To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  “Washing the dishes, sweeping the floors…” She distinctly remembered the floors needed sweeping. She must have questions, hordes of them, but none surged forth. She couldn’t seem to do anything except, repeat random words or phrases and stare stupidly at him.

  “There’s Jillian. You shan’t want for anything—” He paused, frowned, then modified his statement. “—within reason.”

  “Within reason…” She shook her head, trying to make sense of what the man was talking about. Perhaps rattle the words in her head in to formulating sense of their own. Who was Jillian?

  His lips firmed into a straight line. “That’s what I said,” he snapped. “That is perfectly fair.”

  His tone, an accusation, penetrated. “I require nothing of you.” She strode to the door. She would take her chances with the bastards her father brought home. The only adjustment would be in keeping the shotgun within reach.

  He snagged her arm before her hand reached the handle, spun her to face him. “My apologies, Miss Ruthers.” He dropped her arm and pushed a hand through his short, dark blonde hair. “I’m afraid I’m stating things rather badly.”

  She recognized the softness in his eyes. The same when Gertrude had turned her soulful face on him.

  In that instant, Elizabeth realized he may not ever come to love her, or even like her for that matter, but he would always treat her with respect. Some of her resolve gave way. She would have shelter, food. And in return, all that was required of her was seeing to his disobedient child. How difficult could it be to teach Gertrude—Trudy—a modicum of etiquette? She would adopt the name, build a truce between them.

  The wagon drew to a stop, startling her attention. Elizabeth shrunk away from the hatred in Trudy’s glare.

  Mr. Williams lowered her to the ground before easing himself down. She couldn’t help but notice how he favored his injured leg in the bone-chilling cold.

  He held out a hand, and for the slightest moment, she was tempted to take up the ribbons and dash away, let Mother Nature do with her as she pleased.

  He seemed to read her thoughts. “’Twill do you no good, Miss Ruthers. The Babbages are waiting.” A small smile curled his lips. To her relief it was not a sardonic twist, but one of a weariness that appeared to match her own.

  She clasped his hand and stepped from the carriage, and absolutely refused to look at Trudy.

  “Who are the Babbages?” Trudy demanded. Her teeth chattered with the cold.

  “The new minister and his wife. You would know that if you hadn’t skipped last Sunday’s services,” her father chastised her.

  Elizabeth, grateful for the question, had missed last Sunday’s services too.

  The wind cut through her worn coat.

  He snatched up his daughter, wrapped his other arm around Elizabeth and hurried them through the double wooden doors of the small white chapel.

  A tall, thin man with a shock of overly long, gray hair walked up, hand outstretched. He was most youthful despite the matching beard that covered half of his face. “Mr. Williams, I’m Cornelius Babbage.” His voice was deep, charismatic. The kind that invited a person to confess all her sins. A stunning auburn haired woman followed, bright blue eyes twinkling. Her smile warmed the small sanctuary to overheating. “My wife, Bernadette.”

  The age difference was alarming.

  “Such a lovely day for a wedding.” Her melodic tones, another adornment to her beauty.

  Elizabeth heard a suspicious, child-like snort. She glanced over but her future husband blocked her view. Her gaze moved to him, trying to gage his reaction to such unadulterated splendor of which Elizabeth had no hope of competing. But his back was to her.

  “Witnesses?” Mr. Williams barked.

  “I shall be serving as one witness, Mr. Williams, along with Miss Millicent who kindly offered her presence. And in this weather.” She clucked her tongue, and pointed gracefully to the front of the sanctuary, where indeed, Elizabeth spotted the back of Miss Millicent’s head of iron gray curls.

  A thought of the ceremony’s legality flitted through Elizabeth. Miss Millicent was half blind and mostly deaf. She let out a dejected breath. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Mr. Williams seemed determined to keep their marriage pure and platonic after all.

  “May I take your coats?”

  “If we could get on with this business.” Mr. Williams’ expression was grim and Elizabeth cringed, heart sinking, at his sharpness.

