Whispers from the Shadows (18 page)

“True enough.” She stood still long enough to pat his hand and then retrieved her spoon. “You think her uncle is gonna come like she fears?”

“Hard to say without knowing why he did it.” But his gut said yes. “She isn't alone, is she? She must be upset.”

Rosie waved the spoon in the direction of the doorway. “Your mama spent the morning with her, the two of them crying and reminiscing about General Fairchild. Your father's with her now, reading to her, I think.”

“Oh, saints above. She may not survive it.” He ducked under the lintel and managed two strides.

“Thaddeus.” Rosie poked her head out after him. “The day had
some good in it too. She slept the night through. She woke when you left, but not until. No nightmares.”

“Praise God.” It nearly soothed the fray and frustration. Nearly. He nodded his thanks and headed down the hall.

His first thought was to deposit his bags in his study before searching them out, but that whisper inside stayed him.
Show her
.

Thad sucked in a quick breath.
Really, Lord? Now?

Nothing. If the Lord had eyebrows, he imagined He was arching them, giving Thad the look his parents had both perfected. The one that said, “If I did not mean
now
, would I have told you to do it?”

He lifted his hands, saddlebags and all, in silent surrender and then turned toward the sound of Father's reading voice in the library.

“ ‘…I shall waive giving any process for it here; especially as every book which treats of the chemical pharmacy contains one.' ”

Thad stepped into the makeshift laboratory, his gaze moving from his father, who sat in his usual chair with a book before his nose, to Gwyneth, perched at the table with pencil and unmarked paper. He let his saddlebags fall by means of announcing himself. “What are you doing, Father, trying to put her to sleep? From what Rosie tells me, this is the one day she ought not need such assistance.”

Father flashed him a grin over the tome. “'Tis
The Handmaid to the Arts
, Thad. Our dear Gwyneth was regretting not bringing her copy, so I found one. We are now reminding ourselves of the use of mercury in creating a fine enamel paint.”

“Riveting.”

Gwyneth put her pencil down and pushed herself up. Her lips bowed, and for once the circles under her eyes were faint. But those eyes were bloodshot, and fine posture could not overcome the stoop to her shoulders. She stepped around the table in his direction, but then drifted to a halt as if unsure she had taken the wise course. Still, her smile brightened for a second. “How was your day, Thad?”

“Frustrating, but probably better than yours. I brought you something.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin leather pouch.

A question punctuated her expression as she came a few steps nearer. “You thought to get me a present during your frustration?”

“Technically, it was before the frustration. But, yes.” For the first time in hours, he felt like smiling. “You seemed to be in need.”

She was finally close enough to take the pouch, and when she sent
him a quick glance of curiosity and thanks as she opened it, he felt it all the way down in his stomach. By Neptune, she had the loveliest eyes. And they got all the more beautiful when she unwrapped the set of paintbrushes and joy lit them. “Thad—how did you know I needed these exact ones?”

“They seemed the scraggliest of your set. Did I get the sizes and shapes right?”

“Exactly so.” For a moment he thought she might embrace him, the way she leaned onto her toes and strained forward, but proper breeding apparently won out—blast it to pieces—and she merely clutched the brushes to her chest. “You cannot know what this means to me today. Or perhaps you can, as you always seem to divine what people most need.”

A snort slipped out, and Thad paced to the open window. “If only everyone agreed. Sometimes trying to convince them feels akin to bashing one's head against a rock.”

“He is always like this after a trip to Washington City,” Father said. Normal, everyday words. But Thad heard the note of warning hidden beneath the syllables. And certainly didn't miss the sign he made.
Careful
.

Thad leaned into the windowsill and folded his arms. “A letter arrived yesterday from Belgium. The ambassador in Ghent reported that the British people have been crying against us, demanding retribution for our perceived audacity. Tallmadge said—”

“Ah, good ol' Ben.” Father all but leaped to the edge of his seat, his hard-glinting eyes belying the bright smile on his face. He brushed his right hand twice over his left fist.
Enough
. “An old friend of ours, Gwyneth.”

