A Spy, page 4
Mary stared at Colonel Simcoe as he held his arm out and said, “Shall we be off?”
Taking his arm, she looked back at Mr. Townsend, but his eyes were burning in rage at the back of Colonel Simcoe’s head as they left the boardinghouse.
In the following weeks, Mary found herself desperately engaging in social activities with wealthy families throughout the city in order to avoid being home for too long. Thankfully, Colonel Simcoe still had his own usual duties to fulfill for the army. When the two were within proximity of one another, Colonel Simcoe at least remained a gentleman, though he made his desire and affection clear for Mary, leaving her no choice but to merely play hard to get. She feared what may occur if she boldly refused him.
Apart from her social visits, she was kept strictly at home. Whenever she attempted to leave for an errand, she was stopped by the Queen’s Rangers and Rebecca was instructed to go instead. It was as if they believed New York to be full of rebels and criminals, which in a way, they weren’t wrong.
Mary noticed how closely she was watched by Rebecca. Each time Mary attempted to leave, write a note to herself, or even one time when she searched through Colonel Simcoe’s belongings, she seemed to be noticed by the quiet, pretty servant.
One evening in late January, Mary sat before the fire as Rebecca brushed her hair. Colonel Simcoe had left that morning on orders to perform raids nearby, so just she and the servants remained in the house—the guarding Rangers remaining outdoors.
“Rebecca, will you bring me the papers bound by the pink ribbon?” Mary asked, gesturing toward her desk.
Rebecca did as she was asked, nervously glancing at the words.
Mary cleared her throat, hating what she was doing, but knowing it was necessary. Her position was made precarious enough with the presence of Colonel Simcoe. She did not need to feel threatened by a servant, as well. And a servant, she could sway.
“I see that you recognize your handwriting,” Mary began. “I did not recognize it—I was unaware that you were educated to read and write. ‘Twas your brother James who told me that these were your notes. Would you like me to remind you what they say?”
Rebecca hung her head silently.
“’Master André’,” Mary cleared her throat, holding one letter in the firelight. “’Miss André went to the same boardinghouse three times in the past two weeks.’” Mary glanced at Rebecca.
“Miss André—”
“’Master André, your sister was looking through Colonel Simcoe’s belongings.’” Mary set the papers aside and turned to face Rebecca.
“I’m sorry.”
“There is no need for you to apologize, Rebecca. I understand that my brother put you up to it, out of his concern for my safety. However, as you can see, I am safe.” Mary cringed at the lie but continued. “Yet that does not mean that I am not in need of those I can trust. I have been in your care for three years, now. I had hoped I could trust you, but if I cannot, then you will be dismissed—and I suggest you not allow your future employer to know of your ability to read and write. They may not be as forward-thinking as John is.”
Rebecca jumped at her chance for redemption and security, as Mary knew she would. “I’m so sorry, Miss André. I won’t snoop on you again. I was wrong! You can trust me, you can.”
Nodding, Mary held the papers out to Rebecca. “I am glad to hear it. Now burn these papers.” She pointed to the fire.
Rebecca frowned, looking at the ‘Master André’ at the beginning of each page. But she meekly obeyed, tossing the papers in the fire and watching them dissolve in the heat.
Mary sat with a book lying in her lap, her hand placed on a page that had been open for nearly half an hour now. She frowned.
Was she right in making Rebecca burn the letters? After all, Rebecca was only doing what she believed to be right. Did that make her right? Or wrong? For that matter, was Mary right in what she was doing? Some would say her conduct was entirely wrong, yet Mary’s resolve hadn’t once wavered…until now.
Abandoning her book, she approached Colonel Simcoe, who now sat at John’s desk. “Colonel…”
He looked up, greeting her with friendliness. She stared at him. Noticing her distressed gaze, he pulled her to the couch, sitting beside her.
“Are you well, Mary?” he asked.
Mary looked deeper at him, hoping to notice something different. Was she truly wrong? Was her perspective altered? Had she been seeing things incorrectly all this time? Truth to her had always been black and white, but it was beginning to be a frighteningly murky gray.
