To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  “Of course not.” Elizabeth deplored the notion. And just as the two were making excellent headway. Well, to a small degree. It was a terrible idea. But what to do? “I know. I shall limit her drawing. Have her spend her time reading instead, working mathematical problems.” It was the ideal solution.

  Bernadette’s lips pressed into a tight line she quickly smoothed away. “You believe that will teach her a lesson?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I do indeed. She seems to live for her art. Restricting it will be good for several reasons.” She rose. “Thank you so much for bringing this to my attention, Mrs. Babbage. I’ll see you out.”

  “Bernadette,” she said again. With a sharp nod, she stood, having no other choice. “Of course. I felt it my civic duty to let you know.”

  Her words did not sit well with Elizabeth. But she brushed them aside, thanking small mercies that Bernadette saw fit to let her know.

  Chapter 13

  Later that night John took comfort with an arm slung over Elizabeth. She lay on her side, her back against his chest. “You are unusually quiet,” he said. A small sniffle sounded and concern filled him. “You aren’t coming down with something?”

  The breath she inhaled was shaky but after a slight pause she answered. “I’m worried for Gertrude. She hates me you know.”

  “Is that all?” He rose on one arm and rolled her to her back. “You’re crying.”

  “No—that is—” She closed her eyes tight. The tears squeezed pass. “She truly hates me.”

  “She’s a child. She’ll grow to love you just as I—” The air about them dissipated, constricted his throat.

  Her eyes flashed opened, meeting his. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one he’d surprised. She lay stilled beneath him, widened gaze unmoving, her mouth slightly parted. He swallowed. Yet what had he to lose? She wasn’t Anne. A woman so narcissistic she failed to care for her own child. No. This was Elizabeth.

  Dear, sweet Elizabeth, who sought to make his house a home; give his daughter a mother. She deserved a man who was generous in return. Allowed her the option of choosing to have children, should she desire.

  He gazed down into her moss green eyes. Children. “Yes,” he whispered. “She’ll grow to love you just as I have.” His mouth covered hers.

  ~*~

  John couldn’t remember feeling so contented, so satisfied. For the first time in years, the urge to be on the front line did not haunt him. Knowing his work would catapult the North to a win. Nigel was right. What shame was there in assisting the war effort from the strategy and intelligence standpoint? Not with Elizabeth at his side.

  “I’ve never seen you so...so relaxed.” Her voice reached out soft in the dark.

  The sound wrapped his soul with warmth. He kissed her shoulder, ran his hand down her arm to clasp her fingers within his. “It’s all to do with you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “The only mark over my head is—” He stopped. He didn’t wish to burden her with his troubles.

  “The rebels in the area.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “Rebels were spotted in the area. But you knew that. You said your father had them over for dinner.”

  She nodded, the tendrils of her hair tickling his chin.

  Her quiet demeanor comforted him. He trusted her like no other. He wanted to show her in some small way how much she meant to him. The words were out before he could stop them. “There’s more. Someone has found my drawings and is handing the enemy the information.”

  “What do you mean, your drawings?”

  Though he couldn’t see, he heard the frown in her voice. “I—never mind.” He dropped his lips to her shoulder again. “I’d rather occupy myself with other things right now.”

  ~*~

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. Sleep was as elusive as Trudy’s affection. The weight of John’s arm comforted her but the events of the day nagged at her. Why would Miss Jolson tell Bernadette rather than John or her that Trudy was caught stealing?

  Drawings. John’s maps, Trudy’s presence.

  John rolled to his back, lightly snoring, oblivious to Elizabeth’s chaotic thoughts. Drawings. Maps. A cold chill started at Elizabeth’s spine. It wasn’t possible, was it?

  No. Of course not, she assured herself. But the inkling refused to budge, and like a contagion, grew to enormous proportion. She would not be able to rest until she satisfied her curiosity. That Trudy was copying her father’s work and handing to the enemy.

