Carlisle, England, March 1808—seven-years ago
“Will that be all, then, Gus?” Mary wiped the damp rag over one of the pub’s roughened tabletops, then brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek with the back of her wrist.
“Aye. Ye can go on home noo, Mary.” Augustus, the Hog and Toad’s heavily-set owner waved her off, his Scottish burr thick and rumbling.
Mary eagerly hurried behind the counter at the far end of the large, open pub and removed her work-worn apron. It must have been at least half of four in the morning, for all the pub’s patrons had already ventured drunkenly home and Mary’s eyes felt like someone had thrown sand beneath their lids. She placed the damp rag and her apron over an old wooden stool, eager to depart her place of work and return home to Papa.
That evening’s performances had gone as well as could be expected for her modest pub plays. She smiled to herself. Just over a year ago, someone had come into the pub and watched her perform. He had been so impressed with her that he had invited her to join his cast in Shakespeare’s Othello. Since then, she had worked both at the pub and in the local theatre. Combined, she worked all the days of the week, sometimes in both places in one day. It was trying, but she was rather proud of herself. The pub was by no means a pleasing position, but it paid well enough to help support Papa and to save a few meagre coins.
One day she would have saved enough coin to travel to London to become a true actress.
“Yer earnings,” Gus grunted as he neared her.
Mary accepted the precious coins and quickly placed them in the pocket of her threadbare cotton dress.
“Thank you. Good night, Gus.” She pulled her out-of-style pelisse off the peg beside the rear door and slipped her arms into the sleeves.
“G’night, Mary.” He lifted one thick, callused hand to tug on his forelock.
She turned to smile over her shoulder at the large man as she looped the buttons through their awaiting holes. She pulled her black mantle off the next peg and put it on as well, the dark material covering her to the very tips of her half boots. The mantle disguised her well enough in the darkness of night, though Mary rarely saw a soul on the streets of Carlisle so late—or early—to warrant any amount of concern on her part.
With one last wave, Mary lifted the hood to cover her dark auburn hair and opened the door into the night. She pulled her mantle closer together at her throat as the cold wind threatened to seep within. She had forgotten her gloves that morning, but it hardly mattered. Her hands were so badly callused from her work, no glove could protect them from chapping in the cold air of winter.
She hurried herself along the cobblestoned street, her soft footfalls echoing off the short, narrow buildings around her. It had been two days since the last rain, but the dampness still hung in the air, giving the night an eerie, light fog that seemed to hang about the ground around her ankles. The chill raked its cold fingers up her calves and down into her half boots, making her long for the hot coals in her father’s modest fireplace.
The moon hung lazily in the sky, casting its milky-silver glow over the land. While the sight was beautiful, it had become commonplace for her. What she truly longed for were the beautiful sights of London.
She knew what actresses faced in London, how they endured lurid advances and were treated as whores or taken as mistresses. Mary believed herself of a strong constitution, however, and could withstand such advances. Being an actress might have its challenges in London, but not only would it provide a living for her and enable her to live life in the company of others, it would also allow her to fulfil her life’s passion of performing.
Perhaps one day she would marry and have children, but she was as likely to be a man’s kept mistress as a smithy’s or a cobbler’s wife. Such was a fine enough life for her.
“Ooooh,” a breathy exclamation came from somewhere behind her.
Mary swung around to see three silhouettes stumbling out of the innyard and her heart skittered in her chest. They were men that Gus had forcibly removed from the pub earlier in the night, as they’d begun to verbally abuse the other patrons.
She quickly turned around and increased her pace. Mary had had experience dealing with drunken men and inappropriate advances, but such had always been in the public eye and with fewer men to defend herself against. She had no desire to fight these men off on her own, so she sped along the cobblestones.
“Look-ey wha’ we got here, gennelmen,” one of the men slurred.
Mary turned to look over her shoulder as one man slipped on the damp cobblestones and fell to his knees on the hard ground of the thoroughfare. The other two men brayed with laughter at their fallen comrade, and Mary quickly turned and continued.
At the curve in the road was a tall stone archway that led to the long, narrow path to the fields of Lord Winning’s estate. The walls of the walkway were nearly shoulder-height, and opened up into the night’s sky, and at the end of the path was an iron gate. Such a narrow route could increase her peril, but it was the only way home without turning back and walking toward the intoxicated toffs.
