Chapter Text
“Ellesmere!”
The whisper jerked William out of his sleep. He sat up on his camp bed, rubbing his eyes.
“What time is it?” he asked groggily.
“It’s late. Get up, the General is asking for you,” whispered Captain Greyson before closing the flap to the tent.
William dressed hurriedly, pulling on his light breeches and boots before shrugging on his red coat. Combing his hair and securing it with a black ribbon, he walked to his commanding officer’s tent.
“Sir,” he said, executing a salute. The General looked up from the sheaf of papers on his desk.
“Ah, Ellesmere,” he said, “I have an errand for you.”
William stepped into the tent, approaching the table. A map of North America was spread across it, with small wooden placeholders depicting the positions of British army camps and possible rebel sites. The General picked up a navy blue placeholder—depicting a rebel site—and moved it to the small parish of Rosewood, Philadelphia on the map.
“We suspect there is a growing rebel presence in Rosewood,” he said, looking up at William, “There has been cause to believe that someone there is passing messages for the rebels.”
William frowned at the map. Rosewood was a tiny parish—almost insignificant—easy to ignore or overlook. It was just an hour from the army camp on horseback, positioning it perfectly for anyone who might want to spy on the activities of the British officers.
The General looked up at him, planting his fists firmly on the map.
“I want you to go to Rosewood and integrate yourself into the local population. Pretend to be a new settler, freshly arrived from England. Leave your uniform behind, create a backstory, and ferret out the spies. Once you’ve found them, send word to me, and I’ll send reinforcements. You have a month.”
William stared at the General, his heart racing. This was more than an errand—it was a covert mission, one that would require a certain lightness of touch and finesse. It also had the potential to go terribly wrong if he was discovered.
William nodded.
“Thank you for your trust in me, General,” he said, “You will have the rebels delivered to you within the month.”
“Good man,” said the General, looking back at the map, “Keep me updated as to your progress. A man from our regiment will arrive at the parish church every Sunday and seat himself in the last row. Give the letter only to him, and no one else.”
“Sir,” replied William, executing a short bow.
He returned to his tent, packing a small bag of belongings. What would a newly arrived immigrant, likely someone of modest means, carry with him to America? He took three shirts, three pairs of breeches, some stationery, a pocket watch, and a Bible. Shedding his red coat, he changed into a simple white shirt and brown breeches, donning a dark overcoat and hat.
Heading outside, he consulted the small map he kept folded in his pocket. Rosewood was an hour on horseback, but it would take longer on foot. He decided to walk—the regiment’s horses were too recognisable.
His heart racing with the closest thing he had felt to excitement in months, he set off at a brisk pace, determined to reach Rosewood before lunchtime.
*
Anna stood at her bedroom window on the top floor of the little cottage she shared with her father, folding the freshly washed sheets she had brought in from the line outside. She hummed softly under her breath, an old melody from her childhood. Her slim, tanned hands worked quickly, folding the long sheets with practised ease. A bird chirped outside the window, and Anna turned towards it with a smile. Through the branches of the apple tree that nearly obscured her window, he spotted a long figure walking slowly down the narrow road.
Curiously, she watched the figure as she worked. His steps were slow, as if he were tired. Stopping a short way away from her house, he pulled off his hat and wiped his brow. He was a young man—not older than twenty-three or twenty-four—his dark hair pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. He stood still for a moment, and then swayed.
Her eyes widening, Anna abandoned the sheets and hurried downstairs.
“Sir!” she called out, “Sir! Are you quite alright?”
The young man looked up at her. He had a pleasant, broad-boned face, full lips, and a straight nose. His cheeks were flushed red, and sweat ran down his temples.
“May I have a glass of water, please?” he asked, “I’ve walked rather a long way.”
“Of course,” said Anna, taking his elbow to assist him, “Please, come in.”
She led him into her tiny living room, easing him into her father’s armchair. She poured him a glass of water, approaching his chair to hand it to him.
“What is your name, good Sir?” she asked after he had taken several long sips, the hectic flush fading from his cheeks.
