But Thad had never received a letter from the general before. His parents did, to be sure, but when they had read this, both had shaken their heads and insisted the facts were all wrong. There must be more to it.
Mother had tested a few codes, but she couldn’t decipher anything without knowing what book he had used as a key. Father had tried the counter liquors to known invisible inks, but all that had gotten him was burnt edges and a few blurred words.
Please, Father. Open my eyes. Help me discern what secrets this letter holds, for I feel in my spirit it is critical. I need Your wisdom.
He shut his eyes and waited, waited for that quiet whisper, that gentle prod. The one that so often steered him toward the tavern whose gossip was useful, or toward the docks when a privateer had just run the blockade.
He heard instead a rap upon the door. Raising his head, he smiled when he saw his mother in the doorway with Jack nestled against her shoulder. “Up from his nap already?”
The boy whimpered and stretched out an arm for Thad. He accepted the burden with a chuckle, happy to wrap his arms about the little one and ignore work for a while. ’Twas beyond his power, it seemed, to rein in his affection for the boy after he had started loving him as his own.
Mother peeked at the pile of correspondence with a frown. “I still cannot fathom that you send intelligence to and from the sea without either codes or a sympathetic stain.”
A point she had made time and again. Thad rubbed a hand over Jack’s back and reclined in his chair. “I cannot equip every privateer with a code book and stain. ’Twould be too dangerous with so many of them losing their ships to the British. Besides which, we fight a different war now than you did during the Revolution. The greatest danger is not that our neighbors will turn against us; rather, it is that our neighbors will do nothing at all.”
She probably would have argued the point had the front door not banged open with suspicious enthusiasm. Thad stood, supporting Jack with an arm under his bottom. The only one to ever disturb him so gleefully ought not be back on land yet.
Why, then, did the “Hallo!” that filled the house sound so very much like Arnaud’s?
“Thad!”
“Alain?” He strode down the hall, smiling at the way Jack perked up at the beloved voice. “Why are you back already?”
His friend stood just inside the door, a crooked grin upon his mouth and his arms folded across his chest. “Is that any way to greet a returning hero?”
“Allow me to rephrase.” He handed over Jack when the boy lunged toward Arnaud. “Did you bring me a present?”
His friend laughed and pulled his son tight to his chest. “As a matter of fact, I did. Come outside and see.”
“Outside?” Thad exchanged a glance with his mother, who had followed him through the hall. “Let me guess. You brought another letter from Fairchild with instructions on what to do with his first.”
Arnaud pressed a kiss to the top of Jack’s head and led the way out the door. “Better.”
“What could be better? Fairchild himself?”
“Close.” Arnaud motioned to a carriage pulling up to the curb.
Thad halted on the lawn, noting the three silhouettes within the coach. “Who is that?”
“Fairchild’s daughter.”
“What?” He turned his back to the new arrivals lest they see his frown. “Why in blazes is she here?”
Arnaud shifted Jack to a new position and blinked in that way of his. “Were you not expecting her?”
“Would you not have known if I were?”
He granted that with a tilt of his head. “I did wonder. But she had this.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “We took the ship on which her father had bought her passage.”
Thad unfolded it and held it out so Mother could read along with him. Dear Sir…
By the time he read the signature, he had to bite back a choice word. If he had needed more proof that something was amiss with the British general, here it was. “And you brought her here?”
“Of course he did.” Mother turned back to face the carriage, her eyes lighting with a smile. “The last time we saw Gwyneth she was no bigger than Jack.”
“Mother.” Was she not usually the suspicious one? The one who worried about traitors hiding among them? “You cannot even be sure it is her.”
She swatted at his arm, a smile blooming. “Nonsense, Thaddeus. ’Tis Isaac’s hand, and look—she is the image of Julienne.”
He had only the vaguest memory of Mrs. Fairchild from one weeklong visit with them in London fifteen years ago, but he remembered her as lovely. When he pivoted back to the street and saw the young lady descend, however, his eyes went wide. And his heart twisted.