Velvet Undercover (2 page)

Miss Tickford makes a little noise of acknowledgment before dropping her eyes again.

My mother smiles. “I agree, Captain Parker. Her father and I have always been proud of her.”

Like that of most military men, Captain Parker's bearing is stiff, and though I suppose many women would think him handsome, with his strong jaw and dark eyes, I find him intimidating. I wonder if Miss Tickford came with him or on her own. Surely such a mousy little woman wouldn't attract a man like the captain. But then she
is
in charge of the Girl Guide contingent at MI5. It makes sense that she would attend the Markel Cup.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband. He was a very good man,” Captain Parker says.

A jolt runs through me. He knows me
and
my father?

My mother's expression remains tranquil, but there's a tremor in her voice as she answers him. “
Is
a good man, Captain. My daughter and I are very sure that George will be returning to us soon.”

“Of course,” Captain Parker says smoothly before moving on. “I'm glad I ran into you, Miss Donaldson. I'd love to speak to you sometime about your position at MI5. I was very impressed with your performance today, and I'm sure your skills could be better utilized than for just delivering messages.”

Miss Tickford blinks. “Delivering messages is very
important,” she says, her hands fluttering. “Communication is the lifeblood of the realm.”

“Of course it is, Letty. You know I didn't mean that.”

Letty?
I look from one to the other. How very interesting.

“I just feel that Samantha's talents could be of better use to the cause elsewhere,” the captain continues.

Miss Tickford's mouth droops and even the severe bun at the back of her head seems to wilt. “You're right, of course.”

My pulse kicks up a notch. I've often thought that I could be of more use elsewhere—someplace where I could utilize my brain rather than just my legs—but Miss Tickford never seemed amenable to the idea.

I straighten. “I'd like that very much, Captain Parker.” I bet Evangeline Green won't be offered a promotion in such an important organization.

Next to me, Rose fidgets, bored with the conversation. “Oh, there's Priscilla. I must go say hello. Excuse me.” She shoots me a sly smile as she makes her escape.

Dame Richards taps me on the shoulder. “You're needed at the prize table, Samantha, to receive your certificate of achievement.”

“I'll be right there.” I turn to Captain Parker. “It was nice meeting you, sir. I'll see you in the morning, Miss Tickford.”

He glances at his watch. “Yes, I must be going, as well. We'll talk soon, Miss Donaldson. Are you ready to go, Letty?”

She nods and turns to me. “Captain Parker was kind enough to give me a lift after we finished work. Congratulations on your performance, Samantha.”

Frowning, I watch them go. How very strange that they came together. But then, I suppose it's no stranger than me losing out on the Markel Cup. I lift my chin. As Grandfather Donaldson would say: It's time to sally forth!

No matter how shattered I am inside.

Clean: Someone who has never been involved in espionage and is unknown to enemy intelligence.

I
spend a fitful night, dreaming again and again of the moment Evangeline Green's name was called instead of mine. My nose wrinkles as I hurry downstairs. Porridge again. Doubtless with no sweetener, unless our housekeeper, Bridget, “found” some honey on a back shelf. Mother's never actually accused her of buying from the black market, but Bridget seems to discover things that even Cook has no idea we had. Bridget has a bit of a sweet tooth and rationing is hard on her.

My mother and Rose are already seated at the table. Mother is eating and Rose is pretending to, a book propped up on the table in front of her.

Mother looks up and gives me a smile. “Good morning, dear.”

Since Father's disappearance, Mother has transformed into a more formal version of herself, and though I don't blame her for being so self-contained, it does make my life lonelier. That's one of the reasons Rose spends the night
with us so often now—her lively chatter fills the silence.

“Good morning! That looks good, Bridget, but I won't have time to eat this morning.”

Rose glances up at me. She's looking unfairly bright and shiny in spite of the fact that she was up as late as I was last night, listening to me rant. “You're not partaking of this delicious breakfast?” she asks, widening her eyes in mock surprise. “Why ever not?”

“You work too hard, Sam,” Mother says, ignoring Rose.

“And you don't?” I ask.

“I read to soldiers and write letters for those who can't do it themselves. I'd hardly call that work.”

“You're at the hospital five days a week. I'd call that work.” I shrug into my wool coat and pick up the lunch pail Cook left on the counter for me. “I have to run. I'll be home in time for supper.” I kiss Rose on the cheek and waggle my fingers at my mother on my way out the door.

