9. By the end of the book, Bennet can review the events of the year and see the Lord’s guidance. Do you have a story from your life of when all seemed confusion or coincidence at the time, but upon looking back you could discern God’s hand?
10. At the end, Fairchild says that “nothing means what it once did.” How has he changed through the book, and how do you feel about him by the conclusion?
Author’s Note
When I decided to explore the world of American’s first spy ring, I had the expected visions of cloaks and daggers, grand adventure and cutthroat suspense. Invisible ink and drop locations, cover stories and daring men. As I sat down with my sources, especially Washington’s Spies by Alexander Rose, I instead learned about the reality of a group of people determined to do what they could in spite of a common hatred for the work, getting little thanks and no money for their efforts. America’s first spies were just people. Untrained, common people who wanted to do the right thing, who rose to the challenge. And who went through each day afraid their next letter to Washington might be their last.
I love little more than redefining history through fictional characters who interact with historical figures, which is what I did in this story. Winter, Bennet, Fairchild, and all their family members live only in our imaginations. But Robert Townsend and Austin Roe, Benjamin Tallmadge, Abraham Woodhull, and Caleb Brewster were real members of the Culper Ring. Tallmadge moved from espionage to banking, and then to politics in the years leading up to and during the War of 1812. Woodhull hung up his spy cloak for family life on his Long Island farm. Austin Roe owned an inn and joined a militia after the Revolutionary War, where he had the privilege of continuing to serve with his friends.
Robert Townsend was an enigma. A Quaker who was greatly influenced by Common Sense by fellow-Friend Thomas Payne, he was plagued all his life by black moods that seem counterintuitive for a spy. His anxious spells are well documented, but it’s also recorded that he attempted to offset them by being well read and able to converse on many topics. Still, he had few friends and died a bachelor in 1838, embittered by the hand life had dealt him, though he was arguably the most trusted source of information Washington had during the war.
Benedict Arnold was in many ways the undoing of the Culper Ring, his arrival in New York having scared its agents underground. There is conjecture that the Culpers took a more active role in uncovering his plot to hand West Point to the British, but the facts don’t bear that out. What is well recorded, however, is that the much-beloved John André was mourned by both Patriots and Loyalists, and his death remained a mark against Arnold, who never gained the respect of either side again.
Another historical tidbit I’d like to note is my use of sign language. Though American Sign Language was still many years from being developed, the foundation had been laid by this time. There existed no universal sign language in our country, but that which eventually came about most likely bears a strong resemblance to the systems in place in the late eighteenth century. And so when I describe a sign, it is a simplified version of the modern word. I had a great deal of fun giving Winter a history that included a language no one but her family could understand—the foundation for espionage, mwa ha ha ha.
If you were moved by some of the prayers Winter prayed, especially those her father had supposedly transcribed, then you may be interested in a beautiful little book of compiled Puritan prayers called Valley of Vision, compiled by Arthur Bennet from the prayers of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theologians. The sections of prayers Winter remembers or reads from her father are taken directly from this book.
I had a blast getting to know the Culpers as I worked on Ring of Secrets and hope you enjoyed reading about them. They have the distinction of being the only spy ring made solely of friends, of civilians. What became of them after the end of the Revolutionary War can only be wondered about. But in a recent interview, the CIA said, “The Culper Ring may or may not still exist.” You see, a group so very secretive, so very unknown could pass along its mantle for years, decades, and centuries without ever being discovered.
Which, of course, breeds all sorts of stories in the mind of a novelist. Oh, the possibilities…
About the Author
Roseanna M. White grew up in the mountains of West Virginia, the beauty of which inspired her to begin writing as soon as she learned to pair subjects with verbs. She spent her middle and high school days penning novels in class, and her love of books took her to a school renowned for them. After graduating from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland, she and her husband moved back to the Maryland side of the same mountains they equate with home. Roseanna is the author of two biblical novels as well as several American historical romances. She is the senior reviewer at the Christian Review of Books, which she and her husband founded, the senior editor at WhiteFire Publishing, and a member of ACFW, His Writers, and Colonial Christian Fiction Writers.
