Chapter Seven
C hapter S even
N ighttime wanderings at Coutanche House were not for the faint of heart.
Despite the many dangers she had faced as an operative, despite the training she had received, despite her once reckless nature, Abby found herself wincing with every creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Surely, there had never been a floor more prone to telling tales than this one, and her heavy-laden leg did not exactly allow for a creeping and stealthy gait.
It was more of a shuffle and clunk sort of gait.
Dainty and graceful, it was not.
Quiet, it was not.
Spy-like, it was not.
But it was the only gait she had, and surely she could not be as thunderous of foot as her ears told her she was at this moment. After all, no one came tearing out of rooms in fear of an imminent trampling when she walked during the day.
It was not only her own steps that she was painfully aware of, however. It was the knowledge that if she were in any way attacked, she would not be able to properly defend herself. If she heard sounds that indicated she ought to retreat, she would not be able to do so swiftly. If something were amiss in one of the darkened rooms she was passing, she was in no position to intervene.
She was not entirely powerless, of course. She was strong in body aside from her leg and had spent hours training at the Convent to ensure that her other limbs and her core were as taut and powerful as possible. Unfortunately, the altered gait of her right leg affected how her hips moved, which impacted how her back moved, which shifted how her shoulders moved, and…
Nothing in her body worked as it once did. She would never again be a fighter, or even a danger.
Just a cripple with the mind of a spy.
So she could only silently pray, while she shuffled down these hopefully empty halls and rooms, that Mr. Bichard was not hiding people in Coutanche House and that he himself was not a man of violence. Or nighttime wanderings.
Abby had good reason to suspect he did not do any such thing; she had spent the last three nights taking small ventures out of her room at various hours, and she had never met a single soul. She hadn’t been as fearful in doing that as she was now, but there had been no danger on those walks. She had every possible excuse prepared, and all were perfectly reasonable.
Tonight, she had the same ones prepared, but she would be searching Mr. Bichard’s study. Just a cursory examination at first, but after discussing some very basic details of the routines of the family with Mrs. Corbin, she had a few suspicions.
Mr. Bichard traveled rarely, but every other month or so, he did go away for a day or two to see to some investments. Mrs. Corbin was not certain as to his exact location for those ventures, but it was all fairly routine, and he was quick to return. Mr. Bichard was prone to Sunday walks among the caves, particularly in the early morning, which seemed odd, as the tide would surely still be in. And he received an inordinate amount of post and seemed to send out just as much.
Given there was not much to draw him away from his own home, Abby found the letters to be more suspicious than the Sunday morning walks. She had been under his employ for almost two weeks, and there had never been a single caller.
So how could he have such an extensive collection of letters coming in and out of this place? Who was writing to him? And to whom was he sending so many letters? And why, for heaven’s sake, was this quiet, reclusive Frenchman involved in so much correspondence?
Some questions she might never fully answer, but she would settle for finding proof of his membership in the Faction, first of all. Then, perhaps, some examination of the delivery of these letters and of what was sent out to note the patterns of such. And once she had that, she might be able to examine the contents. Or she could examine the contents first, if she wished. The breaking of seals and resealing them was really quite a simple matter, and one of the first areas in which she had been trained. But if there truly were as many letters as she had been led to believe, it would be a far better use of her time to open the letters that would actually prove useful rather than disrupt every single article of post Mr. Bichard had.
There would never be enough time for her to intercept every letter, read it, look for encryption, and reseal and send without someone noticing the delay. She had to be selective in her work in order to be in any way efficient.
And then there were those caves on his property… She could only hope that she’d kept her composure in front of him when she’d realized there were caves. The Faction regularly utilized caves on the shoreline in Kent, so why wouldn’t they do the same here on Guernsey, on a known operative’s property? But exploring those would take time and light, neither of which she had this evening.
Abby exhaled slowly, keeping her breath controlled and steady, ignoring the way her heart thundered and her throat tightened. She was moving about the house without a candle, which only made the space more imposing, but it also allowed her eyes to fully adjust to the darkness and see more detail without risking anyone else detecting her. And if the moon was high enough outside, she might be able to read anything she found by moonlight.
The study was soon before her, and she paused, closing her eyes and doing her best to force her mind and body to find the calm and intensity she had once known in moments like these. She might not be as physically capable anymore, but her mind was there, as was all of her training.
She could do this.
The door opened near silently, much to her relief, and the curtains were already drawn back, moonlight streaming in with utter brilliance. Her task would be much easier with that aid, and without having to disrupt the state of the room as it had been left. She took a moment to survey it as a whole.
