Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Clara exhaled very slowly in the garden, her fingers aching with the tension in them.

  Gripping the stone bench beneath her with all her strength would do that to them.

  All she wanted to do was dwell upon the glories of the breakfast that had passed, and how she would bear Hawk’s departure. He had promised to return as quickly as possible, and she believed he would, but even so.

  Her operative training had apparently been more effective than she had previously thought, for she had also considered his time away rather opportunistic.

  She needed to get back into Barcliffe, and she needed to do so without invitation or detection.

  Her right leg began to shake as she sat there, bouncing with an anxiousness that rippled through her entire frame. She had sent a message to both Brick and Phoebe, asking to meet them at this time and in this place. Hawk had been locked away in his study to meet with his estate agent about some matter or another, which was a blessed reprieve, as having him about created the most unfathomable fog in her mind.

  She had a desperate need for clarity now.

  Just a few days since their day on the beach and in the caves, and she had no more answers now than she had then. It had all been a waiting game, her clues sent away to those who had the ability to analyze them properly.

  Thankfully, the Convent was close enough that she should not have to wait long. It was not as though London was needed yet.

  At least, she hoped it was not.

  Her relationship with Hawk was growing at such a rapid intensity, she could very likely find herself engaged before the mission was done, and then where would she be? Her betrayal would have been all the greater and such a scandal made over it…

  She closed her eyes, leg still shaking, her heart cracking deeply at the thought. She longed to be Hawk’s wife, loved him with a single-mindedness she had never known, and the knowledge that her dreams were at the tips of her fingers was one of exquisite bliss.

  The reminder that her identity was a lie, as were her reasons for being at Kirkleigh at all, clouded those dreams with darkness that wove its way into her soul. A cavernous pit that would soon drag her down into its abyss, never to free her.

  She could not live both lives much longer.

  Something had to be done.

  A whistling rather like that of a bird met her ears, and she turned at it, her eyes darting around the garden eagerly.

  Sure enough, Brick was ambling towards her easily, as though he were only on an afternoon stroll. “I told you,” he said to someone Clara could not see. “The song of a sparrow will call to her.”

  “As though she would recognize the song of a sparrow,” Phoebe’s voice replied, dripping with derision. “She’s not studied ornithology, Brick. Hardly anyone has.”

  “There are a great many who have, Fern,” he retorted without heat.

  Clara rose, still not seeing Phoebe and looking for her.

  Brick stepped to one side as he neared her and there was Phoebe behind him, wearing the hat and veil of a beekeeper and a pair of men’s trousers.

  What in the world?

  The pair of them laughed at Clara’s expression. “I am entitled to my hobbies, Clara,” Phoebe told her lightly. “And it does make a masterful disguise for me.”

  Clara nodded, as it truly did hide Phoebe’s identity perfectly. She hadn’t known that Kirkleigh kept bees, but that was neither here nor there. She sat back down on the bench, still nodding, though it was not for any reason in particular.

  “Something on your mind, Sparrow?” Brick asked, folding his arms.

  She nodded just once more, then looked up at him. “Has Tilda told us anything about the cufflink I found in the cave?”

  Brick reached into his trouser pocket and handed her a note. “She has. Expensive set, she says. Clearly fashioned specifically for our mystery fellow.”

  “Why’s that?” Clara opened the note and scanned the few lines before giving him a look of complete disbelief. “Engraved? How in the world does one engrave cufflinks? There’s hardly space for a monogram!”

  “I haven’t the foggiest, but it was enough for a few words.” He pointed at the note, waiting for her to reach that bit.

  Clara returned to the note, then frowned. “Un lointain rivage,” she read aloud. “Foreign shore.” She paused, then shook her head. “That’s not any sort of motto, vow, or claim. Nor is it distinguishable.” She dropped the note into her lap, groaning to herself. “It means something, somehow.”

  Phoebe sat down beside her on the bench, thankfully not offering Clara any sympathy or consolation after doing so. “Those lines by the cave,” Phoebe said in a low voice. “You’re sure they were from a boat being dragged sideways?”

  “I cannot be certain,” Clara confessed, refolding the note more to occupy her hands than anything else. “But it seemed the most logical, given the nature of the beach and the occupation of the shore.”

  “The cave is not used for boats,” Phoebe muttered, her voice losing nearly all of its formal primness. “Yet it had to be a boat creating the lines. Nothing else makes sense.” She glanced at Clara through the veil of her hat. “Do you think that cave could go far enough back to hide a tunnel of sorts?”

  Clara nodded. “Absolutely. There have to be more tunnels about, especially given the one above. Do you think a boat is back there?”

  “That would make sense,” Brick agreed, his brow knitting in thought. “A boat being dragged will create a number of impressions in the sand, and, if done with enough force, could easily hide traces of all sorts. If the boat can be stored in the cave, it protects everyone. We’d never know the numbers, nor the number of times the path was travelled.”

  “Are you saying…?” Clara paused, wetting her lips, then looked back at Brick with a breathless smile. “Are you saying I was right? Ships are landing there and bringing items ashore?”