Roseanna loves little more than talking to her readers! You can reach her at: [email protected]
Be sure to visit her blog at
www.RoseannaMWhite.blogspot.com and her website at www.RoseannaMWhite.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter to receive news about upcoming books.
Don’t miss the Culper Ring’s continuing adventures in Book 2 of The Culper Ring Series by Roseanna M. White
Whispers from the Shadows
One
London, England
April 1814
The servants hefting her trunks onto the carriage might as well have been loading her coffin. Gwyneth Fairchild pulled her pelisse close and looked out over Hanover Square with a sick feeling in her stomach. Surely, any moment now, she would awaken from this nightmare, walk down to the breakfast room, and find Papa smiling at her. He would speak and say something that actually made sense.
Not like yesterday, when he’d thrown her world into tumult.
She shuttered her eyes against the image of all that was familiar, all that she might never see again. What if the Scribe went down? What if it were attacked by a French ship that had not yet heard of Napoleon’s surrender or those dreadful American pirates? What if, assuming she made it to Annapolis, they killed her the moment she stepped foot ashore?
Annapolis. Had Papa not looked so very sorrowful, so very determined when he said that word yesterday, she would have thought he had gone mad.
His hand settled on her shoulder now, warm and large. Those hands had steadied her all her life. Capable, that was what General Isaac Fairchild had always been. Capable and steady and so very noble. All that was good, all that was worthy of love and respect. So surely, surely she could trust him now when all logic and reason said she couldn’t.
“I know it makes little sense to you, dear heart.” He touched her chin, a silent bid for her to look at him. She obeyed and found his eyes gleaming with moisture he would never shed. Not, at least, when anyone could see him, though she had heard his heartrending sobs when Mama died last fall. “I wish there were another way, but there is not.”
Another way for what? He wouldn’t say. Gwyneth drew in a tremulous breath and tried to stand tall and proud. Like Mama had taught her, like Papa himself had instilled. To convey with her posture that she was the great-granddaughter of a duke, the granddaughter of two earls, the daughter of a general.
A daughter sent into exile for no apparent reason. Separated from all those she loved, the only people left in the world who mattered. “Papa—”
“I know.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I do. But I cannot entrust you to anyone but the Lanes.”
A light mist descended, heavier than fog but too tame to be called rain. At this moment, a thunderstorm would have better matched the confusion roiling within. “Please, Papa, tell me what is happening. Why must you entrust me to anyone? And if you must, why not Aunt Poole or Aunt Gates?”
His jaw moved for a moment, but no words came. Nay, he simply looked past her, his eyes searching for something
she suspected was well beyond the corporeal. Then he sighed. “The Lanes will welcome you and take care of you. I will follow quickly as I can. A month at the outside. No more.”
That was all the information he had volunteered yesterday too. He would give no explanation as to why he was sending her to a nation with whom they were at war, across the Atlantic to a family she had met only once when she was too young to remember them.
“Papa, your words hint at danger, but what could possibly threaten me here more than the sea and the pirates upon it? The French, the Americans?”
“The French ought to pose no threat now that we’ve subdued them. But…” He reached inside his coat of blazing red and pulled out an envelope. “In all likelihood you will not need this, and your ship will reach harbor safely. But if by chance you do encounter American privateers, offer them this.”
She frowned as she took the envelope. It was too thin to contain anything but a single sheet of paper. Surely not some sort of bribe. “What—”
“Trust me. ’Twill suffice.” Chatter from the house grew louder, and Papa looked away again, to the approaching housekeeper and gardener. “There are the Wesleys. Time for you to go.”
A million arguments sprang to her tongue. She didn’t want to leave. Not her home, not him, not all she held dear. Not her first Season, the one that had been put off because of Mama’s illness last year. Not her friends and all their plans.