The men’s laughter swiftly died. In the silence, she could hear their footfalls coming up behind her, the fallen man evidently once more on his unsteady feet.
“It’sss the wench f—from the pub.” The voice was much closer now.
Mary had always disliked her role as the pirate wench in her pub performances, but Gus was adamant that she continue in that role once per week, as it brought in customers. Mary was now more certain than ever that it attracted the wrong sort of customers.
“Wha’ should we do with ‘er? Eh?” one of the other men said.
“I think weee should t—tup ‘er, wot, wot?”
A shiver went up Mary’s spine. She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer that the “manoeuvres” that her father had taught her once she had begun work at the pub actually worked to fend off these drunken louts.
“Hey, preddy wench, stop a minute!” The voice was yet closer, almost upon her heels.
Mary sped her pace.
“Hay! We wanna t—talk to you!”
She had finally reached the narrow, stone arched passageway that led out of town when a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. Mary swung around, leading heavily with her knee. It knocked him squarely in the cods and he fell to the ground with a groan.
“Oi!” one of his friends shouted.
Then she was surrounded. She had the urge to look about frantically for someone to save her, but she firmly tamped the impulse down. No one would save her. The street was vacant and even if it wasn’t, the likelihood of someone coming to the rescue of a pub “wench” and amateur actress were slim if not non-existent. No. She must save herself.
“Come, come, whore, you know you wanna lift your skirts for us fine blokes,” a man behind her said, a waft of his whisky-soaked breath reaching her nose.
“Yesssh,” the other sneered, “we’ll even pay ye for it.”
The injured man still writhed on the ground, his hands clutched at his man bits.
“Let us sthee your purdy face…”
Suddenly her hood was removed from her head in a whoosh, her wild hair loosening haphazardly. The man behind her tugged harder and her mantle fell entirely from her shoulders, leaving a wash of frigid air to steal over her body.
“Cor!” one of the men exclaimed. “I get ‘er first.”
Moving on instinct, Mary spun on her heel and ran.
Then, they were on her.
Heavy breathing came from behind her as one arm snaked around her waist. The man pulled, forcing her back against his chest. Mary struggled even as his other arm came to join the first, his grip tightening. Her elbows connected with his ribs and her fists pounded at his forearms to no avail. The blackguard grunted as she made impact, but he held fast.
The other two men rounded in front of her, reaching for her skirts, the injured man evidently recovered. She kicked her legs, trying to connect with anything sensitive.
The tip of her half boot hit one man’s shin. “Damn it!” he roared.
Desperate, Mary flung her head backwards, directly into her captors’ nose.
Several muffled curses rent the air as he released her to cover his injury.
She staggered away, then picked up her skirts and ran. She sprinted as fast as she could through the narrow pathway that led to Lord Winning’s estate, her breaths coming in panicked pants. The passage was too long. Too far. She couldn’t gain enough of a head start from these attackers.
Disembodied huffs of breath followed closely behind her as she ran. Her pulse raced almost painfully in her chest, her throat and lungs felt seared with cold as she laboured for each gulp of air. It ached. It burned. But she pushed herself on.
The gate to Lord Winning’s fields was just up ahead. If she could but reach it…
A hand clutched her elbow and wrenched her arm backward, sending screaming pain up into her shoulder, and forcing her into an abrupt stop. She swung around, prepared to deliver another knee to this man’s parts, but he anticipated her movement and blocked her with his own knee.
Mary scoured her mind for the other manoeuvres she had learned for defending herself, and in a last-minute effort, Mary stiffly extended her fingers and jabbed them just below the juncture point of one ruffian’s ribs. That earned her a brief respite as he wheezed for breath, but one of his hateful companions quickly took his place.
His large hand gripped her jaw, his fingers digging deeply into her skin, pinching her cheeks together and forcing her lips to purse.
His blood-soaked lips curved back to reveal startlingly white teeth. “You,” he said, his voice dripping with malice and his breath reeking of drink and the metallic zing of blood. “You will suffer for this.”
The next moments were a blur of agony. She kicked and fought as much as she could, taking solace in the evil villains’ grunts of pain as her fists and heels connected with their soft flesh.
