355: The Women of Washington's Spy Ring (Women Spies Book 1)

by Kit Sergeant

  Chapter XLII

  Sally

  January 1779

  Sally had been avoiding Simcoe as best she could and no longer joined him on scouting missions. Simcoe had been absent for most of the family meals, choosing to bestow his presence at the tables of prominent Oyster Bay Loyalists. He celebrated the Christmas holiday with his regiment, leaving Papa, Mother, Sally, Phoebe, and William to dine in the kitchen.

  The ice that formed over the harbor meant that Robert was unable to come home until after the New Year. The night he arrived, Sally was setting the table for five—as William had left for the city again—when Simcoe entered. He approached Robert, who was sitting near the fire, to introduce himself. “You must be the famed Robert I’ve heard so much about.”

  Sally looked up from her chore, hoping that her brother would not think she was gossiping about him to Simcoe. But Robert remained as outwardly at ease as ever as he shook Simcoe’s hand. “And I’ve also heard much about you and your Rangers.”

  “Colonel Simcoe, will you be joining us for dinner?” Sally asked. She wanted to show her brother that she could still be gracious to their houseguest.

  Simcoe glanced at her, obviously surprised at Sally’s change of heart. “Yes I will, if you don’t mind.” He walked off in the direction of his room before pausing in the doorway. “Mr. Townsend, I do believe I am occupying your room.”

  Robert held up his hand. “I am fine on the couch in the parlor. And, please call me Robert.”

  At dinner, Robert sat beside Sally, with Simcoe seated next to Phoebe.

  “Tell me, Colonel Simcoe. What do you do in for leisure?” Robert inquired as their servant brought out the first course.

  “Not that I have too much time for leisure, but I do enjoy reading. Shakespeare, to be more specific.”

  Robert nodded. “I particularly enjoyed Julius Caesar.”

  “I would be inclined to agree with you. My friend, John André, played him last month at the Theatre Royale,” Simcoe replied.

  “Actually, I attended one of the performances,” Robert said, digging his fork into his venison. “He did quite well.”

  “Yes, André is a real artiste.” Simcoe took a bite of food, and after a sip of wine, addressed Papa, “I must ask something I have been curious about. Are you of the Raynham Hall Townsends from Norwich?”

  Papa chewed thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe my ancestors came from that area. But the Townsends have been in the colonies since before 1640,” he added proudly.

  Simcoe nodded. “Charles Townshend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was of Raynham Hall.”

  Sally’s fork clattered to the plate. Charles Townshend was also the designer of the detestable Townshend Acts, the Parliament bill which proposed to tax the colonies for such necessities as paper and tea. The bill had induced riots among the outraged colonists and resulted in the Boston Massacre of 1770.

  Papa held a tight smile. “I believe that Charles Townshend was a cousin.”

  A proud American all of her life, Sally usually gave little thought to her family’s origins. She now thought it ironic that one of her relatives was responsible for the act that had so stirred the emotions of her countrymen. She glanced at Simcoe, wondering what his purpose had been for mentioning the fact. Was he indeed that curious or did he want to remind Papa that he had Loyalist blood? But Simcoe’s eyes were steadily focused on his plate.

  After dinner, the female Townsends commenced sewing near the fire in the parlor. Sally waited until both Papa and Simcoe retired before asking Robert to accompany her to her bedroom upstairs.

  Once there, Sally went to the broken clock and pulled out the documents she had collected.

  Robert sat in her desk chair to flip through the papers, peering at Sally’s drawings of the redoubt and estimated troop numbers. “How did you come across this information?”

  “I accompanied Simcoe on some of his excursions,” Sally said, keeping her eyes down as she felt Robert studying her. “But I forfeited going with him after the apple orchard incident.” She related what had happened to Papa’s trees.

  Robert sat back. “I figured as much when I saw the cuttings. The British believe they can have access to whatever they need, whenever they need it,” he continued bitterly. “But,” he folded up Sally’s papers and put them in the pocket of his waistcoat. “We must keep those thoughts to ourselves. This information will be of great value to my contacts.”

