Ring of Secrets

by Roseanna M. White

  Freeman was silent as she penned her true note, but once she put down her quill, he cleared his throat. “Winter, I know you love Mr. Lane. And from what I can see, he loves you as well. But if you really fear he would hand you over to a lynch mob, you must ask yourself if this is the match the Lord has planned for you. I cannot think our heavenly Father wants you to hide this part of your heart for the rest of your life.”

  “I don’t know, Free.” She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of need washed through her spirit. “I cannot give up my cause, not when I know it’s what the Lord has called me to. Yet I have never loved like this, and I cannot fathom why the Father would have given me such an attachment if it is doomed. How to reconcile the two, though…”

  “I have been giving it daily to prayer.” His hand settled on her shoulder again, warm and familiar. “An answer will come when the Lord is ready to provide it.”

  She nodded and held the paper up to the light to see if it was dry. No ink glistened, so she folded it, carelessly so it would look like an ordinary household list. Then she put the cork back on the few precious drops of stain that remained. “I had better go prepare for the evening.”

  “Be careful, Winnie girl.” Freeman smiled, but it was small. “I cannot shake the feeling that we walk a narrower plank than ever before.”

  She nodded as she stood. “I feel the same.” And so, when she regained her room after leaving the stable and reclaiming the marshmallows, the first thing she did was drop to her knees beside her bed.

  Lord of all, I seek Your assurance, for You are the only one with the answers I need.

  Eyes squeezed shut, forehead resting upon the feather ticking of her bed, she clasped her hands and poured out every fear, every hope, every goal, every need before the Father. Concern for André’s endeavors, for what this treachery could mean to the Patriot cause. The discomfort she still felt every time Fairchild came to visit. Her love for Bennet she gave over to Him yet again, along with an earnest beseeching that a way would be made clear for the obstacles between them to be removed.

  Winter didn’t rise until a maid came to help her dress for the ball, and even then her stomach still felt as though a stone rested within it. She knew the Lord had the entire situation in His hand, but she also knew that sometimes He called His children to what seemed like failure, even destruction. That His greater plan often included what man deemed setbacks.

  And, oh, how she prayed she were not on a course for one of them.

  Grandmother had already given her instruction on what gown she was to wear, a sack-back creation in rose and gold. Only her accessories were ever left to her own choosing, and so she chose the ones with meaning.

  Her fan of ostrich feathers, the sign to Robbie that she had left a message for him. A long string of pearls, wound thrice around her neck, to impart it was in their third location at the Shirleys’, the top drawer of the bureau in the hall. A bright, silken rose tucked into the tower of her curls—her signal for urgency.

  O Lord, let him take heed. Let us not be too late.

  With one last, long breath, she determined she was as ready for the evening to come as she could hope to be.

  Nineteen

  Ben gazed at the dancing couples without really seeing them. Had Mother not come knocking on his door, he would have forgotten about the ball this evening and remained mired in his maps and notes, his charts and lists.

  He was close. So close he could all but taste it, and his nerves leaped at every interruption. He was all but certain that Woodhull was the agent in Long Island who served as liaison between Tallmadge and their man in the city. It felt right; it made sense. He had little by way of solid proof, but then, he didn’t need it. He wasn’t going to try anyone in a court of law.

  A group of tittering females swept by, and Ben took a step back, nodding to them but otherwise not attempting a greeting. Perhaps one of these days he would cease bumbling like a nincompoop in fair company, but until then he would content himself with the knowledge that Winter provided a perfect buffer between him and all of her lady friends, and that no one really expected him to pay attention to anyone but her.

  When she was by his side, anyway. Which made him wonder what was keeping her. She had excused herself some fifteen minutes ago to see to personal matters.

  A quick survey showed him she had been stopped by a few young women near the door. She stood with her usual expression of semi-boredom, her plumed fan waving before her.

  His insides did that strange little twist they always did upon first sighting her. And they added a flip when she glanced his way and sent him a small, private smile.

  How had he managed to claim such a magnificent creature? Not that she was officially his, of course, but everyone assumed he would propose soon. He assumed it too, if only…if only he could be sure all their advances in honesty would not fall away when she learned the truth about his goals, his very purpose for being here. If only he could be sure all their ideals matched as nicely as he hoped.

  But he could hardly share the details of his spy hunt with her. ’Twouldn’t do to get her involved. The dangers were too great. The military from both sides would likely toss him happily into prison if they knew what business he had been poking his nose into. Neither would much care for his reasoning. The point remained he was a citizen about work that could be construed as interfering with theirs.

  Winter’s fan fluttered again, and her gaze flicked to another corner of the room and then back to her companions. Ben turned his eyes toward the corner and sighed.

  Townsend. There was no question why Winter would look his way and then away again so quickly. Her old friend still refused to speak to her, and Ben knew it caused her no little grief. He could hardly blame the fellow for that.

  But seeing him brought up a whole host of other questions that sent Ben’s mind back to the papers locked in his desk.

  One of the primary reasons Woodhull emerged as a key suspect in the ring of spies was that his sister and her husband had taken up residence in the city. After the Great Fire, they had opened their doors to boarders. Woodhull reportedly stayed with them frequently a year and more ago, and then his visits tapered off.