Thad sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, half wishing he could obey the silent commands. “Madison called a cabinet meeting this morning. They all dismissed his concerns.”

“And already it is the subject of gossip?” Father chuckled.

A question that deserved ignoring. “We must take action. An attack is coming, and we are grossly unprepared.”

Father's false mirth faded to sobriety, but still Thad could see the protective wall shuttering his eyes. “There is only so much we can do, son. You can talk with the leader of your regiment—”

“There is much we can do, Father, but it is going to require creativity and something I know will make you and Mother
uncomfortable—the Culpers need to
act
.”

“Culpers?” Though she could have no familiarity with the name, Gwyneth had obviously noted the tension pulsing in the room and had backed herself into the edge of the table. “Who are they?”

Father stood, a tic in his jaw. “Thaddeus Lane, you are not—”

“—a child,” he finished for him. “Nor am I alone in my feelings. Tallmadge agrees. It is not enough anymore to ferry information from one location to another, not when those who should be acting on it continue to twirl their thumbs!”

The clatter of wood on wood interrupted, and one of the paintbrushes rolled to his boot. Gwyneth went deathly pale, her eyes round, her lips quivering.

And she was looking at him as though he were a masked highwayman waiting to relieve her of her jewels. “You…you are a…
spy
?”

Father muttered a choice word—in Latin, which was all Mother ever let slide—and tossed
The Handmaid to the Arts
onto his chair. “Thad!”

“Spy is hardly the best word.” He couldn't quite restrain his smile. “I am no cloaked fiend out to steal secrets and pass them to the highest bidder, sweet. Merely someone in a position to help my country by keeping its leaders abreast of the goings-on.”

“Someone who will have a tanned hide once his mother gets ahold of him.”

His father's mumble stole his attention for only a beat. Far more concerning was the way Gwyneth shook her head as if in a trance. “Why are you telling me this?”

Father folded his arms. “Yes, Thaddeus, why are you telling her this?”

He looked from sire to guest, the answer more a certainty in his gut than a fact he could put upon paper. And all the more trustworthy for that as facts were so easily twisted. “Because,” he said, silently bidding her to meet his gaze and waiting until she did, “she is already involved.”

Fifteen

G
wyneth wished, prayed she would wake up and prove this scene nothing more than another nightmare. But despite the table corner biting into her palm, the image wouldn't waver. Instead, Thad's words kept echoing through her head.

How could it be true? She tried to draw in a breath deep enough to soothe, but an invisible hand pressed on her chest.

Thad was a spy. Whatever he wanted to call it, that was what it came down to. That was why he heard so often from all his sailor friends. That was why Mr. Whittier had sought him out in his last moments. That was why he disappeared at odd hours. Because he was involved in espionage. Perhaps not the filthy kind, perhaps not for gain. But still he went slinking around in the dark, still he passed along information to those for whom it was not intended. Still he sought to undermine the British cause. Not openly, honorably, on a field of battle, but underhandedly.

Why, then, did her feet still want to pull her his way?

She gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles ached. “I most certainly am
not
involved.”

“Not willingly.” Thad pushed off the windowsill, and for half a pulse she feared he would come to her.

He walked past, to the door, and her heart sighed in disappointment. Fickle thing.

A moment later she heard him opening one of his saddlebags, though she didn't turn to watch. Couldn't. What did it matter what he was pulling out?
Culpers
. The name still reverberated, though she had no notion why it would or what it mattered.

“This arrived on the same ship as the news from Belgium.” His voice drew nearer again, but then his steps halted. “Mother, there you are.”

Gwyneth finally convinced her head to move, though the rest of her frame remained rigid. Mrs. Lane entered the room with caution in her step, her gaze wary. Her eyes were still red rimmed, her lovely face swollen with grief.

