Whispers from the Shadows (The Culper Ring #2)
Roseanna M. White
Acknowledgments
With every book I write, it seems the list of people who help me grows longer. As always, I have to start with my awesome-beyond-imagining family. My husband, David, who gets excited over minute historical details with me. My adorable kids, Xo? and Rowyn, who look at me every day and ask, “Aren’t you done writing that one yet?” My mother-in-law, who saves my sanity with a weekly babysitting time. My parents, for their never-ending encouragement and faith. My grandparents, for their pride in me. And my sister and brother-in-law, both artists and art teachers, for inspiring me.
I have an amazing collection of friends who form my support group. Stephanie, who is subjected to every random thought to flutter through my head—the price of being my best friend. Amanda, who is always so quick to read my chapters and offer her fabulous historical eye. Dina, with her outstanding instinct for plot. Thanks to Naomi for being a brainstorming buddy, and to “Louisiana Rachel” for reading all my manuscripts to check the fashion details for me. I have to deliver my gratitude to Laurie Alice, who sent me a list of research books to read before attempting to write this era, and all the ladies in my prayer group—I know I can go to you with hopes and fears big and small, and that you’ll stand with me before our Father.
And, finally, the team at Harvest House. I’m pretty sure I have the most fantastic publishing family in the world, and the more we work together, the more I appreciate each and every one of you who toil to make these books a success. Special thanks to Kim, for listening and laughing with me over all my random questions, for being my champion and friend—I couldn’t ask for a better editor. And, of course, my agent, Karen Ball, who wows me with her expertise and never fails to make me laugh. I couldn’t possibly write this series without you all.
Ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord: walk as children of light…See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
EPHESIANS 5:8,15-16
“We have the greatest opportunity the world has ever seen, as long as we remain honest—which will be as long as we can keep the attention of our people alive. If they once become inattentive to public affairs, you and I, and Congress and Assemblies, judges and governors, would all become wolves.”
THOMAS JEFFERSON
The Chesapeake Bay Region Map
One
London, England
April 1814
The servants hefting her trunks onto the carriage might as well have been loading her coffin. Gwyneth Fairchild pulled her pelisse close and gazed across Hanover Square with a sick feeling in her stomach. Surely she would awaken from this nightmare and walk down to the breakfast room to find Papa smiling at her. He would speak and say something that actually made sense.
Not like yesterday.
She shut her eyes against the image of all that was familiar, all that she might never see again. What if the Scribe went down? Was attacked by a renegade French ship or those dreadful American pirates? What if, assuming she made it to Annapolis, they killed her the moment she stepped ashore?
Annapolis. Had Papa not looked so sorrowful, so determined when he said that word yesterday, she would have thought he had gone mad.
His hand settled on her shoulder now, warm and large. Those hands had steadied her all her life. Capable, that was what General Isaac Fairchild had always been. Capable and steady and so very noble. All that was worthy of love and respect. So surely she could trust him now when logic and reason said she couldn’t.
“I know it makes little sense to you, dear heart.” He touched her chin, a silent bid for her to look at him. She found his eyes gleaming with moisture he would never shed. Not when anyone could see him, though she had heard his heartrending sobs when Mama died last fall. “I wish there were another way, but there is not.”
Another way for what? He hadn’t said, wouldn’t say. Gwyneth drew in a tremulous breath and tried to stand tall and proud, the way Mama had taught her, the way Papa himself had instilled. To convey with her posture that she was the great-granddaughter of a duke, the granddaughter of two earls, the daughter of a general.
A daughter sent into exile for no apparent reason. Separated from all those she loved, the only people left in the world who mattered. “Papa—”
“I know.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I do. But I cannot entrust you to anyone but the Lanes.”