355: The Women of Washington's Spy Ring (Women Spies Book 1)

by Kit Sergeant

  Simcoe, desiring to show off his work at the redoubt to André, led the way for the ride. André rode beside Sally.

  “You know something, Miss Townsend?” Sally glanced over to see Major André staring intently at her. “Your profile is quite breathtaking.”

  Sally felt her face heat up underneath her bonnet as she focused on the path in front of her.

  “I dabble a bit in silhouettes. Would you mind if I did a cut-out of you sometime?”

  She looked over at him again. André rode confidently, holding the reins with only one hand. “I’d be delighted.”

  That evening, when Sally came to dinner, she was surprised to spot a folded paper at her plate. Upon opening it, she gasped to see it was a drawing of her in her riding habit and signed by John André.

  André entered the room and caught her studying it. “I’m afraid it does not do you justice.”

  “Oh, it is beautiful. Thank you, Major André.”

  “A beautiful picture for a beautiful girl.”

  He does flatter so. “Tell me, Major André, a man of your demeanor must have all the New York City girls fawning over you. Have you one in particular?”

  André paused for a brief moment. “I have become quite taken with Mrs. Coghlan, actually.” He said the words so matter-of-factly that Sally could not imagine there was much passion between them.

  “How wonderful for Mrs. Coghlan,” Sally replied, giving no recognition that she recognized the name. Inwardly she was curious as to what Meg was up to.

  “But my heart still has room for more affections,” he said with a wink.

  “Phoebe will be glad to hear of it.”

  “And are you?”

  Sally peered at him. The question seemed to come out of sincerity and she wondered if he knew that Simcoe might have designs on her as well. “Mayhap,” Sally said in a neutral tone as she set off to place the drawing in a prominent position in her room.

  The next morning Sally rose early to prepare the olykoeks. She rolled the dough—a mixture of eggs, yeast, and raisins—into little balls before putting them into a lard-filled iron cask. After a few minutes over the fire, the dough balls turned a delectable brown. She then sprinkled them with sugar before setting them on the kitchen table to cool.

  Sally—thinking again of Major André’s brown eyes, as she had been all morning—spent extra time on her hair and dress, choosing a lavender lutestring with a cream underskirt. When she went back downstairs, Phoebe had arranged the sweet cakes she made in the middle of the dining room table. She pointed to an empty charger off to one side. “I would have put the olykoeks there, but I could not locate them.”

  “They are on the table,” Sally said as she passed by her sister. But when she got into the kitchen, she did not see them. “Did you move them, Phoebe?” she called.

  “No.”

  That is odd, Sally thought as she began opening cabinets. When she did not find them, she asked her mother, but she had not seen them either. After one more search, Sally walked back into the dining room where Phoebe was fussing over the placement of the cake plate, moving it an inch to the side before moving it back.

  Sally put her hands on her hips. “I know you took them,” she said accusingly.

  “I did not.” Phoebe did not look up.

  “Yes you did,” Sally’s voice rose.

  “Sally,” Phoebe turned to her sister, the picture of innocence. “I did not.”

  “What is all of this?” André asked as he and Simcoe entered the dining room, each dressed in their respective uniforms: André’s coat in red and Simcoe’s a moss green. Both of the men glanced appreciatively at the table.

  Sally did not want to burden the gentlemen with their domestic dispute, but Phoebe pointed at her and said, “Sally somehow misplaced the olykoeks and now she is blaming me.”

  André tipped his head back and roared. “Oh Sally, how could you? Have you checked everywhere?”

  “I did.”

  He walked over to the built-in cabinet. “Even in,” he opened the two bottom doors with a flourish, “here?” And there, placed directly in the center of the shelf, were the olykoeks.

  “You hid them!” Sally said with a laugh as she came over to stand beside André. After retrieving them, she set them next on the charger. “There appears to be some missing.”

  André patted at his vest. “And they were delicious.”

