Читать книгу Too Hot For A Spy - Pearl Wolf - Страница 10

Wilson Academy—Monday, The First of July

The jarring noise of a bell woke Olivia at four. In the fog between sleep and wakefulness, she fancied she was home in London and wondered who could possibly be calling at this unearthly hour. And why didn’t they use the knocker instead of the bell? She’d have to complain to the butler. She turned over, only to fall out of her cot and clunk onto the bare floor. At once her eyes flew awake, though it took several seconds to recall her whereabouts.

Shivering from the cold, for there was no fireplace in her room. She rose and groped her way to the candle on the desk. Her fingers shook as she lit it and surveyed the room. It took her two steps to reach the washbasin, for her room was so small, she could almost touch it from wall to wall.

Olivia turned the latch to her door and pulled it open as an under maid hurried by. “Excuse me? If I paid you, would you fetch me some hot water?”

“You one o’them trainees, an’t you?”

“Yes. I’ll pay you a crown if you bring me some hot water. Please?”

The under maid called out from the stairwell, trying to be helpful. “I’d lose me job if’n y’paid me a guinea. Y’ave to fetch yer own water, miss. The pump’s just outside the kitchen door. Kitchen’s in the basement. Follow this staircase till you reach bottom.”

“I know bloody well where the kitchen is,” she grumbled as the young woman hurried off to her duties. Olivia shut the door and reached for her silk chemise and knickers. She cast a disgusted eye on the outer clothing left for her. With considerable distaste, she stepped into the pantaloons, but they slid down to the floor. She removed another of her new bonnet’s ribbons to tie round her waist. The coarse shirt was far too large for her small frame, but when she buttoned the thick warm vest over it, it kept the shirt from slipping off her shoulders. She rooted around in her portmanteau until she found stockings and undergarments to stuff her boots with until they fit well enough for her to walk and not wobble.

She grasped her pitcher and hurried down the stairwell until she reached the kitchen. A kitchen maid coming out of the pantry nodded her head in the direction of the door at the end of the kitchen without stopping her work.

Olivia hurried outside, a blast of cold morning air causing her breath to release smoke. She filled the pitcher and trudged back upstairs to her room, for she didn’t have time to heat it. By the time she’d washed with the icy water, it was almost five.

Another under maid, more accommodating than the first, showed her the way to the trainees’ dining room, two flights down the back stairs. Her stomach growled as she flew down the stairwell.

But breakfast for her was not to be, for as soon as she reached the large room on the first floor, a stream of young men, dressed as she was, were making their way down the steps.

“Where are we bound?”

The last man crooked his finger. “Riggs here. Calisthenics. Follow me.”

Olivia had to run to keep up with his long strides. By the time she reached the training grounds, her breath was short.

The trainees lined up to face Hugh Denville, a young man—not more than thirty, Olivia guessed—who wore his black hair tied back with a ribbon. His weathered face held high cheekbones, a straight nose, brown eyes and a dimple in his cheek that deepened when he smiled. Denville, the spymaster’s aide during the war, also served as Sebastian’s secretary. It was well known that little could be said in his hearing that would not be repeated to Sir.

“Morning, lads.” He acknowledged Olivia with a nod. “Fairchild.”

“Morning, sir,” the men answered as one.

“Morning, sir,” Olivia’s voice followed in a high squeak.

“Warm-ups. Run in place. Five minutes.” Denville consulted his timepiece. “Begin.”

Olivia noted the posture and began to pump her legs like the others, raising them as high as she could.

“Chin up. Knees higher, Fairchild. You’re not at a picnic.”

“Y…yes, sir.”

To the casual eye, Wilson Academy appeared to be the country estate of a peer of the realm. A fine example of Renaissance architecture, the imposing facade was built of brick early in the seventeenth century. Inside, it boasted the most modern facilities in the world, perhaps.

The ground floor was designed for offices, the staff dining room, a separate dining room for trainees, a reception room and a grand ballroom whose design was meant to accommodate large groups of government officials as a meeting place rather than as a space for the frivolous balls it once held.

The spymaster’s quarters, consisting of three large rooms, were also on this level. The first was a dining room with two doors, one at the back stairwell for kitchen access and another leading into his bedchamber, which also had two doors, one leading out to the hall and the other leading into his office, the third room. A second office door admitted visitors.

Below ground, the basement housed a full kitchen galley and below that, a storage cellar.

The first floor held instructors’ chambers, a lounge for their leisure use, and additional chambers to accommodate visiting guests. As well, the trainees’ study hall was below the male trainees’ rooms. Servants and trainees alike used the narrow back staircase to reach all their activities.

The second floor was designed for classrooms, the largest space outfitted for fencing on one end and boxing on the other. The spymaster designed two hidden walkways on either side of this floor, their entrances rendered invisible by the same wood panels adorning all the hallways. Slivers of rectangular windows, placed at eye level, enabled him to observe indoor and outdoor training activities without being seen.

