Page 6 of The Scholar’s Spy

“Aye, I was born in Dublin.” He had not often thought of his hometown, and a majority of the time he did not have to. People considered it better form not to remark on his origins, as if he would be embarrassed at his home. The truth was that his memories were blended with a happy recollection of his mother—the precise sound of her laughter, the light on the beach, the endless stretch of blue sky, the color he had not seen again. And his sisters… but he was hardly going to share such intimacies with many, especially when they often did not favor the Irish.

“You are lucky to be able to travel,” Miss Fossey said. Robert remembered he had told Montacute he would change his history, but for some reason he didn’t see the point—after all, if this woman was suspect, then she’d have enough connections to discover the truth of his backstory. Besides, thousands were from Dublin, and O’Sullivan was a common enough surname, so it would be difficult to place him with just those details.

Her steps continued and Robert forced himself to hurry to keep stride with her.

“It is fascinating to know someone from abroad. When I was younger, I told my father I wanted to visit Ireland, mainly because of the myths. I love myths. Although now that I think about it, I suppose my favorite was actually the Norse ones. Have you read any of those?”

Miss Fossey had led him on a strange route, up a path and away from Lyme Regis. He had not queried the journey, and now the two of them paused on the clifftop overlooking the town. It was an excellent prospect. Robert tried desperately to think of how to steer the conversation back to the landscape below them, to local gossip, the characters he could watch out for—the kind of native color he’d hoped to extract from this oddity of a woman. Everyone could be used as a means to an end—that was what his job required of him.

“Errr,” he said. His mind drew a blank. This was not going well. Around him, the springtime sound of birds and the sea crashing into the beach echoed. So much sound reverberating about it, that it was hard to focus. None of that would help him, give his opinion on mythology…

“It is not for everyone, but I always thought it pretty. It is considered a local beauty spot,” Miss Fossey said abruptly. Clearly, she was growing tired of waiting for him to respond. Or she considered him simpleminded.

“I didn’t say.” Robert found himself annoyed and followed after her in her hurried steps. He was supposed to be good at talking—quick-witted and fast, and he was being outpaced by a muddy, trouser wearing woman, one who had to be at least twenty-five…

She cocked an eyebrow at him expectantly, a half-smile of judgement playing around her mouth. The indent of her chin was more marked than ever. Oh, he realized she liked this, besting him and outwitting him. It seemed as if Miss Fossey was used to being the best read in any setting.

“Certainly, the Norse stories have a great deal to recommend them.” His mind turned back to what he could recall of the tales. For some reason, all that occurred to him was the enthusiastic sexual activities that Loki famously got up to. He could hardly mention that to a young woman. Yet remaining silent looked strange. Finally, he settled on saying, “They certainly contain several rather outlandish tales.”

“They all do,” Miss Fossey countered. “I would not say the Greek ones did not have some rather…naughty characters.”

“True,” Robert said. He was somewhat surprised she would raise something so controversial, but Miss Fossey did not seem so shockable. So, he added his original thought, “Although I do not think anyone quite as roguish as Loki.”

“He certainly would not be permitted in many drawing rooms in Lyme Regis,” Miss Fossey said. Despite himself, Robert laughed at the idea of the trickster god confined to some prim and proper drawing room. He wondered who on earth had let her read some of the stories that circulated about that particular wild, destructive, and promiscuous deity. Surely it was the sort of text women were banned from reading.

She turned and started to move along the pathway, not paying much heed to her surroundings. The clifftop dropped away to her side, and led them down toward the beach on a soft hillside descent. Below them was the endless stretch of dark blue sea to their left. The lower hillside was sloped and dusty, rubble filled, and she seemed especially interested in that area. Given his eyesight, such an uneven pathway did not fill Robert with much confidence for exploring the cliffs at night. He would have confided his investigations to the town and the beach, where sheer drops were less likely.

“Have you had much opportunity to read those stories in Town?”

“In London, you mean?” she asked.

“Aye,” Robert replied.

“No, I have never left Dorset.” She sighed. The heartfelt sound shocked Robert with its intimacy, as if he was gaining an insight to her soul. A hint of who she was beneath the strange sight she presented, a softer delicate inclination of Miss Fossey’s inner being. Rather like she would wish to travel, to see sights only imagined. And then she added, confirming his theory, “How I long to.”

He should ask her what she made of her hometown, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Where would you go if you could?”

“Everywhere,” she said decisively. “Provided it wasn’t too dangerous. Or else my mother would never permit it. I suppose I could start with Dublin, but oh, I should like to see the ruins of Greece, and the canals of Venice and the fjords of Norway. Everywhere I read about offers a new world, doesn’t it?”

It took a great deal of effort for Robert to stop himself telling Miss Fossey all about his travels with the navy. What sights he’d seen—the marvels of the sea, and the different terrains that existed out there. But she couldn’t know—not if his cover was going to hold. He had to be a man of business, that was his ruse. His purpose in adopting ‘O’Sullivan’ and sticking with it—his service to the crown, his captaincy, his mission in being here needed to be hidden.

“This is my first time in Lyme Regis,” he said, hoping to direct her back toward the present and what he was there for. An idea struck him. Good fortune had presented such a creature to him—an unaccompanied woman, eager to be independent and with a penchant for adventure. Could she be the one that Montacute wished him to find? The female smuggler and leader of a gang? Surely a woman like this, a rarity or perhaps an oddity, must be counted as a potential suspect. Or if not, she might well know the identity of the real culprit. Would it be too coincidental that he had simply stumbled on his quarry?

“You have not come at the best of times.” Her voice sounded a little dulled. She waved at the buildings in the distance, which Robert could only just make out. “The town is preferable to many in the height of summer. That is when the fashionable tourists like to journey down here. A way of seeing how provincials live.” It was obvious that the occurrence annoyed her.

“You do not care for the summer season?” he asked. Presumably, an influx of tourists would hardly help her with her illegal activities.

“The best time is when it rains. It brings up more treasure,” she said. When she saw his confusion, she added, “From the beach, I hunt for fossils and the winter months help. I suppose there are a few good things about tourists and the summer. Since they buy the curios.”

“Indeed,” he said, having not a clue what she meant.

“Yes—but on the whole it is a bother if you must know,” she replied, “They wish to dance, to tinker around the town, to walk up and down the cob being ‘seen’.” Her cheeks grew rather warm, heated by what was either sheer exasperation or just anger. “One must talk and talk about utter silliness.”

“Most would consider it diverting to deeper connections with strangers until they become friends,” he said. She shot him a look which conveyed her displeasure. It was so disgruntled and confused that Robert almost laughed.

“And worst of all, they pretend to like fossils, to know about the natural world, and insist on traipsing up and down the sands searching—when, in fact, they are merely getting underfoot.” Her hands were moving to demonstrate her point, and there was something about the movement which struck him as rather amusing. Yet he could not help but admire her passion for a topic. He spotted on her face the traces, or rather history, of sunburn. It was then that he spotted a knife and hammer tucked into the belt of her breeches, and his suspicions that she might in fact be his suspect deepened.

“You consider them to be misguided?” he asked blandly.