“William,” he said, looking at her with clear blue eyes, “William Dunsany.”
“You look rather tired, Mr Dunsany,” commented Anna, “Would you like to rest awhile? My father has just stepped out—he is due home soon. Would you like to join us for lunch?”
“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” said William with a smile, “Miss—?”
“Rose. Anna Rose.”
*
William studied the young woman—girl, really, she couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen—who had welcomed him into her house and invited him to stay for lunch. Though she had a conventionally Christian name, there was something unusual about her looks. Her skin was a warm gold, her cheekbones high, and her dark brown eyes slightly tilted at the corners. Her black hair was long and straight, worn in a single braid down her back. Though she was dressed in a simple dress, not unlike those worn by the other young women he had seen, there was something distinctly unusual about her appearance.
“Forgive me for asking, Miss Rose,” began William, “But have you always lived in Rosewood?”
Anna stared at him, seemingly surprised by his question.
“Yes,” she said, “My father’s grandfather, John Rose, founded Rosewood when he arrived in America from England.”
“I see,” said William, “Is it just you and your father, Miss Rose?”
“I have an elder brother, Jonathan,” said Anna, smoothing her skirts as she sat on the armchair opposite him, “But he’s in New York.”
William nodded, stroking his chin. Anna studied his face. In truth, it was not entirely appropriate for her to be alone in the house with a young man so close to her in age, but she was too curious to leave him alone and return to her chores.
“What brings you to Rosewood, Mr Dunsany?” she asked, interlocking her fingers on her lap. “You have an English accent. Have you come from the redcoat camp?”
William chuckled.
“I have an English accent because I have just arrived from England,” he said, “I got off the ship just yesterday, and spent the night at an inn before beginning my journey to town. I spent the last of my money on breakfast this morning, and am looking for a job. I’d like to settle in Philadelphia, and hope to bring my family over eventually. As for the redcoat camp, I wasn’t aware there was one nearby.”
“I see,” said Anna, leaning back in her chair, seemingly mollified, “Well, Rosewood is a very small parish. I am not sure if you would find employment to your liking here. Perhaps you should try one of the bigger towns.”
William leaned forward, giving her a charming smile that made a flush creep into her cheeks.
“I rather like small, peaceful places,” he said, “I grew up in London, and would like to escape the hustle and bustle of the city.”
“Then you’re in the right place,” she said, “And regarding the job, I am sure my father can help you find something.”
As she spoke, they heard a shuffling near the door, like the sound of boots being wiped against a mat. Anna sprang up from her seat.
“Papa’s home,” she said, rushing to open the door.
A middle-aged man stepped in, a large package wrapped in paper slung over his shoulder. His greying chestnut hair was tied into a low ponytail that curled at the ends, and his tanned, weathered face was lined. His shirt was rolled up to the elbows, and his patched waistcoat was unbuttoned.
“Take this to the kitchen for our supper, there’s a good girl,” he said, handing Anna the package before his eyes fell on William, “Hello! Who’s this?”
“Mr William Dunsany, from London,” said Anna before William could speak, “He’s just arrived in America, and is looking to settle down in Rosewood.”
Anna’s father chuckled. “I’m afraid you’ll find our neck of the woods rather dull after London,” he said, extending his hand to shake William’s, “John Rose III.”
“William Dunsany,” replied William, encasing the older man’s hand in his with a firm shake, “A pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
“Likewise,” said John Rose, settling into the armchair vacated by his daughter and mopping his brow, “Anna, fetch me a glass of water, would you? There’s a dear.”
William settled back in his armchair, his eyes roving over John Rose’s features. With his chestnut hair and blue eyes, he looked nothing like his daughter. William wondered if the girl was adopted.
“What are you staring at, son?” asked John, and William flushed.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude,” he muttered, averting his gaze. John chuckled.
“We don’t look much alike, do we?” he asked shrewdly, taking the glass of water his daughter brought to him, “My wife was Iroquois. She was a member of the Mohawk tribe.”
“I see,” said William politely, “How fascinating.”
