The Women Spies Series 1-3

by Sergeant, Kit

  Ironically, many of the attendees were the same people Meg met during her spying days. But now she forced herself to stay away from Robert Townsend and Hercules Mulligan, try as they might to pull her into a corner. She clung to the illusion that she was the same ardent Loyalist she was at the beginning of the war.

  As André was aide-de-camp to the new commander, Sir Henry Clinton, he always seemed to be buried in paperwork. To keep up appearances, André would visit Meg’s room, where they would sit by the fire and simply talk, as he was ever the true gentleman he gave the impression of being. One night he told her about the woman he had once planned to marry back home in England. He pulled a small trinket from his breast pocket and handed it to Meg. It was of a young girl, painted in meticulous hand, on ivory.

  “Her name was Honora Sneyd. You look not just a little like her, actually,” André said.

  Meg took a closer investigation of the painting. The girl had blond hair and blue eyes, true, but there was an innocence about her that Meg never quite associated with.

  “She was one of the most intellectual women I’ve ever met. We were engaged to be married,” André added.

  “What happened?” Meg asked, handing him back the ivory piece.

  He took another affectionate glance at it before tucking it back into his waistcoat. “Although we were betrothed, her father did not think I had enough finances to support her. He pressured her to end the engagement, which she did. I recently heard she wed a man who I’d met a few times while he was still married. The ceremony took place only a fortnight after his first wife died in childbirth.”

  “Scandalous,” Meg replied, noting the slump in André’s shoulders. “Is that why you joined the army?”

  He nodded. “What about you? Did you love anyone before you married that brute?”

  It was Meg’s turn to become melancholy. “A rebel in every sense of the word.” She briefly described their relationship.

  “What was his name?”

  “Aaron Burr.”

  André repeated the name. “If you want, I can use my contacts to find his whereabouts.”

  Meg reached out to grab his sleeve. “If you could, please.” She knew it was too late for them as a couple, but it would give her a great peace of mind to know that he was still alive, out there existing in the world with his dapper charm and ambitious heart.

  André rose and grabbed his sword off a nearby chair. “I will take my leave of you now. There are many promotions and leave of absence requests awaiting my signature in the morning.”

  “Sounds titillating.” She sat up, gathering her skirts. She felt that she was on good enough terms with André to ask him something that had been bothering her for quite a while “What know you of the pillaging done by your regiments?”

  André set his sword back down. “Pillaging? I’m not aware of such behavior by our troops—it would go against the notion of a gentleman’s war.”

  Meg snorted. “Gentleman’s war? Clearly you are unaware, then, of the plundering committed by the Loyalist and Hessian troops. Mayhap you should find the occasion to step out of the office and into the field.” She was careful to say that last part gently, for she respected André as a man, even if she held the rest of the British army in contempt.

  André frowned and Meg immediately regretted the harshness of her words. He moved toward his sword as he replied, “I will look into it, as well as inquire of Aaron Burr. It will lend a bit more interest to my day.”

  “Thank you, Major André.”

  He turned to her and bowed. “Goodnight, Mrs. Coghlan.”

  It was less than a fortnight later when André returned to Meg’s room brandishing a folded paper. He placed it on her desk and told her she probably wanted to get into a comfortable position before she read it.

  It was a report on Aaron Burr. Meg scanned it, her heart pounding. She was not surprised to hear of his military exploits, a few he had been victorious in. There was also mention of Aaron’s bad health—which seemed to originate from heat stroke during a battle in August—of which Meg was sorry to read. At the bottom was a report on his personal affairs. It seemed André’s source had gathered mostly local gossip, but it focused on Aaron’s frequent visits to the house of a married woman in New Jersey. The missive included a quote that called this woman, Theodosia Prevost, “the object of Burr’s affections.”

  “She’s the wife of a British officer!” Meg exclaimed as the letter fluttered to the floor.

  “And a good ten years older than him, with two offspring by that officer, to boot.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  In lieu of replying, André picked up the report and walked over to the fireplace. “Do you object?” he asked as he held it near the fire. When Meg shook her head, he tossed it in. Both of them watched in silence as the paper was consumed by flames.

