Three #2
Anna found the brown cloak exactly where Mrs. Pembroke said it would be, folded in the cedar press with three others, all smelling of lavender and wood.
She pulled it out and examined it. The hem was worn in a few places, though not badly, and the lining had pulled loose near one of the seams. It was an ordinary garment. Simple. Plain.
The locket, on the other hand, was not ordinary.
Anna carried both to the small sewing room at the back of the second floor.
Though it could hardly be called a room.
It was more of a narrow chamber tucked between the linen closet and the servants’ staircase.
But there was a chair, a worktable, and enough afternoon light to see by, which was all she required.
Anna closed the door, set the cloak across her lap, and placed the locket on the table. That way she wouldn’t accidentally knock it onto the floor.
If Anna wasn’t careful, that’s exactly what would happen. She sometimes got clumsy when she was nervous.
Anna sighed and, for several moments, stared at it. “Martha Washington,” she whispered.
She’d never met the woman, of course. Very few ever would.
Yet here was something that belonged to her or at least passed through her hands.
Something hidden and somehow entrusted to Mrs. Pembroke.
And now it rested with Anna in a little sewing room in the Pembroke house, while British officers occupied the parlor below.
Anna pressed her lips together. The more she thought about it, the more absurd it became.
It was also terrifying.
She pushed the thought aside, picked up a sturdy brown scrap of fabric Mrs. Pembroke left with the cloak, and cut a piece large enough for a small pocket.
“Make sure it’s plain,” Mrs. Pembroke had said, “but big enough for the locket and nothing more.”
Fine. Anna could do that. She could also do it in such a way that it wasn’t so neat it drew attention. Only Mrs. Pembroke could give instructions for secret work and make them sound like criticism of one’s sewing.
Anna rolled her eyes, threaded the needle, and began.
The work helped settle her thoughts. Needle through the lining.
Pull. Smooth the cloth. Another stitch. There wasn’t much cleverness needed for that.
She wouldn’t make a fancy edge, and she’d make certain nothing caught a searching eye.
Anna had stitched plenty of pockets before, but never one meant to hide something that might matter to George Washington’s cause.
Her hand paused midair as she gripped the needle. Merciful heavens, was that what this was? Something for the cause, or was it merely a sentimental keepsake Mrs. Pembroke wanted moved safely?
Anna looked at the locket again. No. It wasn’t merely sentimental. Mrs. Pembroke’s words made that plain enough. “Some things are safer when they look sentimental.”
Ah. Now she understood. Anna returned to work. She’d just finished one side of the pocket when footsteps sounded in the hall.
She froze. Those weren’t the steps of Mercy’s quick flutter or Mrs. Fenwick’s trodding. They were heavier than that, measured and male.
Anna swept the locket from the table and slipped it beneath the folds of the cloak. Her needle remained in her other hand. To her horror, the footsteps stopped outside the door.
Anna held her breath.
A soft knock followed.
She stared at the door with wide eyes. No one ever knocked on the sewing room door. Most people forgot the room existed.
She gulped. “Yes?” she called, thankful her voice didn’t crack.
The door opened, and Nathaniel Reed stood on the threshold.
Anna shot to her feet, the cloak clutched against her chest. “Mr. Reed.”
His gaze flicked between her face and the cloak before he removed his hat. “Miss Turner. Forgive me. I was directed to wait upstairs.”
“Directed by whom?” Now her voice did crack.
The corner of his mouth hinted at a smile. “Mrs. Pembroke.”
“Oh. Of course.” Anna tightened her hold on the cloak. “This is the, um, sewing room.”
He looked around. “So I see.”
“I’m sorry, but it is not a waiting room.”
“No, and I’d wager there’s a great deal more sewing in it than waiting.”
Anna didn’t dare smile, though she wanted to, which annoyed her. “Captain Whitby is downstairs.”
“I know.”
“Then perhaps you should wait downstairs.” She nodded toward the floor.
