Four
By the following morning, Anna decided she disliked Nathaniel Reed. It was a sensible decision. Practical, wise, and entirely necessary.
Unfortunately, disliking a man didn’t prevent a person from thinking about him. She discovered this while scrubbing the breakfast dishes, folding the napkins, fetching fresh water, and helping Mrs. Fenwick argue with a stubborn pot that had scorched porridge clinging to the bottom.
Nathaniel Reed had no business occupying her mind during any of those tasks.
He was a British courier, as far as anyone could tell. He carried Captain Whitby’s messages, came and went with too much freedom, and spoke in calm warnings that made her feel as though he saw more than he ought to. It was downright unsettling. That alone was enough reason to dislike him.
The fact that he made her fight against smiling while Mrs. Pembroke threatened to turn him into a coat stand was beside the point.
“Anna,” Mrs. Fenwick said, “you’ve folded that napkin twice. What has gotten into you?”
Anna looked at the napkin, unfolded it, and refolded it into a shape no respectable table had ever seen. “Sorry.”
Mercy peeked around the pantry door. “Are we all apologizing today? Because if we are, I should like to begin with the custard.”
Mrs. Fenwick narrowed her eyes. “Mercy, child, what did you do to the custard?”
Mercy bit her lower lip and hunched her shoulders. “Nothing permanent.”
Mrs. Fenwick closed her eyes. “That is not the comfort you think it is, child.”
Anna set the napkin aside before she could ruin it further. “I’ll take these to the dining room.”
“You do that,” Mrs. Fenwick said, “and if Captain Whitby asks whether there is more ham, tell him no.”
“But there is more ham,” Mercy said.
“There is more ham for supper,” Mrs. Fenwick corrected. “Therefore, there is no more ham for Captain Whitby.”
Mercy nodded, still hunching her shoulders. “A sound military strategy, Mrs. Fenwick.”
The housekeeper pointed a spoon at her. “Do not mock me, girl. I’ve kept this household fed through occupation, shortages, officers, and Mrs. Pembroke’s outrageous opinions. General Washington himself could not ask more of a woman.”
Anna took the basket of napkins and left before she laughed and drew too much attention, not to mention questions she couldn’t answer.
The house was quieter than usual. Ever since Captain Whitby’s arrival, quiet had become scarce. It also meant someone might be listening, or about to appear where they had no business being.
Anna reached the dining room and laid the fresh napkins beside each place setting. The officers hadn’t left the parlor, which gave her a few moments alone. She worked quickly, smoothing the cloth and making certain every fold lay even.
Voices sounded in the hall. Anna kept her hands moving.
Captain Whitby entered first, followed by Lieutenant Rothborne and another officer she’d seen only once. She still hadn’t caught his name. He had a pinched mouth, pale hair, and the general look of a man who’d been disappointed by every meal placed before him.
Nathaniel Reed came in last.
Anna tightened her grip around a napkin. As usual, he looked at ease.
Why that irritated her, she didn’t know.
A man who worked around British officers should look uneasy now and then, if only to prove he understood the danger of them.
Instead, Mr. Reed entered with his hat in one hand and a folded leather case beneath his arm.
His expression was, of course, polite, attentive, and entirely unreadable.
“Ah, Reed,” Captain Whitby said. “I’ve several errands for you, my boy.”
“So I was told,” Nathaniel replied.
Whitby crossed to the sideboard and took up a sealed packet. “This goes to Mr. Sloane. You’ll wait for his reply.”
Nathaniel accepted it. “Yes, Captain.”
“And this one to Major Ellis. Don’t entrust it to anyone else.” He handed him a letter of some sort.
“Of course, sir.” He took that, too.
Anna placed another napkin and lowered her gaze. Major Ellis and Mr. Sloane. Those were two names worth remembering. She hadn’t heard them before.
Lieutenant Rothborne moved toward the table and frowned at the place settings. “Is the girl meant to remain?”
Anna’s breath caught.
Captain Whitby glanced her way as if he just realized she was in the room. “She’s setting the table, man, unless you plan to dine off your own knee, let her finish.”
Rothborne gave a humorless little sniff. “Servants hear too much, in my experience.”
“They hear plates, boots, and complaints,” Whitby snapped. “Nothing more.”
Anna kept her face blank and reached for the next napkin. Nathaniel’s gaze flicked her way. The motion was so small she might have imagined it, yet sensed the weight of it all the same.
He was watching her.
The pale-haired officer opened a small portfolio and removed a folded sheet. “If Reed is going to Sloane’s, he may as well carry the harbor note as well.”
Whitby’s expression hardened. “Not that one.”