  Simcoe watched the exchange, his face growing darker and his frown deepening. He walked over to the plate and grabbed an olykoek. He popped it into his mouth and declared it, “excellent” before casting his eyes at his friend.

  André, obviously unaware of the showdown developing between him and Simcoe, asked Phoebe if he could be of any service.

  “No, of course not. I have it all handled,” she said, with an emphasis on the “I”.

  A heavy knock sounded on the door. “I will get it,” Sally said. She led Captain McGill and another soldier into the dining room and Simcoe introduced them to Major André.

  After a few more Rangers arrived, Phoebe invited the men to sit at the table. André, presumably unknowingly, took Simcoe’s usual place next to Sally. Phoebe, seating herself at the head, seemed dismayed by this until McGill, at her right hand, complimented her on her pink dress.

  “Thank you, Captain McGill. I am also responsible for the table settings,” Phoebe said as she leaned over him to pour tea into his cup.

  “Clearly you have exquisite taste,” McGill replied.

  “Did I mention that I have met your brother on several occasions?” André asked Sally.

  The blood in her veins momentarily chilled. “Oh?” she asked.

  “Yes, at Rivington’s coffee shop. I’ve also had a few poems published in the Gazette.”

  “Ah,” Sally said, reaching for an olykoek. Phoebe gave her a dirty look, probably for lunging across the table.

  “He’s quite a reticent man,” André continued. Sally gave him a tiny smile, wondering if the chief of British intelligence had more than a passing interest in her brother or if he was just making casual conversation. “Ah, Bohea.” André took a sip of tea before setting his cup down. “My favorite,” he said, bestowing a grin on Sally and then Phoebe.

  When the pleasant exchanges at the tea table turned to military matters, Sally and Phoebe fell silent and pretended not to listen. The way the soldiers spoke about a visit they paid to a gentleman in Setauket, Sally gathered that it was not an amiable social call.

  “Woodhull was not there, but I think we made our message clear by our treatment of the old rebel,” Simcoe stated.

  To Sally, it seemed as though Simcoe had ordered, or even participated in, the harming of a helpless elder and yet showed no remorse. But there was something else he said that perked Sally’s ears. The words, “Abraham Woodhull?” came involuntarily out of her mouth as the men at the table exchanged glances. Why did I say that? Sally asked herself. “I’ve met him,” she added, careful not to mention that Robert introduced them. She realized that Woodhull must have come under their suspicion, so Sally sought a way to affirm his innocence. “He’s as loyal to the Crown as they come,” she continued, an affected hint of dissent in her voice.

  “You speak of that like it is distasteful,” McGill commented from the end of the table.

  “Why, Captain McGill,” Sally replied. “That would imply I knew anything about politics.”

  “You don’t?” André asked.

  She batted her eyes at him. “I don’t bother to fill my pretty little head with such trifles,” she said, pleased when, after the men’s laughter died down, the talk turned back to more nonpartisan topics, including the impending Valentine’s Day.

  “I shall pin bay leaves to my pillow this year now that I am nearing a marrying age,” Phoebe said.

  “Bay leaves?” McGill inquired.

  “If you have bay leaves on your pillow and you dream of your sweetheart, you shall be married,” Sally told him.

  “And what hap
pens if you don’t dream of him?” André asked.

  Sally shrugged.

  “Such a strange tradition,” André stated. “Last night I dreamt of my horse. Does that mean I shall marry him?”

  “Only if you had bay leaves on your pillow and only if it is the night before Valentine’s Day,” Phoebe replied.

  “Have you performed this ritual before?” Simcoe inquired of Sally.

  “I never had a beau to dream of,” she said softly.

  “And this year?” McGill asked.

  Sally, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on her, looked down at her hands before nodding.