  “Who—” Sally began, but Robert held up his hand. “It is best if you don’t know. I recommend pursuing your friendship with Simcoe.”

  “But I despise that man!”

  He gave her a meaningful look. “I said friendship, and nothing more. You can try, can’t you, Sal? In order to help the cause?”

  She sat on the bed. “I suppose so.”

  He gestured toward the broken clock in the corner. “That’s a good spot for hiding. In fact,” he picked up a quill and dipped it into the inkwell on her desk. “I’m going to leave this piece of paper with you. It will allow you to disguise anything you might say that would be of interest to our enemies. If you feel it necessary to contact me, you can deliver the message to Daniel Youngs.”

  “Youngs? He is a staunch Loyalist.”

  “It would appear so, wouldn’t it? But Sal, make sure to conceal the papers in the horse’s saddle bag, not on your person. Do not make the mistake of putting important documents in your shoe. That would be the first place they search, not that they would have cause to search a woman. And this code will prevent an immediate recognition of intelligence.”

  Sally nodded bravely.

  Robert rose to leave. “And Sal? Be careful. Simcoe is a crafty man. You must make sure he never knows your true purpose, or you will be putting us all in danger.”

  Sally drew herself to her full height. “Of course.”

  Chapter XLIII

  Elizabeth

  January 1779

  One night in January, Robert did not show for the nightly tutoring session. Elizabeth’s puzzlement increased to genuine worry as the hour grew late. What if he had been discovered? Finally there was a knock on the door. After Abby answered it and led Robert into the kitchen, she gathered all three children and started to lead them into their bedroom.

  “Mr. Townsend,” Johnny cried in anguish. “Are we not to learn tonight?”

  Robert went over and ruffled the child’s hair. “Not tonight, Johnny, m’boy. Tomorrow.”

  Catherine escaped Abby’s clutch to hug Robert’s legs. Abby managed to free her and bid him and Elizabeth goodnight. Robert kept his eyes on the door for seconds after Abby shut it.

  “Robert?” Elizabeth asked. “What is it?”

  “Abraham Woodhull’s father was accosted at his farmhouse a few nights ago. I have only just now heard.”

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. “How do they—”

  His next words made her blood run cold. “It was a raid led by Colonel Simcoe, the man who is billeted in my family’s home.”

  “Oh, Robert.” She went to hug him, but his form remained stiff in her arms.

  “Only a fortnight ago I told Sally to befriend him in order to get information.”

  “Is Sally in danger?” Elizabeth broke her embrace to look him in the face. “Are you?”

  He sank into a nearby chair. “As far as Brewster knows, it was a smuggler who had the misfortune to be captured by the British. He gave up Woodhull’s name to save his own hide. Luckily Woodhull was in the city, staying with the Underhills, and had no papers in Setauket to be found, but that did not spare his father.”

  “How goes Abraham’s father?”

  “He is badly beaten but he will survive.”

  Elizabeth sat down across the table from Robert. “And this smuggler… how did he get Abraham’s name?”

  Robert shook his head and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”

  She reached out to clasp his hand. “You must stay here tonight, just to be safe.”


  “No.” His voice was adamant. “I have caused my loved ones much danger.” He dropped her hand. “For your own safety, we must no longer associate.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat to keep her next words from getting caught. “That will be very difficult for me to do, considering that I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Robert’s face crumpled briefly before the stoic mask reappeared. “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

  “Robert—”

  “Think of the children. They need their mother. They don’t need a spy in their midst, threatening their very foundation.” He stood up, his long legs striding toward the door.

  Elizabeth struggled to keep up with him. “Robert,” she tried again in the hallway, but he held up his hand. He unlocked the door and opened it before turning back to her. “I do feel it is necessary to state that I love you too.” And with that, he walked down the stairs and out of Elizabeth’s life.