“Why not?” Rothborne asked.
“Because I said not that one,” Captain Whitby replied.
Silence followed. The lieutenant exchanged a look with the pale-haired officer and shrugged.
Anna’s heart beat faster. Harbor note? She moved to the far end of the table. The trouble was, there were no more napkins to place. She straightened one, then another, pretending to be dissatisfied with her own work.
Rothborne took the portfolio from the pale-haired officer and slid the folded sheet back inside. “Then where is it to go?”
Captain Whitby’s voice lowered. “With someone who understands discretion.”
Anna noticed Nathaniel said nothing and dared a look at him.
“Reed is discreet,” Lieutenant Rothborne stated.
“So he is,” Whitby replied, “but even discretion has limits when a man is stopped on the road.”
Nathaniel’s expression remained calm. “Have couriers been stopped of late, Captain?”
Whitby’s eyes narrowed. “You needn’t concern yourself with what doesn’t concern you.”
Nathaniel gave him a curt nod. “Of course.”
There it was again. That mild, obedient tone, the kind that made men underestimate him. Anna recognized it because she used one much like it herself.
“Are you finished, girl?” Lieutenant Rothborne asked, his tone impatient.
Anna curtsied. “Yes, sir.” She turned toward the door.
As the pale-haired officer stepped back without looking, he struck the edge of the small side table. A silver salver tipped. The spoon atop it slid, clattered, and skidded across the table toward the floor.
Without thinking, Anna caught it before it struck the boards.
Every man in the room looked at her, and for one terrible second, no one spoke.
Anna lowered her eyes at once and placed the spoon back on the salver. “Forgive me, sir.”
The pale-haired officer stared at her. “I say, quick hands.”
“Well done,” Whitby added.
Nathaniel’s eyes flicked to her. His expression changed, but it didn’t fill with suspicion as she thought it might. Instead, it filled with something like recognition.
Oh, dear. That was worse. She curtsied again and left the room before anyone decided she’d looked too interested.
Anna didn’t stop until she reached the servants’ hall. There, she drew one careful breath. Mr. Sloane. Major Ellis. Harbor note. Someone who understands discretion. Good. She had it all.
Nathaniel Reed received two messages from Captain Whitby and asked, “Have couriers been stopped of late?”
Anna closed her eyes. If couriers were being stopped, did that mean he’d use force to get past them? She’d hoped the encounter in the sewing room made him less dangerous.
It hadn’t. If anything, Nathaniel Reed had become far more so.
Nathaniel learned long ago that the easiest way to be invisible was to look useful.
Important men were watched. Idle men were suspected.
Useful men, on the other hand, came and went with papers, packages, ledgers, and instructions.
They were told by other men where to stand, where to wait, what to carry, and when to come back.
Thus, they were given access because denying them access was horribly inconvenient.
Captain Whitby had made Nathaniel very useful indeed.
He rode to Mr. Sloane’s counting house with Whitby’s packet tucked safely inside his coat. As he rode, Anna Turner’s face flashed through his mind far more than he liked.
She’d stood in the dining room with her eyes lowered and her hands folded, the picture of a properly obedient maid. Until the spoon fell. Or rather, nearly fell.
She’d caught it before it struck the floor, quick as a cat pouncing on a mouse. The men in the room saw a servant save a spoon. Nathaniel saw a woman who missed very little and moved before thought could slow her down.
That sort of quickness got noticed. Worse, it got remembered.
He turned his horse down the street that led toward the water.
The air smelled of salt, damp rope, fish, and smoke from kitchen fires.
A few boys loitered near a stack of barrels, pretending not to watch a pair of British soldiers arguing with a wagoner.
A fishwife stood near the corner with a basket on one hip and an expression that promised misery to anyone foolish enough to cheat her.
Setauket looked ordinary, which of course meant it was full of secrets.
Mr. Sloane’s counting house sat near the road to the wharf. A square, respectable building with clean windows and a front door painted a light shade of blue. Nathaniel dismounted and tied his horse to the rail.
When he entered the building, a clerk inside looked up from a ledger.
“Message for Mr. Sloane,” Nathaniel said.
The clerk, a thin young man with ink on two fingers, held out his hand.
Nathaniel didn’t give him the packet. “Captain Whitby requested I deliver it directly.”
The clerk gave him a bored look. “I’m afraid Mr. Sloane is occupied.”
Nathaniel smiled. “That’s all right. I’m paid to wait.”
“Fine,” the clerk said. “Then wait.”
“I intend to.” Nathaniel took a step back, spotted a chair, and sat. The clerk glared at him, then returned to his ledger. Nathaniel settled his hat on his knees and took in the office.