To Love a Spy

by Aileen Fish

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” he said gently. “Archie was most enamored with you.”

  She shook her head. “But, I’m married.”

  “He has Gertrude, Mrs. Williams. And you are the only one who can help her.”

  “Of course, we must help Gertrude. If you can just let my husband know. H-he will...”

  “Come, Elizabeth. Remember what happened to my sister, Eleanor.” Bernadette leaned in, her demeanor urgent, afraid. “Cornelius, I heard something. We must hurry.”

  He paid no mind, his cold, calculated gaze piercing Elizabeth. The frigid air began to seep through to her bones once more.

  “No. Mrs. Williams. You are the only one who can save Miss Gertrude.” He held out a hand.

  Trudy needed her. She clasped his hand.

  ~*~

  “This is insane. What is one more day?” Nigel stomped the snow from his boots.

  One more day indeed. John hurried down the street, carefully keeping to the buildings as they neared the edge of town. A scuffle caught his attention as he and Nigel reached the blacksmiths. He pulled the revolver from his pocket and leaned in where he could hear.

  “I said we need horses, you mudsill.”

  “I ain’t got any. What, are ye blind?”

  Old Amos was giving someone hell. A second later, a grunt sounded. John didn’t wait for more, he kicked the door with his bad leg, balancing on the good. Amos lay slumped on the ground, a gun pointed at his head. “Drop the piece or I’ll dose you with leaden pills.”

  The man, or boy, since he hardly looked old enough to shave, raised cold eyes to John’s. “You got one gun.” He waved his gun in the air and two others stepped out, sporting their own. “One against three, huh.”

  John stepped aside and Nigel sidled in next to him. “Well, Nigel. Looks like we caught us some graybacks. Hear that accent?”

  Nigel lifted two revolvers, one in each hand. “Sure do, friend. We heard you boys were hanging about.”

  “Guess you got your kicks, putting old Ruthers out of his misery.”

  “We didn’t kill him. Someone beat us to it. Tell him, Archie. We just wanted a little fun with his daughter.” This one had bright orange hair and a face covered with freckles. Looked like he’d dipped only his face in the creek with the dirt crusted on his neck.

  “Shut up,” the one called Archie bit out.

  John’s temper was strung tight and his hand gripped the piece he held tighter. Killing three rebels might take the edge off. “I said drop the guns.”

  Nigel laughed, his frat boy laugh. The one that had the newbies at school shaking in their shoes. He pulled back the hammer.

  All three dropped their guns, raised their hands. Amos groaned. John nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, old man. Give us a hand here.”

  “I’ll do it.” Nigel tossed one gun to John. He caught it mid-air. Then snagged a rope from a nail on the wall.

  “We were headed to the jail. Might as well take you boys along.”

  A few minutes later John pushed his way through the door to Zachariah’s office and stopped, hackles raised. He’d expected to see the sheriff leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his oversized gut, feet on his desk, snoring away. Instead, it seemed colder than usual.

  A quick survey showed an absent sheriff. John moved through to the jail and his stomach plunged. Her cell was open, empty. And the large ring that held the keys, lay on the floor inside.

  He snatched them and moved to the next cell over. “Shove them in here, Nigel.”

  After securing their catch, he hurried back to a desk devoid of papers. Just a pool of liquid in the center. He glanced back at Elizabeth’s empty chamber. His eyes moved to her makeshift bed. Next to her small cot? An overturned mug in a pool of liquid.

  John stepped around the desk, almost tripping on Zachariah’s large frame. He leaned down and put two fingers to the man’s pulse. Strong. He shook him. “Come on, Sheriff. You’re made of tougher stuff.”

  “What the sam-hell is going on here?”

  Nigel kicked the man’s feet. “Your jailbird girl is gone.”

  John stood. The place was quiet. Too quiet. He touch the pool of liquid with an index finger and sniffed. “Did you have some coffee, Zach?” He touched his tongue to it. Bitter. Not just coffee. A drug of some sort. The plunge his stomach had taken moments before was nothing compared to the block of ice now lodged within.