  Chapter XLIV

  Sally

  February 1779

  At Robert’s urging, Sally resumed her friendship with Simcoe. As they drilled, she estimated the number of the soldiers in the way Robert taught her: to count only the greencoats in one section of grass and then multiply that by the number of sections. It was not easy, but it was less confusing than counting each individual soldier as they marched by in their varying formations.

  Simcoe took his eyes off his troop in order to watch Sally. She realized she’d been unconsciously pointing with her finger as she counted.

  “About 450,” Simcoe told her. “One hundred on horseback.”

  “So many!” Sally cried out, trying to distract him if he was at all suspicious of her true purpose. She next tried flattery. “And all under your command.”

  “Indeed.” Simcoe’s chest puffed out like a pigeon. “They would die for me with no qualms.”

  “How… nice,” Sally said, for lack of anything else.

  Simcoe captured her hand in his. “I would die for you, as well.”

  Sally refrained herself from snatching her hand back. “I do not require that of you.” She turned her head back to the troops, feeling Simcoe’s eyes on her.

  That night at dinner, Simcoe informed the Townsends that he would be expecting a houseguest in the next few days. “My friend, John André. He recently was appointed Adjutant General of the army, and it seems his new duties have gotten to his psyche. General Clinton suggested he take some time away, and what better place to recuperate than the fine town of Oyster Bay?”

  Papa merely nodded his acquiescence. Ever since the apple orchard incident, he had grown ever the more reticent around Simcoe.

  Phoebe had the opposite reaction. “Major André is coming here?” She looked at Sally excitedly, who shrugged in return. Phoebe turned to Simcoe. “How are you acquainted with him?”

  “We met when we were stationed in Philadelphia,” Simcoe replied smoothly.

  “Where will he stay?” Mother asked. “We have a small attic room where William and Robert sleep occasionally, but it is cold up there.”

  Simcoe held up his hand. “He will stay in the extra bed in my room. I would not want to put your family out more than I have already.”

  “I will make sure he has the best blankets and coverings that we have,” Phoebe stated, almost to herself.

  Simcoe laughed. “I’m certain he will appreciate that.”

  Phoebe held her hand to her lips. “Oh, Colonel Simcoe, I did not mean…”

  “It’s fine.” He wiped his mouth and stood from the table. “I, too, must prepare for André.”

  Phoebe sat back with satisfaction. Sally knew she had watched with envy as first Hannah and then Audrey got married and started new lives with their husbands. With most of the boys they had grown up with now off fighting on either side of the war, Sally knew Phoebe worried that she was approaching prime marrying age. None of them wanted to end up like Lydia Jones, their distant cousin and neighbor who, at 30, was considered too old to marry. A spinster, she had been dependent on her father to house her and take care of her expenses, but when he died, she was forced to take a position as a maid to earn her own keep. Sally knew that Phoebe had hoped the Jäger Lieutenant Ochse would have proposed to her, but he left without much of a goodbye when his troop was called away. Sally, too, feared the fate of becoming a spinster, but not as much as being forced into a marriage with the enemy.

  The next morning the elegant Major André appeared at the Townsends’ door. Phoebe had risen early and put on her best chintz morning gown and curled her hair. Sally had rolled out of bed in her usual manner and thrown on whatever dress was handy. Both girls positioned themselves in the hallway, eager to lay their eyes on the celebrated André for different reasons. Simcoe led André into the living room. As the companions stood opposite to shake hands, Sally could not help but compare the two. Where Simcoe was broad, André was slim; Simcoe had frizzy hair that often escaped his unadorned queue, André’s hair was styled with two curls at each temple and the rest tied back neatly with a ribbon; Simcoe had a wide face whereas André’s was narrow, with evenly sculpted features. Indeed, André was as handsome as the rumors implied.

  Simcoe, on catching sight of the sisters, gestured for them to enter.

