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Authors: Alyssa Alexander
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faces, carving deep lines around their mouths.
“What’s happened?” she asked sharply. “Your wife is well, John? Your children, Thomas?”
“They’re all well enough, Miss Gracie,” John said, his voice low and urgent. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “We found something in the smuggling caves, and don’t think as how it’s quite right.” He glanced at the other two men in turn. Each nodded in confirmation.
She, too, kept her voice low. “What did you find?” she asked, brows drawing together.
“This.” John reached into his homespun coat and pulled out a leather folio tied with a thong. “We found it inside a trunk of lace.”
He handed the folio to Grace. She untied the thong and opened the trifolded leather. Inside was a sheaf of papers covered with thick, heavy writing.
What she read had her mouth dropping open.
San Sebastian . . . Wellington to join . . . battering train traveling through Spain . . . appropriate siege guns, short on ammunition . . . troop count . . .
Then, on the next page:
Alastair Whitmore, code name Angel, 13 stone, over 6 feet, blond hair, brown eyes . . . Safe houses . . . 14 Avenue de la République, Paris . . . 22 Rue Carnot, Cherbourg . . . 4 Rue Delacroix, Calais . . .
At the close of the document was a French revolutionary call.
Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood, or Death.
Her ears buzzed and she could feel the color drain from her cheeks.
“I can read some,” the blacksmith said, bringing Grace out of her shock. “Though it’s harder when the words are joined. But I can tell it’s not right, is it, Miss Gracie? What’s on that paper, it’s not right.”
“No,” she answered. “No, John, it’s not right. It’s military information. Troop counts, munitions information.”
It’s treason
, she wanted to shout. Fear strangled the words in her throat.
“S’what we thought, Miss Gracie.” John nodded with grim satisfaction. “What’s on there shouldn’t be going to Cherbourg.”
“This information should not be outside of the Foreign Office, and most definitely should not be in France.” She closed the folio, rubbed her hands on the smooth leather. “When did you discover it?
“’Twas a fortnight ago.” Jem leaned forward. “The trunk was being loaded onto my fishing lugger.”
“We didn’t know what to do with it,” John told her. “We didn’t want to go to the magistrate or the customs house, not knowing who wrote it.” He took a bolstering sip of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We didn’t know who to trust.” Jem gestured toward her. “So we thought: Miss Gracie will know.”
But she didn’t have an answer as to whom they could
trust. Grace secured the folio with the thong. Tucking it away inside her coat, she wished she could hide treason as easily as she could hide the folio. Did she recognize the handwriting? She couldn’t be certain. Chilled, Grace pulled her coat more securely around her.
Thomas, the third man, leaned forward. His narrow features were serious and haggard. “It has to stop, Miss Gracie. I might ignore the law for a few extra coins, but I don’t hold with treason.”
Treason.
The word fell between them, a lead weight.
“Who should we tell?” Thomas continued. “And how do we tell someone without explaining how we found it in the quarries? We’d be turning ourselves in for smuggling. I have seven mouths to feed.” His voice was full of fear. “I can’t be taken up for smuggling.”
Grace looked around the table. Three pairs of eyes turned to her for answers. She could feel their anxiety, tense waves that radiated through the air. Each of them was afraid. For themselves, their wives and children, if they were caught smuggling.
“Someone must be informed,” Grace agreed, and held each of their gazes in turn. “I don’t know who—yet—but I give you my word, when I inform the authorities, I’ll protect you. I won’t give them your
“What’s happened?” she asked sharply. “Your wife is well, John? Your children, Thomas?”
“They’re all well enough, Miss Gracie,” John said, his voice low and urgent. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “We found something in the smuggling caves, and don’t think as how it’s quite right.” He glanced at the other two men in turn. Each nodded in confirmation.
She, too, kept her voice low. “What did you find?” she asked, brows drawing together.
“This.” John reached into his homespun coat and pulled out a leather folio tied with a thong. “We found it inside a trunk of lace.”
He handed the folio to Grace. She untied the thong and opened the trifolded leather. Inside was a sheaf of papers covered with thick, heavy writing.
What she read had her mouth dropping open.
San Sebastian . . . Wellington to join . . . battering train traveling through Spain . . . appropriate siege guns, short on ammunition . . . troop count . . .
Then, on the next page:
Alastair Whitmore, code name Angel, 13 stone, over 6 feet, blond hair, brown eyes . . . Safe houses . . . 14 Avenue de la République, Paris . . . 22 Rue Carnot, Cherbourg . . . 4 Rue Delacroix, Calais . . .
At the close of the document was a French revolutionary call.
Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood, or Death.
Her ears buzzed and she could feel the color drain from her cheeks.
“I can read some,” the blacksmith said, bringing Grace out of her shock. “Though it’s harder when the words are joined. But I can tell it’s not right, is it, Miss Gracie? What’s on that paper, it’s not right.”
“No,” she answered. “No, John, it’s not right. It’s military information. Troop counts, munitions information.”
It’s treason
, she wanted to shout. Fear strangled the words in her throat.
“S’what we thought, Miss Gracie.” John nodded with grim satisfaction. “What’s on there shouldn’t be going to Cherbourg.”
“This information should not be outside of the Foreign Office, and most definitely should not be in France.” She closed the folio, rubbed her hands on the smooth leather. “When did you discover it?
“’Twas a fortnight ago.” Jem leaned forward. “The trunk was being loaded onto my fishing lugger.”
“We didn’t know what to do with it,” John told her. “We didn’t want to go to the magistrate or the customs house, not knowing who wrote it.” He took a bolstering sip of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We didn’t know who to trust.” Jem gestured toward her. “So we thought: Miss Gracie will know.”
But she didn’t have an answer as to whom they could
trust. Grace secured the folio with the thong. Tucking it away inside her coat, she wished she could hide treason as easily as she could hide the folio. Did she recognize the handwriting? She couldn’t be certain. Chilled, Grace pulled her coat more securely around her.
Thomas, the third man, leaned forward. His narrow features were serious and haggard. “It has to stop, Miss Gracie. I might ignore the law for a few extra coins, but I don’t hold with treason.”
Treason.
The word fell between them, a lead weight.
“Who should we tell?” Thomas continued. “And how do we tell someone without explaining how we found it in the quarries? We’d be turning ourselves in for smuggling. I have seven mouths to feed.” His voice was full of fear. “I can’t be taken up for smuggling.”
Grace looked around the table. Three pairs of eyes turned to her for answers. She could feel their anxiety, tense waves that radiated through the air. Each of them was afraid. For themselves, their wives and children, if they were caught smuggling.
“Someone must be informed,” Grace agreed, and held each of their gazes in turn. “I don’t know who—yet—but I give you my word, when I inform the authorities, I’ll protect you. I won’t give them your
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