I ride the Underground to the city center, trying to shake off the fine film of melancholy that coats my skin like invisible ash. Most of the women on the train are wearing black—a reminder that my loss is only one in a nation full of losses. It makes my disappointment over the Markel Cup seem trivial.

I shove the thought from my mind and hurry through the crowded streets. Miss Tickford frowns on tardiness.

“Excuse me,” I say, bumping into a young woman in overalls. She elbows me aside and hurries on toward the docks. She's probably late for a job she wouldn't have dreamt of having just a year ago. Before the summer of 1914, men, in
their black suits and derbies, were the rule on the streets of London. They scurried about, filled with the self-importance of the privileged, masculine citizens of the greatest nation in the world.

Then everything changed, as if an enormous hand reached out of the sky and swept them all away. The remaining men have exchanged their proper English garb for uniforms, and doubt has crept into their once overconfident faces.

Worse, though, are the men no longer in uniform. Their ill-fitting civilian clothes hang on sharp, skeletal bodies, and far too many shirtsleeves or pant legs dangle empty—a mocking testament to healthy limbs no longer there. These men linger in the dark, smoky doorways of pubs or makeshift rehabilitation houses, watching the world through eyes sad beyond comprehension.

What a horrible waste of humanity. So many men have been lost.

Including Father.

A twinge of pain compresses my chest as I hurry toward the brick building I now work at six days a week for ten to twelve hours a day. Before the war, I went to school, attended Girl Guide meetings once a week, and spent hours with my parents.

Then my world changed along with everyone else's.

After showing my identification to the guard at the entrance, I hurry down the narrow hallway toward the room that has been commandeered for our use. The other girls have already been dispatched on various errands, so the room is empty. Before I can make myself a cup of tea,
Miss Tickford pokes her head around the door.

“You're late, Miss Donaldson.” Miss Tickford's breathy voice sounds pained, as if she's upset that she has to reprimand me.

“I'm sorry, Miss Tickford. It won't happen again.”

She blinks rapidly. “After last night's excitement, it's a wonder you're here at all. Captain Parker wishes to see you first thing.”

My heart jumps.
Already?
I follow Miss Tickford from the room. When Captain Parker told me that he wished to speak to me about another job, I had no idea he meant so soon.

“Don't dawdle,” Miss Tickford says, walking rapidly down the hall.

Our identification badges are examined at three different checkpoints along our way. I keep mine hidden under my bulky black sweater, especially when I'm running messages outside. No Girl Guide has ever been accosted while working for the Security Offices, but nobody wants to take that chance—we have no idea what is in the messages we're bearing.

As I follow Miss Tickford down the hall, I wonder what she does for fun. Perhaps she doesn't have any? She raises her hand to knock on one of the many brown doors lining the hallway and then hesitates. Her large, childlike green eyes blink furiously behind her thick spectacles and she places her hand on my arm. “Conduct yourself well and bring credit to us all, my dear.”

Before I can ask her what she means, she raps on the door.

“Come in.”

We enter a small, cramped office with an enormous battered desk squatting in the middle. The woman sitting at it has her dark hair pulled back in an uncompromising bun, and her glasses, like Miss Tickford's, are perched on the tip of her nose. I wonder if it's some sort of unofficial uniform for important women, because I can tell by the aggressive set of this secretary's head that she thinks herself very important indeed.

She looks me up and down. “Is this her?”

Miss Tickford nods. “Samantha Donaldson. GG number one twenty-eight. He's expecting her.”

Hesitating for a moment, I draw in a breath for courage, and then I walk in. Once I'm inside, the scents of dust and pomade tickle my nose. Captain Parker is sitting at a desk as large and battered as the one in the anteroom. It's precariously stacked with mountains of papers and official-looking green journals and it shoots a hole in the notion that military personnel are tidier than everyone else.

The look he gives me is friendly, and I feel myself relaxing.

“Sit, Miss Donaldson. We have quite a lot to discuss.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the seat he's indicated across from his desk.

“How are you and your mother getting along without your father, then?”

I blink. “As well as can be expected. We keep faith that we will hear word of him soon.”

The captain nods. “I'm sure you will.” His dark eyes regard me seriously and I resist the urge to squirm under
his scrutiny. He straightens. “We've had our eye on you for quite some time, Miss Donaldson. I've been told by your superiors that you are smart and respectful, and that you carry out your tasks promptly. Last night, I had a chance to see just how intelligent you are, and I feel quite confident that you are able to accomplish any task set before you. I take it you are amenable to being reassigned?”

