by Lori Wick
Now he sighed each time he saw how little remained of sweet little Winter. What hadn’t been snuffed out by the strong arm of the British, by her father’s fleeing to take up the colors for the Patriot cause, by her mother’s sudden death had been pressed upon and crushed by her grandparents.
When she stole up beside him in the protective blackness of the tree’s broad trunk, Rob offered a lopsided smile. “So kind of you to slip away to keep tryst, fair lady. Seeing you in such glorious beauty has made my heart take wing—”
She interrupted him with a laugh, bright and free as it had been when they were children, if quieter. “Your poetry is atrocious, Robbie. But lucky for you, I shall forgive it. I have news.” She stepped closer and rubbed her gloved hands over her arms. The night was icy, but she hadn’t grabbed a wrap.
“Here.” He shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. “You will freeze in half a second dressed like that.”
“It would have looked strange for me to grab a cloak. And it hardly matters as this will only take a moment.” But she pulled the wool close. The moonlight caught her face and painted her in silver.
She wore silver well.
“Colonel Fairchild mentioned this evening that they are counterfeiting—”
“We already know that.” Any hope he’d felt deflated. He’d promised a correspondence to Woodhull—operating as Culper Senior to Rob’s Culper Junior—but he would have nothing of substance to put in it.
Winter pursed her lips. “Would you let me finish? I know well they have been counterfeiting congressional dollars for years, but there has always been a flaw—”
“Their paper is too thick. Yes, we all know that. It has still succeeded well in devaluing the dollar.”
“And it is about to succeed even better.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. “Fairchild said they’ve managed to steal several reams of paper from the last emission in Philadelphia.”
Though Rob never traded in dollars in the British-held city, it still struck like a blow. “The very paper? Then there will be no telling them apart from the genuine articles, and the money will be totally without backing. And so—”
“Worthless.” Winter nodded. “You must let them know. Congress can perhaps withdraw the bills from circulation before it is too late.”
“Let us pray so.” For a moment he stared into the night, and then at the windows spilling golden light. Couples danced, moving about as if oblivious to the war. Clad in their silks and velvets, their lace and jewels.
“Well.” Winter took his cloak off again and held it out to him. “I have nothing else beyond the normal. We are swimming in luxuries and cannot get staples. Morale among the Tories wavers under the weight of the military’s heel, but they all still consider the Patriot cause a futile one and doubt Washington will be able to muster another campaign.”
“Unchanging.” Rob slipped the cloak back on. Even after so brief a time around her, it smelled of Winter. Lavender and violets. “There is one thing more. I had a letter from my father the other day, who had heard from yours. A brief note to assure anyone wondering that he is well.”
Moonbeams caught the tears that sprang to her eyes and turned them to diamonds. Lovelier by far than those dangling at her ears. “Thank you, Robbie. If your father writes him back, I would appreciate him including that I miss him—that he remains always in my prayers.”
“Of course.” He said no more, made no attempt to detain her when she spun back for the house. Even if the constriction of his chest insisted he was allowing her to return to a lion’s den. Perhaps so, but it was not his place to shut the lions’ mouths. The Lord Himself would have to do that.
Sighing, Rob turned toward the property’s back gate—and nearly shouted in alarm when a massive shadow blocked his path.
“Mr. Townsend?”
“Freeman.” Rob swiped at his brow and bade his pulse return to normal. “Did no one ever teach you not to lurk in shadows?”
Winter’s servant grinned, the whites of teeth and eyes the only thing visible in the darkness. “No, sir. They taught me to use them well instead. Mr. Townsend, I worry for her. I help her much as I can, but I worry, and I would be lying if I said otherwise. This game you two play—”
“’Tis no game, Freeman.” Pulling his cloak tight, Rob moved nearer to the man, and hence the gate. “’Tis the most serious matter in the world.”
“Exactly, sir. Her daddy made me swear on the grave of mine that I would take care of her, that I would make sure no harm came to her because of his loyalties. But if she gets caught helping you in this—”
“I would never let that happen. Never.” Rob craned his head up to look into the towering face of the son of a slave, the only other link Winter had to her family on Long Island. “No one will ever know how she helps me.”
Freeman stepped aside. “See that they don’t, sir. The Hamptons would toss her to the streets in a blizzard if they caught even a whiff of scandal. They hold her accountable for her mother’s decisions and made it pretty clear that if she fails to atone for Amelia’s ‘bad’ marriage with a brilliant one of her own, they will wash their hands of her.”
He couldn’t hold back the snort. “That may be the best thing for her. I hate seeing how they have stifled her spirit.”
But Freeman shook his head. “You don’t understand. The mister, he hates her. He hates her just for being, and he never would have let her step foot in his house if weren’t for the missus wanting to redeem her reputation through Winnie. I heard him threaten to drop her off in Holy Ground if she doesn’t behave herself. No good to come of that.”
“No.” Icy fear settled like lead in the pit of Rob’s stomach. Sweet Winter, tossed in with every disease-ridden harlot in New York? Nay, it was too evil to even ponder. “It shan’t come to that, Freeman. You have my word.”
