To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  She charged into his private domain, and stood there, surprised and ... disappointed. The space lacked anything personal. No photographs, no trinkets. Just his army background, evident in the spartan furnishings with a perfectly made bed and single wardrobe. She rushed to the wardrobe—the only obvious place for hiding anything of substance—and pulled back on the door. His clothes hung uniformly, perfectly aligned. His shoes, to the naked eye, were a finger’s width apart. She tested it.

  Disgusted, she nudged them out of alignment. Letting out a heavy sigh, she shut the wardrobe and surveyed the room once more. She moved to the bed, dropped to her knees and peered beneath. Nothing.

  She started to rise, frustration clawing her. She sat back on her heels. Her eye caught on a protrusion of the bed skirt. He would surely notice that given the precise and orderly room in which she trespassed. She brushed her hand over the coverlet to smooth it out and banged her pinky on something. “Ouch.” She put her finger in her mouth and lifted the cover with her other hand.

  The butt of a large gun poked from beneath the mattress. She tugged it from its hiding place. The barrel must have been a foot long! Polished and terrifying, weighing as much as a tea tray. She clutched it carefully to her chest, then quickly and quietly, made her way out the way she had come, a flurry of nerves stirring deep in her belly.

  The rebels had something to worry for now, she told herself as she latched the door behind her and stole down the street, trying desperately to quell the overwhelming sense of culpability. For what, she could not imagine. She was only seeing Papa.

  ~*~

  Frustration ate at John. Pen in hand, he etched in a few more lines along Carolina’s coastline. Then leaned back and tossed aside his quill. The hurt flashing across Elizabeth’s expression kept intruding. He owed her an apology. Rising, he stretched his injured leg and began the process of putting away his drawings in the drawer beneath the desk and securing the lock.

  He snatched his coat from the hook near the door and stepped out into the cold bitter wind. He was surprised to see the carriage still in front of Millicent’s. Pleasantly so. He would drive his wife home and apologize for his short temper on the way. Heart lifted, he crossed the street and stepped inside the store.

  “Mr. Williams?”

  He didn’t recognize the tall woman with the pointed chin.

  She held out a gloved hand. “I’m Miss Jolson, the new school mistress.”

  He took her hand and shook it, inclining his head. “Ah, Gertrude tells me she is studying the Revolutionary war.”

  Confusion touched her angled features. “That was over two weeks ago. I was under the impression your daughter was on her death’s bed.”

  “That is news to me, ma’am. Who told you such rubbish?”

  “I had a note in my box from Mrs. Williams informing me of her illness.”

  That made no sense. “Gertrude was ill, you say?” He shook his head. “And my wife sent a note indicating this?”

  She cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “Um, yes. From the note, it appears your...wife was not fortunate enough to complete her schooling.”

  A wry smile touched him. “It sounds as if my daughter may have penned the note, ma’am.”

  She lifted her chin. “My dear, sir. I would certainly recognize Gertrude’s handwriting.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. Elizabeth was much too articulate to not have completed school. He would never insult her by even asking such a thing. “Not to worry, Miss Jolson. I shall get to the bottom of the matter. Gertrude will be in school tomorrow, rest assured.” He glanced around. “Where is my wife? Our carriage is still out front.”

  Miss Millicent cackled, startling him. “I saw her leave your shop and walk in the direction of home not thirty minutes past.”

  “In this weather?” He didn’t wait for an answer, rushing out. In less than ten minutes he saw the footprints in the snow leading up to the door home, then back out, headed the north. Rather than stop, John followed the prints for another two blocks—straight to the back entrance of Floyd Ruthers’ house. His trepidation shot to the thick clouds above.

  Chapter 10

  Elizabeth entered her father’s house through the kitchen with apprehension. Would he resort to physicality to punish her for not returning?

  The horrific smell hit her first. Much worse than the overflowing dishes in the sink would indicate. The air was as cold inside as out. Clutching the pistol in one hand, she grabbed a tea towel and covered her nose. Broken crockery was everywhere. Garbage had spilled over onto the floor. There was food dried on the counter and stove tops. She moved through the swinging door, and gasped. Dear God.