“You are a good man, are you not, Colonel Simcoe?” she whispered, studying his features and recalling the tender moments they had shared in her garden in Philadelphia.
His mouth quirked. “What a strange question you are asking.”
“Are you?”
“Of course, I am.” His mouth now spread in a slender smile.
Mary stared at his lips, then leaned forward and kissed him. She pressed deeper, as if somehow, she’d be able to taste the difference.
Captain Simcoe placed his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. He kissed her aggressively, his bottom lip full and demanding.
Soft, curious, gentle. Blue eyes, hovering hands.
Mary pulled away, gasping as images of Benjamin sparked in her mind like clarifying fireworks. She rushed out the door, wincing at the cold air enforced by the snow scattered on the ground.
“Miss André, whatever is the matter?” Colonel Simcoe shouted after her. She picked up her petticoats and ran.
Within the hour the Queen’s Rangers tracked her down, finding her walking by the outskirts of the city, gazing out toward the Schuylkill River. They escorted her home and surrendered her to the care of Rebecca.
“What was you thinkin’, runnin’ away like that, Miss André?” Rebecca chastised as she turned down the covers of the bed before leaving with a curtsy.
“It’s clear to me now. I cannot remain,” Mary whispered to herself. “Not while he is here.”
Climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to her chin, she shivered. She wished she could pray to God to erase that moment of folly in kissing Colonel Simcoe, but she knew she could not undo the past. She could only invite the forgiveness and redemption of Providence into her present and future. All the same, her mind played the moment over and over again, digging her into a grave of remorse and disgust. She needed to escape, in more ways than one.
Yet Mary’s instinct to be free of Simcoe only increased his protectiveness of her. His concern after her flight following their intimate moment caused him to station guards with her at all times, limiting her social calls and escorting her everywhere she went.
The bitter winter continued its reign until the end of March, when spring began to peek around the corner. Just as the presence of springtime rain turned the lingering winter snow to treacherous slush, the Colonel’s presence at Mary’s home caused her to tread with exhausting caution.
Any attempts to gather intel were pointless. Colonel Simcoe kept his private matters too close—and Mary did not want to get any closer to him than she already had. In fact, she had no desire to return to how close they had been before.
Unfortunately, she had played against herself in her moment of doubt that now relentlessly haunted her. The kiss she had shared with Colonel Simcoe fueled his efforts to woo her. As such, his eye was ever upon her, making a true escape impossible, no matter how many times she tried to come up with a plan.
Mary’s only refuge was Mr. Townsend. She had discovered that her two Ranger escorts enjoyed it when she gave them money to pay for drinks at a nearby tavern. Once free of them, she would meet with Mr. Townsend.
The two of them had created a plan by setting a lit lantern in the left-hand window above Mr. Townsend’s shop whenever he was home. In such a case, the rear staircase that had a door to outside remained unlocked, allowing Mary to slip in and join Mr. Townsend in his cramped quarters, where the two would discuss the information Mr. Townsend was delivering to headquarters.
At the times of greater agitation, Mr. Townsend proved a quiet yet meaningful companion as he listened to Mary’s nervousness with Colonel Simcoe’s presence and her frustration with being rendered mute by her brother’s absence. Mr. Townsend listened silently each time, offering a few gentle words of resilience to Mary. Yet with each circumstance, his resolve seemed to grow. Mary spent one particularly warm morning among a drearily rainy week walking the Ranelagh Gardens with a few other young ladies.
When she stepped through the door of her home a few hours later, a strange scent met her nose. Her body tensed, recognizing the sour odor most recently from the Battle of Monmouth.
Blood.
Tossing her cloak aside with caution, she reached in her pocket to reassure herself that her knife was there. Comforted by the fact that it was, she stepped slowly toward the sitting room.
“You see,” Colonel Simcoe’s voice sounded, “this is precisely why the rebels will never win. They are far too sloppy with military matters. Such disregard for details cost this foolish spy his life—and will lose the war for the so-called Patriots.”
