Two
Anna carried the last of the luncheon plates into the kitchen and set them beside the basin. Her hands wanted to tremble, but she wouldn’t let them. With her luck she’d drop a dish, and drawing attention was the one thing no one in the Pembroke household could afford.
Sometimes Anna thought that if Mrs. Pembroke were given a rebel uniform, she might win the war for them.
The woman was overbearing at times. Oh, very well, a lot of the time.
But she did it in a sweet way. Her manipulations were works of masterful precision, and before anyone knew what had happened, they were carrying out her outrageous plans with the same precision.
Mrs. Fenwick glanced at her over a mound of peelings. “You look pale, dearie.”
“I’m well enough,” Anna said. “Just tired. Mrs. Pembroke caught me in the hall.”
“That makes you more than tired, dear.” Mrs. Fenwick gave a soft snort and reached for another potato. “A body could sleep a week in this house and still wake up tired. Especially after a conversation with her.”
Mercy, who stood at the worktable rolling pastry, gave a quick look toward the servants’ hall. “Are they still in the dining room? More importantly, is Mrs. Pembroke still lurking in the hall?”
“No.” Anna reached for a drying cloth. “They’ve gone into the parlor. I have no idea where Mrs. Pembroke went.”
Mrs. Fenwick’s hand stilled. “All of them?”
Anna nodded. “Captain Whitby and two officers.”
Mercy lowered her voice. “Do you think they’ll be wanting tea?”
“They always want tea,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “If the king’s army ever truly ran out of tea, the war would end by supper.”
Mercy pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Anna almost smiled, but her humor faded. The officers spoke of Nathaniel Reed as though he were a man to be trusted. Reliable. Dependable. Whitby’s words still circled in her mind, one after another. He was going to be trouble, she knew it.
Mrs. Fenwick’s gaze narrowed. “Anna.”
She sighed. “Yes?”
“Dry the plates, dear. Don’t polish the pattern off them.”
Anna gasped as she realized she’d been rubbing the same dish for at least a minute. “Sorry.”
Mrs. Fenwick studied her a moment, then looked toward the hall. “Best take in the tea before anyone rings for it. If we anticipate them, they can’t complain.”
“They’ll complain anyway,” Mercy muttered with an eye roll.
“Yes, but they’ll have to do it with a cup in hand,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “That’s different.”
Anna set the plate aside and reached for the tray.
Tea, cups, saucers, sugar, a small pitcher of cream, and a plate of seed cakes were quickly arranged.
Mrs. Fenwick supervised every inch of it as though preparing for a general inspection.
Perhaps she was. In the Pembroke house, serving tea to British officers felt no less dangerous.
Keeping Mrs. Pembroke out of everyone’s business was what brought the real danger.
One of these days, Anna wouldn’t be surprised if Captain Whitby had the meddlesome woman arrested.
“Careful now,” Mrs. Fenwick said. “Go in, set everything down, and come straight back. No lingering.”
Anna lifted the tray. “I won’t.”
Mrs. Fenwick gave her a look that said she knew perfectly well Anna might, then turned back to the potatoes.
Anna left the kitchen and made for the hall that led toward the front of the house. The parlor door stood partly open, and the sound of men’s voices carried through it. Captain Whitby’s voice was easiest to recognize. He always spoke as though every room belonged to him, whether it did or not.
“...not until the ship arrives,” he was saying.
Anna slowed. A ship? Her hands tightened on the tray. She forced them to relax before the cups rattled.
“That was not the original arrangement,” another man replied. She thought it was Lieutenant Rothborne, though she couldn’t be certain from the hallway.
“Arrangements change,” Whitby said. “Particularly during war.”
“And the wagons?” someone else asked.
“Delayed, but not lost,” Captain Whitby said.
Anna’s pulse quickened. Wagons. A ship. Delayed, but not lost? It was too little to understand and too much to ignore.
She reached the door and entered with her eyes lowered. “Tea, Captain Whitby.”
“Ah, good girl. Set it there.” He motioned to a small table.
Anna crossed to the table near the hearth and placed the tray where he’d indicated.
The parlor was bright with afternoon sun, though the room itself felt heavy.
Whitby stood by the mantel, one arm braced above it, while Lieutenant Rothborne occupied a chair near the window.
The third officer, a tall man with a narrow face and silver buttons on his uniform, stood with his back to Anna, examining one of Mrs. Pembroke’s porcelain shepherdesses on the side table.
Mrs. Pembroke wouldn’t approve of that. Woe to the man if she caught him with it.
