Ring of Secrets (32 page)

Not that such reasoning, of which she would remain unaware anyway, could soften the blow of losing one's longtime friend.

He settled for steering her out into the hallway, away from the dour-faced reminder. “Have I mentioned how lovely you look tonight, my darling?”

Winter seemed to shake off the anxiety and grinned up at him. “You have, and I thanked you for it. Have I mentioned how nice
you
look? I like this suit of clothes nearly as well as the one you wore yesterday.”

He chuckled and smoothed a hand over the silk waistcoat of his best clothing. Yesterday he had arrived at Hampton Hall in homespun again. “Perhaps I should have worn that tonight then.”

Her laugh sounded free and bright. “I doubt your mother would have permitted you into her carriage.”

“You do have a point.” He pulled her closer as they drew even with a bureau. “Careful, there. Someone left a drawer open.”

Winter turned to see what he had nearly run her into and made a tsking sound. “Here, let me close it before someone bruises a rib.” She pulled her hand away and grasped both rings, glancing in as she shut it.

Ben stifled a grin. Always curious, his Winter, even when only an empty drawer greeted her gaze.

When she turned back to him, that tension possessed her shoulders as it had the first night they met, and the same emptiness filled her gaze. Ben frowned. “Are you well?”

A smile broke free for only a moment. “Sorry. 'Tis only Robbie. He will not speak to me even when I come into the store, but rather always sends Oakham to help me.”

He hummed his understanding and drew her close again. “I wish I could make it better for you, but I'm afraid all I can do is fetch you that lemonade. And offer to risk a dance afterward, if it will cheer you up.”

There. She relaxed again and grinned. “My toes still ache from the last dance we shared, my dear Mr. Lane. I think I would prefer it if you regale me with your thoughts on whatever book you have been lately reading.”

Was it any wonder he loved this woman?

Winter paced before her open window, unable to be soothed by the fragrant air floating in or the spiced tea that sat, barely touched, on her table. She had hardly slept the past two nights—couldn't. Every time she drifted off, fierce need awoke her and sent her to her knees in prayer.

The world was unraveling. Major André had not yet returned, which meant that his meeting had taken place as planned, as best as she could tell. Somewhere upriver a Patriot general walked about amid his army, ready to deliver their lives to the enemy.

And she could do nothing. Worse, what she had attempted had gone terribly wrong.

Robbie had not left the ballroom after she slipped her note into the bureau Wednesday night—but the drawer had been empty when she walked past it with Bennet.

Reason told her she need not fear. She had written her message in
sympathetic stain, so it could not possibly be discovered by anyone outside the Culper Ring.

Still. Why would anyone have taken what looked like a laundry list unless they saw her slip it in and were curious as to why she would? But she had taken care. She had been so sure no one noticed her covert movements as she opened the drawer upon arriving and slipped the paper in half an hour later.

But if someone had…if someone were watching her…

Nausea gnawed at her stomach, and she halted in front of the open window to draw in a breath of calming, cool air.

That was hardly the most pressing concern. More urgent was the fact that Robbie had refused to hear Freeman out when she had sent him yesterday, other than to verify he had not retrieved the note—and to add that he had not intended to at any rate.

She rubbed at her eyes. They ached, felt gritty and heavy, and yet she knew there was no use in trying to nap. Not until this weight lifted from her spirit.

If only she could get a message out without Robbie's help. She knew the route they took, knew the names and code names of all the agents of the ring along the way, but unless Roe were scheduled to arrive, or Woodhull, she had no way to start a message on its journey. Besides which, it took a week for anything to get from the city to General Washington.

'Twould surely be too late by then. And so this knowledge meant nothing. Could accomplish nothing. A general would defect, and for all she knew, he could hand her father over to the British when he did so. She was powerless to stop it.

“No.” Her hands fell away and then balled up in her skirt. No, she was not helpless, not powerless. She was not just a secondary agent of the Culper Ring. She was a child of the Most High. Even if she could not get a warning to the Patriots, she could rouse help from the heavenly warriors.

With new determination, she strode to her bedside and took to her knees yet again.

“Father God,” she whispered into her coverlet, “I come before You in praise, to thank You for all You have done for me and my loved
ones. I thank You for preserving my father's life in these past years of war, for providing for my needs, for leading me to a man with whom I can envision a future. I praise You for seeing all, for knowing all, and for taking the care to direct our paths. Though I cannot see around the next bend in the road, I know You can. Though I may feel only the enemy nipping at my heels, I trust that You are by my side, for You have promised it.”

She paused, drew in a long breath scented with the lavender tucked into her sheets. And listened to the chords of anxiety that sounded within her spirit. “Father, I do not know what Your plan is for this country, for the brave men fighting on both sides of this war. I know only that You have called me to help where I can. And today, this is where You have put me. Lifting up my cause to You and relinquishing it. My Lord, I cannot pray that You take the decision out of this general's hands, though I wish I could. He must have his will, I know. But I ask that You minister to him where You can, and urge him not to commit this crime against those who trust him.”