The sound of quick footfalls registered in the back of her mind, but her thoughts were focused solely on her own defence.
A swift movement caught her eye as one of the men drew a fist back to deliver another blow to her face. Mary grimaced and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, preparing for another blazing burst of fire to radiate through her head.
“Release her,” a cultured voice brimming with controlled rage said from somewhere beyond her assailants.
In that instant, Mary’s bravery fled. Even though her arms were suddenly free, Mary didn’t move. She clapped her hands over her ears and kept her eyes squeezed shut, flinching as warm liquid splattered her. The sounds of muffled shouts, thuds, cracks, and all manner of other nauseating noises could still be heard through the barrier of her hands.
Then it was silent. The only sound she could hear was the beating of her thudding heart and her panicked breathing echoing in her ears.
Something lightly touched her shoulder and she shrieked, cowering where she knelt. Then there was nothing, once more. No touch, no noise, just calm. And patience. Whatever manner of person it was that had interrupted what could very possibly have ended with not only the loss of her virtue, but very likely her demise, one could at least credit them with patience.
With a deep breath to fortify her courage, Mary cracked open one eye.
“Do not be alarmed. I will not harm you,” the cultured voice said softly from the shadows. Or is he the shadow?
She opened her other eye and gazed into the darkness. The assailants were gone; vanished as though into thin air. The only evidence that there had been anyone there were the splatters of blood over the walls, ground, and on her person.
She licked her swollen lips and whispered, “Wh—where are they?”
“I took care of them. You do not need to fear them any longer.”
Mary nodded, but Lord knows she hadn’t the faintest idea where he would have deposited the three drunken, malicious devils.
“Thank you,” she said.
A hand shot out of the darkness and she flinched. Then she realized that he meant to help her to her feet and she blushed. “I’m sorry.” Her voice wavered.
“There is no need to apologize to me. You have just been through an ordeal and have every reason to not trust me. I am a stranger in the dark.”
Mary jutted her chin in defiance at her own fear and accepted his hand, allowing him to assist her to her feet. She felt oddly unsteady, but the man shrouded in darkness remained silent and patient as she gripped his arm to right herself.
“Your cloak, I believe.” He extended his free hand, and hanging from his two outstretched fingers was her mantle. “I am afraid that it may be torn beyond repair, however.”
Indeed, her mantle appeared to have been rent nearly in half; it must have been rather more threadbare than she had thought. After what had just transpired, however, the loss of her mantle was hardly of any significance. “I thank you again, sir.” She draped the ruined material over the wall of the passage. Perhaps she would bring it home and use it as washrags.
“My name is Richards, Miss.”
“Pleased… Well,” she amended, “under the circumstances, pleased to meet you, Mr. Richards. I am Mary Wright.”
The milky moonlight shone over the man’s dark hair and shadowed features. She could easily be frightened by his imposing presence, but something about him compelled her to feel safe. Part of it, she was certain, was due to the fact that he had just rescued her from a terrible fate.
He affected a bow, quick and rigid.
“You defended yourself most admirably, Miss Wright. You displayed knowledge, skill, bravery, and the willingness to defend yourself. This may sound inopportune and perhaps inappropriate, but I have a proposition for you.”
Disappointment crashed over her, but she could not muster the strength to be outraged—or flattered. She felt rather disheartened that the man had only saved her out of a desire to bed her himself. Despite how kind Mr. Richards appeared to be, however, she had no interest in becoming a man’s mistress at present.
“While I appreciate your offer, Mr. Richards—”
“I would like to teach you.”
Mr. Richards’ words overlapped hers and she was not certain that she had heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I manage a small…education program at my estate in Brampton. I have several students under my tutelage there, where I teach them skills for defending themselves, language, history, accents…” His teeth shone silver in the moonlight as he grinned. “Reconnaissance, sleuthing, interrogation, espionage, infiltration, and the handling, loading, and use of all manner of weaponry.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide, and her disappointment fled. He’s bamming me. Surely he’s bamming me.
But what if he wasn’t? What if he was a…a spy who taught spies? Or, even worse, what if he was a spy for the other side? She could not abide inadvertently joining the fight for England’s enemies.
A folded piece of parchment appeared before her eyes. “My documentation,” he said. “Though I do not know how well you can read it in this light.”