  Slipping from the bed, Elizabeth donned her wrap. Trepidation made her dizzy. In the hall, she looked in on Trudy. She’d kicked the coverlets off and was sprawled out, much like her father was in Elizabeth’s bed. She tugged them up to her stepdaughter’s neck. She appeared so innocent in her slumber. Shaking her head, Elizabeth crept down the stairs to the drawing room.

  She went to the hearth and stirred the fire for light. There, to the left, was Trudy’s sketch book, right where she’d left it. Elizabeth’s fingers tingled, her fear palpable. She thumbed past the first third, as she’d seen these before. But halfway through the book her heart stopped.

  A lovely depiction of a coast. The girl was so talented. Elizabeth turned through the pages, slowly. Another series of pictures showed mountains and forests. Another group displayed various wood buildings. Views from distances with tents and fires. All in all, they were just that—pictures.

  Perhaps her instincts were off. Trudy wasn’t copying her papa’s drawings. But Bernadette’s tight expression refused to give her peace. Elizabeth leaned back into the chair.

  Perhaps seeing one of John’s drawings to compare? Then she could rest. The minister’s wife was not a spy. The notion was so ridiculous, Elizabeth almost laughed aloud...just as her eyes landed on John’s keys, sitting on the mantle. No one would ever have to know.

  Remember the last time you were out in the night, you ninny. Stop! She chided. It’s too dangerous. It’s only two blocks. You would be back in fifteen minutes. Clothes. She’d have to change her clothes. It was laundry day. The laundry was downstairs. Dear God, she was going to do it.

  Elizabeth jumped up and hurried to the room beneath the stairs. In short order, she had her warmest wool dress buttoned up. She snatched up John’s keys and closed the door from the kitchen out back without so much as a click.

  Fifteen minutes. That’s all. She would be back before anyone was the wiser.

  ~*~

  John’s keys cut into Elizabeth’s hand in her pocket from squeezing them so tight. The other clutched a candle and flint. In her haste, she’d forgotten gloves. Fifteen minutes. It became a chant. Just duck in compare the drawings, get out.

  There wasn’t much to worry for—just rogue rebels; wild animals; and getting caught by the actual spy. Spies. There was a spy in the area. She feared she knew who the culprit was and it sickened her.

  Certainly, Trudy was sharing the information. It was the only explanation. Elizabeth refused to believe she shared it out of spite. She was angry, but she was only eight. Practically a baby. A baby who’d been taking care of herself for much too long. Elizabeth longed to believe the smug Miss Jolson was capable of such reprehensible actions. But Trudy hadn’t been to school before today. For the first time in two weeks. Could Bernadette and Miss Jolson be in cahoots?

  Miss Millicent? That, too, would have been more acceptable with her judgmental tripe.

  Elizabeth’s boots crunched in the snow. The sound echoed in the hushed night. Why did snow make the air so hushed? Or the tiniest sounds so loud? She picked her way quickly with only a half-moon lighting her way.

  The shop loomed ahead, a dark shadow. She stepped upon the porch, pulled her shaking fingers from her pocket and fumbled with the key. They slipped from her frozen fingers, crashing on the wood like a round of thunder. She snatched them up along with a handful of snow. After two more stabs she managed to hit her mark and get the key turned.

  Stepping inside, Elizabeth set her precious loot on a low table and rubbed her h
ands together to circulate the blood. Attempting to light a candle with stiff fingers was tantamount to setting fire to the place. Her breath rose visibly in the cold air. After another moment, she swiped up the flint. It took two tries before her numbed fingers cooperated. The small flame afforded little help and she lighted a lantern she found on John’s work table.

  Standing, she glanced about. The light showed his drafting table was as neat and as sparse as his bedroom at home. Every pen and pencil in place. No stray information lay about. She was so proud of him. What he did for their country.

  She lowered down to her knees. Her nose almost touched a drawer recessed from view. She’d only seen it the one time. Heart pounding, she slid the only other key on the ring into the lock and turned. Slowly, she pulled out the drawer with its well-oiled hinges. It was bigger than one might first assume. Inside, were rolled papers in a side section. In the other, were drawings laid flat. Her hand flew to her throat, she gasped, recognizing the one on top right away.

