Whispers from the Shadows Page 15

“You may have a point. I…” He halted in the middle of the street when the tingle swept over him. Stopped and listened, though he never knew if it were an audible sound or one in his spirit he ought to be waiting for.

  Then it came. The Masquerade. He angled toward the waterfront.

  Arnaud’s questioning gaze was illuminated by the last rays of sun. “Where?”

  “My brig.”

  “Do you need me?”

  He didn’t think so, not just to pick up a communication from the place in his cabin where Tallmadge’s courier always hid them. He shook his head. “I’m going to see if Mr. Bolton has been in touch.” After taking a step, he stopped and pivoted toward Arnaud again. “When will you leave?”

  A sigh seeped out. “Early on the fifth, I suppose.”

  “Good. Bonsoir, mon ami.”

  “Et à toi. And, Thad? Tread lightly.”

  He waved him off and followed the slight downward slope of the street to the bay’s edge. The faces he passed were all familiar, the usual bored sailors who still populated the harbor for lack of anything else to do. He nodded here, waved there, and called out a greeting when one was required. And soon he had the pleasure of setting his boots upon the boards that signaled home every bit as much as the ones in his house.

  Masquerade welcomed him with a gentle bob, seeming to sigh her satisfaction at his coming aboard. He ran a hand along the rail and sighed right back. “Soon, old girl. Soon this blasted war will be over and we shall ride the waves again.”

  Her answer was a creak that said, “Not soon enough.”

  “I do agree.” As he strode across the deck, he could almost pretend it was a calm day at sea, could almost imagine open water beckoning from all sides.

  A minute later he had slipped into his cabin, with its specially chosen furniture all bolted down. The desk he had liberated from a sinking British ship. The weapons cabinet that came from a Mediterranean bazaar. The small strongbox that he had built into the underside of the bed.

  He fished the key out of his pocket and crouched down, inserted it into the box, and turned. At the clank of the locking mechanism releasing, he swung open the slender door, reached in, and felt the folded paper he had anticipated.

  He had long since removed all of his counter liquor and code books back to the house, so there was, sadly, no reason to linger. With a farewell pat to Masquerade’s railing a minute later, he disembarked and headed for home.

  The sun had slipped fully below the horizon by the time he turned onto his street, the sky now a dark purple dimming to black. The air had scarcely cooled, though, still hanging heavy with humidity.

  His lips tugged up. The Redcoats sure to arrive soon to reinforce their fellows wouldn’t fare so well in a muggy mid-Atlantic summer, accustomed as they were to the cool climes of England.

  Gwyneth was beginning to adjust, thankfully. Her movements had become lighter, her complexion healthier, and her appetite had improved.

  His step picked up at the thought of her. Let Arnaud question it all he wanted. Thad knew his own heart.

  He also knew his duty, and became aware anew of the missive in his pocket the moment he stepped inside. For now, this business must come first.

  The steady cadence of Mother’s voice came from the library, and a light burned in the drawing room as well. He eased his study door shut and turned to his desk. After lighting his lamp, he sat and pulled out the letter.

  A small, faint A lay in the upper right corner. He read the visible message as a matter of course, but even while doing so pulled out the counter liquor and brush. Uncorked, dipped, tapped, stroked.

  Within two minutes, the stain had darkened to near black, and Congressman Tallmadge’s script leapt off the page.

  President Madison has called for a new division for the protection of Washington, to be peopled from the neighboring counties. Directives will go out to governors in the next several days. Knowing you as I do, you will be tempted to volunteer for this assignment.

  Thad grinned. The congressman did indeed know him well. If by chance the British headed first to D.C., he wanted to be there. Wanted to do all he could to rally the city.

  Do not, I repeat, do not volunteer.

  Thad sighed, swept his hat off his head, and sent it flying toward the leather chair across the room.

  I have need of you where you are, Mr. Culper. Come to my office on the fifth or sixth, whenever you can get away. I think you will approve our plans.

