Circle of Spies (The Culper Ring #3)

She attempted a smile for the bandaged man, but it wobbled. How pathetic that he had to give her an encouraging pat on the hand. “Are you a new volunteer, ma’am?”


She didn’t dare open her mouth right then. If she tried, she couldn’t be sure what might come out. She nodded.

The man settled his hand on the cot beside him again and slid his eyes closed. “You get used to it. Amputations happen every few days.”

Every few days. How many men, then, would be leaving here—assuming they survived to leave—with missing limbs?

The sawing hitched, and she heard the doctor say, “Bone nippers, Mrs. Arnaud.”

Marietta pressed a hand to her mouth. How could Barbara serve in that room day after day? Catching a glimpse of her now beyond the curtain, she saw her friend’s once-white apron stained scarlet.

The roll of her stomach brought her to her feet. She muttered what she hoped was a polite farewell to the soldier to whom she’d been reading and made a dizzy dash for the door. Fresh air, she needed fresh air. And an escape from the terrible noises. She left the ward, flew down the hall, and finally drew in another breath when she pushed out into the blustery March sunshine.

It did precious little to steady her. She could not possibly go back in there, not unless the Lord gave a direct command.

For once her shawl was still wrapped around her. She pulled it close and cast her gaze around the bustling estate. What was she to do for the two and a half hours until Barbara was ready to go home? Wandering the grounds was hardly an option, what with the hundreds of men milling about.

And Pat wasn’t waiting. She had given him permission to visit a cousin in the city, too far for walking from here.

“Mrs. Hughes.”

She turned, her spine going stiff when she saw one of the doctors approaching, still adjusting his hat on his head. He smiled, but if he meant to ask her to come back inside for some reason…

“Your sister-in-law asked me to check on you and see you home if need be.”

Marietta relaxed and prayed a blessing upon Barbara. Though how the woman could worry for her in the midst of surgery… “Thank you, Doctor. Are you headed out?”

“I am, yes. I need to call on a patient who lives near Monument Square. You are near there too, are you not?”

“Yes. Thank you, I would be most grateful for a ride.” She walked with the doctor to a waiting carriage and accepted his servant’s help into it. Once settled, she fully expected a few questions about her quick egress, but her rescuer spoke only of people she was likely to know, and of what a blessing Barbara had been to them at the hospital.

When the carriage neared Monument Square, he paused. “I am headed to Fayette Street. Where shall I drop you?”

“There is fine. I would welcome a short walk.” Expecting an argument, she clutched her shawl and prepared to defend her request.

But the doctor merely nodded and smiled. A few moments later the carriage rocked to a halt, and he bade her farewell as if it were no great thing for a woman to walk through the neighborhood alone.

She drew in a grateful breath when her feet touched sidewalk. With a parting wave, she struck out at a confident pace, praying her knees held up. Absent distractions, impressions crowded again. The blood on Barbara’s apron, the sounds, the smells.

Shuddering, that grateful breath turned sour and weakness seeped through her legs. Perhaps a walk hadn’t been such a grand idea. She should have had him drop her at her door. It would have been only minutes out of his way.

Rather than head back to the square and then down her own street as she would normally have done, Marietta latched her gaze onto an alleyway that would cut her walk in half. In those cloaking shadows she could indulge in a moment of lapsed composure. That promise spurred her faster, until her wobbly legs had propelled her well into the alley and she finally dared to halt, close her eyes, and let her shoulders sag.

In the next second a foul-smelling arm slammed over her throat and shoved her against the brick wall with enough force that her toes dangled off the ground. Eyes flying open again, she scratched at the arm and kicked. In vain, as her feet only managed to tangle in her skirts.

Brown eyes glared at her, malice flashing with the blade the man held up. Under his slouch hat his hair was straggly and unkempt, his beard frazzled. He bared his teeth. “Money. Where be yer money, pretty lady?”

She could only move her mouth and gasp for air, tugging at his arm. No, that was wrong. Brothers. Her brothers had taught her…the face, she should go for the—

As if he heard her broken thoughts, his arm released her, but before she could sag, he slammed her face to the bricks. “Money!”

Pain bit, and it tasted of blood. The smell of it filled her nose, and her vision blurred.

Money. Her reticule. Where was her reticule?

That gruff face. She knew that face.