Lady Deception

Prologue

1804, Folkestone, Kent

It was not uncommon for strange men to arrive at Tearmann Cottage in the cover of night. Their feet were light as they walked along the beach in the port town of Folkestone. As the waves of the cold sea crashed against the jagged rocks, these men climbed the cliffs, with only the moonlight to illuminate their way.

On top of the cliffs sat Tearmann Cottage, which was set away from the hustle of the port. It was a small stone building, with a thatched roof and diamond-pane windows. To the unassuming, Tearmann Cottage was an ordinary home filled with ordinary people.

But there was nothing ordinary about it.

To those who knew its true identity, it was a safe house for the loyalists to the British Crown. Those branded British informants, officers--spies. The cottage was basked in a secret language, known only by allies in the fight against the treacherous Napoleon Bonaparte.

Anne Chadwick lit the fire in the hearth like she did every nightfall. Slowly, smoke floated through the chimney and into the night sky, signalling that a bed for the night was ready for any ally who needed it. She wondered if she would have another strange man knock on her back door, slightly damp from his trek by the sea. Would he be a British informant, needing to take refuge in a place he knew was not filled with the enemy? Or an injured soldier, in his bloodied uniform in need of patched up care?

Mrs. Chadwick enjoyed the unknown of it all. She would be ready for anything that came her way, as she had been since Britain had declared war on France back in May. Her husband was gone fighting France, and she never had children of her own. This was her purpose, her life. And she would do what she could to be of use.

That night Mrs. Chadwick awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door to her cottage. At first she thought it was the wind, for the sound was so soft and delicate. It was not the abrasive, violent knock for help that she was used to. She sat up in bed and listened for the sound again.

Mrs. Chadwick lit a candle and carried it to the back door. She did not wait for her only servant, Maisie, to awaken. Instead, she slowly pried open the door and squinted, using the glow of the candle to illuminate the figure seeking refuge.

To Mrs. Chadwick's surprise, her visitor was a young lady. Even in the dark, she could make out her dress was once a very fine ball gown. But now the hem was worn, and small rips and tattered threads hung from the sleeves.

The poor girl was shivering and smelt of the earth, yet she carried an elegant air about her.

Who was she?

"Forgive me for intruding, ma'am, but is this Tearmann Cottage?" The young woman asked, in a brogue Mrs. Chadwick identified as west London. "I am looking for a woman by the name of Anne Chadwick."

Mrs. Chadwick pursed her lips, wondering if she could be trustworthy. She daren't confirm her identity without a test. Then she asked, "What color is the rain?"

The girl furrowed her brows, confused by the question. But then, her eyes widened, and she said confidently, "Yellow."

She passed the test. Only the General's spies and allies were privy to the secret password, which changed frequently.

"Then you have reached Anne Chadwick. Come in," Mrs. Chadwick said, widening the door to let the refugee into the warmth of the cottage.

The young woman smiled and bobbed her head in thanks, before entering. Mrs. Chadwick led her into the parlor, instructing her to sit near the fireplace. The girl sat down, with grace, smoothing her soiled skirts, as if her appearance did not reflect the deshivled, filthy figure that it did.

They said nothing as Mrs. Chadwick took a turn about the room, lighting the candles which sprouted haphazardly throughout the room. When there was a satisfactory amount of lighting, she sat in her favorite chair, which was conveniently situated directly across from her new visitor. Now in the candlelight, she noticed how unnaturally pale the girl's skin looked, as if sickly. Mrs. Chadwick, being an observant woman, quickly found the likely source of this discoloration.

"You are injured," Mrs. Chadwick said, motioning to the girl's left hand. It was wrapped in a strip of white cloth--perhaps a cravat? But the fabric which covered her palm was soaked in a dark red stain of blood.

The young woman looked down at her injured hand, stroking the bandage.

"Only a little cut," she said, looking up. "The cliff rocks are sharper than they appear."

"The dressing should be changed." Mrs. Chadwick arose, and gathered supplies from a nearby drawer. There were many unexpected tools tucked away in the shadows of this parlor.

She motioned for the girl to outstretch her hand, and Mrs. Chadwick went to work untying the old bandage. As she pulled the fabric away from the wound, the girl winced, clearly in pain.

The laceration stretched horizontally across, almost perpendicular to the head line on her palm. The cut was clean and precise, as if done by a blade, not a rock. But Mrs. Chadwick did not ask questions.

She dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of water, and dabbed the area. Vibrant red blots soaked into the fabric.

"I reckon if you know who I am, I ought to know who you are. Shall we start with a name?" Mrs. Chadwick said, her voice calm. The young woman shifted in her seat. Was it from the pain of the wound, or discomfort from the question?

"My name is. . .," she paused, as if thinking about it. "Lucie. Lucie Tarrent."

"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Tarrent."

"And you, Mrs. Chadwick. Truly," Ms. Tarrent said. "I know not what I would have done were you to not take me in. I have been on a long pilgrimage, with little to eat and no shelter."

"How long have you been traveling?" Mrs. Chadwick asked.

"Two days, I believe. Although it feels much longer."

Silence clung between the two. There was an obligation for an explanation, but Mrs. Chadwick would not be the one to pry it from her. Instead, she wrung out the soiled cloth, watching the now orange-tinted water drip back into the bowl. She often found that silence was a much better interrogator than questions were.

"I know you must be wondering how I came to you," Ms. Tarrent said, taking a deep breath. Mrs. Chadwick tried not to smile.

"I was forced into an engagement with a man I did not love. I cannot fathom marriage--wifehood, truly. I crave a deeper purpose. A more. . patriotic purpose."

"I reckon you know the General?"

"Y-yes. He knew my predicament, and helped me run away, with the understanding I would become an informant, of some kind. For England." Ms. Tarrent's explanation was smooth and confident, yet her eyes showed pain. She was clearly telling the truth. 

Mrs. Chadwick took pity on Lucie Tarrent. She was so young, likely not even two-and-twenty. And clearly, she had come from a comfortable life, and gave it all up to become a British spy. It was quite the story, but just insane enough to be the truth. Mrs. Chadwick could only hope that this girl would not regret her decision.

After all, when you abandon everything you know--there is no going back to it.

"There," Mrs. Chadwick said, securing a new bandage on Ms. Tarrent's hand. "Well, it sounds as though you have had quite the journey. Best to get some rest before the sun decides to rise. We can discuss your future in the morning."