swollen fleet?

  She must get word to Robbie. He said Washington had officially shut down the Culper Ring some two months ago after going to considerable trouble to extract Jamie from prison, but this was surely news enough to justify reopening the lines of communication.

  However, she couldn’t think quite yet about the information she would convey with the stain the first moment she was alone. First she must respond. She widened her eyes and turned them on Bennet. “The French! Mr. Lane, perhaps that gambler fellow has come. Or the apothecary you so admire. He is also French, is he not?”

  Bennet arched a brow and gave her a crooked smile. “Descartes is long since deceased, Miss Reeves.” The as you well know came through in his gaze. “And Lavoisier is not a chemist in the sense of an apothecary, but rather a nobleman who expounds on the history and philosophy of chemistry.”

  “I suppose he will be no help at all in developing a hair powder that does not make you sneeze, then.” Careful to keep the teasing from her tone, she turned back to the colonel. “We do not like the French, do we?”

  Such affection shone in his eyes that new guilt sprang up. He motioned her toward a second bench. “England and France have long been enemies, my dear. They only help the rebels as a slap at us.”

  “How terribly rude.” She sat, positioning her skirts around her. “We must slap back at them, then.”

  Fairchild sat beside her and smiled. “We will indeed. General Clinton has an agent in Rhode Island who sent him a map and detailed numbers and positions of the French fleet. We likely know more about them than Washington does.”

  She hid the swirling of her mind behind a nod and then lapsed into her usual faux boredom as he spoke of his dealings with the general and various aides, and then how glad he had been to welcome his friend home along with Clinton in June.

  “And really, ’tis no coincidence that this informant got his news to Clinton when he did. André has been put in charge of intelligence and has come up with a brilliant way of keeping it all organized, as well as getting messages to sources covertly.”

  Her stomach clenched. It sounded as though this friend of Fairchild’s was the British equivalent of Tallmadge, who handled such matters for Washington. Could the name be somehow useful? She would note it too and pass it along to Robbie. Beg him to get a message out somehow.

  She glanced at the angle of the sun, trying to gauge how much longer she would be expected to entertain. Another hour, perhaps. Then they would all leave, probably together, and she could slip out to the stable and down to her room. Get a message written and send Freeman with it to Robbie.

  Avoid Grandfather that much longer.

  For now, she concentrated on looking bored and witless, which became much easier to accomplish after the others joined them a few minutes later. Listening to the endless flirtation and gossip was nearly enough to put her in a coma. But thankfully, ’twasn’t long after that the group prepared to depart.

  All but Bennet, who stood at her side and waved off his brother, Mr. Knight, Colonel Fairchild, and the ladies with a smile.

  Oh, bother. She had forgotten that Grandmother had invited him to stay and dine with them. It may provide her safety from Grandfather, but how, then, would she find the time to write her note? She barely had time to rush up to her room and have her dress changed for the meal, and her maid scurried about too much to grant her any privacy then.

  Bennet, looking uncomfortable in a powdered wig, awaited her in the downstairs hall. Her grandmother received them into the drawing room with a smile some may have mistaken for welcoming. “Ah, your friends left just in time, darlings. The meal is ready.”

  Winter looked around the room and saw no one but the three of them. Her pulse accelerated. “Is Grandfather not joining us?”

  “Oh, no. He had already agreed to dine with a friend of his newly arrived in town. We mentioned it at breakfast, Winnie dear. Don’t you recall?”

  At breakfast she had been in a daze of fright, certain her grandfather would refuse her entry into the room. Or that, at least, his ultimatum would come up during the meal. Strange how his silence had not brought her an ounce of relief.

  Her smile wobbled even now. “Of course. How silly of me to forget. Well, then.” She tucked her hand into the crook of Bennet’s arm and tried not to wonder if it was the last time she would do so. When she was seated across from him, she tried not to dwell on the thought that if he did not toss aside the previous months of near silent attention and propose, she would never eat at this table again.

  Tried not to hope when she knew well it would lead to disappointment.