  “That nice preacher’s wife...” His voiced faded on a frown.

  “Yeah, real nice.” Nigel moved beside him. “You think she went willingly?”

  “No.” He’d never believe it. Not as long as he lived. He lowered his voice. “We need to hurry.”

  “Is there another way out of here, Zach?”

  “Yeah, in the other room. Near the jails.”

  “Why the hell would there be a door there?” Nigel muttered.

  “We ain’t had time to board it up yet. This use to be a brothel, you know. Johns needed a way to sneak out.”

  John leveled him a glare that turned the man’s face downright ruddy.

  “Er...sorry.”

  He went through to the jail portion where the three young men had turned from belligerent to sullen. “I suppose you were taking information from the minister and his wife.”

  The redhead spoke up. “Minister! Never saw no wife. Just an old man with a full beard and white hair. Real tall though.”

  A noise from the windows filtered in. “Sh. I heard something.”

  Nigel followed him to the door the sheriff mentioned, then moved back. “I’ll go out the front. Head them off that way.”

  With a nod, John pulled the revolver from his coat and inclined his head, sharply, once. He eased the door back and peered out. A quick exit to the alley behind, complete with footsteps. Though still dark, daylight was over the horizon, but the skies, laden with clouds, would make visibility difficult well into the morning.

  Three figures were making their way swiftly down the street. Make that two, one being dragged. Snow crunching beneath their feet was the only sound in the hushed morning.

  They headed east towards the forest. If they made it, he’d never see Elizabeth again. Not alive. He stepped out, put his booted feet in the largest set of prints and hurried on. The sky began is slow ascent to light.

  ~*~

  Less than six feet from the trees John lifted his gun. “Stop.”

  “Ah, Mr. Williams. How nice of you to follow.”

  He recognized the voice but not the face. Disguising his height was a tad more difficult.

  “John? John, they have Trudy. I have to get her. T-the rebels...they have her.” Her voice broke and it was a bludgeoned hammer to his chest.

  “Trudy is safe, Elizabeth.”

  “No, no. He said they were to trade me for her. She’s a baby. I must go.”

  Her words were a bit slurred. He shut them out and focused on the real threat. “You’ll never make it out alive, Mr. Babbage.”

  “I shall die trying, Mr. Williams.”

  John edged closer. “Would you sacrifice your wife as well?” he said softly. He was close enough to see the man’s sneer.

  “My wife.” Disgust colored his entire demeanor. “She’s not so different from your late wife, Mr. Williams. A useless debutante, hell-bent on the good life. Will do anyone—”

  The woman beside him gasped cutting him off. “Cornelius, how dare you.”

  The melodious voice John remembered from the wedding was hard, hostile.

  “I am in the business of making money, Mr. Williams. Something I wager your daughter understands, doesn’t she? After all, she was caught stealing from the collection plate.”

  John’s fingers tightened on the gun.

  “She didn’t take anything, Mr. Babbage. Not only has she paid her debt to you. You acted much the same, didn’t you?” Elizabeth straightened and her indignation spilled across the air. “Using a small child, stealing her pictures to sell. You didn’t car
e who you sold them to either. Did you?”

  With each word, her voice grew steadier. Whatever they’d plied her with was wearing off.

  “I’ll admit, Mrs. Williams. When you and Bernadette came up with that brilliant plan of her paying restitution to the church in spending time there, I had no notion of the grand payoff we would wield. Most especially disappointing in learning how convincing your father’s lies were in hoarding treasure from the infamous Francis Drake.”

  “You...you killed him,” she gasped.

  From the corner of his eye, John watched Nigel maneuver into a more advantageous position just inside the forest wall.

  “Cornelius,” Mrs. Babbage said sharply.

  He swung the gun out. It caught her on the side of the head and knocked her to the ground.

  Cornelius Babbage was a narcissistic fool. Unfortunately, one that held a loaded gun. He spun Elizabeth around, tucking her arm up behind her back. She cried out.

  “You see, Mr. Williams. I’m the one in charge now.” He put the gun to Elizabeth’s head and John’s heart froze. “Drop your weapon.”