  It had taken weeks of subtle questions, but Ben had eventually discovered who else had been boarding with this couple during the months when Woodhull had frequented their home.

  He was regarding one of them now.

  Townsend must have felt his gaze, for he looked Ben’s way and nodded. No smile, but Ben hadn’t expected one.

  But he smiled at Townsend before looking elsewhere. He didn’t much like the picture that presented itself when he entertained the notion that Winter’s childhood friend may be involved in espionage, but it made all too much sense. Townsend’s father had been loudly Whiggish until he was arrested in seventy-six for his politics. Townsend had bent his knee to the Crown along with the rest of his family, but a little digging had turned up that, before that happened, he had attempted to help in the recruiting and organizing of Patriot troops back when Washington occupied the City of New York.

  The Townsends were Quaker, and so ought to have been peaceful. To have broken from that enough to gather troops, Robert Townsend had to have felt pretty strongly about the rebel cause.

  But now there he stood, mired in Loyalist society. A partner with Rivington, one of the loudest Tories in the city. At all the balls, all the dinners, all the fetes under the guise of a newspaperman. Doing business with nearly every officer in the British military through his store.

  If anyone could obtain sensitive information, it was surely Townsend. And he certainly had the friends to get that information out of British territory and into Patriot hands.

  Still, it was only supposition. A hypothesis. He must test it somehow. He could not afford to tip his hand until he was without doubt. If he spoke up only to discover he had made a mistake, then he would be forced to leave town and hence would not be able to correct his error.

  Better to bide
his time. Watch. Listen. Wait. If Townsend were his man, he would find him out soon enough.

  He could do nothing now, though, so best to put such thoughts aside. Ben made his way around the edge of the ballroom, his goal to blend into the wallpaper until he made it safely to Winter.

  She stepped away from the flock of her friends with a smile in which he had no trouble detecting the gratitude. Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, she made him feel instantly more comfortable. “Did you miss me, Mr. Lane?”

  Odd how he didn’t mind the flirtation, even enjoyed it, now that it wasn’t all she offered him. He grinned. “The lights dim when you are not by my side, Miss Reeves. And as I tend toward clumsiness in the dark, I thought it expedient to find you again at once.”

  Winter grinned. “We certainly can’t have you tripping over everyone in a ballroom this crowded.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He nodded toward the room’s exit. “Shall we step out for a bit of refreshment? A lemonade, perhaps?”

  “That sounds delightful.” She cast another glance at Townsend’s corner, though.

  Miss Shirley followed her gaze and frowned. “Mr. Townsend has not left that corner all night. I do hope his article still reflects well on us. ’Tis hardly our fault he refuses to budge, after all.”

  “He will be fair, I am sure.” Winter’s smile was as bright and oblivious as ever, but Ben saw the concern in her eyes.

  All he could do was cover her fingers with his and think it could be a blessing Townsend refused to speak with her. If he were indeed involved in this spying business, she would be better off having nothing to do with him.

  Not that such reasoning, of which she would remain unaware anyway, could soften the blow of losing one’s longtime friend.

  He settled for steering her out into the hallway, away from the dour-faced reminder. “Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight, my darling?”

  Winter seemed to shake off the anxiety and grinned up at him. “You have, and I thanked you for it. Have I mentioned how nice you look? I like this suit of clothes nearly as well as the one you wore yesterday.”

  He chuckled and smoothed a hand over the silk waistcoat of his best clothing. Yesterday he had arrived at Hampton Hall in homespun again. “Perhaps I should have worn that tonight then.”

  Her laugh sounded free and bright. “I doubt your mother would have permitted you into her carriage.”

  “You do have a point.” He pulled her closer as they drew even with a bureau. “Careful, there. Someone left a drawer open.”

  Winter turned to see what he had nearly run her into and made a tsking sound. “Here, let me close it before someone bruises a rib.” She pulled her hand away and grasped both rings, glancing in as she shut it.

  Ben stifled a grin. Always curious, his Winter, even when only an empty drawer greeted her gaze.

  When she turned back to him, that tension possessed her shoulders as it had the first night they met, and the same emptiness filled her gaze. Ben frowned. “Are you well?”

  A smile broke free for only a moment. “Sorry. ’Tis only Robbie. He will not speak to me even when I come into the store, but rather always sends Oakham to help me.”

  He hummed his understanding and drew her close again. “I wish I could make it better for you, but I’m afraid all I can do is fetch you that lemonade. And offer to risk a dance afterward, if it will cheer you up.”

  There. She relaxed again and grinned. “My toes still ache from the last dance we shared, my dear Mr. Lane. I think I would prefer it if you regale me with your thoughts on whatever book you have been lately reading.”

  Was it any wonder he loved this woman?

  Winter paced before her open window, unable to be soothed by the fragrant air floating in or the spiced tea that sat, barely touched, on her table. She had hardly slept the past two nights—couldn’t. Every time she drifted off, fierce need awoke her and sent her to her knees in prayer.