  After she finished helping Phoebe clear the table, Sally put on her wool-lined cloak and went outside. Her favorite place to think had always been the apple orchard, so she sat down on a stump to contemplate all that she heard at tea. Simcoe was clearly a dangerous man and she hoped her comments on Woodhull would afford him some protection. She recalled the kindness of Mary Underhill, Woodhull’s sister, and could not imagine how awful it must have been to hear of the ill treatment toward her father. Her resolution to keep Simcoe in good company was ever the more important now, both for Papa and Robert’s safety.

  That night when Sally headed up to her room to retire, she noticed a small card had been slipped under the door. It was her silhouette, cut by Major André and accompanied by a note: “If you put this under the pillow strewn with leaves, mayhap you should dream of me.” The dreams she had that night did include the major, but instead of Sally and him riding off into the sunset, Sally saw him and Robert dueling with swords. She woke up in a cold sweat, unsure of the outcome she would have wished for.

  Simcoe sought her out after breakfast. “I wrote this for you, Miss Townsend,” he said, handing her a neatly folded piece of paper.

  “What is it?” she asked as he led her into the living room. He motioned for her to sit on the couch and then boldly sat beside her. “Open it.”

  As Sally unfolded it, she saw that it was a sketch in Simcoe’s own hand of two hearts, one with the initials S.T. and the other J.G.S., spliced by an arrow. Underneath was a poem.

  “Read it aloud,” Simcoe commanded.

  Sally began, her words stumbling over the beginning:

  Fairest Maid where all are fair,

  Beauty’s pride and Nature’s care;

  To you my heart I must resign’

  O choose me for your Valentine!

  The poem went on to declare Simcoe’s “pure, unchanging” love for Sally, comparing her eyes to lightning fire and invoking images of fields strewn with roses and lilies.

  “Sally,” Simcoe took the valentine and put it on the table before he placed his hand over hers. Sally balked at both the use of her proper name and the physical contact. “I am to be called away for the summer, but hope to return in the fall.” Her heart swelled at the ability to drop the facade of her possessing affection for Simcoe, even if it were to only be a temporary reprieve. “If our relationship continues, and if you would permit me, I would then ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

  Sally gasped aloud as she put her other hand to her chest. At that moment, Major André passed by in the hall. Sally looked up to see him stop his stride and then switch his course to the living room. “What is all of this?” he asked as he walked in, glancing at Simcoe’s improper proximity to Sally and then dropping his gaze to the valentine on the table.

  Simcoe seemed to have taken Sally’s reaction for acquiescence. He patted her hand before rising. “I have just declared my love for Miss Townsend and asked to marry her.”

  “And she accepted?” André gave Sally a puzzled look.

  She decided to cover her confusion with a giggle. “I have not yet consented, but will promise to give it much thought these months that you will be gone.”

  “Deployment?” André asked Simcoe.

  He nodded.

  “Actually, I came to tell you that I too must leave Oyster Bay and return to the city.” André said loftily, as if he had not been heading outside before he spotted the two of them.

  Sally felt like a chicken caught between two foxes. Agreeing to marry Simcoe meant protection for her family, but she was not sure she could stomach the thought of being his wife. On the other hand, there was the dashing Major André, who had gone out of his way with all of those affectionate gifts. If she could manage to cast her loyalty aside and begin a relationship with André, it would only serve to anger Simcoe more. And there was the major’s reputation as a hopeless flirt and that mention of Meg Coghlan, to boot. She decided to take the path of neutrality.

  “I shall mourn both of your absences,” she said, rising from the couch and venturing toward the hallway.

  “Miss Townsend?” Simcoe had reverted back from calling her by her Christian name.

  “Yes?” she asked, turning around.

  “Do not forget your valentine,” he said, holding it aloft.

  She curtsied before walking to retrieve it. “Thank you.”

  André left the next day, but not before gifting Sally yet another representation of his artistic accomplishments. He had boldly placed a poem, entitled “The Frantick Lover,” under her pillow. Upon discovering it, Sally quickly scanned through it, a few lines leaping off the page and into her heart.

