loud grumble emanating from Olivia’s stomach.
“What’s that sound? Did you miss breakfast, Fairchild? Ah, you overslept in spite of my warning, didn’t you? No matter. Have the goodness to silence your rebellious stomach for the next two hours.”
No one laughed as he’d intended. “That was a jest,” Sebastian said in exasperation.
Carter laughed, but the others did not join him.
Olivia’s face burned with shame at what, in her mind at least, clearly amounted to an insult. In a voice full of scorn, she said, “Kind of you to take such an interest in my welfare, sir.”
If the spymaster felt chastised by the bitterness of her response, he did not show it. He cleared his throat and began. “The gathering of intelligence is an important key to the success of a spy. Another term for this process is espionage, the accumulation of secret information designed to help you forge a suitable plan of action against the enemy.”
At the spymaster’s dry explanation, Olivia swallowed the laugh threatening to bubble up from within. Hmmph! He has the gall to call “the accumulation of information” intelligence gathering? What nonsense. It’s nothing more than just plain gossip. If he expects me to fail this class, he’ll be terribly disappointed. Intelligence gathering, indeed! I’ve been gossiping ever since I learned to speak the King’s English.
At noon, when class was dismissed, Olivia followed her classmates to the trainees’ dining room for a hearty meal of mutton stew, bread and cheese, warm apple pie and tea. They served themselves from the sideboard against the far wall and took their seats at a long table in the middle of the room, one or the other rising occasionally to refill their plates.
Not only did Olivia clean her plate, she rose for a second helping, suffering teasing comments for her pains.
“Jolly good appetite, Fairchild.”
“Easy does it, Fairchild. Leave some for us.”
“That’ll teach you not to miss breakfast, lass.”
She grinned, pleased, for their good-natured jests signaled acceptance. But what was eating Carter, she wondered when he hadn’t joined in.
Their first class after the noonday meal was housekeeping, taught by Mrs. Hunnicut. She took the entire group on a tour of the building, from the storage cellar to the attic and above that to the chimneys on the roof. She explained in detail the workings of a large country house, something she knew well, for she had been housekeeper at an earl’s estate in Leeds before she married.
Heatham was much larger than Wilson Academy, Olivia noted. The procedures were familiar to her, but not to the other men.
“You will be expected not only to learn the function of every servant in this house, but also to practice their roles. Male trainees will be assigned to spend time as footmen dressed in proper livery, performing tasks such as carrying coal to the chambers, cleaning out the ashes, trimming the lamps, serving meals and the like. It will stand you in good stead should you be required to infiltrate a household for the purpose of espionage.
“As for you, Fairchild, you will learn to perform the various duties of maids. Their task is to keep the house clean, supply the chambers with water for washing and bathing, and keep the fires going. As a kitchen maid, you will be required to help the cook and as a scullery maid, you will wash dishes, pots and pans, and scrub the floor at the housekeeper’s request. All outdoor tasks will be described to you by the stable master. You may proceed to his class now. Good afternoon.”
As they filed out, she put a restraining hand on Olivia’s arm. “Fairchild? A moment please.”
“Yes, ma’am? What is it you wish?”
“The spymaster has requested that I arrange for you to be clothed properly. Come to my sitting room before you retire this evening, and I’ll take your measurements for the seamstress. She’s one of our under maids and she’s very handy with a needle. Our tanner will measure your feet as well. Those boots are far too large for you.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hunnicut. Thank you, ma’am.” As she hurried off, she couldn’t help but wonder. Could this order mean something more than merely to provide her with suitably fitted clothing and boots? Could the spymaster be softening toward her? Could he have relented and accepted her role? If that were so, she’d have to work hard—harder than the others, perhaps—to reinforce that view.
The day turned warm and sunny by the time Olivia reported to the stables. The lads were already busy brushing the horses down, feeding them and cleaning their stalls.
Stable master Tom Deff, a gray-haired, Irish gentleman with a brogue to match, had been an accomplished circus rider in his youth. His innocent blue eyes belied the fact that he could be stern when necessary. “Afternoon, Fairchild. What kept ye?”
“Mrs. Hunnicut detained me, sir.”
He looked her up and down as if she were a filly he planned to purchase. “Any experience w’horses?”
“Yes, sir. My father believed that a rider could not be considered accomplished unless said rider knew how to care for a horse properly. I know how to brush my horse down, feed him, apply a hock when necessary, and clean his stall. My father says I have a good seat—for a woman, that is.”
Deff laughed heartily. “Yer da’s a man’s man, fer all that he’s a duke. You won’t embarrass him here, I expect. I have a horse for you in mind, lass. He’s young and frisky. Think you can handle him?”
“What do you think, sir?” she challenged with a smile.
“I think I’ll wait and see, but if you can bring this fidgety colt to heel, I’ll take me hat off to you.”
After dinner, the trainees repaired to study hall. There they concentrated on studying the day’s work they were expected to master. The twins put their heads together, but Carter and Perkins sat by themselves.
Riggs asked, “Shall we study together, Fairchild? Learning’s easier that way. At least for me.”
“I’d be honored, Riggs. Let’s take that corner so we don’t disturb the others.”
The two opened their manuals and set to work, turning to one another for explanation over one puzzling point or another. Most questions involved decoding, the most difficult of topics.
At half past the hour, Olivia said. “I have to leave you now, for I promised to report to Mrs. Hunnicut.” Olivia paused. “A question, Riggs. It’s about fetching wash water in the morning. It took me too long today. That’s why I missed breakfast.”
“Yes, I know,” he said kindly. “Here’s the trick to it, lass. Fetch the water from the well just before bedtime and heat it to a boil in a kettle in the kitchen—no one’s working there at that hour. When you return to your room, cover it well with a washing cloth. It may not be as hot as you would like by morning, but it will still be comfortably warm.”
“Good advice. I’ll try it tonight.” She gathered her manuals and began to rise, but Riggs stayed her hand. “What is it?”
He half rose to whisper in her ear. “Carter’s a toadeater. He reports everything to the spymaster. Be careful what you say in his hearing.”
