Ring of Secrets (50 page)

Robert Townsend was an enigma. A Quaker who was greatly influenced by
Common Sense
by fellow-Friend Thomas Payne, he was plagued all his life by black moods that seem counterintuitive for a spy. His anxious spells are well documented, but it's also recorded that he attempted to offset them by being well read and able to converse on many topics. Still, he had few friends and died a bachelor in 1838, embittered by the hand life had dealt him, though he was arguably the most trusted source of information Washington had during the war.

Benedict Arnold was in many ways the undoing of the Culper Ring, his arrival in New York having scared its agents underground. There is conjecture that the Culpers took a more active role in uncovering his plot to hand West Point to the British, but the facts don't bear that out. What is well recorded, however, is that the much-beloved John André was mourned by both Patriots and Loyalists, and his death remained a mark against Arnold, who never gained the respect of either side again.

Another historical tidbit I'd like to note is my use of sign language. Though American Sign Language was still many years from being developed, the foundation had been laid by this time. There existed no universal sign language in our country, but that which eventually came about most likely bears a strong resemblance to the systems in place in the late eighteenth century. And so when I describe a sign, it is a simplified version of the modern word. I had a great deal of fun giving Winter a history that included a language no one but her family could understand—the foundation for espionage, mwa ha ha ha.

If you were moved by some of the prayers Winter prayed, especially those her father had supposedly transcribed, then you may be interested in a beautiful little book of compiled Puritan prayers called
Valley of Vision,
compiled by Arthur Bennet from the prayers of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century theologians. The sections of prayers Winter remembers or reads from her father are taken directly from this book.

I had a blast getting to know the Culpers as I worked on
Ring
of Secrets
and hope you enjoyed reading about them. They have the distinction of being the only spy ring made solely of friends, of civilians. What became of them after the end of the Revolutionary War can only be wondered about. But in a recent interview, the CIA said, “The Culper Ring may or may not still exist.” You see, a group so very secretive, so very unknown could pass along its mantle for years, decades, and centuries without ever being discovered.

Which, of course, breeds all sorts of stories in the mind of a
novelist. Oh, the possibilities…

About the Author

Roseanna M. White grew up in the mountains of West Virginia, the beauty of which inspired her to begin writing as soon as she learned to pair subjects with verbs. She spent her middle and high school days penning novels in class, and her love of books took her to a school renowned for them. After graduating from St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland, she and her husband moved back to the Maryland side of the same mountains they equate with home. Roseanna is the author of two biblical novels as well as several American historical romances. She is the senior reviewer at the Christian Review of Books, which she and her husband founded, the senior editor at WhiteFire Publishing, and a member of ACFW, His Writers, and Colonial Christian Fiction Writers.

Roseanna loves little more than talking to her readers! You can reach her at: [email protected]

Be sure to visit her blog at

www.RoseannaMWhite.blogspot.com
and her website at
www.RoseannaMWhite.com
, where you can sign up for her
newsletter to receive news about upcoming books.

Don
'
t miss the Culper Ring
'
s continuing adventures in Book 2 of The Culper Ring Series by Roseanna M. White

Whispers from the Shadows

One

London, England

April 1814

The servants hefting her trunks onto the carriage might as well have been loading her coffin. Gwyneth Fairchild pulled her pelisse close and looked out over Hanover Square with a sick feeling in her stomach. Surely, any moment now, she would awaken from this nightmare, walk down to the breakfast room, and find Papa smiling at her. He would speak and say something that actually made sense.

Not like yesterday, when he'd thrown her world into tumult.

She shuttered her eyes against the image of all that was familiar, all that she might never see again. What if the
Scribe
went down? What if it were attacked by a French ship that had not yet heard of Napoleon's surrender or those dreadful American pirates? What if, assuming she made it to Annapolis, they killed her the moment she stepped foot ashore?

Annapolis.
Had Papa not looked so very sorrowful, so very determined when he said that word yesterday, she would have thought he had gone mad.

His hand settled on her shoulder now, warm and large. Those hands had steadied her all her life. Capable, that was what General Isaac
Fairchild had always been. Capable and steady and so very noble. All that was good, all that was worthy of love and respect. So surely, surely she could trust him now when all logic and reason said she couldn't.

“I know it makes little sense to you, dear heart.” He touched her chin, a silent bid for her to look at him. She obeyed and found his eyes gleaming with moisture he would never shed. Not, at least, when anyone could see him, though she had heard his heartrending sobs when Mama died last fall. “I wish there were another way, but there is not.”

Another way
for what?
He wouldn't say. Gwyneth drew in a tremulous breath and tried to stand tall and proud. Like Mama had taught her, like Papa himself had instilled. To convey with her posture that she was the great-granddaughter of a duke, the granddaughter of two earls, the daughter of a general.