  Not a drawer was unturned. Contents strewn over every available floor area. Overturned chairs were broken, and table top cracked. The further she moved within the house, the more rancid the odor. Eyes watering, she called out softly. “Papa?”

  She worked her way to the parlor and the vile stench grew stronger. Had her father killed an animal, then deserted their—his home? Certain nothing more could shock her, she pushed through the arch. Books. Her beloved books, ripped to shreds. Hatchet marks covered the walls where pictures used to hang; broken glass littered the floor from overturned lantern bases.

  There, beneath a cracked window—she edged closer—a lump of— “Papa?”

  Someone banged on the front door. She screamed and it crashed back.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “John?” Her voice refused to rise above a whisper.

  The sob spilled from her, and her knees gave way. The gun fell from her hands, clunking to the floor then dislodging.

  ~*~

  Her terrorized scream seared him first. But the gunshot sent John bursting through the front door, splintering wood with a violence he hadn’t utilized since he’d been on the battlefield. The bitter aroma of ammonia combined with rotten eggs nearly flayed him. But it wasn’t rotten eggs, was it? He was most familiar with the stink of death. “Elizabeth, darling. Where are you?”

  Her pained cries squeezed the air from his lungs. He kicked the debris from his path, aiming for the direction of her voice from an open doorway to his right. The bitter wind from outside whipped through the house, specifically, the drawing room where he spied a broken window.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. “Elizabeth.” He rushed over, pulled her to her feet away from the dead carcass of Floyd Ruthers. The sight warranted further investigation but he would attend that at a later time. The man was going nowhere anytime soon.

  At her feet was his issue from the army, a Remington .44, the barrel still hot. He snatched it up, stuffed it at his back. Lead filled his gut. “Were you planning on leaving me?”

  Her silence terrified him.

  He took her by the upper arms and shook her slightly. Her frailty, again, tearing at him. He pulled her from the room. Her face was so pale, he thought she would faint. “Elizabeth. Look at me.”

  She blinked. “Leave you?” Her head moved side to side.

  He tugged her into his body, wrapped his arms around her. The move freed her sobs, she shook with them. “My father. He’s—they killed him.”

  “Who, Elizabeth?”

  She took a deep breath, lifted her head. Her eyes burned into his. “The rebels. He was bragging about the gold pieces. His precious fanciful treasure.”

  “I don’t understand. What gold pieces?”

  She was quiet for the longest time. Then, “He—” She stopped. Inhaled again. “That night. He only talks about his imaginary treasure when he is inebriated beyond reason. There were three of them here for dinner.” A shudder rippled through her. “One of them—Archie—he...attacked me.”

  Fury, like acid, roiled in his gut as he recalled the torn bodice, clutched within her slender fingers. “You got away,” he said softly.

  She jerked from his hold. “Yes. I married you.” Her words were harsh, self-disgust clear in her tone. “To watch your child. To live some place
safe.” Her eyes shimmered with newly formed tears. “I am despicable. And, now—Papa.”

  “No!” He couldn’t bear to hear her rage against herself. Her selfless acts in making his house a home. Defending his daughter against Millicent. Forcing him into behaving a better father. “No,” he said again. He lifted her chin. Touched his lips to hers. “Come, let’s go home. I’ll call the sheriff.” The revolver at his lower back was heavy and still warm. “And then you shall tell me why you were in my room.” And rail at you for almost killing yourself. And killing me at the possibility of losing you.

  Chapter 11

  Arm wrapped about his wife, steel at his lower back, John escorted Elizabeth through to the warm drawing room of his home—their home. Her shivers were uncontrollable, as if the shock of events were finally taking hold. “Jillian, tea!” He guided Elizabeth to the chair before the fire and tugged the cloak from her arms. Then lowered her gently.