From this vantage point, he watched Olivia’s pathetic attempt to keep up with the other trainees at calisthenics and wondered how long it would take for her to give up and go home where she belonged.

“Fifty push-ups. Hit the ground, lads,” Denville said when they had finished running in place. When he noticed Olivia still standing, he added, “You, too, Fairchild.”

“Yes, sir.” She observed what the others were doing and lay down on her stomach. She put her hands on the ground and pushed hard, but when she raised her head, her stubborn body refused to follow. On the third try, she caught sight of a pair of boots close to her face and turned her head up to face Denville. “I’ve never done push-ups before, sir. I don’t know how.”

One of the men snickered.

“There’s no call for that!” Denville said sharply. He turned back to Olivia. “Lie back down, Fairchild. Elbows bent, but stiff, hands flat, in line with your brea—er, chest. Not too near your shoulders, mind. Keep your body stiff as a board, toes pointed down. Now push as hard as you’re able.”

To her astonishment, Olivia succeeded in lifting her upper body a few inches off the ground. But not her torso. Perhaps women were not meant to do push-ups, she thought with despair.

“Right, then.” He coughed to smother a chuckle and walked back to his place.

By the time the other trainees had completed fifty push-ups, Olivia had wobbled through five. Triumphant at her small victory, she darted a glance at Denville, but he paid no heed.

“Jumping jacks. Begin.”

I can do this! Yet when she jumped apart, her arms would not follow, and when she raised her arms over her head, her feet turned to lead.

Denville chose to ignore this, at the same time admiring her determination. “Time,” he announced, and strode away in the direction of the spymaster’s office.

She trudged after the other trainees, relying on them to lead her to the next activity. She tapped the young man in front of her on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”

He threw her a lopsided grin, his face covered with freckles. His light brown hair was stringy, but his eyes were lively. Rufus Riggs was the youngest of the trainees.

“Codes and ciphers. On the second floor,” the young man whispered. And shot a gap-toothed grin at her. He added, “Name’s Riggs. Rufus.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undid her. “Fairchild,” she whispered back.

Sir Aaron Foster, a short, balding man with gentle blue eyes had been knighted by the Regent for code work that defied Napoleon’s staff. He’d meant to retire from government service after the war he helped win, but Viscount Sidmouth had other plans for him. The home secretary persuaded him to take his current post as instructor for future undercover agents.

Once seated in the two-hour class, Olivia relaxed, though every bone in her body screamed in protest after her unaccustomed physical exertion. She enjoyed the mental challenge, thinking it very like solving intricate puzzles. Although she did not grasp everything the master teacher said, she was pleased with herself. Codes and ciphers class was far easier than calisthenics.

When Foster dismissed them, the trainees moved across the hall to the fencing room on the same floor.

Riggs appointed himself her guide. He helped her find a suitable vest, a glove and a wire mask. They were too large for her, yet not as ill-fitting as the clothing she wore.

Olivia had been tutored in fencing when she was still in the schoolroom. The duke wished to share his favorite activity with her, for she threatened to be his only child at the time. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of her father. Little did he know to what use she would put it.

Andre Fourier, a Frenchman with a thin mustache, black hair and a slight frame, swept into the room wearing his fencing vest. He carried his glove and his mask, and eyed his students as if he were inspecting sides of beef, a familiar task for him, for he was also chef for the academy.

“I am Fourier, messieurs.” His Gallic eyes fell on Olivia and he bowed to her. “Mademoiselle.”

“Bien! We begin.” He launched into an explanation of the art of dueling and paired the trainees off for practice, replacing one or another to illustrate his point when he thought it necessary. Which was often.

“We commence wiz ze lunge and ze parry—Prime, seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte, septime, octave.”

Olivia was partnered with Riggs, whose clumsy handling of his foil, rendered safe by the button at its tip, forced Fourier to stop him. He took Riggs’ foil, placed one hand behind his back and faced Olivia.

“En Garde, sil vous plait. Prime.” The others stopped and turned to watch. Surprise registered on more than one face when Olivia acquitted herself well in her first parry. But when she dropped her foil in the second, silence rang in the air. Until Fourier laughed heartily.

“I am saved from shame. Well done, Fairchild.”

At the end of class, Fourier turned to Olivia. “Your fencing glove ees too large, as is ze vest and ze mask, eh? I shall order better equipment for you.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other trainees and turned to leave. “Dismissed.”

The trainees replaced their fencing equipment and proceeded to the library on the ground floor. They were seated around a long table, when the other young men introduced themselves to Olivia.

The trainee next to her offered his hand. He was small-boned—mid-twenties, Olivia thought—his high forehead exaggerated by sparse hair. “Name’s Harold Perkins. Well done in fencing, Fairchild. Fourier’s an exacting taskmaster. Praise from him is praise indeed.”