And Sir Arthur. What about Sir Arthur? She hadn’t spoken to him to tell him she was leaving; she hadn’t even dared send a note. Much as she hoped he would propose someday, he had made no declaration, and she could not take such liberties as to contact him. “Papa…Sir Arthur…”
“It isn’t to be, Gwyn. Not now, at any rate. Perhaps when this has passed, when it is safe for you to return.”
Tears burned, begging to be set loose, but she clenched her teeth against them. How had it come to this? Promise had finally shone its light again. Shopping with Aunt Gates and preparing for her debut had made it feel as though Mama were with her still. Making the rounds with her friends had finally distracted her from the loss. Getting vouchers for Almack’s, and then Sir Arthur’s court—she had already been called the darling of society. Had been termed a Great Beauty. Had, at long last, looked forward to the future.
“Please don’t cry, dear heart.” Papa thumbed away a wily tear that escaped her blockade and kissed her forehead again. “Up with you now. You must be at the docks soon.”
Instead, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. “I don’t want to leave you, Papa. I can’t. Don’t make me go. Or if I must, then come with me.”
He held her close. “Would that I could. Would that I didn’t have to bid goodbye, yet again, to the one who matters most.” He gave her another squeeze, another kiss, and then he set her back. His eyes were rimmed with red. “I love you, Gwyneth. Go with God.”
And with that he let go of her and pivoted on his heel, all but charging back into the house. She almost wished she could be angry with him, that she could resent him. But how could she, seeing how he struggled with this decision? Whatever his reasons were, they must be valid.
And whatever his reasons were, they must be dire. A shiver coursed up her spine and made the mist seem colder. Isaac Fairchild was a respected general, a man loved by all. A man of considerable sway in London and beyond. If there were something frightening enough that he must send her away, was planning on leaving himself—
For America, no less. Why? Would he be going there to take command of troops? Possibly. Though why would he be secretive about it? But then, there was much about Papa’s work he could not discuss. Secrets, always secrets.
“All’s secure, Miss Fairchild,” the driver called down from the bench.
She slipped the envelope into her reticule and took a step toward the Wesleys, who seemed to be double-checking their supplies. They, at least, would provide familiar faces for the journey. They would be an anchor on foreign seas.
Quick hoofbeats drew her attention to the drive. “Miss Fairchild!”
Her eyes went wide when she saw the dashing figure astride the horse. Sir Arthur reined to a halt beside the carriage and leaped down, fervor ablaze in his eyes.
“Miss Fairchild.” He gripped her hands as he searched her face with his gaze. He had the loveliest brown eyes, so warm and beckoning, the perfect fit to his straight nose and perfectly sculpted mouth. “Is it true, then? Broffield just told me that Miss Wills said you informed her yesterday you were leaving Town.”
“I…” He was holding her hands. Sir Arthur Hart, Knight of the Order of Saint Patrick, presumed heir to a viscountcy, the most sought-after bachelor in all of London, grasped her fingers as if he never intended to let go. He looked at her as if her leaving might indeed cause his demise. The mass of confusion inside didn’t unravel so much as twist. “Yes, it is true. My father…”
He eased closer, his gaze so compelling she feared she might drown in it. “Something to do with military business, then? You will return soon?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Papa knows.”
“Dear Miss Fairchild. Gwyneth.” His fingers tightened around hers, but not so much as the band around her chest squeezed tight. Never before had he spoken her given name. Hearing it in his rich tenor, spoken with such affection, made her fear her tears would overcome her again. “Why must you go with him? Can you not stay here with your aunt?”
Her attempt at swallowing got stuck in her throat. “I am all Papa has since my mother passed away, and so he is loath to send me anywhere without him.” True, so true. Why, then, was he sending her an ocean away, to a hostile land?