The man nodded, the movement barely discernible in the darkness. “You take care too, Mr. Townsend. No good to come of you getting caught, neither.”
“Don’t I know it.” He slipped out of the gate, lifting a hand in farewell even though he doubted the older man would be able to see it.
The nausea churned, exacerbated somehow by the rows of mansions in this part of the city. True, many of them now housed British soldiers instead of wealthy families. The Hamptons had avoided that solely because of their connections with Governor Tryon and the favor they had incurred with Generals Howe and Clinton.
Rob’s Quaker roots nevertheless thrummed within him at this obvious display of mammon. He had grown up in a home too affluent to earn the approval of the Friends, but even Father’s taste for finery, even Rob’s own focus on successful business ventures, had nothing on this kind of excess.
Yet only a few miles away, evidence of the Great Fire lingered. Hundreds of buildings, a third of the city’s housing, still lay in ruins. Every month, it seemed, there was a new scare about the state of provisions. Would there be enough flour to last the winter? Enough firewood? Enough straw?
Would he live to see it even if there were? If he were caught…
Well, he mustn’t be. That was all there was to it.
The blustery fingers of the winter wind snuck into his cloak as he hurried home, but Rob ignored them. Soon enough he climbed the stairs to his apartment. He roused the fire, and its warmth chased away the chill. Bathed in its orange glow, he picked up his quill.
On the newest paper he could find, he penned a simple note. A letter seemingly about mercantile business, any names mentioned the coded ones they had agreed on. He was careful to leave ample space between all the lines.
While it dried, he moved over to the bookcase. He had added two new tomes to his shelves that afternoon, and the promise of evenings well spent in their company made him smile. Rather than pull them out now, though, he removed the entire line of books and then the piece of wood on which they sat.
There, in the few inches of space between shelf and floor, he kept his most important tools. Vi
als of what they called in their letters “medicine,” which the Misters Jay shipped to General Washington in crates marked as such.
He took out the ink and the special quill he used with it, and then moved back to his desk. He eased the cork from the glass bottle and then halted, squeezing his eyes shut.
What would this news he was about to impart mean to his country? How could a nation hope to survive with its currency diminished to nothing? With what were they funding their government? Their army? Never mind the expenses he and his colleagues incurred through travel and lodging.
“Dear Lord…” Not knowing what to pray, he settled for opening his spirit for a moment and submitting this business, yet again, into the hand of the Almighty. Then he opened his eyes and picked up his quill.
The substance dubbed “the sympathetic stain” by Washington was barely visible as he wrote with it, such a pale yellow, and it dried into nothingness. Only the sheen of candlelight on liquid showed him his letters and the dire message they formed. Careful to keep his quill strokes between the lines of regular ink so as not to cause any telltale runs, he penned the terrible news.
They think America will not be able to keep an army together for another campaign. Everyone reasons that the currency will be depreciated, and that there will not be enough provision to supply the Army. The concern for the currency I am afraid will prove true, as the British are tireless in increasing the quantity of it. Several reams of paper made for the last emission struck by Congress have been stolen from Philadelphia.
There. When next Roe was in the city, Rob would deliver this to him. Roe would take it to Woodhull, whom Rob had come to know when they both boarded in the same house until a few months ago. From Woodhull it would make its way via the sailor Caleb Brewster to Benjamin Tallmadge, and from Tallmadge to General Washington himself.
And from Washington…well, Rob hoped it would make it to whoever could salvage what was left of young America’s treasury.
He recorked the vial, put it and the quill away, and replaced the shelf. Then he stood for a long moment, leaning against the bookcase.
He must hope. Must hope and believe he could make a difference. Must trust that if one fought for the light, it could hold the darkness at bay.
He must.
Winter eased the door shut with nary a click. Warmth welcomed her, along with the muted din of many voices in the other rooms. In this back hallway, though, all was quiet.
“Felt the need to escape?”
Hand clutching her throat, Winter spun around with a gasp. Not that she had to turn to know who waited. When they were introduced an hour ago, Mr. Lane’s voice had soothed like her favorite spiced tea. She wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.
What was he doing back here, though? Had he followed her? Had he seen her with Robbie? Impossible. One couldn’t see from the house into the shadows of the tulip tree at this time of night.
She swallowed back anything but expected alarm and willed herself into her usual role. “Mr. Lane, shame on you. You startled me.”
That shrewd gaze of his narrowed, though his lips were turned up in a smile. “Does your given name lend you a predilection for such inhospitable weather as is to be found in your backyard right now?”
Though she wanted to grin, instead she blinked—as if confused but not wanting to admit it. The Winter known in these circles never would have been able to follow that question. “Pardon? No, I was not outside to predict the weather. I just needed a breath of fresh air.”
The gentleman arched a brow. “In that chill?”
“My mother once said she named me well, given how much I like the cold.”
Mr. Lane chuckled and straightened from where he leaned against the wall. “You are a clever one.”
“Clever?” She gave him a surprised smile, even while mentally scolding herself. She ought not to have added that last part. Colonel Fairchild might smile when her presumed stupidity seemed to stumble into correct understanding, but Mr. Lane didn’t know her mask well enough to make such assumptions yet. “Why, Mr. Lane, that is a most unequaled compliment. I shall have to tell everyone you called me clever.”