  The world was unraveling. Major André had not yet returned, which meant that his meeting had taken place as planned, as best as she could tell. Somewhere upriver a Patriot general walked about amid his army, ready to deliver their lives to the enemy.

  And she could do nothing. Worse, what she had attempted had gone terribly wrong.

  Robbie had not left the ballroom after she slipped her note into the bureau Wednesday night—but the drawer had been empty when she walked past it with Bennet.

  Reason told her she need not fear. She had written her message in sympathetic stain, so it could not possibly be discovered by anyone outside the Culper Ring.

  Still. Why would anyone have taken what looked like a laundry list unless they saw her slip it in and were curious as to why she would? But she had taken care. She had been so sure no one noticed her covert movements as she opened the drawer upon arriving and slipped the paper in half an hour later.

  But if someone had…if someone were watching her…

  Nausea gnawed at her stomach, and she halted in front of the open window to draw in a breath of calming, cool air.

  That was hardly the most pressing concern. More urgent was the fact that Robbie had refused to hear Freeman out when she had sent him yesterday, other than to verify he had not retrieved the note—and to add that he had not intended to at any rate.

  She rubbed at her eyes. They ached, felt gritty and heavy, and yet she knew there was no use in trying to nap. Not until this weight lifted from her spirit.

  If only she could get a message out without Robbie’s help. She knew the route they took, knew the names and code names of all the agents of the ring along the way, but unless Roe were scheduled to arrive, or Woodhull, she had no way to start a message on its journey. Besides which, it took a week for anything to get from the city to General Washington.

  ’Twould surely be too late by then. And so this knowledge meant nothing. Could accomplish nothing. A general would defect, and for all she knew, he could hand her father over to the British when he did so. She was powerless to stop it.

  “No.” Her hands fell away and then balled up in her skirt. No, she was not helpless, not powerless. She was not just a secondary agent of the Culper Ring. She was a child of the Most High. Even if she could not get a warning to the Patriots, she could rouse help from the heavenly warriors.

  With new determination, she strode to her bedside and took to her knees yet again.

  “Father God,” she whispered into her coverlet, “I come before You in praise, to thank You for all You have done for me and my loved ones. I thank You for preserving my father’s life in these past years of war, for providing for my needs, for leading me to a man with whom I can envision a future. I praise You for seeing all, for knowing all, and for taking the care to direct our paths. Though I cannot see around the next bend in the road, I know You can. Though I may feel only the enemy nipping at my heels, I trust that You are by my side, for You have promised it.”

  She paused, drew in a long breath scented with the lavender tucked into her sheets. And listened to the chords of anxiety that sounded within her spirit. “Father, I do not know what Your plan is for this country, for the brave men fighting on both sides of this war. I know only that You have called me to help where I can. And today, this is where You have put me. Lifting up my cause to You and relinquishing it. My Lord, I cannot pray that You take the decision out of this general’s hands, though I wish I could. He must have his will, I know. But I ask that You minister to him where You can, and urge him not to commit this crime against those who trust him.”

  Her voice shook to a halt, and a cloud must have passed before the sun, for the warmth across her back vanished, as did the soft, glowing light. “But, Father, though You cannot take his decision from him, and though he may follow through on his plan, You can speak to the hearts of Your followers and give them Your wisdom and discernment so that they might recognize the enemies among them. Please, Lord, open the hearts and minds of Your children. Urge them to pray. Protect them from this treach
ery. Deliver them from the traps likely set for them.”

  The cool breeze kissed her neck, and a measure of calm finally trickled over her spirit. “Deliver them, Lord. Deliver us.” She let her words lapse away, content to breathe in the whisper of the Lord and pour her heart out to Him without such constrictions.

  A gentle hand shook her back to awareness, and the face of her maid greeted her gaze when she opened her eyes. “Yes?”

  The girl frowned. “Mr. Lane is waiting for you in the garden, Miss Winnie.”

  “Already?”

  “’Tis afternoon, miss. You did not come down for the meal. Should I tell him you are unwell?”

  She had spent that much time in prayer? Perhaps she had dozed off for a bit too. Winter straightened herself. “No, of course not. I will be right down.”

  “But…” Pressing her lips together, the maid seemed to debate a moment before saying, “You look unwell.”

  “Do I?” It was no wonder, given the lack of sleep. Winter stood and went to her mirror, nearly laughing at the picture that it revealed. Her hair was still in its nighttime braid, frizzing every which way. Circles ringed her eyes, and her skin looked pale otherwise. At least she had dressed well enough to receive company, if simply.

  It took only a few minutes for the maid to school her waving locks into some semblance of order. There was little to be done about her face, but a few splashes of cool water at least made her feel more awake. And Bennet would not mind her lack of fashion.

  She hurried down the stairs and out to the garden, where he waited on the bench as usual.

  He stood and frowned much like her maid had. “Are you feeling ill, Winter?”

  She smiled and put her hands into his outstretched ones. In truth, it was a blessing to have someone who cared about such things. Grandmother always acted as though the slightest discomfort on Winter’s part were a huge inconvenience. And Grandfather probably took joy in her every pain. “No, I am well enough. I just have not slept well the past few nights.”