A daughter sent into exile for no apparent reason. Separated from all those she loved, the only people left in the world who mattered. “Papa—”

“I know.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I do. But I cannot entrust you to anyone but the Lanes.”

A light mist descended, heavier than fog but too tame to be called rain. At this moment, a thunderstorm would have better matched the confusion roiling within. “Please, Papa, tell me what is happening. Why must you entrust me to anyone? And if you must, why not Aunt Poole or Aunt Gates?”

His jaw moved for a moment, but no words came. Nay, he simply looked past her, his eyes searching for something she suspected was well beyond the corporeal. Then he sighed. “The Lanes will welcome you and take care of you. I will follow quickly as I can. A month at the outside. No more.”

That was all the information he had volunteered yesterday too. He would give no explanation as to why he was sending her to a nation with whom they were at war, across the Atlantic to a family she had met only once when she was too young to remember them.

“Papa, your words hint at danger, but what could possibly threaten me here more than the sea and the pirates upon it? The French, the Americans?”

“The French ought to pose no threat now that we've subdued them. But…” He reached inside his coat of blazing red and pulled out an envelope. “In all likelihood you will not need this, and your ship will
reach harbor safely. But if by chance you do encounter American privateers, offer them this.”

She frowned as she took the envelope. It was too thin to contain anything but a single sheet of paper. Surely not some sort of bribe. “What—”

“Trust me. 'Twill suffice.” Chatter from the house grew louder, and Papa looked away again, to the approaching housekeeper and gardener. “There are the Wesleys. Time for you to go.”

A million arguments sprang to her tongue. She didn't want to leave. Not her home, not him, not all she held dear. Not her first Season, the one that had been put off because of Mama's illness last year. Not her friends and all their plans.

And Sir Arthur. What about Sir Arthur? She hadn't spoken to him to tell him she was leaving; she hadn't even dared send a note. Much as she hoped he would propose someday, he had made no declaration, and she could not take such liberties as to contact him. “Papa…Sir Arthur…”

“It isn't to be, Gwyn. Not now, at any rate. Perhaps when this has passed, when it is safe for you to return.”

Tears burned, begging to be set loose, but she clenched her teeth against them. How had it come to this? Promise had finally shone its light again. Shopping with Aunt Gates and preparing for her debut had made it feel as though Mama were with her still. Making the rounds with her friends had finally distracted her from the loss. Getting vouchers for Almack's, and then Sir Arthur's court—she had already been called the darling of society. Had been termed a Great Beauty. Had, at long last, looked forward to the future.

“Please don't cry, dear heart.” Papa thumbed away a wily tear that escaped her blockade and kissed her forehead again. “Up with you now. You must be at the docks soon.”

Instead, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. “I don't want to leave you, Papa. I can't. Don't make me go. Or if I must, then come with me.”

He held her close. “Would that I could. Would that I didn't have to bid goodbye, yet again, to the one who matters most.” He gave her another squeeze, another kiss, and then he set her back. His eyes were rimmed with red. “I love you, Gwyneth. Go with God.”

And with that he let go of her and pivoted on his heel, all but
charging back into the house. She almost wished she could be angry with him, that she could resent him. But how could she, seeing how he struggled with this decision? Whatever his reasons were, they must be valid.

And whatever his reasons were, they must be dire. A shiver coursed up her spine and made the mist seem colder. Isaac Fairchild was a respected general, a man loved by all. A man of considerable sway in London and beyond. If there were something frightening enough that he must send her away, was planning on leaving himself—

For America, no less. Why? Would he be going there to take command of troops? Possibly. Though why would he be secretive about it? But then, there was much about Papa's work he could not discuss. Secrets, always secrets.

“All's secure, Miss Fairchild,” the driver called down from the bench.

She slipped the envelope into her reticule and took a step toward the Wesleys, who seemed to be double-checking their supplies. They, at least, would provide familiar faces for the journey. They would be an anchor on foreign seas.

Quick hoofbeats drew her attention to the drive. “Miss Fairchild!”

Her eyes went wide when she saw the dashing figure astride the horse. Sir Arthur reined to a halt beside the carriage and leaped down, fervor ablaze in his eyes.

“Miss Fairchild.” He gripped her hands as he searched her face with his gaze. He had the loveliest brown eyes, so warm and beckoning, the perfect fit to his straight nose and perfectly sculpted mouth. “Is it true, then? Broffield just told me that Miss Wills said you informed her yesterday you were leaving Town.”

“I…” He was holding her hands. Sir Arthur Hart, Knight of the Order of Saint Patrick, presumed heir to a viscountcy, the most sought-after bachelor in all of London, grasped her fingers as if he never intended to let go. He looked at her as if her leaving might indeed cause his demise. The mass of confusion inside didn't unravel so much as twist. “Yes, it is true. My father…”