at half past noon.”
Olivia remained at the dining room table after the spymaster left, lost in the misery of her thoughts. This was not turning out as well as she had hoped. She hadn’t touched any of her wine during dinner. Now she reached for it, removed the stopper and guzzled it directly from the decanter. She rose un-steadily and trudged up to her room, disheartened, dispirited, disillusioned.
Her eye caught an unfamiliar sheet of paper on her desk that hadn’t been there before dinner. She picked it up. Tomorrow’s schedule. It read:
She shivered. Could she do all these things? All in one day? She had to. She couldn’t fail. She wouldn’t fail.
She sat on the chair at her desk and slowly pulled the pins from her hair, allowing her lengthy tresses to fall in confusion. She’d never combed her own hair before when she’d gotten ready for bed, but she took up the brush and gamely tried to untangle the knots, wincing at each pull.
Bloody hell! I’ll brush it in the morning. She put the brush down and began to rise when a vision of her sister Helena floated before her eyes.
Don’t fail me, Livy. Pick up that brush and finish the task or you will have the devil of a time untangling the jumble in the morning. She heard the words in her mind, as clear as if her sister had spoken them aloud. Olivia picked up the brush once again and counted the strokes. One. Two. Three…
When she reached twenty-five, the strength in her arms failed her. She braided it as best she could to prevent morning tangles, tied it with a ribbon plucked from her bonnet, rose from her chair and turned to the cot. Her body yearned to drop down without another thought. Again, Helena clouded her vision and shook her head from side to side.
An exhausted Olivia sighed, unfolded the sheet and tucked it around the thin, lumpy mattress as best as she could manage. She stuffed the pillow into its case, wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders and lay down on the cot. Seconds later, she fell into an exhausted sleep.
Chapter Four
Wilson Academy—Monday, The First of July
The jarring noise of a bell woke Olivia at four. In the fog between sleep and wakefulness, she fancied she was home in London and wondered who could possibly be calling at this unearthly hour. And why didn’t they use the knocker instead of the bell? She’d have to complain to the butler. She turned over, only to fall out of her cot and clunk onto the bare floor. At once her eyes flew awake, though it took several seconds to recall her whereabouts.
Shivering from the cold, for there was no fireplace in her room. She rose and groped her way to the candle on the desk. Her fingers shook as she lit it and surveyed the room. It took her two steps to reach the washbasin, for her room was so small, she could almost touch it from wall to wall.
Olivia turned the latch to her door and pulled it open as an under maid hurried by. “Excuse me? If I paid you, would you fetch me some hot water?”
“You one o’them trainees, an’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll pay you a crown if you bring me some hot water. Please?”
The under maid called out from the stairwell, trying to be helpful. “I’d lose me job if’n y’paid me a guinea. Y’ave to fetch yer own water, miss. The pump’s just outside the kitchen door. Kitchen’s in the basement. Follow this staircase till you reach bottom.”
“I know bloody well where the kitchen is,” she grumbled as the young woman hurried off to her duties. Olivia shut the door and reached for her silk chemise and knickers. She cast a disgusted eye on the outer clothing left for her. With considerable distaste, she stepped into the pantaloons, but they slid down to the floor. She removed another of her new bonnet’s ribbons to tie round her waist. The coarse shirt was far too large for her small frame, but when she buttoned the thick warm vest over it, it kept the shirt from slipping off her shoulders. She rooted around in her portmanteau until she found stockings and undergarments to stuff her boots with until they fit well enough for her to walk and not wobble.
She grasped her pitcher and hurried down the stairwell until she reached the kitchen. A kitchen maid coming out of the pantry nodded her head in the direction of the door at the end of the kitchen without stopping her work.
Olivia hurried outside, a blast of cold morning air causing her breath to release smoke. She filled the pitcher and trudged back upstairs to her room, for she didn’t have time to heat it. By the time she’d washed with the icy water, it was almost five.
Another under maid, more accommodating than the first, showed her the way to the trainees’ dining room, two flights down the back stairs. Her stomach growled as she flew down the stairwell.
But breakfast for her was not to be, for as soon as she reached the large room on the first floor, a stream of young men, dressed as she was, were making their way down the steps.
“Where are we bound?”
The last man crooked his finger. “Riggs here. Calisthenics. Follow me.”
Olivia had to run to keep up with his long strides. By the time she reached the training grounds, her breath was short.
The trainees lined up to face Hugh Denville, a young man—not more than thirty, Olivia guessed—who wore his black hair tied back with a ribbon. His weathered face held high cheekbones, a straight nose, brown eyes and a dimple in his cheek that deepened when he smiled. Denville, the spymaster’s aide during the war, also served as Sebastian’s secretary. It was well known that little could be said in his hearing that would not be repeated to Sir.
“Morning, lads.” He acknowledged Olivia with a nod. “Fairchild.”
“Morning, sir,” the men answered as one.
“Morning, sir,” Olivia’s voice followed in a high squeak.
“Warm-ups. Run in place. Five minutes.” Denville consulted his timepiece. “Begin.”
Olivia noted the posture and began to pump her legs like the others, raising them as high as she could.
“Chin up. Knees higher, Fairchild. You’re not at a picnic.”
“Y…yes, sir.”
To the casual eye, Wilson Academy appeared to be the country estate of a peer of the realm. A fine example of Renaissance architecture, the imposing facade was built of brick early in the seventeenth century. Inside, it boasted the most modern facilities in the world, perhaps.
The ground floor was designed for offices, the staff dining room, a separate dining room for trainees, a reception room and a grand ballroom whose design was meant to accommodate large groups of government officials as a meeting place rather than as a space for the frivolous balls it once held.
The spymaster’s quarters, consisting of three large rooms, were also on this level. The first was a dining room with two doors, one at the back stairwell for kitchen access and another leading into his bedchamber, which also had two doors, one leading out to the hall and the other leading into his office, the third room. A second office door admitted visitors.
Below ground, the basement housed a full kitchen galley and below that, a storage cellar.
The first floor held instructors’