  Her eyes, refusing to meet his, remained on the hands folded tightly in her lap. He tossed aside her coat and snatched up a nearby afghan of mismatched colors and smiled. Anne would never have allowed such a thing within eyesight, let alone the room in which company was received. He tucked it about her knees. “Jillian will bring you tea. Drink it. I’ll return soon.”

  She nodded. One tear fell and dissolved in the fabric of her glove. He tugged the worn leather from her fingers and squeezed her chilled hands.

  It pained him to leave. “I must go.” What choice had he but to report her father’s murder? More disturbing was the fact of Floyd entertaining Confederates. “Have you any idea where Trudy is?”

  “School—” She stopped, her gaze flying to his. “Not school. I learned today that she hadn’t been to school since we’d wed. After that she is to—” Again, she stopped but offered nothing further.

  Ah. Secrets. Something he was most adept at discerning. “Try to keep her home when she returns.” He brought her hands to his lips. “Do not worry. I’ll return soon. We’ve much to discuss.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers and left before he could talk himself out of doing his proper duty. And after picking out a few more details from Floyd Ruthers’ house.

  ~*~

  “Thank you, Jillian.” Elizabeth wrapped her frozen fingers around the hot cup and sipped.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Williams? Mr. Williams was most concerned.”

  Elizabeth considered the young woman’s articulate speech, the genuine concern in her furrowed brows, head tilted in concern. “Yes. I had quite a shock, is all.” Is all? Stumbling upon a dead man was disturbing, but her own father—the cup slipped scalding her hand.

  “Mrs. Williams!”

  “I-I think I need to lie down,” she whispered. “I don’t feel so well.”

  Jillian was at her side in an instant, assisting her to her feet. “There now, Mrs. Williams. Whatever has you so fraught will pass.” Slowly, Jillian helped her up the stairs and to her room. “You’ve gone and burned your hand.”

  Upstairs, Jillian dressed her wound and Elizabeth lowered herself to the bed, weary and spent. “Jillian, please inform Gertrude I should like a word with her when she returns.”

  “But Mrs.—”

  “Jillian, did you pen a note to the schoolmistress for the little princess?”

  Guilt rose up from her neck. She swallowed. Answer enough.

  “Wake me if I’m sleeping when she returns, please.”

  ~*~

  The Ruthers’ home stood back from the road on acreage that lent privacy, John noted. As he walked through the house from the kitchen, the attack Elizabeth must have faced filled his mind with unbidden images and sickened him.

  He studied the debris, careful not to touch anything. The overpowering stench must have paralyzed her. He, however sadly, could ignore such atrocities. War could do that to a man.

  Was there really gold? Likely not. Elizabeth was a sensible young woman. But if he could set her mind at ease, learn anything, on who the men were, he would do his army best. Just poke around a bit before going to the sheriff. He’d send a note to Nigel as well. If there were rebels about, then they were closer to learning who was getting the information, though the how still remained a mystery.

  John stood inside a shabbily furbished drawing room and surveyed the chaos around him. The bookshelves were cleared, their contents shredded beyond repair. He leaned over and picked up one book, then grinned. Madame Bovary. Hmm. His Elizabeth was full of surprises. The story was not one for the less dramatic.

  He made his way to Floyd. Covering his nose, he crouched down. A gash in his head told the story. The old man’s eyes were closed as if he’d just given up the fight. Likely, he hadn’t suffered overmuch. John was more concerned with the man’s daughter. A shudder ripped up his spine at what she’d escaped. This could have been her lying among the wreckage. He shook off the maudlin thoughts and moved on.

  Curious how the pictures on the walls were gone. And the slashes. Whomever they were, they’d been looking for a wall safe of sorts, he’d guess. With that in mind, John went through the rest of the house to see if that was indeed the case. It was. Nothing had been left unturned. The house was destroyed. Her legacy, gone, and it tore at him.

  He stepped from the house, and hoisted himself up on his horse and turned for town to speak to the sheriff, with a new resolve. To give Elizabeth what she deserved. A caring husband and family. Even Trudy was softening, albeit, slowly. It would take time, but what else was there, but time? He’d been a fool.