  Approve them he may in three or four days, but at the moment Thad had the urge to try one of Arnaud’s snarls on for size.

  He let the irritation stew for a moment, but then a breath of calm whispered over him. They had no proof the British would march to Washington. It would make more strategic sense for them to choose Annapolis or Baltimore. And would he not feel the fool if he went to defend his neighbor city and the enemy advanced on his own?

  Tallmadge had experience enough in military things to be trusted with these decisions. He had been, after all, one of General Washington’s most trusted officers. So Thad would obey. And he would rub his hands together at the thought of finally leading the Culpers into some offensive action.

  Seeing no need to pen a response that would likely not reach him before Thad did anyway, he put his stains and quills into the bottom drawer of his desk. His fingers then paused, hovering over another tome he had slid in with his code books. The leather cover had gone soft and worn over the years, the paper had begun to yellow. His grandfather’s script had faded to brown, but Thad had found peace within the prayers copied from his Puritan ancestors, as his mother had before him, and her father before her.

  He gripped the precious volume and took it with him as he stood. Perhaps it could impart its peace again to another who so sorely needed it.

  He headed for the light in the drawing room, having a feeling Gwyneth was in there and not with his parents. A feeling that was proven correct a moment later when he leaned into the doorway to watch her at the secretaire.

  Her hand moved in large, bold strokes over the paper, her pencil putting life to the blank page in a way he could watch endlessly. He edged closer to see what picture she created today and ended up leaning on the writing desk with a laugh. “’Tis the Masquerade.”

  The pencil stopped, and Gwyneth smiled up at him in a way that made his stomach knot. “I thought I had better sketch it before I mixed my paints tomorrow. Your parents took me to the harbor today to see it.”

  He forced his gaze from the Lord’s masterpiece of her face to the one underway on the paper. “Your memory astounds me. You captured her. Her details, but more, her soul.”

  Her laughter trilled like music, light and brilliant. Had he heard her laugh before? Perhaps a measure of it, but never a full chorus like this, one that chased the shadows from her eyes and lit her face.

  Oh, he was sunk. No question. Now his life’s quest would have to be teasing that laugh from her again and again.

  Even when the music tapered off, still it glinted in her Caribbean eyes. “I was unaware a ship had a soul.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He took the excuse to lean closer under the guise of tapping a finger to the page—a blank spot on it, so as not to smudge her work. “You are obviously aware, for there you have put it to paper.”

  She laughed again, though all too soon went serious. “I looked again through my things, Thad. Still I could find nothing from my father.”

  Seeing the shadow that cast on her face, he nearly wished he had never brought her into this business. But then, he hadn’t, had he? Her own family had. Still. He brushed aside one of the red-gold curls from her cheek—only half of her hair had thus far been pulled loose by her oblivious fingers—so that he might look squarely into her eyes. “You needn’t keep searching again and again, sweet. There is no need to revisit it every day.”

  “But there is.” Brows knit, her face followed his retreating hand for a moment, until she seemed to realize what she was doing. Were it not f
or the troubled spark of her gaze, it would have made him smile. “As I looked, I remembered that each and every time I traveled before Papa, he tucked a note into my things somewhere. Without fail.”

  Thad sighed and rested his hand over hers on the secretaire. To give comfort, not to feel the frisson of heat in his fingers. Not at all that. Ahem. “Perhaps Mrs. Wesley found it when unpacking for you and put it away somewhere.”

  “That was my thought too, but I cannot find one anywhere.” She averted her face, blinking rapidly. “If only I could ask her.”

  “There are only so many places she could have put such a thing. I will ask Rosie to help you look. She has been finding whatever I lose since I was a boy.”

  That at least earned him another laugh, albeit one that quickly faded. She sighed and lifted a hand to her neck, stretched, and winced. She kneaded at the spot where the ivory column met slender shoulders.

  “And how long have you been hunched over this desk, sweet? Since I left?”

  “Perhaps.” The turn of her lips carried a rare hint of mischief, one that made his heart squeeze tight.