  “Major André, may I present two of the famed Townsend women, Phoebe and Sally.” After they curtsied, André kissed their hands in turn. Was it Sally’s imagination or did André’s lips linger for just a few seconds longer on her? She dropped her eyes to the floor and then raised them back up the way she’d often seen Audrey do. André returned her glance, his brown eyes reminding Sally of a doe facing down the barrel of a rifle: wide and almost sorrowful. The image disappeared as André’s perfectly shaped lips expanded into a grin. Sally’s face heated as she realized she was still holding her hand up. She dropped it to her side as André chuckled.

  “Shall I make you gentlemen some tea?” Phoebe asked.

  Simcoe, who had been watching Sally as always, frowned. “No, I think we will head to the back bedroom to discuss a few military matters.”

  “But I do look forward to seeing you both at dinner,” André said with a bow. His gait, quickened to catch up with the striding Simcoe, had a jauntiness that belied the major’s confidence.

  “I do not believe I have ever met a man like Major André,” Phoebe said when the two men had retreated down the hall.

  “This time I quite agree with you, sister.” Sally said, watching as Simcoe led André into the room. André tipped his hat at her before walking in and closing the door.

  At dinner that night, André and Simcoe chatted amicably. Occasionally André would ask Papa questions on neutral topics—naturally avoiding the subject of war—but Papa would only return one word answers. When André inquired as to what he thought of the newest fashions coming from the French court, Papa replied that he paid no such mind to fashion. Sally exchanged a worried glance with Phoebe. A year ago he would have been eager to discuss the wardrobe of the French king.

  Mother sought to put André at ease. “Shall we plan an afternoon tea for your men this Wednesday?” she asked Simcoe.

  Simcoe nodded before wiping his mouth. “I would be much obliged, thank you, Mrs. Townsend.”

  “I’ll make my famous tea cakes,” Phoebe said.

  “I cannot wait to taste them,” André replied. Phoebe simpered and Sally recalled her sister’s victory, although short lived, with Leutnant Ochse’s affections. But then André turned to Sally and asked, “And what is your specialty?”

  Sally, whose knowledge of baking was quite limited, murmured something about olykoeks, a round treat of fried dough.

  “Ah, yes,” André’s smile seemed to brighten the dim room. “My mother, being from France, used to call them ‘crispies.’ I will very much look forward to tasting them.” He winked at Phoebe. “And of course, your sweet cakes.”

  Phoebe raised her shoulders and looked smug while Sally refrained from rolling her eyes. />
  Phoebe spent the next day baking and preparing the table for the following afternoon’s tea. She retrieved her mother’s best china from the cupboard in the parlor and then set about polishing the silver teaspoons until they gleamed as if brand new. She looked up at Sally, who stood empty-handed near the door to the hallway. “I’m finished in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, but I’m just going to make the olykoeks tomorrow.”

  “Won’t they need time to cool?” Phoebe held up a spoon to the light, frowned, and then rubbed at it again with her cloth.

  “They’ll be fine as long as I start on them in the morning. I was going to see if André and Simcoe wanted to go for a ride this afternoon.”

  Phoebe’s face turned downward. “That’s just like you to be out gallivanting instead of cooking or sewing. You will make a poor wife someday.” Her voice rose on the last part as Major André walked into the room.

  “Any man would be beyond pleased to have Sally as his wife,” André stated. “I’d much rather have a riding companion.”

  Sally’s heart expanded in her chest as Phoebe frowned. “Are you up for a ride now?” Sally asked.

  “Of course,” he said, winking at Phoebe before he linked his arm through Sally’s.

  “Who will cook and clean for you if your wife is always on her horse?” Phoebe called as the pair began to saunter off.

  “Isn’t that what maids are for?” Sally tossed the words over her shoulder as André chuckled.

  “I am going to change into my riding habit,” Sally told André when they reached the hallway. She found that she was reluctant to have her arm back.

  “And I will extend the invitation to Colonel Simcoe.”

  “Surely,” Sally said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Although it would be considered improper to go riding alone with a near stranger, she would have liked for their chaperone to not be Simcoe. Still, she thought, climbing the steps, at least he did not ask Phoebe.