“But surely there is a way to convince him. What if…” He paused and then swallowed before pulling her closer. “What if you were betrothed? Surely then he would not expect you to pick up and follow him?”
Her heart quickened inside her, beating a desperate tattoo against her rib cage. Would that change anything? Could it? “I…I don’t know.”
“Gwyneth.” Oh, he made her name into music. The breeze toyed with his honey-colored hair under the brim of his hat and made her itch to touch the curls. “My darling, I have such a great love and admiration for you. If you would feel inclined toward accepting my hand, I will gladly seek your father out this very moment to attain his permission.”
For a long moment all she could think was He proposed! Then she drew in a quick breath and nodded with too much enthusiasm, sending a flower falling from the brim of her bonnet. “Of course I am so inclined. Only…” She drew away when he moved closer still, recalling Papa’s discomposure mere minutes before. “Let me speak with him first, as he was a bit out of countenance.”
“Certainly. Yes. Anything.” He laughed and raised her hands to kiss her knuckles, as if surprised she had said yes. Indeed, relief joined the joy sparkling in his eyes. “I will take a turn through your garden to try and calm myself while you go in.”
“Perfect.” If only she could be sure it would make any difference to Papa. If only she could be sure that, if not, Sir Arthur would wait for her. She pulled away, but he snagged her hand again.
“Gwyneth. Darling.” He smiled, so bright and handsome it made her doubt any trouble could exist in their world. “I will make you very happy.”
A smile stole onto her lips. It melted away again in a moment, but he had turned toward the garden by then.
Mrs. Wesley, eyes wide, held her place at the carriage but made a shooing motion toward the door. “You had better hurry, love. If the general does not change his mind, we had best hasten on our way.”
Gwyneth flew up the steps to the door and back into the house. For a moment she paused just to breathe in home, the home she’d already resigned herself not to enter again. But she hadn’t time to savor it—and if her mission went well, she needn’t say goodbye to it at all.
Please, Lord. Please let him relent.
She sped down the hallway and aro
und the corner toward Papa’s study. He always ended up there, either busy at work or else, lately, just staring at the picture of Mama she’d painted for him. A professional portrait hung in the drawing room, but he said she had done the better job. Praise which always made her heart expand.
The study door was before her by the time she realized voices spilled from within it. Two of them—though when had anyone else arrived? And surely no servant would dare speak over Papa like that.
“Isaac, listen to yourself!”
Gwyneth froze a step away from the door. It was open a crack, letting her look in, though only the corner of the desk was visible, and just behind it, where Papa stood. But she needn’t see the other man to realize it was Uncle Gates who spoke.
“‘Isaac’ now, is it?” Papa’s laugh sounded devoid of humor. “Odd how you only remember our familial ties when you disagree with my decisions. Otherwise it’s always my rank to which you appeal.”
A loud bang made Gwyneth jump. Uncle’s fist connecting with wood, perhaps? “Blast it, Fairchild, it’s your rank you are abusing!”
“No! ’Tis my rank I am trying to honor. Someone, Gates, must do what is right. Someone must stand for justice rather than hatred. Someone must—”
“Oh, hang all that noble rot.” A nasty curse spilled from Uncle Gate’s lips even as the sound of shattering glass echoed. Gwyneth recoiled, staring in horror at that sliver of the room she could see. What precious keepsake had he destroyed? The vase Mama had chosen two years ago? The small porcelain figure Gwyneth had given Papa for his birthday when she was fifteen? Something precious, for only the precious gained a place of honor on Papa’s shelves.
And why? Why would her uncle, Mama’s own brother, do such a thing?
He sent something else toppling. “You are undermining years of careful work! The Home Office—”
“The Home Office, you say?” Papa leaned forward onto his desk, that look of deathly calm upon his face. The one that sent underlings scurrying away with the terrible dread that they had disappointed the best man in all England. “Nay. The Home Office has decent men in it yet. A few at least, though you are not one of them. This evil must be stopped, Gates. You must be stopped.”
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