“Good show, Fairchild. We’re the Reeds. He’s Billy and I’m Bobby. No one can tell us apart so they call us BillyBob.”

Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Olivia thought, swallowing a giggle. She could look them in the eye, for they were not much taller than she was. They had mischievous eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day.

“Carter here,” said the last man. Well-groomed in spite of the unflattering uniform, Olivia sensed there was something arrogant about him. He seemed to have a smirk on his thin lips when he spoke, as if to underline his superiority. His abundant head of hair was always in place, as was a thin mustache. How old was he? she wondered. She couldn’t tell his age, though he acted as though he was far wiser than the other lads. “You’ve fenced before, haven’t you, Fairchild?”

Startled by the hostility in his voice, she said, “Yes, it’s true. Do you find fencing difficult, Carter? I find push-ups far more difficult. Tell you what. I’ll fence for you if you do push-ups for me.” The other trainees laughed in appreciation at what they took for a set-down.

The door to the library opened and the spymaster entered, putting an abrupt end to the laughter and the cameraderie, but not to the loud grumble emanating from Olivia’s stomach.

“What’s that sound? Did you miss breakfast, Fairchild? Ah, you overslept in spite of my warning, didn’t you? No matter. Have the goodness to silence your rebellious stomach for the next two hours.”

No one laughed as he’d intended. “That was a jest,” Sebastian said in exasperation.

Carter laughed, but the others did not join him.

Olivia’s face burned with shame at what, in her mind at least, clearly amounted to an insult. In a voice full of scorn, she said, “Kind of you to take such an interest in my welfare, sir.”

If the spymaster felt chastised by the bitterness of her response, he did not show it. He cleared his throat and began. “The gathering of intelligence is an important key to the success of a spy. Another term for this process is espionage, the accumulation of secret information designed to help you forge a suitable plan of action against the enemy.”

At the spymaster’s dry explanation, Olivia swallowed the laugh threatening to bubble up from within. Hmmph! He has the gall to call “the accumulation of information” intelligence gathering? What nonsense. It’s nothing more than just plain gossip. If he expects me to fail this class, he’ll be terribly disappointed. Intelligence gathering, indeed! I’ve been gossiping ever since I learned to speak the King’s English.

At noon, when class was dismissed, Olivia followed her classmates to the trainees’ dining room for a hearty meal of mutton stew, bread and cheese, warm apple pie and tea. They served themselves from the sideboard against the far wall and took their seats at a long table in the middle of the room, one or the other rising occasionally to refill their plates.

Not only did Olivia clean her plate, she rose for a second helping, suffering teasing comments for her pains.

“Jolly good appetite, Fairchild.”

“Easy does it, Fairchild. Leave some for us.”

“That’ll teach you not to miss breakfast, lass.”

She grinned, pleased, for their good-natured jests signaled acceptance. But what was eating Carter, she wondered when he hadn’t joined in.

Their first class after the noonday meal was housekeeping, taught by Mrs. Hunnicut. She took the entire group on a tour of the building, from the storage cellar to the attic and above that to the chimneys on the roof. She explained in detail the workings of a large country house, something she knew well, for she had been housekeeper at an earl’s estate in Leeds before she married.

Heatham was much larger than Wilson Academy, Olivia noted. The procedures were familiar to her, but not to the other men.

“You will be expected not only to learn the function of every servant in this house, but also to practice their roles. Male trainees will be assigned to spend time as footmen dressed in proper livery, performing tasks such as carrying coal to the chambers, cleaning out the ashes, trimming the lamps, serving meals and the like. It will stand you in good stead should you be required to infiltrate a household for the purpose of espionage.

“As for you, Fairchild, you will learn to perform the various duties of maids. Their task is to keep the house clean, supply the chambers with water for washing and bathing, and keep the fires going. As a kitchen maid, you will be required to help the cook and as a scullery maid, you will wash dishes, pots and pans, and scrub the floor at the housekeeper’s request. All outdoor tasks will be described to you by the stable master. You may proceed to his class now. Good afternoon.”

As they filed out, she put a restraining hand on Olivia’s arm. “Fairchild? A moment please.”

“Yes, ma’am? What is it you wish?”

“The spymaster has requested that I arrange for you to be clothed properly. Come to my sitting room before you retire this evening, and I’ll take your measurements for the seamstress. She’s one of our under maids and she’s very handy with a needle. Our tanner will measure your feet as well. Those boots are far too large for you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hunnicut. Thank you, ma’am.” As she hurried off, she couldn’t help but wonder. Could this order mean something more than merely to provide her with suitably fitted clothing and boots? Could the spymaster be softening toward her? Could he have relented and accepted her role? If that were so, she’d have to work hard—harder than the others, perhaps—to reinforce that view.