Tears threatened Gwyneth's eyes yet again at the sight. It had been a solace to grieve with someone who mourned Papa as well. She had felt, sitting beside Mrs. Lane on the couch, as if she had a real friend again, someone who could be there when she so desperately needed
Mama.

Now she wished she could spare her this truth about her son.

“What is it?” Despite the evidence of her sorrow, Mrs. Lane's gaze was sharp as she glanced around the room. “Tell me there is no more bad news.”

Thad merely cleared his throat and motioned for her to move toward his father. “I was about to explain to Gwyneth and Father how, whether she wished to be or not, Gwyneth is irrevocably involved in our Culper business.”

Our?
Gwyneth sagged against the table. They could not possibly
all
…

“Thaddeus.” Mrs. Lane's outrage rang differently than Gwyneth had expected. “This had better be an exceptional explanation.”

Thad lifted the folded paper in his hand. “Like this, perhaps? ‘When we captured the ship, one rather smirking sailor told us there would be no stopping the British now that their forces were free from Europe, especially after the murder. I asked him what in thunder he meant by that, and he made mention of a beloved general, slain in his home. Said he heard from the lips of the general's brother-in-law, who holds a government office, that an American spy was most likely responsible, and that he planned to personally see to retribution.' ” He lowered the page and captured Gwyneth's gaze, though she tried to look away before he could. “Sound familiar, sweet?”

She shook her head, sending a loose curl to irritate her cheek. “I have no uncle in the government. Two are in the House of Lords, but that is not exactly an
office
.” Although a beloved general, slain in his home…who else could it possibly mean? There was no other general so beloved in England.

“I believe you do, in fact.” He folded the page, his every move slow and quiet, as if she were a rabbit he feared startling away. “There is a Gates in the Home Office. I was not sure at first it was
your
Gates, but I have been convinced.”

“The Home…” Her head would not shake quickly enough to show how completely she rejected that idea. “Nay. My uncle is a…a writer.” Was he not?
I deal in words
, he had said. What if…? What if those words were not written in some Gothic novel, but in…
this
?

Images flashed, lightning-fast portraits, frozen in time. And then Papa's accusation came back to her.
The Home Office has decent men in it yet. A few at least, though you are not one of them.

How, why had she forgotten that so long? Her knees wanted to give way, but she held fast to the table. If she let herself fall, Thad would be at her side in a heartbeat. He would lift her and carry her to the couch. Touch her face and smooth her hair.

And she would enjoy it far too much. “No. Papa would have nothing to do with espionage.”

A snort of a laugh spilled from Thad's lips. “He was a general, Gwyneth. Generals rely on intelligence to plot their campaigns.”

“Scouting is different.”

His lips twitched again into an infuriating grin. “Good to know you think so, as that is a more accurate description of what we do. Though I daresay he used intelligence from other sources too.”

“You do not understand. He lost his dearest friend to espionage. He hated the entire practice.” Though she felt the elder Lanes shift, she kept her gaze on Thad. “I heard him many times speak of the devastation of losing Major André.”

“It was quite a blow to us all.” Mrs. Lane's voice slipped into the conversation quietly, gently. “André was a fine man, yet had he succeeded in his task, Benedict Arnold would have handed West Point over to the British. There would be no United States of America today.”

Something in her tone drew Gwyneth's gaze to her face, where she read regret mixed with determination.

Mrs. Lane shook her head. “It can be a sad business indeed, and a dangerous one. Yet sometimes, my dear, it must be done for the greater good, for the greater calling. Much as he detested it, your father knew that. It is, in fact, how he met your mother.”

“No.” She couldn't explain why the denial came so fast and hot, except that it grated against all she knew.

Thad eased a step closer. Had she any room to do so, she would have backed up a step in response. He held out a hand, imploring. “Think about it, sweet. What was a British officer doing in France on the eve of revolution?”

Why must they do this? Why must they make her question what had always just
been
? “France and England were not at war yet. He was…on holiday.” Yet the claim sounded so weak now, where it had always been undeserving of examination before.