Ring of Secrets (22 page)

While Bennet chuckled and shook his head, Fairchild gave her a fond smile. “Muster, my dear. We are assembling troops and lining up transport. It seems the French have arrived and intend to join forces with the rebels. They think to surprise us, but the general has known for nearly a month now and has taken every necessary step to turn the surprise around on
them
.”

How fortunate that the summer heat disguised the sweat that broke out on her brow. The French, here—and the British had known a month already. Had been making plans and seeing to provisions all this time.

Would Washington be counting on catching them unawares with his newly swollen fleet?

She must get word to Robbie. He said Washington had officially shut down the Culper Ring some two months ago after going to considerable trouble to extract Jamie from prison, but this was surely news enough to justify reopening the lines of communication.

However, she couldn't think quite yet about the information she would convey with the stain the first moment she was alone. First she must respond. She widened her eyes and turned them on Bennet. “The French! Mr. Lane, perhaps that gambler fellow has come. Or the apothecary you so admire. He is also French, is he not?”

Bennet arched a brow and gave her a crooked smile. “Descartes is long since deceased, Miss Reeves.” The
as you well know
came through in his gaze. “And Lavoisier is not a chemist in the sense of an apothecary, but rather a nobleman who expounds on the history and philosophy of chemistry.”

“I suppose he will be no help at all in developing a hair powder that does not make you sneeze, then.” Careful to keep the teasing from her tone, she turned back to the colonel. “We do not like the French, do we?”

Such affection shone in his eyes that new guilt sprang up. He motioned her toward a second bench. “England and France have long been enemies, my dear. They only help the rebels as a slap at us.”

“How terribly rude.” She sat, positioning her skirts around her. “We must slap back at them, then.”

Fairchild sat beside her and smiled. “We will indeed. General
Clinton has an agent in Rhode Island who sent him a map and detailed numbers and positions of the French fleet. We likely know more about them than Washington does.”

She hid the swirling of her mind behind a nod and then lapsed into her usual faux boredom as he spoke of his dealings with the general and various aides, and then how glad he had been to welcome his friend home along with Clinton in June.

“And really, 'tis no coincidence that this informant got his news to Clinton when he did. André has been put in charge of intelligence and has come up with a brilliant way of keeping it all organized, as well as getting messages to sources covertly.”

Her stomach clenched. It sounded as though this friend of Fairchild's was the British equivalent of Tallmadge, who handled such matters for Washington. Could the name be somehow useful? She would note it too and pass it along to Robbie. Beg him to get a message out somehow.

She glanced at the angle of the sun, trying to gauge how much longer she would be expected to entertain. Another hour, perhaps. Then they would all leave, probably together, and she could slip out to the stable and down to her room. Get a message written and send Freeman with it to Robbie.

Avoid Grandfather that much longer.

For now, she concentrated on looking bored and witless, which became much easier to accomplish after the others joined them a few minutes later. Listening to the endless flirtation and gossip was nearly enough to put her in a coma. But thankfully, 'twasn't long after that the group prepared to depart.

All but Bennet, who stood at her side and waved off his brother, Mr. Knight, Colonel Fairchild, and the ladies with a smile.

Oh, bother. She had forgotten that Grandmother had invited him to stay and dine with them. It may provide her safety from Grandfather, but how, then, would she find the time to write her note? She barely had time to rush up to her room and have her dress changed for the meal, and her maid scurried about too much to grant her any privacy then.

Bennet, looking uncomfortable in a powdered wig, awaited her in the downstairs hall. Her grandmother received them into the drawing
room with a smile some may have mistaken for welcoming. “Ah, your friends left just in time, darlings. The meal is ready.”

Winter looked around the room and saw no one but the three of them. Her pulse accelerated. “Is Grandfather not joining us?”

“Oh, no. He had already agreed to dine with a friend of his newly arrived in town. We mentioned it at breakfast, Winnie dear. Don't you recall?”

At breakfast she had been in a daze of fright, certain her grandfather would refuse her entry into the room. Or that, at least, his ultimatum would come up during the meal. Strange how his silence had not brought her an ounce of relief.

Her smile wobbled even now. “Of course. How silly of me to forget. Well, then.” She tucked her hand into the crook of Bennet's arm and tried not to wonder if it was the last time she would do so. When she was seated across from him, she tried not to dwell on the thought that if he did not toss aside the previous months of near silent attention and propose, she would never eat at this table again.

Tried not to hope when she knew well it would lead to disappointment.

Still, her hand shook as she spooned up her soup. For the first time in a year and a half, she was grateful for her grandmother's constant stream of meaningless gossip, as it kept Bennet's attention away from her. If he looked her way, he would surely see that something was the matter. And what would she tell him if he asked what it was? She could hardly confess the truth.

Oh, why hadn't Robbie tried to put things right with Washington and company months ago? Then the ring never would have been shut down, and she wouldn't have been doomed to day after mind-numbing day of nothingness.

No friends.

No purpose.

No promise.

Stagnant—that was what life had become. The same dinner parties, the same balls, the same silks and laces and curls. The same man sitting in the same place by her side, refusing to leave but refusing to take another step forward until she gave what she would not.

Could
not.

“Winifred.”

Winter started at the low, furious command, and dropped her fork with a clatter. Which made her frown. When had she exchanged spoon for fork? How had they come to have the sweet before them already?

If Grandmother's scowl were any indication, her inattentiveness had not gone unnoticed. Winter cleared her throat. “I am sorry, Grandmother. Did you say something?”

“No. But Mr. Lane did.” How did she convey so much censure in such a simple sentence?