  The star of the evening now bids thee retire;

  Accurs’d be its Orb and extinguish’d its fire!

  For it shows me my rival, prepared to invade

  Those charms which at once I admired and obey’d.

  My insolent rival, more proud of his right,

  Contemns the sweet office, that soul of delight.

  Less tender, he seizes thy lips as his prey,

  And all thy dear limbs the rough summons obey.

  Sally clutched the missive to her chest, realizing that she was not just another of André’s paramours and that his feelings, much like hers, ran very deep. The rival he referred to was undoubtedly Simcoe. If only she could convey that she did not want to obey his “rough summons,” but doing so might put her family in danger of Simcoe’s wrath.

  Chapter XLV

  Elizabeth

  March 1779

  Robert had not returned to the store for more than a month. Elizabeth had to come up with an excuse for Robert’s neglect to her saddened children, saying that he had gone away on business.

  One afternoon in late March, she was surprised to see James Rivington enter the shop. “Mrs. Burgin,” he called, an unmistakable urgency in his voice. “You must come now!”

  “Come?” Elizabeth asked as she came out from behind the counter. “What do you mean?”

  Rivington’s head swiveled at a customer in the corner before he grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her into the stockroom. “You are in grave danger. Higday has given your name to the British, and they are searching for you as we speak. We must fetch your children and I am to take your family to the Underhills.’”

  Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. “How do you know this?”

  “Robert contacted me. He is arranging someplace for you to stay on Long Island. More can be explained later—we do not have much time now.”

  “Right.” Elizabeth hurried upstairs, shouting for Abby. The two women grabbed what little clothes they could fit into a small valise before rushing back downstairs, Abby holding the hands of the bewildered older children and Elizabeth with the baby in her arms. Rivington had gotten rid of the customer and stood waiting next to the door. He shouldered the valise and explained that everyone needed to be calm and act as though nothing were amiss.

  “What about our dog?” Johnny asked as Rivington opened the door and began to usher the children outside.

  Rivington cast his eyes to Elizabeth.

  “My husband’s since before the war.” She found her voice was shaky.

  “I will take care of it,” he said. The gruff words seemed to satisfy Johnny and he went out into the sunshine.

  Elizabeth found that remaining calm was diffi
cult once she saw all of the Redcoats in the Underhills’ tavern. Rivington set the valise down next to the counter before he went to greet the British officers. Elizabeth walked to the desk, her bonnet pulled over her face. “I’d like a room, please,” she told Mary, pretending as though she didn’t know her.

  “Certainly,” Mary glanced at Rivington before glancing down at the ledger. “For you, the maid, and the children?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth looked down at Catherine, who seemed stuck to her side. Johnny stood next to her, uncharacteristically holding his sister’s hand. “One night only. We will be leaving very early in the morning.”

  Mary nodded as she handed her a key. “We only have the top room available. Shall I show you up?” She came around to fetch the valise.

  “That is most kind of you,” Elizabeth said.

  Abby went to pick up Georgie, who had toddled toward a table of Redcoats, their mugs of ale nearly empty. “Come along, children.”

  Once they were safely behind the closed door of Abraham Woodhull’s former room, Mary sat the valise on the bed. “What is going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” Elizabeth replied. “I was of the mind that you would know more.”

  Mary shook her head, eying the children, who, under Abby’s supervision, were wandering the small room in investigation. “Robert rushed over here to let me know that you would be arriving and that it would be best to act as though you were a regular guest.”

  “It was something about Higday.”

  “Do they know about the prisoners?”

  “I don’t know.” Elizabeth was unaware that Mary herself knew about the mutiny on the Jersey. “Mary, I am afraid,” she stated in a low voice.

  Mary gave her a brief embrace. “Robert will take care of it.” They both looked down as little Georgie pulled on his mother’s skirt and announced that he was hungry.