  “So that is what has become of the honorable Aaron Burr.” Meg smoothed the lace on her skirt. Then again, had Aaron commissioned a report on her, he might read of her disastrous marriage and then of her being taken up as André’s supposed mistress. “Life certainly does take its turns, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed it does.” André sat down next to the fire and patted the spot beside him. “I looked into the alleged pillaging, as you called it, by our army,” he said as Meg joined him. “I was quite shocked at what I found. Goods have been taken from houses of the infirm, destitute, widowed, even from our own Loyalists. Such acts can only bring on acrimony, which in turn can lead to revolts. I prepared a full report and handed it to Sir Henry today. I also urged the formation of a board of inquiry with the intent of distributing reparation to the victims.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “That was very noble of you.”

  “Perhaps a bit foolhardy as well, as I think there are many among the general’s personages that will be most displeased by my revelations.”

  “I would assume these would be the officers who allowed such behavior to occur.”

  André stretched out a booted leg and rotated his foot.

  “Do you have much pain?”

  He flashed her a quick smile. “Sometimes. It is the burden of a soldier.” He seemed to be studying her. “There was something else I wanted to ask you.”

  “Yes?” Meg’s heart started to flutter. Did he somehow uncover information about her previous wartime activities, or was it something of a more passionate nature? And if it was indeed a romantic proposal, would she accept?

  “Have you ever acted?”

  She let out a peal of laughter that disguised the relief washing over her. “Every day of my life.”

  His smile broadened. “I mean, on stage.”

  “I did a bit while at boarding school. Mostly skits: I was one of the witches in Macbeth.”

  “Perfect. We are in need of females at the Theatre Royal. A few like-minded officers and I have formed a company.”

  “And they don’t play female parts?”

  “Well, we do have some junior officers with high voices.” He batted his eyelashes at her. “I think I myself might make a beautiful lady.”

  Meg took in his thick, curling hair and wide brown eyes. “You would indeed.”

  “We placed an ad in the Gazette, but I thought you might be inclined to the stage.”

  “For all that you have done for me, Major André, I would be glad to assist.”

  Chapter 39

  Sally

  November 1778

  With the campaign season steering to a close, Sally’s family prepared to billet yet another officer for the winter. William was frequently absent and spent most of his time in New York City. Robert, busy with his store, coffee shop, and writing for The Gazette, was seldom ever home. With Audrey now married to Captain Farley and Solomon still in France, the large house was even more subdued than it had been previously.

  It was a clear autumn morning when Sally awoke to the sound of horses trotting. She peered out the window. The blue sky was unmarred by clouds, and some of the tre
es still held the vestiges of burnt orange leaves. Below them a troop of mounted men in green coats paused. Sally watched as Papa approached them. The man in charge—all Sally could discern was a bulky figure and a powdered wig—dismounted and pointed at the house. Sally’s hand tightened on the curtain as she could clearly see her father’s face fall. She rushed downstairs, still in her chemise.

  “Papa?” she asked as he walked in.

  “Sally.” He was too weary to notice that she was not dressed. He gestured toward the front gate where a muscular man was tethering a horse. “That’s Colonel Simcoe. He will be quartering with us this winter.”

  “Samuel?” Sally’s mother appeared from the back of the house. Spying her daughter, she shouted, “Sally! Get some clothes on!” She then commanded Phoebe to put the kettle on. The Townsends were about to receive yet another British houseguest.

  Sally dressed quickly, throwing on the same pale blue dress she wore the day before, and then watched her parents greet Colonel Simcoe from her post at the top of the stairs.

  He stood at attention, his black boots gleaming in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. “I assume I will have a room to myself?” he asked impatiently.

  Sally’s chest swelled with indignation. How dare he be so rude! she thought. As if he could hear her thoughts, Simcoe shifted his eyes toward the steps, but Sally ducked out of view just in time.