  The layout, almost identical to one in Trudy’s book, was on a much larger scale. She had no need to see any others. The cold air failed to keep beads of sweat from lining her forehead. She ran her clammy hands over her wool skirt. The pain in her chest was sharp, suspicions confirmed. She pushed the drawer to and turned the key.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Williams. How enlightening to find you here.”

  Elizabeth let out a scream, the key ring flying from her hand, hit the floor with a ping. Her body pulsed so frighteningly fast, spots swarmed her vision. She pulled in rapid, shallow breaths and turned her head. Met the hard, accusing stare of Nigel Kilgore.

  “But then you overheard us speaking yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I-I was trying to help.”

  The amused curl of his lips, indicated his lack of belief. “I see.” With a leisurely stroll, he was towering above her. “I take it you weren’t expecting me.”

  She shook her head.

  He reached down and pulled her to her feet. “He’ll be devastated, you know.”

  “It’s not what you t-think.” Her voice cracked and she could hardly force the words past the large lump.

  He clucked his tongue. “It rarely is.” He studied her steadily for a long moment. “Where are they hiding, Mrs. Williams?”

  “W-who?”

  “It was you taking the information to the enemy, wasn’t it?”

  Shock held her speechless. But then, what was she supposed to say? No, sir. The culprit is my husband’s eight-year-old child.

  He laughed. A sound that would haunt her dreams. Forever.

  Chapter 14

  Startled, John shot to sitting. It took a moment to remember he was in Elizabeth’s bed. And another to realize—she wasn’t. Something cold rippled down his spine. Someone pounded on the door downstairs. The racket would wake the dead. “Hold on,” he said to the room, since there was no one else to hear him.

  He snatched up his trousers and fastened them on his way down the stairs. He peered through the beveled glass and jerked the door back. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “We talked about this. You shouldn’t be here—”

  Nigel pushed his way in and slammed the door. “We have to talk.”

  John pushed a hand through is hair. “You’re going to wake the whole town. Did it slip your mind that there were rebels seen not too long—”

  “Enough, Williams. Your wife is the informer. At the very least, she’s assisting them.”

  John’s hand shot out, catching Nigel dead on. The satisfying crunch of his nose filled the hall, blood spurted in a disgusting stream. Nigel crashed back against the entry way table, and the mirror just above landed over his hand in a sea of falling shards. “Get out.”

  “Did you know about her, John? Is that why you’re so defensive?” One hand covered his nose. The other touched his neck on a trickle where he’d been nicked. “Where is she, John?”

  “She’s—” He stopped. A cold chill gripped his spine and squeezed. The empty bed. Nigel in his home. He glanced up at the top of the stairs. Trudy was watching them, eyes wide. “Go back to bed, Trudy.”

  She fled.

  He lowered his voice. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I caught her...red handed.” He stood and brushed the glass from his coat. Took off his hat, shook it out. Shards pinged the floor.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean “red handed”?” His brain did not seem able to comprehend Nigel’s words.

  “She was in your shop.”

  “Of course, she was in my shop. A couple of days ago.”

  Nigel shoved a bloodied hand in his pocket. “No. Tonight. She had your keys.” He tossed them up.

  John snatched them out of the air, stared at them, stunned. It wasn’t possible. “Where is she now?” he choked out.

  “The sheriff’s office. I had her jailed. Seemed the safest place to stash her. Who knows who she’s spoken to.”

  John collapsed into the chair. He could feel his bared skin rip on pieces of the mirror lodged in the fabric. Even Anne’s betrayal hadn’t cut so deep. “I need to talk to her.”

  “Yes.” A long paused ensued. “You could be tried for treason.”

  It would hurt less. “What did she say?” He couldn’t meet his friend’s accusing stare.

  He lifted a shoulder. “That she could explain.”