Her tour of the house with the girls had been cursory at best, and there was never any reason for her to enter the master’s study during the normal course of her day. The walls were lined with shelves, filled to the brim with books and trunks, as well as various items that must have been collected from travels, family heirlooms, or objects of fascination. The windows were massive, extending from floor to ceiling in a bay formation. The large, dark desk and chair faced away from the windows, but it was easy to imagine the figure of Mr. Bichard standing there, his back to the desk, staring out towards the sea.
Did these windows face France? Did he long for his life there as he had known it? What had brought him to Guernsey, and why did he remain?
That last question was a bit of a simple one, all things considered. His attachment to his wife was genuine, according to everyone Abby had spoken with, and she could easily imagine that he would not wish to be away from her final resting place.
Still, windows facing out towards the sea…
That was exactly how the windows of the Barcliffe library in Kent had been situated, which allowed the family to signal incoming ships transporting goods and operatives for the Faction. Was it possible that Bichard was doing the same here at Coutanche? There were no obvious signs of secret lower levels to the house where operatives could stay or goods could be stored…
But there were the caves.
Abby had yet to go to the spring to try and exercise in the warm water, but now she was even more interested in doing so. There were at least two other caves in close proximity to the one with the spring, and she could investigate those before getting into the water. But for now, she needed to see what this room could offer her.
She looked up at the ceiling, remembering the map that had been hidden in the artwork Sparrow had found at Barcliffe. But there was no artwork at all, only plaster detailing, and it was exactly the same across the entire room.
So much for similarities.
Abby began moving carefully along the outskirts of the room, her eyes tracing along each shelf as though she were looking for a book to read. She listened to the sound of the floorboards beneath her feet, examined the lines of the bookcases, eyed the differences in book heights and content—any detail that seemed out of place.
The shelves were clean, no hint of dust, which was unfortunate. She would know what was used most if the maids were not so diligent in their efforts, but she could manage. What was used most would be within sight and simple reaching distance, so if there was nothing unusual in the shelves or shocking in the books and items themselves…
Abby moved to the desk and sat in the chair, wincing as the leather groaned slightly with her pressure. But then it was silent, and she was able to look at the items that were the most convenient from this vantage point.
To her left, there was a shelf four down from the top, three from the bottom, that bore only books, all the same height, width, color. Even the binding seemed to be identical in this light.
To her right, the same shelf bore exactly the same sort of books, apart from one. One slightly taller, slightly thinner, slightly paler book. The only difference, suddenly glimmering to her eyes as though bathed in sunlight.
“There you are,” Abby whispered with a quick grin. She pushed out of the chair and reached for the book, pulling it smoothly from the shelf and hefting it a little. Typical weight, so not a hollowed book…
She turned the book to open it, flipping through the pages quickly. A stray piece of paper within them caught her eye and she stopped, turning back to the spot.
It was folded in half, whatever it was, and she turned to the desk to lay the book flat. Taking another book from the desktop, she set it on the pages to hold them open. She would need to replace the paper exactly as she had found it, just in case the place was one of significance.
She slid the folded paper out of the pages and opened it, grinning at what was before her.
The music for “Suspendez à ces murs.” The song used by the Faction to code their letters.
This was proof of Bichard’s involvement.
She replaced the music in the book’s pages, removing the other book from its surface, and began scanning through the other pages for hints. She came across a folded note in scribbled French with a date and time, but no other information of significance. The pages of the book spoke of the vanity of nobility and something about a detestable aristocracy, but certainly nothing about events, historical or otherwise. Nothing to shed further information on the date or time, even in vague tones.
Taking note of the page numbers, Abby replaced the folded scrap and continued to look through the pages. She found four other random bits of paper, each with small handwriting that only wrote out a word or two. A date or a phrase, but nothing that related to anything else as far as she could tell. She made sure everything was back in its place and turned to the first page, where the title was practically emblazoned.
An Essay on Privileges, and Particularly on Hereditary Nobility. Written by the Abbe Sieyès.
Abby’s eyes widened as she stared at it.
Sieyès? The man who the Faction had been inspired by and held in such great esteem.
That was no coincidence.
Swallowing, she moved back to the shelf and replaced the book where she had found it, aligning everything perfectly so her involvement wouldn’t be noticed.
She returned to the desk and sat once more, pulling at various drawers. A small ledger sat in one, and she flipped through it quickly. Everything was numbers, apart from the occasional circle and check mark in additional columns. No words at all, no descriptions. One column held numbers that were three digits long, another was two, and the third only one digit, and then came the two columns that were either blank, held a circle in the first, or a check in the second. There were only very rare occasions where there was a circle and a check.
None of that made any sense without context, which meant it was of no use at this moment.
But it would mean something eventually. No one kept ledgers like this without something to hide. Any other ledger would hold information, but this…
What was Bichard involved in?
Abby set the ledger back in its drawer and absently looked for something else, but came up empty-handed.