  She heard Papa murmuring something, just catching her name before he called up to her. “Sally? Will you please show Colonel Simcoe to his room?”

  Sally counted a few beats before she started down the stairs. She knew it was important to maintain a peaceful atmosphere, for both her father’s safety and for the chance, however small, to glean information that would be of use to Robert. Consequently, she kept her eyes downcast, afraid that Simcoe would be able to see how much she hated being forced to house the enemy.

  After introductions were made, Sally led Simcoe to Robert’s old room downstairs. It was a modest room, done in Quaker style, but furnished with touches such as a Turkish carpet and homemade quilt. Both Major Green and Lieutenant Wurmb had roomed here without any complaints, but now Simcoe, after gazing around the room, asked since there was no fireplace, may he have another quilt?

  Sally frowned. Inwardly she was thinking that it was just like an Englishman to not be satisfied with what he had, but outwardly she told him that she would fetch him one shortly.

  Simcoe went to the bookcase and pulled out Robert’s copy of Common Sense. Holding it between his two fingers and making a face, he asked Sally, “Might this be removed straight away?”

  She came forward and grabbed it from him, clutching it tightly to her chest.

  Simcoe went to his bag and extracted a few of his own belongings to put on the shelf. Sally stepped closer in order to read the titles of the books Simcoe thought appropriate. A few Shakespearean works were mixed in among the treatises on military strategy. Sally set Common Sense down to retrieve Romeo and Juliet and flipped through it.

  Simcoe had stopped his unpacking to peer at her. “One of his finest,” he said, nodding at the book in her hands.

  Sally, refusing to get pulled into a conversation with him, slid the book back into its spot and picked up Common Sense. “I will go see about that quilt,” she said, giving him the slightest curtsey before leaving the room.

  Papa told Sally and Phoebe to set the dining room table for dinner, thereby ending the cozy kitchen meal times. After he joined them, Simcoe informed the Townsends that he commanded the Queen’s Rangers, another troop composed of mostly American Loyalists. Sally had heard of them. They were formerly under the direction of Robert Rogers, a man who supposedly assisted in the capture of Nathan Hale.

  Sally watched her parents’ eyes meet over the meal and knew what they were thinking: another tyrannical Tory unit, like that of De Lancey’s, had come to Oyster Bay.

  Phoebe politely inquired why Simcoe wore a green uniform.

  He turned to Phoebe. “I’m glad you asked. General Clinton recently asked the same thing.” He addressed his next statement to the table as a whole. “The Queen’s Rangers under my command are not just like any infantry. It is my belief that they should be able to remain concealed until such times when the situation causes them to charge or evade the enemy.”

  You mean the chicken-hearted “hit and run,” strategy, Sally thought. “Green coats are fine to hide in the spring, but what about autumn?” Sally gestured toward the window, where those leaves that remained on the trees had turned bright colors.

  “Much like the brilliant spring fades, or the amber leaves of autumn, a coat—when worn constantly through downpours and the blazing sun—will fade as well.” Simcoe bestowed a disarming smile onto Sally.

  “Or how a lady’s beauty fades with time,” she added.

  “I could not imagine your beauty ever fading.” Simcoe gestured toward Phoebe. “Or that of your sister’s.”

  A wave of jealousy unexpectedly passed over Sally. She shook it off. Simcoe was an arrogant louse, although… Sally studied him as he speared a piece of meat with his fork. His sturdy shoulders and bronze coloring gave off a strong, competent aura. He looked up suddenly and caught Sally staring at him. She focused her eyes on her own meal and did not glance up again.

  At breakfast the next day, Simcoe was already ruddy and sweaty. He’d obviously been up early.

  Sally sat awkwardly across from him. They were the only ones at the table as Mother was busy in the kitchen and Papa rarely rose in time for the morning meal nowadays. Sally gave an inward sigh of relief when Phoebe joined them.

  “Tell me, Miss Townsend,” Simcoe was, once again, directing his attention to Sally. “What sort of delights are to be found in Oyster Bay?”

