“I do agree.” As he strode across the deck, he could almost pretend it was a calm day at sea, could almost imagine open water beckoning from all sides.
A minute later he had slipped into his cabin, with its specially chosen furniture all bolted down. The desk he had liberated from a sinking British ship. The weapons cabinet that came from a Mediterranean bazaar. The small strongbox that he had built into the underside of the bed.
He fished the key out of his pocket and crouched down, inserted it into the box, and turned. At the clank of the locking mechanism releasing, he swung open the slender door, reached in, and felt the folded paper he had anticipated.
He had long since removed all of his counter liquor and code books back to the house, so there was, sadly, no reason to linger. With a farewell pat to Masquerade’s railing a minute later, he disembarked and headed for home.
The sun had slipped fully below the horizon by the time he turned onto his street, the sky now a dark purple dimming to black. The air had scarcely cooled, though, still hanging heavy with humidity.
His lips tugged up. The Redcoats sure to arrive soon to reinforce their fellows wouldn’t fare so well in a muggy mid-Atlantic summer, accustomed as they were to the cool climes of England.
Gwyneth was beginning to adjust, thankfully. Her movements had become lighter, her complexion healthier, and her appetite had improved.
His step picked up at the thought of her. Let Arnaud question it all he wanted. Thad knew his own heart.
He also knew his duty, and became aware anew of the missive in his pocket the moment he stepped inside. For now, this business must come first.
The steady cadence of Mother’s voice came from the library, and a light burned in the drawing room as well. He eased his study door shut and turned to his desk. After lighting his lamp, he sat and pulled out the letter.
A small, faint A lay in the upper right corner. He read the visible message as a matter of course, but even while doing so pulled out the counter liquor and brush. Uncorked, dipped, tapped, stroked.
Within two minutes, the stain had darkened to near black, and Congressman Tallmadge’s script leapt off the page.
President Madison has called for a new division for the protection of Washington, to be peopled from the neighboring counties. Directives will go out to governors in the next several days. Knowing you as I do, you will be tempted to volunteer for this assignment.
Thad grinned. The congressman did indeed know him well. If by chance the British headed first to D.C., he wanted to be there. Wanted to do all he could to rally the city.
Do not, I repeat, do not volunteer.
Thad sighed, swept his hat off his head, and sent it flying toward the leather chair across the room.
I have need of you where you are, Mr. Culper. Come to my office on the fifth or sixth, whenever you can get away. I think you will approve our plans.
Approve them he may in three or four days, but at the moment Thad had the urge to try one of Arnaud’s snarls on for size.
He let the irritation stew for a moment, but then a breath of calm whispered over him. They had no proof the British would march to Washington. It would make more strategic sense for them to choose Annapolis or Baltimore. And would he not feel the fool if he went to defend his neighbor city and the enemy advanced on his own?
Tallmadge had experience enough in military things to be trusted with these decisions. He had been, after all, one of General Washington’s most trusted officers. So Thad would obey. And he would rub his hands together at the thought of finally leading the Culpers into some offensive action.
Seeing no need to pen a response that would likely not reach him before Thad did anyway, he put his stains and quills into the bottom drawer of his desk. His fingers then paused, hovering over another tome he had slid in with his code books. The leather cover had gone soft and worn over the years, the paper had begun to yellow. His grandfather’s script had faded to brown, but Thad had found peace within the prayers copied from his Puritan ancestors, as his mother had before him, and her father before her.
He gripped the precious volume and took it with him as he stood. Perhaps it could impart its peace again to another who so sorely needed it.
He headed for the light in the drawing room, having a feeling Gwyneth was in there and not with his parents. A feeling that was proven correct a moment later when he leaned into the doorway to watch her at the secretaire.
Her hand moved in large, bold strokes over the paper, her pencil putting life to the blank page in a way he could watch endlessly. He edged closer to see what picture she created today and ended up leaning on the writing desk with a laugh. “’Tis the Masquerade.”