silk on the walls, the mirrors, and the gilt, but the room held no flowers.
“Do sit down, Sebastian. Were you guessing?”
No, he’d not been guessing. He’d been relying on the same instinct that allowed him to reduce grown men—brave, determined grown men—to weeping, undignified children. Sebastian appropriated the rocking chair by the fire and tried to fashion an answer.
“English cavalrymen riding dispatch were forever getting caught with orders in their boots, their shirts, their hats, their sleeves. A few were clever enough to make hidden slits in the leather of their saddles, or false compartments in their saddlebags. A very few admirable patriots secreted orders in their underlinen.”
Aunt liked that part about the underlinen. She lit on a cream-colored sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. “Do go on. Tea, Professor?”
“No thank you, my lady.”
“Most of those riding dispatch had simply accepted sealed orders and gone galloping off with a tidy packet of intelligence just waiting to be captured and deciphered.”
Aunt looked thoughtful while she stirred sugar and cream into her tea. “I gather you took a different approach?”
He’d taken many different approaches. “When I needed information sent to a higher command, or sent”—he shot his cuffs and did not look at Baumgartner—“ elsewhere , I relied on the peasantry, the unlettered and the unremarkable, to relay my messages.”
“And this worked?”
“Not always.” No method, no procedure, no clever scheme had been without its failures, some of them spectacular. “I found, though, that those who could not write had prodigious memories. They had far more accurate recall of what they’d been told than those who’d merely shoved a packet of paper into their kit bag and ridden away.”
“And Milly Danforth has such a memory.” Aunt held out a plate of tea cakes to Sebastian, but not to Baumgartner, who would not bother with sweets when there was business to be transacted. “She can recite anything she’s heard practically word for word, sometimes when I’d rather she didn’t.”
Sebastian had listened to Miss Danforth often enough over breakfast, but her ability to recall conversations hadn’t registered, not until her cousin’s visit.
“She has no lap desk,” he said, “and she didn’t send written word to her aunt when she arrived here that she’d found a decent post. She has no Bible, no Book of Common Prayer with her name inscribed in it. She neither sent nor received any written communications. The neighbors got word to her not by sending a note, but by word of mouth when somebody had an errand in Town and could stop by the kitchen door to pass along the news in person.”
“To have no letters, none in any language, is a sad, sad poverty,” Baumgartner observed.
“To have that Upton swine as your sole male relation is a worse poverty yet,” Aunt snapped.
“To have the Traitor Baron as your nephew is the saddest poverty of all,” Sebastian said. “And yet, Miss Danforth has agreed to remain in our household, despite that unhappy connection.”
“Of course she did,” Aunt said. “I pay well, and my company is agreeable.”
Both men remained silent.
“I pay very well, and my company is not disagreeable,” she amended. “And you two are no gentlemen. Sebastian, be off with you. The professor and I have letters to write.”
He rose, exchanging a look of sympathy with Baumgartner. The German was in every sense in Aunt’s confidence, not a particularly comfortable honor.
And Baumgartner’s sympathy for Sebastian? To claim the Traitor Baron as one’s only male relation was indeed a sad, sad poverty.
***
Parisians were sensible people. They appreciated the great blessing of living in one of the most beautiful, vibrant cities on earth, and assembled at cafés and along the boulevards when social inclinations overtook them. An occasional stroll in the ordered and civilized surrounds of the
“Do sit down, Sebastian. Were you guessing?”
No, he’d not been guessing. He’d been relying on the same instinct that allowed him to reduce grown men—brave, determined grown men—to weeping, undignified children. Sebastian appropriated the rocking chair by the fire and tried to fashion an answer.
“English cavalrymen riding dispatch were forever getting caught with orders in their boots, their shirts, their hats, their sleeves. A few were clever enough to make hidden slits in the leather of their saddles, or false compartments in their saddlebags. A very few admirable patriots secreted orders in their underlinen.”
Aunt liked that part about the underlinen. She lit on a cream-colored sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. “Do go on. Tea, Professor?”
“No thank you, my lady.”
“Most of those riding dispatch had simply accepted sealed orders and gone galloping off with a tidy packet of intelligence just waiting to be captured and deciphered.”
Aunt looked thoughtful while she stirred sugar and cream into her tea. “I gather you took a different approach?”
He’d taken many different approaches. “When I needed information sent to a higher command, or sent”—he shot his cuffs and did not look at Baumgartner—“ elsewhere , I relied on the peasantry, the unlettered and the unremarkable, to relay my messages.”
“And this worked?”
“Not always.” No method, no procedure, no clever scheme had been without its failures, some of them spectacular. “I found, though, that those who could not write had prodigious memories. They had far more accurate recall of what they’d been told than those who’d merely shoved a packet of paper into their kit bag and ridden away.”
“And Milly Danforth has such a memory.” Aunt held out a plate of tea cakes to Sebastian, but not to Baumgartner, who would not bother with sweets when there was business to be transacted. “She can recite anything she’s heard practically word for word, sometimes when I’d rather she didn’t.”
Sebastian had listened to Miss Danforth often enough over breakfast, but her ability to recall conversations hadn’t registered, not until her cousin’s visit.
“She has no lap desk,” he said, “and she didn’t send written word to her aunt when she arrived here that she’d found a decent post. She has no Bible, no Book of Common Prayer with her name inscribed in it. She neither sent nor received any written communications. The neighbors got word to her not by sending a note, but by word of mouth when somebody had an errand in Town and could stop by the kitchen door to pass along the news in person.”
“To have no letters, none in any language, is a sad, sad poverty,” Baumgartner observed.
“To have that Upton swine as your sole male relation is a worse poverty yet,” Aunt snapped.
“To have the Traitor Baron as your nephew is the saddest poverty of all,” Sebastian said. “And yet, Miss Danforth has agreed to remain in our household, despite that unhappy connection.”
“Of course she did,” Aunt said. “I pay well, and my company is agreeable.”
Both men remained silent.
“I pay very well, and my company is not disagreeable,” she amended. “And you two are no gentlemen. Sebastian, be off with you. The professor and I have letters to write.”
He rose, exchanging a look of sympathy with Baumgartner. The German was in every sense in Aunt’s confidence, not a particularly comfortable honor.
And Baumgartner’s sympathy for Sebastian? To claim the Traitor Baron as one’s only male relation was indeed a sad, sad poverty.
***
Parisians were sensible people. They appreciated the great blessing of living in one of the most beautiful, vibrant cities on earth, and assembled at cafés and along the boulevards when social inclinations overtook them. An occasional stroll in the ordered and civilized surrounds of the
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