“Yes, I am.” I lift my chin, grateful for his words. Last night's loss bruised my ego more than I care to admit. I wonder where they'll send me. Military Press Control? The Propaganda Section? A thrill of excitement runs through me at the possibilities. Cryptography would suit me best, but they won't send a seventeen-year-old girl to Room 40. I just hope I won't be going to Censorship. Reading through hundreds of letters a day is not my idea of fun.

“I understand you spent the first part of your childhood in Germany, yes?”

Even though he poses it as a question, I can tell that the captain already knows the answer. I nod. He sits silently and an uncomfortable moment stretches out before I realize he's waiting for me to explain myself. “As an ambassador, my father worked in many different countries. He received a long-term assignment and we moved to Berlin as a family in 1902, when I was four. I'm sure this is information you already have?”

Mind your tongue, Sam.

The captain raises an eyebrow at my tone and I shift in my seat. I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm tired of explaining myself. My mother and I avoid discussing our
Berlin years publicly, and indeed the years we spent in Germany almost kept me from getting a position at MI5, even though I'd been a member in good standing with the Girl Guides for over five years. It wasn't until my mother called in a favor from a family friend that my application was accepted.

“I know your written German is flawless. How is your spoken German?” His voice is casual, but the sharp way he looks at me is not.

I can't help but show off.
“Ich spreche fast perfekt Deutsch. Ich spreche auch fließend Portugiesisch, Italienisch, Französisch sowie ein paar Brocken Niederländisch.”
I grin. “I have my father's gift for languages.”

Captain Parker raises his eyebrows and returns my smile. “Ah yes, I seem to remember that about your father. Tell me. Do you have his proclivity for mathematical puzzles as well?”

It's my turn to be surprised. I'd always thought my father's love of cryptography was private—something we played with at home or when on one of our outdoor excursions. On the other hand, this
is
Military Intelligence. If they're offering me a job, my life, as well as my father's, has probably been thoroughly investigated. According to popular thought, there are German spies in every nook and cranny of Britain, and as a onetime resident of Germany, I'm sure I'm suspect.

“I'm very adept at math, but I am also well read and I have adequate outdoor skills,” I tell him cautiously. There's a fine line between being honest and being too
honest. “I am a Girl Guide, after all.”

“And what a fine organization they are. All that camping, archery, and boating. We took the liberty of obtaining your school transcripts and believe that you are destined for far greater things than stenography or running errands.”

My throat tightens. After last night's loss, I'm grateful for the praise. “Thank you, sir.”

Captain Parker clears his throat and thumbs through some papers, which I can only assume are about me.

What did the captain mean when he said I was destined for greater things? I stare idly out the window behind him and remember the time my father said almost the same thing.

I'd been almost seven and we were sitting in the parlor of our house in Berlin. It must have been winter, because a cheerful fire crackled in the fireplace and the diamond-paned windows were covered with frost. My father had been reading through a French newspaper while my mother knitted. I lay on the rug in front of them playing one of the puzzle games my father designed for me. The game had dozens of pegs of all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Each peg had to be fitted into its corresponding hole in a wooden box. I managed to shave seconds off my score every time I played as he timed me on his watch.

“What? You think she is going to marry a crown prince someday?” my mother asked, amused. “If that's your plan, you'd be better off teaching her how to dance than testing her intelligence.”

I didn't take the time to look up to see my father's
expression—that would have cost me precious seconds—but I listened with all my heart.

“No, Eunice. Our daughter is destined for far greater things than marrying a mere prince,” he said.

I remember how I glowed at that remark. I'd just finished reading
Grimm's Fairy Tales
in the original German, and the exciting adventures in “The Six Servants” were more to my taste than the story of Cinderella.

“Miss Donaldson?”

I jump. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“I was saying that we have had our eye on you for quite some time.” He leans forward and his face is so serious that I swallow, suddenly nervous. “Have you heard of La Dame Blanche?”

My breath catches and the hair on my neck prickles. “Not officially,” I tell him with some hesitation. Admitting that you've heard of an undercover espionage group could be tantamount to admitting you're a spy. But the mostly female spy organization was a favorite topic of gossip and conjecture among my fellow Girl Guides.

Captain Parker stares at me, his dark eyes grave. “Miss Donaldson, I'm pleased to inform you that you've been selected to join La Dame Blanche. We would like you to leave for training with the objective of joining the Third Company in Luxembourg. Are you interested?”