“I attempted that. Mrs. Pembroke, however, informed me that Captain Whitby and his guest were speaking privately, and that if I loitered in her hall like a misplaced coat stand, she would put a vase over my head.”
Anna blinked a few times. Mr. Reed looked serious. A laugh nearly escaped, and she swallowed, which only made her throat ache. “That does sound like Mrs. Pembroke.”
He nodded. “Trust me, it was delivered with conviction.”
Anna glanced past him into the hall. No one else was there, but that didn’t help her. In this house, empty halls were often listening halls.
Mr. Reed seemed to understand. He stepped back from the doorway instead of entering. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Then you should not have opened the door.”
“I did knock.”
“And then opened the door.”
“After you called out to me to do so,” he pointed out.
“Oh. Yes.” Her hand gripped the edge of the cloak, the locket pressed hard beneath the fabric. “Did you need something, Mr. Reed?” she asked.
“Only a place to stand… where Mrs. Pembroke won’t decorate me.”
She snorted, unable to help it. “That is a serious concern.” A hand flew to her mouth.
“Grave indeed.” His expression softened. “You look uneasy.”
She dropped her hand. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“You must be mistaken.” She laughed a little, then shook her head. “Dash it all.” She shouldn’t be so amused. She got herself under control. “As you can see, you must be mistaken.”
He shrugged. “I often am. Though not usually when it comes to fear.”
Anna looked at the cloak and pretended to inspect the stitches. “There is hardly anything to fear in a sewing room, sir.”
“Needles can be dangerous.”
“So can couriers.” Anna wished she could take the words back the instant they left her mouth.
Silence settled between them.
Anna stared at the cloak, mortified. She shouldn’t have said it. Not because it was untrue, but because his expression changed just enough for her to know she’d struck a nerve.
Mr. Reed’s voice remained calm. “Yes. They can.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
He stood with his hat in his hands, his shoulders relaxed, his expression nothing but courteous. Mr. Reed looked exactly like the sort of man Captain Whitby trusted. Reliable, useful, and harmless to those who believed him on their side.
Anna didn’t believe he was harmless. On the contrary, something in his eyes unsettled her more than suspicion did.
“You should be careful,” he said quietly.
Her heart gave an uncomfortable beat. “Of what?” she asked.
He leaned toward her. “Of rooms where people speak freely because they believe no one important is near enough to hear.”
Anna froze.
“Houses are full of thin walls, Miss Turner.”
She swallowed hard. “Is that a warning?”
He straightened. “That depends on whether you need one.”
She stared at him. Every instinct told her to deny everything. She was only a maid. She knew nothing of officers, ships, cargo, or warnings hidden inside threats about hangings.
Unfortunately, Nathaniel Reed watched her as though he already knew she was not nearly as invisible as she pretended to be.
She tried to take on an innocent air. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His gaze lowered to the cloak. “I am relieved to hear it.”
That wasn’t much of an answer.
Footsteps sounded from the main staircase. Mr. Reed turned his head. Male voices drifted upward, followed by Captain Whitby’s laugh. He took another step back. “It seems my misplaced coat stand services are required below.”
Anna said nothing.
He inclined his head. “Miss Turner.”
She nodded back. “Mr. Reed.”
He started down the hall, then paused to look back. “Your stitches are very neat.”
Anna’s hand moved over the hidden pocket. “You cannot see them from there.”
“No,” he agreed, “but you seem the sort of woman who does careful work.”
With that, he was gone.
Anna stood in the sewing room doorway until his footsteps faded down the stairs. Only then did she close the door and lean against it.
“So can couriers,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Why did I say that?” Worse yet, why had he answered as though he knew it was true?
Anna crossed to the table, lifted the cloak, and drew out the locket. The silver lay against her palm, beautiful and dangerous, and far too important for a maid’s pocket.
She returned to the chair and forced herself to finish the hidden seam. Whatever Nathaniel Reed was, British courier or something far more complicated, she couldn’t afford to be careless around him. Not with the locket, and certainly not with her heart.
For some annoying reason, it fluttered every time he talked.