Mary steeled herself and walked into the sitting room, stopping at the sight of a British soldier slumped in a chair, blood dripping from where a knife was embedded through his neck and into the chair cushion behind him. The shattered remains of a teacup lay on the rug. The tang of blood sharpened the air as it pooled on the soaked fabric.
Colonel Simcoe stood with his back to the room, gazing out a window as he wiped his bloodied hands on a napkin. His new second in command stood in the doorway, looking nervously at Mary as she stared in horror at the scene.
“Call Rebecca to clean this up,” Colonel Simcoe commented. “I’m afraid I must purchase a new chair for Major André before his return.”
The Queen’s Ranger cleared his throat, looking from Colonel Simcoe to Mary.
“What,” Mary’s voice sounded loudly in the dull roar in her head, “have you done?”
Colonel Simcoe turned, looking at her in surprise.
“I allow you to live here and you…murder a man in my own home?” Her tone was low, her voice steady yet fierce.
“I apologize for this sight, Miss André—I had expected you to be gone all day.” He tossed aside the bloodied napkin and approached her, gesturing for his second-in-command to leave. “And ’twasn’t murder, ’twas justice.”
Mary closed her eyes as Colonel Simcoe caressed her cheek.
“I am still your protector—imagine if this spy had come here and brought some sort of harm to you…?”
Shaking her head, Mary opened her eyes, shuddering at the sight of the dead man, his life source spilled out. Despite having taken lives herself, she could never become accustomed to the presence of death. “Who was he?” she whispered.
“I told you, a spy. Sent by Washington to scout out our numbers here, most likely.” Colonel Simcoe spoke evenly.
“How did you know?” Mary’s voice was now reduced to less than a whisper.
His hand toyed with a curl by her neck. “I noticed him frequenting places he didn’t belong. After inviting him here for tea, I observed his mannerisms and found them to be quite…American. The matter was settled when I asked where his brigade was wintered last year and he answered incorrectly.”
Mary felt dizzy. Her eyes fluttered open and shut as she fought to maintain her consciousness. The hands that caressed her now could very well be the ones that took her life.
“There now, do not let yourself be troubled.” Colonel Simcoe ran his finger along her cheek and across her jaw. “You are safe—the rebels will not trouble you.”
He bent down to kiss her. Mary evaded him by pulling away, clutching the door frame to keep from collapsing.
Rebecca entered with rags and a bucket of water and vinegar, stopping in shock at what she saw.
Taking this opportunity, Mary fled above stairs. Colonel Simcoe knocked on her door shortly after, but she didn’t answer.
It was dark when she heard another knock, halting her pacing.
“Miss André, it’s Rebecca,” the voice whispered from the other side.
Rushing to the door, Mary let her inside.
“The Colonel is below stairs, asleep by the fire,” she whispered. “Go, Miss André. Go to your friend at the boarding house.”
“But what about you?” Mary returned. “How will I excuse my disappearance?”
“I’ll be fine—I’m just a servant. Besides, my brother and the other servants will look after me. It’s what we do for one another. Take my clothes to disguise your appearance. I’ll just say you’ve suffered from poor nerves and need to recover.”
Mary shook her head, but Rebecca handed her a bundle of clothes. “It’ll give you enough time to get away.”
Compromising, Mary took the worn cloak from the pile and put it on. “I will go to my friend—but ‘twill take time for him to arrange my escape. Do not say anything to Colonel Simcoe yet.”
She slipped away out of the back of the house, her head down as she carried a basket. Her hands were covered with gloves, and her hood shaded her pale face.
As expected, the guards outside called out to her as she left through the door the servants used. Mustering her best rendition of Rebecca’s accent, she lowly replied, “My mistress is lettin’ me visit an ill relative.”
“Very well,” replied the guard.