  If only that pain were not still on her face. He motioned toward her neck. “May I?”

  Her expression went blank as her fingers fell back to her lap. “Pardon?”

  By way of answer, he raised his hand to her neck and rubbed where hers had been. “Philly, the silly thing, would always read until she was stiff and sore and headache ridden, and she would force me to help her relieve it.”

  “Oh.” The word was not an acknowledgment of the story, but rather a wonder-filled exclamation that accompanied the tilting of her head to give him better access. “Oh, that is exactly what I needed.” She chuckled. “Aunt Gates would no doubt think this scandalously improper.”

  No doubt any London matron would. A thought which made him grin. “Aunt Gates, is it? Do we like her?”

  Another breathy chuckle. “We do, though she is a bit staid. Very concerned with appearance. She could not possibly realize that her husband…”

  Just like that, her neck went so tight and tense he silently cursed himself. Aloud, he clucked his tongue like Rosie would do. “Do relax lest you render my ministrations useless.”

  She made an effort, though it was largely in vain. “Better?”

  “Not a bit. Which means, I suppose, that I shall have to stand here the longer, scandalizing your poor aunt’s would-be sensibilities.”

  There, the tease relaxed her. She loosed a slow exhale, and another pin slipped from her hair, letting a curl fall across his hands.

  Thad saw no reason to move the silken curtain. “You look as though you have been sleeping better.”

  A little hum sounded in Gwyneth’s throat. “More, anyway. I thought—the night before the Wesleys left, I had no nightmares. I thought a corner had been turned, but…well, they have come back since. So it has been fitful and I awaken often. But I can at least get back to sleep.”

  “Progress.”

  Another hum. “Thanks to you, I believe. Sharing my fears…”

  And staying home, though he had no intention of pointing out that correlation. Besides, he had given her new fears, new worries and wonders about the father she’d never before had to question. “I am happy to listen whenever you want to share what is plaguing you. I imagine there is more even than that loss. You are away from all the rest of your family. All your friends. And that beau in the suit of armor.”

  Ah, yet another chime of laughter. “Sir Arthur.”

  As if he had forgotten. He slid the prayer book onto the edge of the desk so he could put both hands on her shoulders. “Ah, yes. I imagine you miss him too.”

  “Not enough for it to have been what I thought it was.” She reached for the book. “What is this?”

  “Puritan prayers, transcribed by my grandfather. I thought they might lend you some peace.” He let his lips purse at her observation on her feelings for Sir Arthur. Notwithstanding that he was glad of it, the fact remained that it was the second expression within the hour of how fleeting such things could be. “I imagine he is missing you sorely, having not been through the trauma you have.”

  She ran a finger along the spine of the book and flipped it open. “I cannot think so. We scarcely knew each other, and he would have been put out by my disappearing on him without a word that morning after I promised to speak with Papa. Oh, isn’t this lovely. ‘If I should suffer need, and go unclothed, and be in poverty, make my heart prize Thy love…’ ”

  “That morning?” His hands paused and rested on her shoulders. “He was there?”

  “In the garden. Too far away to have known. Now, I wonder what the author meant by this line about being constrained by His love. I have never thought of the Lord’s love as being something to bind or restrict, but I suppose in this sense, it holds us to contentment.”

  His thumb moved over her neck again, though he neglected to put any force into it. “In the garden, you say. Does Sir Arthur perchance bear a resemblance to Arnaud, but with fairer coloring?”

  “I suppose so, at first glance.” Her head bent toward her chest. “How did you know?”

  “You drew him your first night here.” He had thought the figure looked lost to the observer—and what if that were more the case than that she had felt nothing real for him? What if she felt resignation, or even a sense of betrayal, that he had been so close but unable to help her? What if he were still ensconced in her heart, but she was just too struck by grief to realize it? His fingers wove through her curls. “What was it you promised to speak about with your father, Gwyn?”

  She said nothing. Just breathed in and then out in a slow, even rhythm.