She walked about the room, looking every surface up and down. There were no hollow-sounding creaks from the floor, no other blatant items that did not belong, and no furniture that seemed out of place. There was the desk, the rug, the chair, the shelves, and a trunk. The trunk bore a sturdy lock, and she had not brought anything with which to pick it tonight.
So what happened in this room?
She began to pace, less for examination and more for thought. Whatever else he was to the Faction, Bichard was a devoted father, and he would never do something that would bring his daughters into harm’s way. So if there were any involvement in bringing operatives through this house, they would never see the girls or come into the main of the house, which left only the caves, tunnels, and possibly a lower level of the house she had yet to see.
What was the date and location she had seen on that scrap of paper? She was not in a position to examine an atlas or diary at this moment, so that would need to wait for morning and a trip to the library. But the song was here, so he was certainly receiving coded messages.
The post would need to be intercepted. She’d known that already, but how could she possibly narrow down what she ought to look at? And how was she supposed to manage even doing so? What use would a governess have of the master’s correspondence?
Abby rubbed at her brow, exhaling a short, irritated burst of air. It was going to be maddening to figure all of this out, and to try and do so before the Faction abducted another innocent girl and tried to marry her off to Bichard.
She shook her head, turning sharply on her heel. That did not—could not—make sense. Bichard rarely left Guernsey, and never associated with local Society, so why would he want to marry someone who could get him a position in London Society? Was there something to him that she just wasn’t seeing? Was he really so devoted a soldier of the Faction?
Was he thinking of leaving Abby here with the girls while he had a new version of life in London with a bride of convenience and connection?
She shuddered at the idea. She might be a decent governess and have true affection for the girls, but she was not a replacement parent. The Gilles Bichard she had met would not want her to be, but was he the true version of the man or the carefully calculating Faction operative who could display whatever he liked?
His affection for his girls seemed genuine, and there was no denying their attachment to him. Children were not so easily trained and schooled in the arts of deception.
Well, Abby amended with a small smile, not typical children. There were plenty of children working with the various operatives who were geniuses at deception when they needed to be.
She looked around the study once more, searching for anything else that specifically drew her attention. She would be coming back to be more thorough in some of the less obvious places now that she had found what could be the beginning of a direction, and if Bichard happened to be out of the house for a decent amount of time, she could manage an examination in daylight as well.
But her priority would need to be the post and the caves for now.
Nodding once, Abby slipped back out into the corridor and made her way as softly as possible. She wasn’t as concerned about being discovered now, but the way sounds were magnified in the middle of the night, especially when one wished for silence, was positively maddening. Especially knowing how silent she had once been.
It wouldn’t do her any good to continually dwell on it, but there it was.
She did not take in a full breath until she was back in her room, the door safely shut and no sound of any disturbance from the corridor beyond it.
Then she exhaled with the entire weight of the world and sank onto her bed, letting her head drop with relief.
Her first return into the field, and she hadn’t been caught, injured, or impeded.
That was a success, if nothing else was.
Craning her neck from side to side, she stood once more and began preparing for bed, going over the details of her investigation, trying to make order of the random, hoping some connection might appear while she was focused on it. Once in her nightgown, she moved to her nightstand and pulled out her diary and a drawing pencil, recording all of the information she had found in the Sieyès book. One of the skills she often taught new recruits was that of improving memorization and recall through various techniques, but it had been some time since she’d had to employ them herself.
It was good to use those mental muscles once more.
She tapped her pencil against the nightstand in an absent pattern as she went over everything a final time. For whatever reason, she had thought the investigation here would be straightforward, if not outright simple. In her limited physical condition, why shouldn’t it have been something rather rudimentary?
Foolish, idiotic notion. As if Milliner would have pulled her out of the school and back into the field for something a trainee could have done.
No, this was going to be complicated and messy and incredibly detailed, whatever it was.
“They don’t assign missions out of pity, Abigail,” she scolded herself harshly under her breath.
Had that been lurking in the back of her mind all this time? That they were giving her this assignment, making it sound important and that she was perfect for it, when it wasn’t but wanting to make her feel useful? How long had she worked with these individuals and organizations? She knew that wasn’t how anything worked, especially where lives and security of the kingdom was concerned. They took no chances, and only those properly equipped for a situation were sent.
If she was here, it was because she was capable of accomplishing the required task, and as a longstanding operative, asset, and instructor, she had developed skills that not all spies could boast.
She could do this in a very particular way, unique to her skills and personality.
“And you would tell your trainees and students the very same,” she insisted aloud.
That made her smile just a little. She would have said a great deal more to students and trainees, been very encouraging, and known exactly what to say to soothe their nerves and prepare their minds.
So why did that not work for herself?
Time to retrain herself, it seemed.
Pearl needed to meet Sage and learn from her. And then Pearl could adapt and grow in her own right.
The sooner, the better.