Anna arranged the cups and poured. The ordinary task steadied her. Pour the tea, lift a cup, add the saucer. Ask about sugar and cream and, for heaven’s sake, remember to breathe.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” she asked. Drat. She was holding her breath.
Whitby took the first cup from her. “No. That will do.”
Anna curtsied and turned to go, letting her breath out.
“The cargo is what concerns me,” the third officer said.
Anna’s steps almost faltered. What cargo? She continued toward the door, slower than she should have, but not so much anyone would notice. At least she prayed no one did.
Whitby made a sound of impatience. “The cargo will be accounted for when it arrives.”
“And if it has already been noticed?” Rothborne asked.
“By whom?” Captain Whitby scoffed.
There was a pause. Anna reached the doorway.
“People notice things, Captain,” the third officer said. “Particularly in towns like this.”
Anna kept walking, though every part of her wanted to remain where she was.
“People also value their necks,” Whitby replied. “Today’s example should remind them of that.”
The words followed Anna into the hallway and settled cold in her chest.
She didn’t stop until she reached the servants’ passage. Only then did she press one hand to the wall and draw in some air. She had to stop holding her breath like this. The ship had cargo. Important cargo from the sound of it. And Captain Whitby wasn’t concerned someone might notice?
Anna hurried back toward the kitchen. She would have to inform Elias, the footman. He in turn would create the code she would use to relay the message.
She’d almost reached the staircase leading down into the kitchen when Mrs. Pembroke stopped her.
“There you are, Anna. You already served tea, didn’t you?
” She waved her hand with a flourish. “Dash it all, I left my embroidery in the parlor, and that blasted Captain Whitby is entertaining his guests in there!”
Anna gasped.
“Yes, I said blasted. Captain Whitby has occupied my parlor more than I’d like, Anna.
Under the circumstances, I believe the word blasted is entirely justified.
Can I help it if my house has been taken up by that Captain Whitby?
Did you know that one of his men was raiding my garden the other day? The nerve of that man!”
“Yes, Mrs. Pembroke, a horrible thing,” Anna agreed. It was the quickest way to escape the woman.
“And he plucked my petunias! The lout!” Mrs. Pembroke went on. “And, well, you know there’s no sense telling Mr. Pembroke about it. He just waves it away and reads his paper or one of his silly books, or goes hunting! He plans to hunt a lot in the next few weeks. Traitor.”
She shoved past Anna and continued down the hall.
A good thing she hadn’t seen the mystery officer fiddling with her figurine a moment ago. Anna could just imagine the uproar that would have caused.
Anna continued to the kitchen to find Elias. The sooner she told him what she’d overheard, the better. In the meantime, she hoped Mrs. Pembroke didn’t make a nuisance of herself and upset Captain Whitby and his guests.
Nathaniel left Captain Whitby’s latest message at the proper house and collected the expected reply.
He rode away with the air of a man with nowhere urgent to be.
He found it a useful sort of air, as people saw what they expected to see.
Most expected a courier to be either bored out of his mind or tired. Nathaniel learned to appear as both.
He saw two soldiers up ahead and slumped a little more in the saddle. As he passed them at the corner, he gave them an easy nod.
“Reed,” one called and gave a little wave.
“Afternoon,” Nathaniel drawled without slowing.
As usual, neither man paid him any more mind. That, too, was useful.
He rode on. The day had grown warmer, though the sky remained gray.
Rain might come by evening, and if it did, it would make the roads a muddy mess and give every horse in town a reason to object to its employment.
Nathaniel couldn’t blame the beasts. He’d objected to his employment more than once, though saying so aloud could put him at the end of a rope.
A man who played both sides, even in appearance only, learned to keep his objections to himself.
Nathaniel guided his horse down a narrow lane behind the cooper’s shop and continued until he reached a shed stacked with empty barrels. There was an old cart nearby, missing a wheel. Anyone passing would think nothing of it. Broken wheels and barrel staves were ordinary sights in a working town.
As was Mr. Caleb Avery, the cooper who owned the shed.
The man stood just inside the shed, working a piece of wood with slow, steady strokes.
An older man, he was still broad through the shoulders and gray only at the temples.
His hands were roughened by years of work.
He also had excellent hearing and didn’t look up when Nathaniel dismounted. “You’re late,” Caleb said.
Nathaniel looped the reins around a post with a sigh. “I’m exactly as late as Whitby made me.”
Caleb glanced his way. “That man has a talent for making a nuisance of himself.”