  Brick grinned at her, creating lines on his face. “I always thought you were right, Sparrow. I just didn’t know how we’d prove it aside from posting someone on the shore every night until something happened.”

  Clara could have laughed at the revelation, but the truth in it still hung about her. “We still don’t know when, even if we know how they hide things and where the boat is stored.”

  “If the boat is stored,” Phoebe interjected, “there could also be other things stored. Items, plans, or people.”

  “And if it’s a tunnel, it could be one not closed off.” Clara’s eyes widened. “They could be escaping any distance away, which is why no one has detected anything on the beach itself.”

  “All of this could easily be smuggling, you know,” Phoebe said with some reluctance. “No governmental ties at all. Simple smuggling.”

  That was true, but they could not stop the investigation now.

  Brick whistled low, shifting his hands to the pockets of his trousers. “If they are not coming ashore on the second and fourth Tuesdays, when are they?”

  Clara cocked her head as a new thought occurred to her, spinning about for a moment. “Foreign shore,” she said again. “That was what the cufflink said.”

  “It did, yes.”

  She exhaled softly. “Agents. The cufflinks could be a symbol of those who are assigned to work outside of France. It’s a bit ridiculous to hide such a thing in plain sight, but why would anyone examine cufflinks enough to see it?”

  “Why, indeed.” Phoebe shook her head, her eyes wide. “This is significant, Sparrow. It could make all the difference in so many places.”

  Clara nodded her agreement, swallowing as she considered the next piece of her plan. “I need to get into Barcliffe. Undetected. And in daylight, if possible.”

  The other two froze, though they had not been moving all that much, and looked at her after a moment of stillness. “What?” Phoebe asked in an almost hoarse voice. “You mean to steal into the house in broad daylight? It would be easy enough to manage at night, provided there are no security measures, but during t
he day? Whatever for?”

  “To find her proof,” Brick murmured, his eyes still on Clara, seeming less shocked than his counterpart.

  Clara met his look, nodding once. “The library. There is something about that ceiling, all of the ships and their positions… I need to study it and sketch it. It may hold the answers. And then, if I can, I want to get into the study.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Phoebe sputtered, flapping her hands into the air a little. “The study that is in the precise middle of the house? How in the world do you plan to manage that, hmm?”

  “Come now, Fern,” Brick said with some amusement. “You’ve snuck into places just as improbable before.”

  She glared at him darkly, even through the veil. “I have, yes. She has not.”

  He lifted a brow at that. “So how do we make the situation a trifle easier to manage?”

  Phoebe made a loud scoffing sound that did not suit the character she portrayed. “Take the people out of the house.”

  “That shouldn’t be impossible,” Clara said slowly, smiling a little. “All we’d need is an outing. I’ll be unwell and insist you go without me. Hawk will be in London, so I won’t have to feign anything for his benefit.” Her smile spread as she looked up at Brick. “Think you can help me devise an entrance in the family’s absence, Brick?”

  He grinned back. “I may have an idea or two.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She was barely breathing, but her mind was clear, her attention focused.

  It had to be for the next hour.

  Unless she could do it in less.

  One hour was all she was promised.

  A late autumn picnic had raised a few brows when Phoebe had suggested it to all their friends, but when she insisted she had taken a great many of them in the south of France, the reluctance vanished and the excitement had blossomed. Clara had done her part to build up interest and excitement, had expressed her own delight in the prospect of the picnic, and had even made sure she had a particular ensemble prepared and described to those who would be in attendance. Aside from actually taking ill at the picnic, she was not sure how else to convince anyone about her intentions.

  Phoebe had wished her well before departing to meet the other picnic goers and reminded her of a cardinal truth from her training: If you are caught, say nothing.

  Clara could not think about that too much, or she would begin to shake in fear.

  She would not be caught, she reminded herself. They had taken all possible care in this, and all that was left was for her to get into the house.

  The rest would sort itself out.

  Positioned as she was behind a tall bush, her back against the house, she could only wait. The servants moved like clockwork, Brick had told her, and the schedule was always the same. She did not have a clock to check, but surely it was near to time.

  Before the thought was finished, the door a few feet to her right opened up, a pair of maids with a basket of laundry exited, turning immediately for the back of the house.

  Clara moved quickly, grabbing the door before it shut and stepping inside. She let the door close behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust. She kept her breathing shallow, but slow, creeping along the narrow corridor just as she’d mapped out.

  Brick had struck up a friendship with the gardener at Barcliffe, and a discussion about a greenhouse expansion had led to apt descriptions of the servants’ passages at the back of the house, which should prove useful.

  She passed one door, which ought to have been the kitchen. Which meant the next door ought to be for the stairs, and the one after should open into a corridor in the main of the house. She could get to both the library and the study by it, though they were in opposite directions.

  She could only pray, as she had been doing, that the housekeeper at Barcliffe was lacking in her attention.

  It was all she could do not to hold her breath as she reached the door she needed, though she did try to listen for any sounds on the other side. Nothing met her ear, however, so there was nothing for it.

  She’d have to go through.