  Still, her hand shook as she spooned up her soup. For the first time in a year and a half, she was grateful for her grandmother’s constant stream of meaningless gossip, as it kept Bennet’s attention away from her. If he looked her way, he would surely see that something was the matter. And what would she tell him if he asked what it was? She could hardly confess the truth.

  Oh, why hadn’t Robbie tried to put things right with Washington and company months ago? Then the ring never would have been shut down, and she wouldn’t have been doomed to day after mind-numbing day of nothingness.

  No friends.

  No purpose.

  No promise.

  Stagnant—that was what life had become. The same dinner parties, the same balls, the same silks and laces and curls. The same man sitting in the same place by her side, refusing to leave but refusing to take another step forward until she gave what she would not.

  Could not.

  “Winifred.”

  Winter started at the low, furious command, and dropped her fork with a clatter. Which made her frown. When had she exchanged spoon for fork? How had they come to have the sweet before them already?

  If Grandmother’s scowl were any indication, her inattentiveness had not gone unnoticed. Winter cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Grandmother. Did you say something?”

  “No. But Mr. Lane did.” How did she convey so much censure in such a simple sentence?

  “Oh.” Winter looked to Bennet, who studied her with eyes narrowed in concern. “What did you ask, sir?”

  He shook his head. “It hardly matters. Are you quite sure you are not unwell, Miss Reeves?”

  “I…” Was she unwell? She certainly felt it. Perhaps nothing was the matter with her body, but oh, how her spirit ached. “I’ve a touch of the headache, is all.”

  Grandmother put down her fork. A motion that had no sound yet rang with finality. “Then you ought to take a few minutes of quiet in the drawing room before we join you. Come, dear. I will make sure you are comfortable. Do excuse me a moment, Mr. Lane.”

  Feeling as though the drawing room housed a gallows, Winter managed a tight smile for Bennet and followed her matriarch out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the receiving chamber.

  Grandmother pulled the door closed behind them and then spun on her. “What are you thinking, you stupid little chit? You know well your grandfather intends to forbid you from our home after today. Will you waste your final hours with this nonsense?”

  “I…” She could put her tongue on no words. The trembling possessed her so fiercely she would have crumpled to the ground had Grandmother not dug her talons into her arm and forced her upright.

  “You listen to me.” Giving her a shake, Grandmother leaned in close. “I will not be
disgraced again. Mr. Lane is obviously interested in you, otherwise he would not still be paying you court after seven months. Any girl with half a brain would have convinced him to propose by now. But you! You have wasted month after month and have nothing to show for it.”

  “It isn’t my fault.” Her voice came out wispy, far from certain. “I warned you he was not the type to be won by flirtation, but you insisted I—”

  The harsh sting of Grandmother’s hand striking her cheek silenced her. “Enough. You can blame this failure on no one but yourself. Had you fully listened to me, you would be Mrs. Lane by now, likely carrying his heir and perhaps even on your way to England.”

  Her nostrils flared, her chest heaved, but Winter bit her tongue. There was no use arguing. Grandmother’s advised method for achieving a proposal was simply unthinkable. She would not throw herself at him, would not grant him any liberties.

  Grandmother must have read her mind. “You think your virtue will do you any good if you have not secured a promise from Mr. Lane by the time Hampton returns? I have stayed his hand this long, but I will not be able to any longer. Do whatever you must, Winifred, but get it done.”

  After tossing her away like a tattered rag, Grandmother pulled open the door and stormed out. Winter sank to the nearest surface at hand, the arm of the sofa. How had it come to this? What more could she possibly lose?

  Words from the prayers copied in her father’s hand filtered into her mind. I am nothing but that Thou makest me. I have nothing but that I receive from Thee. I can be nothing but that grace adorns me.

  She needed His grace. Needed His strength, for she had none left.

  She must stir herself. Escape before Grandmother could send Bennet in. Go to her underground sanctuary, where she could pray and then send one last message to Robbie. And if after that she was consigned to the fearsome fate her grandparents had in store for her…well, the Lord would either deliver her or sustain her.

  Course plotted, she stood and raced for the door—where she collided with Bennet’s solid chest.