Even if the sun was shining brightly in the sky, Mary was not certain that she could read it anyway, her eyes being as tired as they were. She rubbed her index finger over the wax seal, feeling the design in the indentation. The royal crest, unmistakably.
Anticipation bubbled through her midriff at the thought of learning the skills to defend her country, to defend herself. But what of her plans for the future? What of her hope of becoming an actress?
She hugged her arms across her stomach in an attempt to ward off the frigid air, the parchment crinkling in her hand.
“I thank you, Mr. Richards, but as much as I would like to—”
“I apologize for interrupting, Miss Wright, but there is something I should like to add before you make your decision.”
She nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“There is one additional advantage to becoming a crown spy. Once your training is complete, you may take on any position in London, be it as a governess, maid…or actress. Whatever you decide, we will ensure that it comes to fruition.”
Mary stood frozen. Her dreams could be realized, as simple as that? With one stipulation; that she become a spy. Could she do it? Could she become a spy for England? She hugged her arms closer around her middle, the cold and humidity of the night seeping easily through her pelisse and dress, soaking deep into her skin. She was chilled, weary, aching, and injured; she wished for nothing more than a bracing wash with a rag, a cup of watered-down tea, and her lumpy but warm bed.
But…what if she could have more? What if she could be further educated and acquire a position as an actress in London? She could provide for Papa as he aged, realize her dreams, and live comfortably.
There was no question.
“I would be pleased to accept,” she heard herself say, the puff of her breath against the cool air turning to a wispy cloud of fog before her eyes.
Another grin from Mr. Richards veritably shone in the darkness. “I am pleased to hear it.”
* * *
The following hour was a whirlwind. Mr. Richards escorted Mary home, ensuring that she understood the importance of her silent tongue. She wished that she could tell Papa the whole of the tale, but as Mr. Richards so aptly pointed out, any connection that an enemy may make to loved ones could end poorly, indeed.
They reached her and Papa’s modest crofter’s cottage where she slipped inside to pack her meagre belongings; two dresses, one set of underthings, a pair of half boots, and the beautiful conch shell that had been gifted to her by Gabriel.
She reached between her mattress and the hard-packed earthen floor and retrieved a small pouch of coins. Where she was going, she did not require her savings. This evening’s earnings, where it currently rested in her pocket, ought to suffice for funds. She then strode toward the worn tabletop near the kitchen to one side of the cottage, and placed the pouch atop it, the coins inside clinking. She retrieved a treasured sheet of vellum and penned a note informing Papa that she was to journey to London for a wonderful opportunity and would write and visit soon. She then placed the note beside the pouch and returned outside to Mr. Richards.
It was significantly brighter than an hour before, the moon slowly fading with the lightening of the sky. The air still held a strong chill and Mary shivered, lamenting the loss of her mantle.
Mr. Richards’ gaze flicked down to her attire, then back to her face.
Mary looked down at herself for the first time since her incident with the three men and she could not help the gasp that escaped. Her pelisse and bodice were torn enough to expose the tops of her breasts and a great amount of blood splattered her front, from exposed bosom to the tips of her half boots.
“Oh dear,” she said. “I fear this is far beyond repair.”
He cleared his throat. “We have a modiste and tailor in residence at my estate—Grimsbury Manor. I will have Mrs. McPhee attempt to fix your dress if you like, or she could be commissioned to fashion you an entirely new wardrobe. The choice, of course, is yours.”
Mary looked up at him, amazed. What an ingenious notion. She was, however, short on coin.
She gently shook her aching head. “I fear that my dress will have to go. I have two more in my bag, however; they will have to do until I can earn more coin.”
His grin returned. “I failed to mention, Miss Wright, that our modiste will not work for your coin. I employ her just as I do the cook. You may request of her any number of gowns and she shall make them.” His gaze turned meaningful. “If you are to become an actress, you will require a vastly different style of dress. But you shall learn all of that in your lessons.”
Mary nodded, a delighted smile on her lips.
“Are you ready?” Mr. Richards asked.
Mary looked at him. In the dim light of early dawn, she saw how very handsome the man was. He was tall, lean, and had dark waving hair and a grin that surely broke hearts wherever it was brandished. Her heart, however, was unmoved. She supposed that was for the best.
“I am ready.”