Free Daughters of the Storm by Elizabeth Buchan Page A

engage William’s attention.
    William directed him to search through the pile of luggage that lay heaped in the middle of the square that was the diligence’s final stop after the long journey from Calais.
    â€˜A green portfolio, with a large lock wrought in silver,’ he said. ‘It’s missing. I had it in my hand a minute since, but I laid it down to search through my other bag and I fear someone has picked it up in error.’
    His French was halting and unpractised, but grammatical enough. The porter squared his shoulders and proceeded to knock passengers and fellow porters flying as he waded into the fray. Minutes later, he emerged triumphant, holding the missing portfolio.
    William took it gratefully and sat down on his trunk to check its contents, ignoring the reproachful looks directed at him by the unfortunates who had suffered at the porter’s elbows. Thank God! The papers were intact. It would have been disastrous if they had fallen into the wrong hands.
    William reread the letter bearing General Washington’s signature which confirmed that he was seconded on a special mission for three years, and that his brief was to report back to the general on all that he considered politically or economically interesting in France. Then he slipped the letter back into the pocket concealed behind the lining where it joined a list of contacts, letter-drops and useful addresses that he was under orders to destroy if he considered it necessary. He had spent much of the sea voyage memorising the addresses and perfecting his grasp of the cipher in which he was to write his reports. He was almost ready to destroy the incriminating list but had decided that it was wiser to wait until he was more fully established in Paris.
    William had never intended to be a spy – for that is what he had agreed to become – and was still getting used to the idea. He had not been surprised at the summons to Washington’s home outside Williamsburg shortly after the great man’s inauguration as president, because Mr Jones senior was married to Washington’s second cousin and therefore entitled to petition his illustrious connection on behalf of his promising only son. But he had been surprised by the nature of the position offered. It did not take William long to make up his mind. This was a good opportunity which would lead to further advancement, and William was ambitious. If he had a flicker of squeamishness as to the morality of the role, William dismissed it as being necessary in the service of his country.
    â€˜Not’, the general had inflected sternly at the interview, ‘that we have any malign purpose in mind, Mr Jones. In fact, we look upon France with the warmest of feelings, but my agents inform me that a large pot is about to boil over there. I need not point out that the growth of any republican movement is of particular interest. You will write to me at regular intervals and account to me for your expenses, but to all intents and purposes you are a Mr William Jones from Williamsburg, Virginia, on a mission to sell land to possible settlers.’
    William grimaced at his narrow escape and wondered how the general would rate him if he had seen him commit such a primary blunder as leaving his papers unguarded. It did not bear thinking of. He picked up his hat, settled it on his head and smoothed the sleeves of his new coat. Made by an English tailor only recently arrived in America, it was of light blue cloth, unlined except for the tails, and sported a turn-down collar, under which masterpiece he wore a double-breasted waistcoat of sprigged satin. Satisfied with his appearance - neat, ordered and yet the cut of his tailoring betraying a certain dash - he looked round for a fiacre, ordered his luggage to be taken up and climbed inside.
    The day was cloudy, but even so the fluid Gothic lines of the numerous churches and the yellow and grey stone houses lining the thoroughfares made a