  There was no choice. John threw down his revolver.

  “Cornelius, please.” Mrs. Babbage whimpered like a kicked puppy.

  “I’ve heard enough from you, Bernadette. Shut up, or you shall end up as dead as your sister. A not so cumbersome task, I assure you.”

  Gasps sounded from both Elizabeth and Mrs. Babbage.

  Babbage pulled Elizabeth to his left side, and with his right hand, pointed the gun at his wife. And pulled the trigger. The blast shook the thinned out branches of the trees.

  He raised his gun, pointing it at John. Smoke curled into the cold air from the barrel. Let him kill me, if he must. Keep her safe. Just keep her safe.

  “I suspect you prefer your wife live than die right here, right now, by my hand.” His laugh pierced the air, a menacing, evil clip. “You, however, I have no compunction in killing.”

  The events played out as slow as a horrid melodrama with an even worse script.

  Elizabeth screamed. “No!”

  John leaped forward. Just as she rammed her free elbow into Babbage’s gut, knocking his aim off kilter. Babbage squeezed off another shot. John couldn’t reach her in time as she spun about, throwing herself in front of him. Blocking the bullet.

  The bullet meant for John.

  He ran. Threw himself in snow blackened with blood in the dark gray morning. “Elizabeth.”

  Another shot rang through the sky. Babbage stumbled back, a hole in his chest, the weapon flying out of reach.

  With tentative, shaking hands, John rolled Elizabeth to her back. “Dear God, don’t die,” he begged. He couldn’t tell where she’d been hurt through the ugly wool dress. But her face smoothed out in a peacefulness that he recognized.

  One of—death.

  Chapter 16

  Groaning, Elizabeth tried rolling from her back to her side but her body refused to obey even the most basic of commands. Her eyelids, top and bottom were glued together. After a concerted effort, she managed to get one eye open, quickly closing it against a strong ray of light. She mentally took stock of her fingers and toes, counting as she wiggled each one. She lost her place after twelve. How many was she supposed to have?

  Each counted digit tingled with warmth that put her in heaven.

  A small gasp sounded nearby.

  Her eyes popped open. “Trudy? I’m sorry, I meant Gertrude.” Her voice didn’t seem to function either, sounding more like a frog down at the creek on a bright spring day. Terribly bright.

  “Mother?” Her violet eyes were damp, blinking furiously. “You can call me Trudy.” Her words were prim, but shy.

  Elizabeth was touched, then wizened. “Oh, dear. I’m dead, aren’t I?” She was warm, and that seemed the most logical explanation. “Where is all the pink?”

  “Daddy hated the pink. He didn’t think you liked it either.”

  Elizabeth smiled and her chapped lips cracked. “Am I in heaven? I must be, but why can’t I move? And—” She licked her lips, tasted blood. “Why do I hurt so? I envisioned heaven much more comfortable.”

  Trudy giggled. A heartwarming sound that filled Elizabeth’s heart. And another sign that she was indeed not of the physical realm any longer.

  “Help me sit.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly. Papa is liable to flay me.”

  “This is heaven. No one shall flay anyone.” Elizabeth tried once more to move on her own, without success. The effort exhausted her. Her glance landed on the wall near the wardrobe. That was when she realized she was certainly not in heaven.

  She’d landed in hell.

  “Are you...are you here to torture me?” she asked, unable to shift her eyes from the horrid landscape that had followed her into the nether world.

  “Of course not. I’m to be the perfect little princess. Daddy said.”

  Elizabeth was confused. “Can you fly?”

  Trudy giggled again. A modulation that did not seem to fit with all Elizabeth had learned, regarding an after-life in the depths of—

  “Why should you wish me to fly?”

  “That painting over there. I don’t like it. I want it gone.”

  “But Daddy said it belonged to your papa. He thought it might bring you comfort.”

  “It does nothing of the sort. Do you know how many times he—never mind.” Her hands still burned thinking of harsh punishments she’d suffered from merely straightening the crooked thing where it hung on the wall. She shuddered. Wanted no part of it. Unless this truly was Hell. What a devilish eternal life she was to spend. Tears welled up.

