The Scholar and the Irish Spy

Prologue

Lyme Regis, Dorset.

At the turn of the century, several towns and cities had become popular for their sophistication, assemblies, and fashionable events.

As such, they enjoyed an influx of tourists.

Key amongst them, outside of London of course, were the fashionable resorts of Harrogate, Bath, and Brighton.

Frequently forgotten, though just as picturesque, was the small town of Lyme Regis.

A pearl of a place nestled on the Dorset coastline only twenty-five miles from Exeter.

It had much to recommend it. There was the handsome Cobb that jettisoned out into the sea, providing an excellent viewpoint out toward the channel and back toward England for anyone lucky enough to walk along it.

There were the dainty streets and whitewashed cottages that made up the main portion of Lyme’s residences.

The beaches close by included both Chesil and Charmouth, with stretching golden swathes pebbled over that could be enjoyed all year round.

Finally, there was the bright vaulting view of the sky.

Whether it was grey and slate-colored, or made up of an array of oranges, roses, and yellows during the summer sunsets—it was remarkable, especially when it stood in the midst of the sedate and charming town.

However, none of these reasons were why Miss Abigail Fossey loved her birthplace. She certainly had little desire to visit any location where she might be expected to behave or act like a lady. She loved her hometown for its history and because her father was there.

At twelve, Abigail had little to recommend her.

She had neither the prettiness nor sweetness of disposition of her elder sister Sophia.

Even at fourteen, Sophia was going to be a great beauty, so everyone said.

Nor did Abigail have the sharp wit or turn of phrase of her oldest sister Judith.

All that remained for Abigail was to fashion her own special place.

In the last few months, she thought she might have found what would mark her out as special and different from her older sisters.

“Father!” Her cry was one of urgency, blending both childish excitement and adult passion. It was important that she rouse him from his study. With purposeful strides, Abigail hurried through the garden toward her home.

The house was cooler than the garden, and the faint scent of dinner wafted from the kitchen.

From the front parlor drifted the most melodic sound.

Sophia must be practicing on the recently hired pianoforte.

She was doing her best to master a fashionable sonata.

Undoubtedly, Judith would be near with a book in hand, her needlepoint abandoned.

Close by, their mother would be doing her best to teach or scold her oldest girls into whatever she considered ladylike.

Mrs. Fossey had long ago given up on her youngest and left Abigail to her husband’s care, which suited everyone.

“Father,” Abigail called. She repeatedly knocked on the door to Mr. Fossey’s study, excitedly pounding away on it before pushing it wide to step inside. The room was of no interest to the rest of the household, but Abigail loved it.

From the musty scent of books and the smell of her father’s occasional indulgence in an ordering of ‘Macouba’ snuff that he discreetly enjoyed, there was an atmospheric gloom in the air.

There was also an array of scientific specimens her father had collected over the years which littered every available surface.

Added to this was the warm amber glow from the fireplace.

Lining the walls was a wide and diverse range of books shipped down from London.

Entering Mr. Fossey’s study was rather like stepping into a magical world.

Her father sat very much at his leisure in his great snug chair, his grey hair mussed, his round glasses askew, and a startled expression on his dear old face.

She might have woken him, Abigail realized a little guiltily.

Nonetheless, she marched forward toward the cocooned maroon armchair, close to the fireplace, where Mr. Fossey was attempting to sit up.

Abigail gently touched his shoulder and pulled from her apron pocket the ancient sea urchin she found just thirty minutes ago.

She had labored for the past two or more hours to extract it from the earth.

It might be fashionable for some tourists to look for fossils, but Abigail knew this find was not merely a knickknack.

No, this discovery was bound for greater things.

Unearthing these ancient treasures took talent which her father had slowly and painstakingly taught Abigail.

She hoped this might be classed as her skill, although she doubted her mother would consider it worthy of note.

“I wanted to show you this,” said Abigail. With pride, she placed her liberated find—a vertebrate fossil—into her father’s hand. “It is just like the one you showed me in your book.”

With an eager look but a soft touch, Mr. Fossey sat forward, adjusting his glasses down his thin nose to better see what his daughter had found. There was something very methodical about Mr. Fossey.

Her father’s eyes shone as he gazed at the specimen before them, turning and smiling most graciously at Abigail. “Oh, it’s a beautiful find, my girl. You can see the ridges here and here. Quite unusual.” He sucked in his breath before looking up at her, and added, “How clever you are.”

With slow movements, Mr. Fossey moved on his unsteady feet and hobbled over to the books, rifled through the pages, and then beckoned Abigail to join him.

Turning the piece over in his hands, Mr. Fossey explained some of the history to an enthralled Abigail, who marveled at the breadth of her father’s knowledge.

“See here.” He gestured slowly to the creature’s vertebrate.

“These specific shapes will mark it out as an earlier form of any current living creature. Although the curve here…” His voice contained the right mix of wisdom and entertainment without ever making Abigail feel ignorant as he explained further how this fossil could be studied in Town by the greatest scholars and lead to further breakthroughs in geology that the two of them could only dream of.

“Perhaps our names will be mentioned,” Mr. Fossey added as he placed Abigail’s vertebrate on the table. “It may well be considered a noteworthy addition.”

Abigail’s chest glowed at the idea of people as far away as London hearing of her, but then she reluctantly asked a question.

“So, you’ll want to send it up to London tomorrow then?

” In truth, she had grown rather fond of the fossil.

There had been other fossils which her father had unearthed, and Abigail had watched and learned, careful to memorize his methods so she could find her own.

Now she had. To her eyes, this particular vertebrate contained multitudes and from that as far as Abigail could see, it meant that she did too.

The idea of it being parceled off and sent away upset her more than she was willing to admit.

She had thought she would be happy for it to go to Town, but now she was not so sure.

Despite her best intentions, she had to clear her burning throat and screw up her nose to stop the tears from falling.

“Please, Papa, don’t sell it.”

Mr. Fossey sighed. “You know all too well, Abby, that something this rare should be seen. Wouldn’t it be better for more of the world to know about it than it being kept hidden away from people?”

“You just want it for money.” It was true. Most of the time when a curio was unearthed, Papa would receive a sum from his London friends, and it would be spent on a new bonnet for Mother. Or perhaps some ribbons and music for Sophia. “It isn’t fair.”

The soft yellow light of the late afternoon spilled through the window, illuminating Mr. Fossey’s dear, studious, and deeply lined face. He was staring down at her, his expression difficult to read.

Self-consciously, Abigail looked away, rubbing at the mud on her nose. She hoped that her father wouldn’t see how desperately she wanted to keep the discovery. If he had already decided the curio must be sold to his studious friends, she would not let him see her cry.

To Abigail’s great surprise, her father gently patted Abigail on the back as he lowered his face. “Shall we keep just this one?” he asked in a secretive voice.

Abigail turned toward him with a smile, basking in the safety of her father’s love and admiration. It was a shield against the world. He was the best papa that any girl could have. “Yes, please.”

“Come.” He beckoned her back to the seat beside the fireplace taking the large book with him. “We should carry on reading, discover more about your find.”

Abigail followed him, sinking down beside him in the armchair, and losing herself in a world so very different from her own.

*

Fourteen years later…

Whitehall, London. March 1814.

Captain Robert Davenport walked toward the pleasingly green space, close to his hotel The Fladong’s in London. It was the best hotel for naval men, and Robert felt very comfortable there amongst his fellow officers.