“Oh.” Winter looked to Bennet, who studied her with eyes narrowed in concern. “What did you ask, sir?”

He shook his head. “It hardly matters. Are you quite sure you are not unwell, Miss Reeves?”

“I…” Was she unwell? She certainly felt it. Perhaps nothing was the matter with her body, but oh, how her spirit ached. “I've a touch of the headache, is all.”

Grandmother put down her fork. A motion that had no sound yet rang with finality. “Then you ought to take a few minutes of quiet in the drawing room before we join you. Come, dear. I will make sure you are comfortable. Do excuse me a moment, Mr. Lane.”

Feeling as though the drawing room housed a gallows, Winter managed a tight smile for Bennet and followed her matriarch out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the receiving chamber.

Grandmother pulled the door closed behind them and then spun on her. “What are you thinking, you stupid little chit? You know well your grandfather intends to forbid you from our home after today. Will you waste your final hours with this nonsense?”

“I…” She could put her tongue on no words. The trembling possessed her so fiercely she would have crumpled to the ground had Grandmother not dug her talons into her arm and forced her upright.

“You listen to me.” Giving her a shake, Grandmother leaned in close. “I will
not
be disgraced again. Mr. Lane is obviously interested in you, otherwise he would not still be paying you court after seven months. Any girl with half a brain would have convinced him to propose by now. But you! You have wasted month after month and have nothing to show for it.”

“It isn't my fault.” Her voice came out wispy, far from certain. “I warned you he was not the type to be won by flirtation, but you insisted I—”

The harsh sting of Grandmother's hand striking her cheek silenced her. “Enough. You can blame this failure on no one but yourself. Had you fully listened to me, you would be Mrs. Lane by now, likely carrying his heir and perhaps even on your way to England.”

Her nostrils flared, her chest heaved, but Winter bit her tongue. There was no use arguing. Grandmother's advised method for achieving a proposal was simply unthinkable. She would not throw herself at him, would not grant him any liberties.

Grandmother must have read her mind. “You think your virtue will do you any good if you have not secured a promise from Mr. Lane by the time Hampton returns? I have stayed his hand this long, but I will not be able to any longer. Do whatever you must, Winifred, but get it done.”

After tossing her away like a tattered rag, Grandmother pulled open the door and stormed out. Winter sank to the nearest surface at hand, the arm of the sofa. How had it come to this? What more could she possibly lose?

Words from the prayers copied in her father's hand filtered into her mind.
I am nothing but that Thou makest me. I have nothing but that I receive from Thee. I can be nothing but that grace adorns me.

She needed His grace. Needed His strength, for she had none left.

She must stir herself. Escape before Grandmother could send Bennet in. Go to her underground sanctuary, where she could pray and then send one last message to Robbie. And if after that she was consigned to the fearsome fate her grandparents had in store for her…well, the Lord would either deliver her or sustain her.

Course plotted, she stood and raced for the door—where she collided with Bennet's solid chest.

He greeted her squeal of surprise with a chuckle and steadied her with gentle hands upon her arms. “Going somewhere?”

“Apparently not.” She turned her face up to see his smile. Perhaps it would fortify her.

Instead, it faded as he studied her, and he lifted his fingers to turn her head. To present a full view of the cheek Grandmother had slapped.
“Winter.” He filled her name with boundless concern. “Your grandmother is striking you now?”

Why was he always the one to discover such things? She tried for a smile, though she managed only half of one. “I am apparently a very frustrating girl.”

He matched her crooked grin. “Sometimes, yes. But that is hardly cause for such treatment.” Sobriety took him over once again. “You said you would not suffer another instance of it.”

“I have not.” Though it was hardly relevant at this point.

“Then why now? What is wrong today? It is as though…” He shook his head as he caressed her stinging cheek. “I have watched you fade away this spring, but I have never seen you like this, starting at shadows. You seem to be in terror, but I cannot think why. Please, Winter. Tell me what troubles you.”

What would he do if she obeyed? If she told him that her only hope of a future rested in his hand, that if he didn't offer it to her, she would be on the streets by morning?

As if she really had to wonder. He had too noble a soul to deny her help when it was within his power, but she would not force him to action with such a terrible truth. She would not trick him into it. She would not weigh him down with a burden like that.

His thumb stroked over her cheek, much as it had done six long months ago, the night she learned her home was destroyed. Now, like then, the tenderness broke something inside her. Her breath came out in a shudder.

“What wears you down so?” He pulled her a little closer, only to then ease away again with a frown. “Is it Fairchild? I ought to have asked you before. He intimated that they refused him because of me. If you are in love with him, I will step aside. You only have to say the word—”

“'Tisn't that.” She covered his fingers with hers before he could pull them away, and then she dropped her hand. What was she thinking? Such behavior made her every inch the creature her grandmother wanted her to be.

He tipped up her chin, forcing her to meet the blue depths of his gaze. “What is it then? Winter, I daresay it is no secret by now that I care for you. You can trust me. Please, tell me what burdens you.”

A tickle of happiness danced through her at his admission. Of course she knew he must care, but he had never said it. Hadn't shown it lately but through his continued presence, which could as easily have been habit. But it wasn't enough. And it didn't change the reality that she could not, in fact, trust him.

“There is nothing to tell.” Still, she could not bring herself to pull away.

“Mmm, yes. Much like you can't remember Descartes' name and think ‘muster' is something one applies to meat. You know well you don't fool me.” His smile shed a hint of light on the darkness crowding in. “I suspect you may even care about me as well, though I cannot be entirely certain.”