  Mrs. Babbage smiled, a calm placating twist of her lips. “Of course. You’ll want to get your family home. I’m sure you’re anxious to begin your new life together.”

  Elizabeth slipped off her coat and handed it to the woman, forcing John and Trudy to do the same.

  “And certainly out of this atrocious weather.” That taken care of Mr. Babbage led them down the aisle toward the podium.

  His wife, having deposited their damp outerwear on a wooden pew, hurried over and assembled the small party into place. Elizabeth to John’s left, Miss Millicent next to Elizabeth and Trudy...well, Trudy edged her way between she and John, clinging to her father’s hand. She pierced Elizabeth with another, more odious glance.

  Miss Millicent stepped around Elizabeth and, with her bony hand, squeezed Trudy’s shoulder. “You can stand by me, Miss Gertrude.” She started to drag her back.

  Elizabeth clamped her hand over the old woman’s. “Leave her.”

  The startled look from father and daughter was both satisfying and annoying. The man showed his child the least little affection. It was clear to anyone that all she wanted was...something—it hit Elizabeth with the force of cold water dumped, on her head in the blazing heat of summer.

  Trudy demanded her father’s attention, by any means, fair or foul. And it appeared the only way she’d managed to garner his regard thus far, came by way of devilish deeds. The more he ignored her, the more wicked her efforts.

  Mr. Babbage, bible in hand, cleared his throat. “If everyone is ready?” With a sharp nod that seemed to shift the hair on his head, he began. “DEARLY beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony...”

  ~*~

  Short and sweet. Or it would have been had the man with whom Elizabeth was now permanently attached, shown the slightest amount of interest in her. Dear God, these thoughts made her as pathetic as Trudy. She was marrying him to help his daughter; to save herself, with John Williams as her protector. She blinked back the sudden sting of tears.

  “You may kiss your bride, Mr. Williams.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach dropped to her knees. Her hand in his, too hot. She didn’t know where to look. Anger emanated off Trudy, but Mr. Williams, John as she should try to think of him now, seemed oblivious to his daughter’s ire.

  He took Elizabeth’s chin and tipped her face up, lowered his to hers, and with the lightest touch, feathered his lips over hers. Her plummeting stomach hit the floor.

  Eyes closed, she was vaguely aware of Trudy’s outraged cry and small body backing away.

  Elizabeth slowly opened her eyes, meeting her new husband’s with a sudden shyness. Something deep swirled within. Something she couldn’t, didn’t want to define.

  An amused curl tipped his lips. Yet she remained rooted to the floor like a renaissance statue unable to break her gaze from his.

  “Now the paperwork.” Mr. Babbage’s deep resonance echoed off the wood, startling her. She blinked and moved back a step. Mr. Babbage was standing at the podium, pen in hand. When had he moved?

  Mr. Willi—John—strolled over, tugging her along. He scribbled his signature then handed her the pen. She had to shake his hand away. It took sheer will power. Her signature required the hand he still gripped. After signing, she glanced around. No sign of Troublesome Trudy.

  “When do you expect to head back to the line?” Mr. Babbage asked Mr. Williams.

  Elizabeth’s head whipped to John’s. “You’re going back
?”

  Lips thinned, he gave a sharp nod and turned back to Mr. Babbage.

  Her shock was complete. “But what of Gertrude?”

  He ignored her stunned whisper.

  Her eyes darted about again, the hair at her nape rising. An open door to the right, drew her like a bee to honey. Making certain John was sufficiently occupied, she ducked through the opening and followed a dark hallway to a lighted room near the back. The church office.

  “No!” Her cry startled her new stepdaughter into opening her hand over the offering plate. Several coins clanked onto the platter. “Gertrude,” she whispered.

  Tears filled Trudy’s eyes. Not the manufactured tears Elizabeth had witnessed before. But genuine anguish poured from her.

  “Why?”

  Trudy just shook her head.

  Elizabeth’s heart went out to her. “I shan’t tell your father, but please,” she begged. “You must stop. Stealing is—”

  “Stealing?” Bernadette Babbage stood at the door, a small frown marring her features.