  Moving her lips on a silent prayer, she turned the knob of the door silently, opening it only enough to see out. There was nothing she could see, and nothing appeared to move within. Taking the chance, she pulled the door open further, slipping through the opening and closing the way quickly behind her, taking great care to slowly return the handle back to its position, so as to avoid any sound from the latch.

  Again, all was silent.

  Clara moved as quickly as she dared, grateful she had taken Phoebe’s advice and donned a pair of breeches. It had been monstrously uncomfortable at first, but the silence it afforded her now was well worth it. Layers of petticoats and skirts would have rustled, but the breeches and her slippers were soft enough to keep her safe. For now.

  Replaying Mr. Browning’s tour in her mind, Clara bit her lip as she reached the fork in the corridor. Her main objective was the library to her right. The study was another two rooms down on her left, and the possibilities there…

  She closed her eyes, the decision more agonizing than she’d predicted. Phoebe had begged her to only go to the library, as that was her best chance. But if there was any hope of real proof…

  Before she could change her mind, Clara moved down the corridor on her left, moving faster than she had before, as though she could outrun her doubts. Footsteps echoed along the marble from somewhere, though no one could be seen yet. She continued, praying she would not soon run into a trap.

  The door to the study was ajar, which brought her up short. She flattened herself against the wall outside it, peering around the entrance of the room with caution. No sound, no motion, and yet…

  Somehow, there was a murmur of voices, but too faint to be in the room beyond. She ducked into the study, an unnerving room without windows and wall-to-wall books, rather as a library should have done. Yet in this room, there was no dust, and it was well used, if the worn patterns in the rug beneath her feet were any indication.

  Going on tiptoe, she moved carefully around the great desk, looking at the items on the surface quickly.

  No papers, no notes, everything neat and tidy as any gentleman’s desk might have been. Not even any ledgers nearby to see to his business interests. She moved behind the chair of the desk and crouched down, looking on either side. Valued items would likely be within arm’s reach, or easily accessed, and a man sitting at his desk would wish to keep them in sight.

  Still the murmur of voices continued, no louder or softer than before, and nothing distinguishable from one word to the next. Then there was silence, and the cause seemed unclear.

  Footsteps in the corridor suddenly grew louder, and closer, and Clara crawled under the desk, keeping her body as close to the chair as she dared. She crouched on the balls of her feet, relieved that there was no rustling with the breeches or skirts to manage at the moment. She slowly shifted her feet further apart, just enough to balance in her coiled position. The fact that she could do so silently in her present attire was not lost on her.

  The door to the study opened with a loud creak, and a man entered, his footwear clearly distinguishing him as a servant. Clara watched the feet move to a shelf to her right, then stoop down and turn down a corner of a rug she had not noticed as folded up before. She closed her eyes and forced her already silent breathing to slow, waiting for the man to leave. She was wasting her hour in hiding and limiting how much time she could have in the library. Provided she could get there after this.

  Just when she thought her knees would lose all feeling, the servant turned from his spot and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Clara exhaled very slowly and counted to ten before slipping out of her hiding place. She moved immediately to the rug, turning back the corner.

  A hinge in the floor met her sight, and the clear lines of a trap door.

  Cautiously, so the floor would not squeak, she laid down and pressed her ear to the
door.

  The voices were clearer now. And they spoke in rapid French.

  “The next shipment will be the largest yet. We’ve been given permission to go ahead with our plans.”

  “And the pieces?”

  This voice was that of a woman, and it startled Clara to hear it. Her accent was not native to France, and it was not that good, but it was clear.

  “In place. Ready for the command. Will you be ready?”

  “We are always ready.”

  Then, in chorus, the pair of them said something that froze Clara’s heart.

  “J’ai vécu.”

  Clara had heard enough, given the time she had, and gently pressed herself up from the floor, turning the rug down once more. She glanced at the shelf before her, where the servant had been, and nothing was out of place. Yet in the center of the books sat a faded one with a worn spine, something about it nagging her.

  She gingerly pulled it out of its place and caught her breath as she opened it.

  Lines upon lines of French were written there, not quite a diary, but something of the sort. She flipped a few pages, wishing she had the ability to recollect such things with exactness. She briefly recollected Miss Henrietta Mortimer, a former student of the school, though before her time, who had possessed such a skill, and wondered if she had ever been considered for this life.

  A loose-leaf page fell out from between pages and she glanced at it on the floor, eyes widening. It was a piece of music, though much too small to be properly played. She stooped to pick it up, and gaped at it, the notes and words familiar and engrained in her mind.

  Suspendez à ces murs. The same song she’d need to use for any letter decoding she came across.

  That was more than enough.

  Shoving the music into her pocket, she returned the book to the shelf and tiptoed back to the door of the study, listening for any steps in the corridor. She had no idea how much time she had left, but it was not enough, she was sure.

  She moved silently out of the study, closing the door behind her without a sound, then did her best to rush down the corridor with equal noiselessness. She paused at the break she had reached before, checked her surroundings, then darted towards the library. Her feet skidded on the marble floor as she reached it, and she barely avoided throwing the door open for herself.