His smile faltered as his eyes widened a tad. He had probably already heard enough opinions on her to realize that if he called her witty, it would speak to the opposite in him.
She nearly sighed at the need to resort to such strange threats.
Mr. Lane edged closer, challenge gleaming in his eyes. “Clever indeed. Is it not exhausting?”
Now he really did confuse her. “Is what exhausting, sir?”
“The need to hide your wit as you do, and reveal it only in ways so very clever that most cannot understand you.”
Alarm bells clanged in the depths of her mind. How in the world could someone have seen that within an hour of meeting, when those who supposedly knew her well thought her superficial at best?
Father in heaven, protect me.
She blasted him with her most brilliant smile and strode forward, leaving him little choice but to turn and fall in beside her. “What a charmer you are. Your family is all from New York, are they not? How is it you only now come to our fair city?”
The light dimmed in his eyes. “Fair? What I have seen of it since coming home two days ago bears little resemblance to the New York I knew before the war.”
“The current state of things has been hard on everyone, to be sure.” She studied the wallpaper as she spoke, as if merely parroting what she’d heard others say and not sharing her own observation. As if she, in this golden world, had remained untouched. Oblivious.
“I imagine so.” His voice was too soft, too understanding—but thankfully, he shook himself. “To answer your question, I have been at Yale. First as a student, and then I stayed on as faculty.”
“Yale.” Questions sprang up, but she covered them with her usual smile. “I know it, of course. Grandfather calls it ‘a hotbed of Whiggish sentiment.’ It sounds delightful. I should greatly like a wider selection of wigs, perhaps one of those with so many curls a servant must follow behind with a stick to hold it up.”
He laughed. No polite chuckle or a chortle that he thought to be at her expense, but a genuine laugh of delight. Of understanding.
Or perhaps she was too tired, overwrought with all this business, and seeing things that weren’t there. Surely that made more sense than a total stranger comprehending her so immediately.
His mirth quieted to a smile, and he proffered his arm. “Your grandfather has the right of it, to be sure. I found there were many opportunities for debate.”
Somewhere deep inside, a kernel of warmth took up residence within the block of ice in her chest. Had anyone ever continued to talk seriously to her after one of her “misunderstandings”? Winter tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You often debate on the fashion of wigs, then? Most intriguing. How many rows of curls do you prefer? Do you favor the gray powder or the white?”
He sent her a wink that ought to have scandalized her. “A good Yale man can debate any topic, Miss Reeves. For my part, I prefer no wig at all, as you can see. And powder makes me sneeze.”
“’Tis a problem, I confess. Some enterprising chemist ought to devise a better recipe.”
“Or perhaps some enterprising lady of fashion ought to make wigs a thing of the past, for the sake of our sensitive noses.”
She made a show of debating that as they regained the ballroom. “I shall take it under consideration, to be sure. But I so enjoy the display.”
Mr. Lane opened his mouth to retort, but before any words could come forth, another young gentleman walked up. He had brows closer to red than brown, a face well-dusted with freckles, and a cheerful gleam in his eyes. She recognized him but had never been told his name. All she knew was that he was considered beneath her.
“Ah, George.” Mr. Lane grinned and slapped a friendly hand to the newcomer’s shoulder. “Miss Reeves, allow me to introduce to you Mr. George Knight. He and I are childhood chums.”
She held out her hand and measured her smile to the appropriate brightness, gauged according to what her grandmother would approve. “Mr. Knight. Are you one of the esteemed Staten Island Knights?”
“Ah.” He’d barely bent over her hand before releasing it. With a glance toward Mr. Lane, he shifted his feet and grimaced—he probably intended it for a smile. “No, miss. No relation that I know of. My family are gunsmiths.”
Those Knights? Far more interesting than the stuffy landowners her grandparents so admired. Not that she ought to be interested in such things, so she put on the patronizing smile that always felt so vile upon her mouth. “Oh.”
Mr. Knight pursed his lips and turned to Mr. Lane. “Excuse me, Ben. I only wanted to find you to let you know I’m off. Do stop by sometime in the next few days. We have years to catch up on.”
“Certainly I shall.”
They clasped wrists, and the gunsmith bowed curtly to her. “Good evening, Miss Reeves.”
“And to you, Mr. Knight.” Her usual, absent smile would cover the pang snubbing him caused her. This was the part of life in her new society she would never get used to, this expectation to dismiss decent people based on their income.
Up until a year ago, she would have been the one dismissed.
The scowl that creased Mr. Knight’s forehead as he turned away proved the success of her facade. How…excellent.
Exhaustion settled on her shoulders and sent her gaze toward the tall case clock in the corner of the room. Not yet eleven thirty. The celebration would continue at least until one.
Mr. Lane studied her again, his blue eyes like a torch seeking out an escaped convict. Thankfully Colonel Fairchild approached. She had already promised him another dance, which was surely about to begin. The perfect excuse to escape Bennet Lane. With a little luck, she would be able to avoid him the rest of the night.