  Elizabeth’s arm stole about Trudy’s shoulders. “She didn’t mean to.”

  A small smile played about Mrs. Babbage’s mouth. “Of course not. No one ever does.”

  “Will you...t-tell my father?”

  A tapered nail tapped her chin. “Perhaps there is another way.”

  Elizabeth let out a held breath.

  ~*~

  Elizabeth Williams, his wife. John definitely ended up with the better end of the short stick he’d offered in conning this quiet young woman into his life. He and Trudy would be a tough sell for anyone. Desolation settled deep.

  He turned at the shuffled footsteps. The procession of women emerged from an unlit hallway in the small church. She looked lovely in a gown of light blue, and her hair drawn up, soft curls falling down her back, rather than cinched back. Her expression was marred with brows furrowed. The tension radiated off of her in waves. She had secrets, that much was certain. It was set in the plump lips now firmed into a thin, grim line. The stiff walk, and hands clenched at her side as she followed Trudy. Neither one met his eyes.

  A beaming Mrs. Babbage trailed them wearing a smile that reminded him poignantly of his late wife. A spoiled debutante who spared no thought for others, even her own child. The familiar burn of hatred squeezed his chest of available air. This was not the place or time for reminiscing.

  Elizabeth marched over to their coats, thrusting Trudy’s at her before whipping her own about her shoulders.

  Once bundled, she went to the old woman. It struck John that he’d never properly thanked his now wife for keeping Trudy safe from the ancient hag, who was renowned for her snap judgements and rash punishments.

  Elizabeth held out her hand. “Thank you for braving the weather and standing up for us, Miss Millicent.” She spoke loudly as it was also known how hard of hearing the old woman was.

  “Pr’aps someone can now take the little heathen in tow.”

  John started forward, red coloring his vision. He needn’t have bothered.

  Elizabeth jerked her hand back. “She’s a child, Miss Millicent. A lonely, lonely child.” Her cold tone stopped him, surprised him, accused him. “She is not a heathen. And I would appreciate your remembering such.” She pierced John with a steely glance. “But you are correct in one respect. I shall certainly be taking her in tow.”

  Eyes flashing fire infused his veins with heat. She looked magnificent. Dark tendrils escaping their hold, chin lifted, voice portraying the same confidence when she’d stormed his shop. Had it only been three days?

  “Come, Gertrude. Husband. Let’s go.”

  Inclining his head and hiding a smile, he reached for the door.

  Chapter 4

  John scrubbed a hand over his bearded jaw, thumb and index fingers rubbing his eyes. He postured the magnifying glass back into place and resumed the painstaking detail needed for General Thomas’s upcoming defense strategy.

  The storefront door crashed back. A blistering wind threatened the safety of his latest map. “Shut the blasted door!” He grunted with the simultaneous slam.

  “Brutal.” The eyes of Nigel Kilgore peered at him through a knitted cap. Slits were cut for his eyes. Snow speckled the bottom of his heavy beard. He shook his head, sending droplets flying.

  “You’re late.”

  “Yet, here you are working away.”

  John grunted. “Adding a few last finishing touches,” he said gruffly.

  “I just heard the most interesting news, I did.” Nigel strolled over to the drafting table. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  John peered at his longtime schoolmate and friend. “The day for what?”

  “You. Marrying a second time.”

  “Trudy needs a mother, and if I’m to return to the line—”

  “You’re doing what you need to do with the detail on these maps, man. The general—”

  “Enough. I will return, and that’s the last I want to hear from you or anyone on the matter.” John lifted the looking glass out of the way. He bit back a wince, willing the blood through his bad leg, and moved around the table. Taking one end of the parchment paper, he rolled it then grabbed a tubular container to stuff the map into. He slapped Nigel on the shoulder with it.

  Nigel accepted it with more grace than John deserved. “You know there’s no other mapmaker so skilled. There’s no shame in assisting the war effort with your drawings. Wars won are through strategy and intelligence.” He pierced John with an intensity so fierce, John had to turn away. And of course, the man could not leave well enough alone. “What will happen to Trudy if the next shot makes its mark?” Nigel shook his head. “Hasn’t she been through enough with her mother’s—”

  “I said, enough.” John’s growl matched the dangerous emotions roiling through him. Trudy’s mother was off limits. To anyone.