  Thad sighed and crouched down beside her. Her eyes were closed, her fingers limp against the pages. He gathered her curls over one shoulder and then couldn’t resist resting his hand against her cheek.

  “One of these days, my love,” he whispered, easing the book from her hands, “we will finish a conversation.”

  Seventeen

  Arthur looked up when the tin cup plunked onto the table before him, and he smiled at the expressionless lad who had brought it. “Thank you, Scrubs. With this storm raging, I am afraid I am more in need of the ginger than usual.”

  “Sorry for my tardiness, sir. When the wind kicked up, I had to help secure everything.”

  “I understand.”

  In the corner of the cabin, Gates turned a page in his book. “Stop your chattering and let the boy get to work. The breakfast tray spilled when that wave struck. Of course, had you picked it up when you said you would…”

  Arthur sipped the ginger water, welcoming the bitter taste that would help settle his stomach, which seemed bent on echoing the roll of every wave. Blast these summer storms. “Pay no heed to his testiness, Scrubs. Mr. Gates does not like being confined to our cabins.”

  Gates snorted.

  Scrubs merely headed for the mess by the table.

  Arthur studied his older companion, both amused and bemused at how his usually stoic demeanor had given way to such acidity today. He suspected it had less to do with being asked to remain below than it did the captain’s words about the delay the weather might cause.

  He took another sip. “Have you been to America before, Mr. Gates?”

  He didn’t even bother to look up from his page. “Of course. I have been to nearly all of England’s colonies.”

  Scrubs paused halfway into his reach for a fork they had overlooked on the floor. “You visited before the Revolution then, sir?”

  Now Gates looked up with an expression of disdain. “No, my visits have all been in the late eighties and after.”

  The boy grabbed the fork and tossed it to the tray with a clatter. “Then you did not visit her as a colony, did you?”

  The narrowing of Gates’s eyes promised a biting retort. Arthur cleared his throat and quickly interjected, “What is it like? I have never been.”

  The man’s gaze remained locked on Scrubs. “Too cold in
the north, too hot in the south, and filled with arrogant boors.” He slapped his book shut. “What say you to that, boy?”

  Scrubs pulled out his ever-present rag and went to work on the floor. “What ought I say, sir? Other than if you think so poorly of the place, it seems odd you would still want to claim it as an off-shoot of Merry Ol’ England.”

  Rage flickered through the elder man’s eyes but was quickly tamped down as he stood. “As I said, arrogant boors, the lot of them. Do excuse me, Sir Arthur. I have a matter to discuss with the captain.”

  “Until later, then.” Arthur did his best to hold down his grin until the man had left. “I do believe that was the longest sentence I have ever heard you deliver, Scrubs.”

  The lad barely glanced up.

  Arthur took another sip and considered letting the silence reign…but he had spent too many hours with only quiet Gates for company. “Well, I am glad to finally know your opinion on something.”

  There was a hitch in Scrubs’s movements, but no other response.

  Arthur sighed. “I am looking forward to seeing America. I have heard about the beauty of the wilds.”

  “Is that why you are traveling there? To see the wilds?”

  “Nay.” His voice came out more quietly than he had intended, so he cleared his throat. “My betrothed is missing and her life is in danger. We think her father sent her to Maryland. It is our hope to find her before his murderer does.”

  Now Scrubs’s motions ceased, and the boy looked up at him with that ageless gaze of his. “Forgive me, sir. I did not realize your purpose was so grave.”

  “How could you have?” He forced a smile and swirled the bitter drink around in his cup. “I imagine you have seen much of the world already. That is quite a blessing.”

  Only when the boy’s eyes snapped back to blank did Arthur realize compassion had entered them. He attacked the floor again. “Blessing, aye. I am certain my mother and sisters thought just that when their sole provider disappeared.”

  Sympathy tugged, but what was the use in indulging it? The boy had been a fisherman, as easily snatched away by a storm as a captain seeking a fuller crew. Still… “How far is your home from where we are going in Maryland?”