“I’ve invited Mr Dunsany to stay for lunch, Papa,” said Anna, “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said John, settling into his armchair and easing off his boots, “Do you have a place to stay, boy?”
“Not yet,” admitted William, “I was hoping to find employment here, and perhaps take a small cottage of my own.”
“The school’s been wanting for a new schoolmaster since Mr Brown left,” mused John, “How educated are you, boy?”
“I can read, write, do mathematics, history, and geography,” said William, not wanting to give away too much about his education, lest it became clear that he came from a family of means, “I know a little French, too.”
John grunted.
“That’s enough for us,” he said, “I’ll take you down to the school tomorrow to apply for the post, if you’re amenable.”
“I am. Thank you kindly, Sir,” said William, his head spinning slightly at how quickly things seemed to be happening. It had barely been an hour since he had arrived in Rosewood, and he was already well on his way to getting a job. At this rate, he would probably be able to catch the spy in a fortnight.
“And till you get your first pay and can afford a cottage of your own, you can stay here with us,” said John with a smile, “Anna, make up the guest room for Mr Dunsany.”
*
The guest room was upstairs, across the corridor from Anna’s. It was small, but impeccably clean. There was no furniture save for a narrow bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a small desk and chair. The window overlooked the road William had taken to approach Rosewood, which was good—he would be able to watch for the approach of his liaison from the British camp on Sundays.
As he pulled off his boots and readied himself for bed, his mind wandered to the conversation he had had with John and Anna over supper. After saying grace, the family had tucked into a simple but delicious supper of roast beef Anna had made with the meat her father had brought from the market. John had questioned William about his family, and William had tried to stay as close to the truth as possible, so that he did not forget the details.
“My mother died giving birth to me, and my father shortly after,” he had said, “I was adopted by my mother’s younger sister and her husband, who raised me as their own.”
John shook his head in sympathy.
“Ah, to lose one’s parents so young is a terrible thing,” he said, “My wife—Kahwihta was her name, it means ‘she takes it with her’ in Mohawk—was taken from us far too early, when young Jonathan was barely more than a lad, and Anna was still in the cradle. She was shot by a redcoat when visiting her family. A massacre it was—more than twenty Mohawk were killed.”
John’s face twisted in grief, and Anna laid a comforting hand on his arm.
“From that day on, we decided to have nothing to those bastards,” he said, “They call the Indians barbarians, but they are the ones who kill for no reason on Indian land! Bloody redcoats… it’s unfortunate that a group of them are camped nearby—sometimes I feel like taking my shotgun and heading over there to give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“That’s enough, Papa,” said Anna firmly, “You’ve had too much to drink. Come, let’s get you to bed.”
William had helped Anna lift the man off his seat and take him across the hall to his bedroom. Their fingers had brushed, and a sizzle of electricity ran up William’s arm. He glanced at Anna, but she didn’t seem to have noticed.
“Damn redcoats,” muttered the older man as he sat on the edge of the bed, his daughter kneeling before him to pull off his shoes, “You better not get mixed up with them, boy. They’re nothing but trouble. Nobody in Rosewood likes them. If any of them dare set foot here, they’ll get shot, they will.”
“Don’t worry Sir, I won’t,” William had said, easing John into bed and standing back as Anna covered him gently with a light blanket. Within moments, he was snoring, and Anna snuffed the candle by his bedside before tiptoeing out of the bedroom with William. They had climbed the stairs in silence, William following her as the stairs were too narrow for them to climb side-by-side.
“Goodnight, Mr Dunsany,” Anna had said once they reached the landing outside their bedrooms, “I hope you secure the position of schoolmaster tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Miss Rose,” William had said, bowing slightly before entering his room.
As he stared up at the wooden ceiling, her father’s words played in his mind.
You better not get mixed up with them, boy. They’re nothing but trouble. Nobody in Rosewood likes them. If any of them dare set foot here, they’ll get shot, they will.
He would have to be very careful over the next month, and would have to leave no stone unturned in concealing his true identity. After all, he was a redcoat.