  Thankfully, Nigel took heed. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “General Thomas sends his thanks and, his next assignment.” He held out a set of papers John snatched from his hands. “Go home, man. You have a new wife. One I relish meeting someday.”

  John dropped his head in his hands without bothering to look up as Nigel slipped out. The gust of the harsh wind cut deep. Deep as the dagger Anne had used in slicing her own wrists.

  ~*~

  The house was quiet. A relief, really. John slipped in through the back and stomped the snow from his boots. The scent of fresh baked bread permeated the air in a kitchen still warm. He shrugged out of his overcoat and made his way to the wood stove where an iron pot sat atop. He lifted the lid, and almost fainted from the tantalizing aroma. Beef stew. God, he hadn’t eaten all day. He’d plain forgot.

  He snatched the first bowl he could lay his cold hands on. China, he and Anne had received as a wedding gift, was stacked in neat rows. Delicate, clean. He briefly wondered where they’d been stashed.

  He dished a generous helping and limped to the table; surveyed his surroundings. The room gleamed. No lingering dishes in the sink, a floor that shined. Things looked...organized. Potatoes, onions and other vegetables hung from the ceiling in a wire basket. The dinnerware stacked neatly according to size in the baker’s rack against one wall.

  John tore off a chunk of bread and savored a hefty spoonful of the hearty beef, almost moaning aloud. He lifted his eyes to heaven. Could he have chosen a better wife? He took another bite. No. He didn’t believe so.

  After his second bowl, perhaps third, John cleaned his dishes and set them back in place, carefully respecting Elizabeth’s painstaking efforts. Hunger sated, a sudden weariness weighted his shoulders.

  He dried his hands on a towel and left the kitchen. Bed sounded like the ideal escape. A bitter laugh stuck in his throat. The ideal wedding night, fool that he was, leaving his new wife home after a quick, staid morning ceremony then working the day and night away, detailing maps, hours on end. He’d surely lost his mind.

  He pushed through the kitchen door. To his right a
low lit lantern billowed in the dining room where one perfect place was set, complete with filled water goblet, readied for him. He groaned. He was an ungrateful brute, that’s what he was.

  Nigel’s words flooded him. He was married now. But Nigel didn’t understand. He’d never understand. It was John’s fault Trudy no longer had a mother. He may as well have slit her wrists for Anne for all the care he’d shown her. Not that his eyes hadn’t been opened. Anne’s love for material things and other men far outweighed her love for anyone, even her own child.

  He snatched up the lantern and squared his shoulders.

  Well, now the little girl in his charge had a mother. And if the instincts that had kept him alive thus far were right, Trudy would come out well in this deal.

  Shaking his head, he stood inside the foyer at the foot of the stairs and pushed a hand through his hair. He’d best check on Trudy. More times than not he found her sleeping soundly before the hearth in the parlor. No reason tonight should be any different.

  He stepped in the room and stopped. Elizabeth sat in a large winged-back chair near the heavily draped windows, holding one of his old shirts. His chest constricted at the sight. “What the blazes are you doing?” His tone came out sharp as guilt tightened across his chest like an iron band.

  Elizabeth straightened up, arching her back in a stretch. “Mending.”

  Thankfully, she did not appear offended by his gruffness. “It’s late.”

  She smiled softly and tipped her head towards the fire. “I did not wish to leave her. She insisted on laying by the fire. Said her room was too cold. When I told her I would stoke the fire, she insisted there were monsters beneath the bed.”

  He grunted. “That is her normal spot, unless I promise her a dog. Every night I tell her she should sleep in her own bed, and every night I come in, and am forced to carry her to bed.”

  A soft smile played over her lips to a distracting degree. Exactly one of the reasons he worked himself to exhaustion. “I suspect that’s precisely the reason she does it.”

  He frowned. “Because I tell her not to?”