  “Oh, please don’t cry, Mother.”

  Elizabeth glanced at her and blinked the dampness away, since her silly hands refused to move. “Don’t mind me, Trudy.”

  She smiled then. It was a lovely smile. “Why do you want me to fly?”

  Elizabeth returned it. “So you can take it off the wall and dispose of it, of course.” It was a reasonable request. Certainly for the afterlife, where anything was possible.

  The door to the now all-white room crashed back. John, her husband, stood in the arch, haggard and unshaven.

  Elizabeth wanted to shut her eyes to the pain of seeing him. Of remembering his wish for her to suffer. And yet, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. Drinking in his masculinity. His strength. The tenderness he’d shown her...before. “What is he doing here?” she whispered to Trudy.

  “He only left for a moment, Mother. Don’t you remember?”

  No. But nothing was able to escape past a throat barred by unshed emotion.

  “Dear God.” He rushed over, lifted Trudy from her chair and set her aside. He ignored her indignant huff, taking her place, grabbing Elizabeth’s hand. “You’re awake.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be awake?” An odd fear took hold of her. She couldn’t feel his fingers on hers.

  “Do you not remember?”

  Her shoulder burned at his gentle tone, and the slightest tingle tickled her fingertips. She closed her eyes, trying to shut away the sudden images. They broke through in vivid horror. “Bernadette,” she whispered. “Her husband...”

  He moved to her side, sitting on the bed and lifted her, embraced her carefully. “Shush.”

  “He...he was going to kill you.” She shivered.

  “You...” he choked out. “You should never throw yourself before a loaded gun. Not for the likes of me. I did not deserve such valor.” He buried his head in the crook of her neck and shoulder.

  “Did it hurt?” Trudy asked.

  John lifted his head and Elizabeth felt a suspicious dampness on her shoulder, confirmed when she looked into his glimmering eyes. “Don’t. Don’t cry. Not for me,” she whispered. Blinking away her own tears, she glanced at Trudy’s angled, head, her lips turned down, reached back for the memory. “I don’t really remember.”

  John smoothed a hand over Elizabeth’s hair. “I rather hope you don’t ever remember.”
>
  “I’m not dead?”

  “Of course not.”

  Trudy giggled again. A sound that warmed Elizabeth through.

  “I must look a fright.”

  “You’re beautiful.” It wasn’t the words he said that made her believe him, it was the way he said them.

  Trudy walked across the room and stood with her hands on her hips, her back to Elizabeth, considering the piece of work Elizabeth would just as soon throw on a blazing fire.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news, darling.”

  Eyes still on Trudy, she said. “Worse than that horrid painting that belonged to my father?”

  He shifted from the bed to the floor, kneeling on one knee, startling her.

  Again, confusion filled her. She wanted to lie back down, drag the covers over her head. “What is it?”

  He smiled. The sight lessened her unease a little. “Don’t look so frightened.”

  She blinked back another onslaught of emotion.

  He took her hand again. “We aren’t married. Cornelius Babbage was a total fraud. The man was selling information to the highest bidder. Without a care of sides. Union or Confederates.” He lifted her hand to his lips. The touch seared her through to the bone. His free hand opened. A thin gold band with a single stone lay in his palm.

  Her breath caught and she couldn’t breathe.

  “I wish to have you as my wife. My true wife. Not as a keeper for my ungovernable child.”

  “I can hear you,” the ungovernable child said.

  Elizabeth couldn’t speak.

  “Please say yes. I’ve already left word for the minister from Little Compton to come. I’ve only been waiting for you to come back to me. To us.” His eyes darkened with a sensation that squeezed her heart. “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  A crash from the other side of the room jerked their heads around.

  Trudy stood on a chair, the awful painting in broken bits on the floor around her.

  John rose, touched his lips to hers. “I shall handle this.”

  “Toss it. If I never see it again it will be too soon.”

  “Daddy, something’s in here. It looks old.”

  Elizabeth’s skin prickled.