  Homer’s quote from Iliad struck him. “Even a fool learns something once it hits him.” He swallowed the urge to laugh, his heart pounding a little harder. Yes. He’d just been hit.

  ~*~

  Elizabeth couldn’t possibly swallow a thing. Jillian had put together an edible meal of potatoes, gravy, peas and biscuits. Elizabeth had been so upset, she’d left Miss Millicent’s without the goods she’d purposely made the trip for.

  Even the slightest blink brought the image of her father’s blue tinged complexion into vivid imagery. The thought of the coming night terrified her. How would she get past this? She’d deserted her father. She pushed at the food on her plate, swallowing back tears.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Trudy’s voice barely penetrated. Elizabeth should reprimand her for her rude behavior, but she lacked the strength.

  “You’ll not speak to your mother like that.” John’s sharp tone brought Elizabeth’s head up.

  Elizabeth’s head pounded. “Please—”

  “She’s not my mother.”

  “As my wife, she is indeed, your mother. And you shall speak to, and of her, with due respect.”

  The exchange stunned Elizabeth.

  Trudy opened her mouth but John stayed her. “You’ve lied about going to school.” He spoke calmly, but Elizabeth could see his effort in doing so.

  The air around the table stilled.

  Trudy’s eyes dropped to her food. “I didn’t lie,” she said sullenly.

  “You lied by omission. It’s the same thing.”

  “How did you know—” Elizabeth started, then paused. “Miss Millie’s.”

  “I went in to find you.” He glanced from Elizabeth to Trudy. “Miss Jolson had plenty to say.”

  Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. “Dreadful woman,” she said under her breath.

  “Be that as it may, Trudy, you will not miss school again. You may come by my shop after school.”

  Her antics were more than just simple rebelliousness. She was a deeply sensitive child. Elizabeth wanted to stop him before he said something truly dreadful. “John, perhaps things aren’t as they—”

  “But I’m supposed to be at the—” Trudy said the same instant.

  “You’re supposed to be where?”

  Elizabeth spoke quickly. “Nowhere. Gertrude should be at school. And, yes, spending time at your shop benefits her greatly.” Her eyes turned to her charge, urging her to read her silent message. I’ll take care of the Babba
ges.

  Trudy blinked once. “Yes, Papa. I’ll go to school.”

  He nodded once. “Fine. Now finish up and go to bed.”

  “But——”

  “No buts. That is your punishment.”

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, she nodded, finished her dinner and rose, clearing her dishes without argument.

  “You’ve scarcely eaten a bite,” John said gently. “You’ll hurt Jillian’s feelings.”

  Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. It was true.

  His chair scraped the wood floor, startling her. He snatched up her hands and dropped to the seat beside her. “Hey. I was teasing.” His hands cupped her face and her stomach dropped. His thumbs brushed aside the tears.

  But they spilled over. Papa was dead with no chance to tell him she loved him. Her marriage—

  John pulled her into him, wrapping her tightly in his arms. “We need to talk,” he whispered.

  “The dishes—”

  “Leave them. I’ll take care of them...later.” He tugged her from her chair then up the stairs, down the hall to her awful pink room. Once inside he latched the door and led her to the settee. He lowered himself next to her. “I owe you an apology for how I acted today.”

  “It’s not necessary. I know my place.”

  “Stop,” he said harshly. “Your place is next to me. I was wrong. Wrong to treat you like a servant. Wrong to expect a woman as lovely as you to live her life in such a ridiculous relationship.”

  Elizabeth was confused at the surge of hope soaring through her. “You don’t have to explain.”

  “I do. My marriage to Anne, it was...not ideal.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  “It’s no secret I don’t trust. My best friend was in love with my wife. He told me in no uncertain terms that she did not deserve me.”

  The pain behind the words was stark.

  He glanced away from her to the window over her shoulder. “He was right.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t imagine any woman not wanting the man sitting beside her.