Adele Ashworth - Winter Garden

Southern England, 1849

The cold, late-November wind slapped her face and whipped her lightweight skirt against her legs as Madeleine DuMais stepped down from her hired coach and onto solid ground at Winter Garden. She breathed deeply of the crisp afternoon air, briefly closing her eyes and pointing her face toward the sun as she wrapped her traveling cloak tightly around her, bracing herself against a chill to which she was unaccustomed.

England. At last she was back in England. The smells of home fires burning and rich, damp soil lingered in her senses and her memory. The rustle of trees, the clop-ping of horses along the graveled road that meandered through the village teased her gentle thoughts of family, of where she belonged. This was her fathers country her country as she liked to think of itand where, if she could live anywhere on earth, she would reside for the remainder of her days.

Alas, she was French, and life was not so simple.

With a nod of acknowledgment to her driver, he placed her thingsjust two trunksbeside her as she stood roadside, then he returned to his seat to move on to the next stop. He could get the coach no closer to the cottage on the narrow lane, and since she couldnt carry them herself, her possessions would momentarily have to remain where he had stacked them. No bother. The trunks were locked, and Thomas Blackwood, her new associate and a man she was soon to meet, could retrieve them for her in only a matter of minutes.

The instructions given her yesterday had been clear. For the next few weeks she would be working and living at the southern edge of the village, in the last cottage on the right. From where she stood now she could see the waist-high, wooden gate, painted the color of spring daffodils, that surrounded the property. Madeleine pulled her hood forward to rest loosely on her head, tucking fallen strands of her windblown hair behind the dark fur trim. Then, holding the collar securely against her neck with one gloved hand, she lifted her skirts and lightweight valise with the other and began her short walk down Farrset Lane.

This assignment had come as a surprise to her. Shed been wondering about it with building anticipation since shed received the urgent note from Sir Riley Liddle, her immediate superior, only ten days earlier. It communicated no details, just: Youre needed at home. Come quickly, alone. And she had, without question, because she longed for any excuse to return to England; but more importantly, she came because it was her work, and her work was all she had, was all in the world she cherished.

Sir Riley, however, had had little to add to the scant information she possessed already. Her moments with him in London yesterday had been brief, for there wasnt much known beyond scattered rumors of an unusual smuggling operation being conducted in or perhaps just through this tiny, enchanting winter retreat. Conveniently, smuggling happened to be her area of expertise, and the reason her superiors had chosen her to help with the investigation. It was also quite probable that they needed a woman for the work, since sending another man might have looked unusual, even suspicious, to village residents. Mr. Blackwoods assumed identity of a retired scholar could be better maintained if he were sent someone to pose as his companion or nurseany number of plausible occupations. She would leave the decision to him, and he would enlighten her with the details. She eagerly awaited the meeting between them that was soon to occur.

Madeleine, in her own very worldly, sophisticated, elegant way, worked as a spy for the British government. Shed been performing in that capacity for nearly seven years, and she was extraordinarily good at what she did. Her position was unique, and she knew it. It also made her valuable. A Parisian by birth, she usually worked for the good of England from the quaint town of Marseille where she now lived. Her fabricated identity as the young widow of the mythical Georges DuMaisa trader of fine teas, lost at seawas intact and believed by all who knew her. Her function involved differing interests, although most often it concerned uncovering various secrets on both local and national levels in the broad and sometimes dangerous realm of trade smuggling. Those in top English government positions had set her up in a beautiful home, near the center of the Mediterranean city where she was needed most, and from there she relayed all pertinent information to Sir Riley. Of course, this mission to England was a first for her, given the fact that she had been told very little regarding the circumstances, and because shed never used her skills outside of France.

She knew only a little about the village of Winter Garden. It was located just a few miles north of the southern coastal town of Portsmouth, nestled between low hills on all sides, which in turn kept it protected from harsh winters. Its lush grounds and mild, year-round climate made the location a haven for the English gentry, as half of the villages population were those of the upper classes who journeyed there only for the winter months, using it as a sort of seasonal retreat. This in itself was unusual, especially during such hard economic times. As in France, most villages were inhabited by peasants, their conditions typically harsh and dreary. But Winter Garden had the reputation for difference, and from her first look, Madeleine could understand why. Loveliness surrounded her; the well-dressed walked the streets. Even cold as it was now, some greenery still flourished. It never snowed in Winter Garden, or so shed heard.