  “Oysters, of course!” Phoebe replied.

  “Do you shuck them yourselves?”

  “No,” Sally said. “We do a lot of things in the kitchen, but Caesar’s always been the one to shuck them. It’s dangerous: you could cut yourself badly if you are unskilled.”

  Simcoe nodded sincerely, as if this piece of information was of great importance. He wiped his mouth with his napkin before he said, “I must apologize if you thought me rude yesterday. I was feeling a bit tired from the journey.”

  Sally looked up at this unexpected apology.

  “Oh, no, Colonel, we did not think you rude at all,” her sister replied.

  He nodded at Phoebe’s comment, but his eyes were on Sally.

  She stood up and grabbed her plate, stacking it on the counter before starting for the hallway.

  “Miss Townsend?” Simcoe called.

  She stopped, an apology on her lips, albeit a much more insincere one than his. She’d hoped to avoid having to acknowledge Simcoe’s atonement, but apparently he would command her as he did his Rangers. She would have no choice but to obey. But when she turned, he asked, “I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the fortification Lieutenant Wurmb had begun. Part of my orders this winter is to complete it.”

  Sally’s stomach, full from breakfast, turned over. Was he actually asking her to accompany him to observe his troops construct battlements? A wide smile formed as she realized how fortuitous that could be for her mission to provide Robert with information. Simcoe seemed pleased by her reaction as he echoed her beam.

  “Can I come as well?” Phoebe asked.

  Sally narrowed her eyes, but her sister did not seem to notice as Simcoe stated, “Why, of course. The more lovely Townsend ladies that accompany me, the better. Wasn’t there a third sister?”

  “Audrey,” Phoebe told him. “But she married as close to her twenty-first birthday as she could.”

  He turned to Sally standing in the doorway. “And how old are you?”

  Phoebe answered for her. “Twenty, and I’m nearly eighteen now.”

  “Quite nearing marrying age, then.” Simcoe said before he stood. “I will meet you two presently, if you don’t mind. I like to accomplish much of m
y work in the morning.”

  Phoebe pushed her plate back. “I shall go tell Caesar to get the horses ready.”

  Sally had two riding habits. She chose the red one, not necessarily for the color but because it was more close-fitting than the other. Both she and Phoebe spent extra time arranging their hair, Sally twirling ringlets to dangle under her felt hat. It was not often they had admiring male eyes to impress.

  When they emerged from the room, Simcoe was waiting for them at the bottom of the staircase. “Such enchanting sisters,” he commented before leading them outside.

  Wurmb’s men had begun reinforcing a small hill across from Main Street near the Townsend home. After they arrived at the prospective stronghold, Simcoe dismounted to get a closer look. As he walked around the bottom, he nodded and muttered to himself. Sally and Phoebe exchanged bewildered looks. The hill was only about 60 feet high and had been there as long as Sally could remember. Wurmb’s troops did not do much besides add a small number of vertical wood planks to the base of the slope. When Simcoe finished his survey, he told the ladies that it indeed offered a good view of the waterfront. “We shall erect a fortification that would help protect the town from attacks by rebel whaleboat men.”

  Sally grinned to herself as she pictured Caleb Brewster harassing Tory sympathizers. She was not afraid of the whaleboaters that terrorized the Devil’s Belt. Indeed, the greatest threat to Sally’s family was Simcoe himself. If Sally’s befriending the British officer kept her father out of danger, then so be it.

  When Simcoe’s Rangers were not working on the breastworks of the Main Street hill, they drilled endlessly in the fields nearby. Sally often rode Gem out in the mornings to watch, thinking that any knowledge of the Rangers would be useful to Robert. Simcoe, for his part, seemed pleased that Sally was taking an interest in his work. He always greeted her graciously and would then explain the purpose of the formations he directed his men into or how the redoubt would look upon completion. Simcoe reiterated that his goal for the Rangers was for them to be agile and quick. During these encounters, Simcoe was all business, but at family meals, he would often seat himself next to Sally and engage her in conversation.