  “Of course. The same as anyone would say.” Surely there was an explanation. But hadn’t her father been entertaining the enemy in his home several weeks past? Had she rushed home and laughed with her father over John’s outrageous proposal. He sneered. That’s probably when they’d strategized the entire scenario and why she’d agreed so readily. And he’d fallen into it like a sinking ship. His gut burned. A slice right through every organ in his body. “I’ll get dressed.”

  “No need. She’s going nowhere tonight.”

  “What am I to tell my daughter?”

  Nigel placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend. I have no words of advice. Or comfort.”

  ~*~

  There was no warmth within the bare walls and wood-planked floors. The bars were like ice. A cleverer person than she could probably master an escape from the old building that was once a house. But where would she go? Papa was dead. It was winter. And there were rebels about. Confessing Papa’s visit from the confederates, in hindsight, did not seem so wise now.

  God, she was so cold. Not even a blanket had been afforded, let alone the warmth of a fire. She squeezed her hands into fists then flexed her fingers to keep the blood circulating. John would hate her. Her shoulders slumped. Tears stung, fell, then froze on her face. She hadn’t the strength to wipe them away.

  She glanced up at the only window through the bars. Morning was still a dark gray, though she’d wager she’d been in the dank cell for hours now.

  Sheriff Answell moved in a metal chair that squeaked with his weight, feet on the desk, ankles crossed, snoring loudly. The cold didn’t seem to bother him. Of course, he was in a different room where a fire burned in a wood stove. Thankfully, he’d left the door open where a little of the heat filtered in her direction.

  A door slammed back startling the large man from his slumber. He jerked upright and the metal chair clanged loudly from the assault. He rose and slammed the door between the jail and his desk, effectively cutting off Elizabeth.

  The floor creaked beneath his feet, and deep timbered voices reached through the walls were just noise. Hushed words she couldn’t make out. Her stomach muscles contracted in recognition, however. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, mentally preparing for the task ahead.

  John spoke softly, and his tone lessened some of her fear. Maybe things weren’t as awful as she imagined. Maybe he would listen to her first, before jumping to the conclusions Mr. Kilgore had. And therein lay the problem. What would happen to her when Mr. Kilgore, when John learned the truth? She gasped. What if they lay the blame on Trudy or at John’s feet for
—

  The door crashed back and she squinted against a light her husband held up.

  “Well. Such a turn of events.” His hard tone matched the line of his jaw and the ice gripping her soul.

  Her heart sank.

  He turned to the sheriff. “Give us a moment, Zachariah?” The old man shuffled out, closing the door behind him. The click of the latch lauded another puncture to mounting wounds. “I suppose this was your plan from the start.” He laughed, a sharp crack of pain.

  Her hand flew to her mouth—to stifle the denial she longed to scream.

  “Nothing to say then?”

  There was plenty to say. Your daughter copied your work. She dropped her head, the tears fell.

  “Crying will do a turncoat no good. But you mightn’t have been a turncoat all along, huh?” Each word grew colder, harder, more bitter. “I was a fool. Death is too...” He paused, a long pause. “...lenient for the likes of you.”

  She couldn’t bare for him to see her like this, believe what he believed about her.

  His voice dropped. “Have you nothing? Nothing at all to say?”

  She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. A minute later the door opened then closed, enshrouding her in the dark depth of gloom. She would hang. She tried focusing on the sacrifice she was making for a child. An eight-year-old girl, whom she was certain had no idea of her crime. The images of a noose where townspeople watched and pointed, tore through her mind. It was too late. The pictures in her head squeezed the air from her chest in a blood curling scream she could no longer withhold.

  ~*~

  John closed his ears to her affecting cry but failed miserably in closing off his heart. How? How had he let her in so quickly? And how was he supposed to extinguish her from his marrow?

  Head high, he escaped out into the frigid air. And walked.

  Nigel fell into step with him. “Did she say anything?”

  John turned a hard smile on his longtime friend. “I’m sure you heard every unspoken word.” He tipped his head to the side of the building, up high to the open window. He wondered if she was cold, then pushed away the sentiment. Thoughts like that would have him forsaking his duty to Lincoln, his country, his future.