Mary hurried through the shadows to Mr. Townsend’s shop. All was quiet and dark—most everyone in the dank city had gone to bed. No lantern sat shining in the upper window. After waiting impatiently, Mary withdrew a long pin from her hair and picked the lock after great difficulty. Shoving the door open, she charged up to Mr. Townsend’s room.
Mary set a lit lantern on the windowsill, then paced the room, growing more agitated with every passing second. The smell of blood aggravated her memory, echoing with the images of the dead man. He wore a British uniform, but Mary knew he was once a Continental spy. A spy—just like her.
Her breath coming in short gasps, her body shaking, tears trembling in her eyes, Mary pressed a hand to her forehead.
Just then, the door creaked open, and Mr. Townsend peeked in suspiciously. Seeing Mary in her anxious state caused him to rush in, taking her hands in his.
“Mary, what is it? Was it you who broke in? What is wrong?” he breathed forcefully.
She drew a couple breaths, shaking her head, beginning to cry with abandon. Mr. Townsend pulled her against his chest, holding her tightly as she cried.
When she had finished, he handed her his handkerchief.
“It’s Simcoe, isn’t it?” Mr. Townsend said quietly, holding one of her hands as they sat on his bed.
Mary wiped at her runny nose but nodded. She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I came home to find he had…stabbed,” she took a deep breath, “a spy in our sitting room. Just like that—no trial apart from the Captain’s own suspicions. No execution. Just…murder…”
“One of our spies?”
Mary shrugged as she took another shaky breath. “I imagine so—he was dressed like a British foot soldier.”
Mr. Townsend stiffened. “I knew it wouldn’t end well.”
“You knew about this spy?” Mary sat up to face him.
He avoided her gaze. “Washington insisted that Tallmadge enlist a new spy…he was concerned because he was no longer receiving reports on the British army in New York.”
The words sank in slowly. “They…wished to replace me?”
“Mary, I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal—none of this business is.” Mr. Townsend sighed.
Resting her elbows on her knees, she set her chin in her cupped hands. “No, I—I understand. I no longer serve my purpose. It’s been months since I’ve been able to gather any information at all…”
Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him. “I cannot stay here, Robert.” She sat up straight, clasping her hands tightly as she recalled how Colonel Simcoe had wiped his hands with a napkin, the blood smearing onto the cloth. “This is becoming too dangerous. What if he discovers that I am a spy? Will I be found dead in my own home?”
Quelling her panic, Mr. Townsend put his hand on her shoulders, the weight of his hand grounding her. After a pause, he turned away. “Another thing. I told Major Tallmadge that Simcoe is staying at your home.”
Mary’s heart leaped. “And?”
“No word, yet.”
Mary stood abruptly in frustration.
Mr. Townsend stood as well, touching her arm gently. “I will print a signal in the papers tonight. ’Twill go out in the morning—I can get a message to Mr. Roe by the end of the day. The day after, I am sure ’twill get to Major Tallmadge.”
“And then?”
He paused. “One of the Continentals can take you away, to camp. You’ll be safe with them for now. Have your servants tell everyone here that you left to stay…with friends in Oyster Bay. My family can vouch for you—as Quakers, they are trusted and expected to be politically neutral as well as honest. Their word will satisfy anyone inquiring after you.”
Mary nodded, beginning to see his plan come together in her mind.
Mr. Townsend stepped closer to her. They stared at one another for a moment.
“You’ll be safe, Mary,” he whispered, “I promise.”
Holding her breath, she watched as he pulled away and went to the door. “I best print the signal in those papers, if I am to finish before dawn.”
Mary went to him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Robert.”
He blushed and left. After waiting a few minutes to let his plan sink in, calming her nerves bit by bit, she slipped out and returned home.
Rebecca was waiting for her. She helped Mary to bed, but Mary did not sleep.
The following day, Mary busied herself throughout the city with social calls and errands. Before she left the house, she saw a few of the Rangers carrying the large rug from the sitting room out of the house. Disgusted and unnerved, Mary continued on her way. When she returned late that evening, she came in the back of the house and retired to her room, locking the door once more.