The day turned warm and sunny by the time Olivia reported to the stables. The lads were already busy brushing the horses down, feeding them and cleaning their stalls.

Stable master Tom Deff, a gray-haired, Irish gentleman with a brogue to match, had been an accomplished circus rider in his youth. His innocent blue eyes belied the fact that he could be stern when necessary. “Afternoon, Fairchild. What kept ye?”

“Mrs. Hunnicut detained me, sir.”

He looked her up and down as if she were a filly he planned to purchase. “Any experience w’horses?”

“Yes, sir. My father believed that a rider could not be considered accomplished unless said rider knew how to care for a horse properly. I know how to brush my horse down, feed him, apply a hock when necessary, and clean his stall. My father says I have a good seat—for a woman, that is.”

Deff laughed heartily. “Yer da’s a man’s man, fer all that he’s a duke. You won’t embarrass him here, I expect. I have a horse for you in mind, lass. He’s young and frisky. Think you can handle him?”

“What do you think, sir?” she challenged with a smile.

“I think I’ll wait and see, but if you can bring this fidgety colt to heel, I’ll take me hat off to you.”

After dinner, the trainees repaired to study hall. There they concentrated on studying the day’s work they were expected to master. The twins put their heads together, but Carter and Perkins sat by themselves.

Riggs asked, “Shall we study together, Fairchild? Learning’s easier that way. At least for me.”

“I’d be honored, Riggs. Let’s take that corner so we don’t disturb the others.”

The two opened their manuals and set to work, turning to one another for explanation over one puzzling point or another. Most questions involved decoding, the most difficult of topics.

At half past the hour, Olivia said. “I have to leave you now, for I promised to report to Mrs. Hunnicut.” Olivia paused. “A question, Riggs. It’s about fetching wash water in the morning. It took me too long today. That’s why I missed breakfast.”

“Yes, I know,” he said kindly. “Here’s the trick to it, lass. Fetch the water from the well just before bedtime and heat it to a boil in a kettle in the kitchen—no one’s working there at that hour. When you return to your room, cover it well with a washing cloth. It may not be as hot as you would like by morning, but it will still be comfortably warm.”

“Good advice. I’ll try it tonight.” She gathered her manuals and began to rise, but Riggs stayed her hand. “What is it?”

He half rose to whisper in her ear. “Carter’s a toadeater. He reports everything to the spymaster. Be careful what you say in his hearing.”

“You saw Livy off all right? Where’s she gone to?” the duke demanded of his daughter Helena when she and Edward arrived at Heatham.

“I don’t know her exact location, Father. A coach came to fetch her away.”

“So she’s got her wish. In training to be a spy, is she?” he asked bitterly, without expecting any answer. “Much against my wishes.”

“Don’t raise your voice dear,” said the duchess calmly.

His Grace bit back a sharp retort. “I’m sorry, Helena, my love. Not your fault. Tell us all you know.”

“It was all very hush-hush, I fear.” Her eyes lit with amusement.

“What do you find so funny, child?”

“My dear parents, if you only knew the half of it. Her new wardrobe filled two coaches, but when a driver came for her, he wouldn’t allow her to take more than one small portmanteau.” She and her mother burst out laughing, for Livy’s fondness for new clothes was well known.

“Extraordinary,” grumbled her father. “Did she send for them?”

“They won’t allow it. You can’t see her bed for all the clothing and the trunks she was forced to leave behind. Her chamber resembles an elite shop in Bond Street. She tried to leave you each a letter saying good-bye, but the driver took them. She’s not to be allowed to communicate with the outside world during the twelve weeks of her training.”

His Grace held his head in his hands. “That long?”

“It’s the path she’s chosen, Father.”

“Chosen? Chosen? What gave her the right to make such a dangerous choice? She forced me to approve, but in truth I never wanted this for her and well she knows it. Am I not her father?”

“Stop it, Tony!” Her Grace warned in a sharp voice. She turned to her daughter and added kindly, “Leave us, dear. Your father and I need to talk.”

“Of course, Mother.” She rose and kissed first her mother’s forehead, and then her father, crossed the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

“Livy must be allowed to follow the path she’s chosen. You must accept that, Tony,” said Her Grace.

“Why should I, Ellen? Tell me that, will you?”

“Because if you don’t, we’ll lose her.” She went to him and held his head in her hands. “I won’t lose my firstborn, Tony. It is you who must give in. Put your mind at ease, dearest. It’s a government program, which means she is in capable hands and no harm will come to her. If she fails, you will see her home soon enough. Besides, you did agree to let her go, didn’t you?”

The duke ignored this reminder of a weak moment. “What if she succeeds? We lose her to her success. Did you ever think of that?”

“Oh my foolish, foolish darling. If Livy succeeds we shall rejoice for her, for that will be our daughter’s finest achievement.”