Her voice shook to a halt, and a cloud must have passed before the sun, for the warmth across her back vanished, as did the soft, glowing light. “But, Father, though You cannot take his decision from him, and though he may follow through on his plan, You can speak to the hearts of Your followers and give them Your wisdom and discernment so that they might recognize the enemies among them. Please, Lord, open the hearts and minds of Your children. Urge them to pray. Protect them from this treachery. Deliver them from the traps likely set for them.”

The cool breeze kissed her neck, and a measure of calm finally trickled over her spirit. “Deliver them, Lord. Deliver us.” She let her words lapse away, content to breathe in the whisper of the Lord and pour her heart out to Him without such constrictions.

A gentle hand shook her back to awareness, and the face of her maid greeted her gaze when she opened her eyes. “Yes?”

The girl frowned. “Mr. Lane is waiting for you in the garden, Miss Winnie.”

“Already?”

“'Tis afternoon, miss. You did not come down for the meal. Should I tell him you are unwell?”

She had spent that much time in prayer? Perhaps she had dozed off for a bit too. Winter straightened herself. “No, of course not. I will be right down.”

“But…” Pressing her lips together, the maid seemed to debate a moment before saying, “You
look
unwell.”

“Do I?” It was no wonder, given the lack of sleep. Winter stood and went to her mirror, nearly laughing at the picture that it revealed. Her hair was still in its nighttime braid, frizzing every which way. Circles ringed her eyes, and her skin looked pale otherwise. At least she had dressed well enough to receive company, if simply.

It took only a few minutes for the maid to school her waving locks into some semblance of order. There was little to be done about her face, but a few splashes of cool water at least made her feel more awake. And Bennet would not mind her lack of fashion.

She hurried down the stairs and out to the garden, where he waited on the bench as usual.

He stood and frowned much like her maid had. “Are you feeling ill, Winter?”

She smiled and put her hands into his outstretched ones. In truth, it was a blessing to have someone who cared about such things. Grandmother always acted as though the slightest discomfort on Winter's part were a huge inconvenience. And Grandfather probably took joy in her every pain. “No, I am well enough. I just have not slept well the past few nights.”

“Why is that?” He urged her onto the bench beside him and kept their joined hands between them.

Winter drew in a deep breath and savored it before letting it out. Though she couldn't tell him all of what bothered her, she could share its source. “My spirit has been troubled. Every time I fall asleep, I awake again with the need to pray.”

The need pressed again at the new frown to possess his brows. “Have you had so much on your mind?”

In hopes of restoring his smile, she grinned. “'Tisn't my mind, Bennet. 'Tis my spirit. You are a Yale man. Surely you know the difference. You attended chapel daily.”

His grunt did little to ease that new burden upon said spirit. “Of course I did. The penalties were high if one missed chapel. And
certainly I understand the philosophical distinction. But I cannot say as my spirit has ever kept me up at night, though an overactive mind certainly has from time to time.”

'Twasn't just the tone of his words that made exhaustion sweep through her. He let go her fingers. Under the guise of repositioning his tricorn, but she suspected the action had deeper roots. She tried to keep her expression free of any negative feeling. “Yes, I have experienced that aplenty too, but this is different. This is the voice of the Holy Spirit.”

He sent her the same gaze he used to do upon calling her on her feigned stupidity. “Come, Winter. The Lord has better things to do than interrupt your sleep.”

Realization settled upon her. “You are a deist.”

Bennet rolled his eyes. “It is an apt enough description, I suppose, though I don't see why we must label my theology.”

“Because you have a theology instead of a faith.” She bit her lip to keep from spouting a too-harsh opinion that he obviously was not interested in hearing.

“Winter.” Each movement looked considered as he pasted patience onto his face and took her hand again. “You were raised Congregationalist. You said your father's family was Puritan. You have, therefore, different ideas about God and His involvement with mankind than I, whose family belongs to the Church of England solely because it is fashionable. And I do not mind your opinions. Faith, as you call it, is a becoming thing in a female.”

“In a
female
?” She stood, knowing well her outrage shone. “Would that I could chalk this opinion of yours up to your usual misunderstanding of the
female
mind, but you ought to know better. Tell me, did
females
teach your classes at Yale that dealt with these matters? Did
females
give the sermons in chapel? What exactly is so very feminine about faith? It seems to me we talk of the patriarchs and
their
faith more than the few women mentioned in the Scriptures.”

He took to his feet too and moved his hands in a quieting motion. “Calm yourself, please. I did not mean to imply…I was only going to say that I respect your opinions, even admire them in you, and so I hope you can respect mine as well.”

A throb took up cadence behind her temples. She was far too tired
to adequately debate anything with him right now. She would yell and then cry, which would only convince him of how unreasonable her opinions were. And really, it had nothing to do with a lack of respect. More a sorrow. The same she felt whenever she realized one of her friends hardly knew her father, who lived under the same roof. While she counted hers as one of the dearest beings on the planet, yet she could not even send him a letter in her own hand.

She drew in a deep breath and steadied herself. “You know I respect you. I am sorry for speaking in such a way, but it saddens me to think you do not understand this thing that is so important to me. Have you never heard the voice of the Lord, Bennet?”

He opened his mouth and then halted. His brow creased, first in thought, but then it deepened into a scowl. She watched as, muscle by muscle, his face hardened into a determined wall. “No.”