her astonishment, Olivia succeeded in lifting her upper body a few inches off the ground. But not her torso. Perhaps women were not meant to do push-ups, she thought with despair.
“Right, then.” He coughed to smother a chuckle and walked back to his place.
By the time the other trainees had completed fifty push-ups, Olivia had wobbled through five. Triumphant at her small victory, she darted a glance at Denville, but he paid no heed.
“Jumping jacks. Begin.”
I can do this! Yet when she jumped apart, her arms would not follow, and when she raised her arms over her head, her feet turned to lead.
Denville chose to ignore this, at the same time admiring her determination. “Time,” he announced, and strode away in the direction of the spymaster’s office.
She trudged after the other trainees, relying on them to lead her to the next activity. She tapped the young man in front of her on the shoulder. “Where are we going?”
He threw her a lopsided grin, his face covered with freckles. His light brown hair was stringy, but his eyes were lively. Rufus Riggs was the youngest of the trainees.
“Codes and ciphers. On the second floor,” the young man whispered. And shot a gap-toothed grin at her. He added, “Name’s Riggs. Rufus.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid her. “Fairchild,” she whispered back.
Sir Aaron Foster, a short, balding man with gentle blue eyes had been knighted by the Regent for code work that defied Napoleon’s staff. He’d meant to retire from government service after the war he helped win, but Viscount Sidmouth had other plans for him. The home secretary persuaded him to take his current post as instructor for future undercover agents.
Once seated in the two-hour class, Olivia relaxed, though every bone in her body screamed in protest after her unaccustomed physical exertion. She enjoyed the mental challenge, thinking it very like solving intricate puzzles. Although she did not grasp everything the master teacher said, she was pleased with herself. Codes and ciphers class was far easier than calisthenics.
When Foster dismissed them, the trainees moved across the hall to the fencing room on the same floor.
Riggs appointed himself her guide. He helped her find a suitable vest, a glove and a wire mask. They were too large for her, yet not as ill-fitting as the clothing she wore.
Olivia had been tutored in fencing when she was still in the schoolroom. The duke wished to share his favorite activity with her, for she threatened to be his only child at the time. She suppressed a giggle at the thought of her father. Little did he know to what use she would put it.
Andre Fourier, a Frenchman with a thin mustache, black hair and a slight frame, swept into the room wearing his fencing vest. He carried his glove and his mask, and eyed his students as if he were inspecting sides of beef, a familiar task for him, for he was also chef for the academy.
“I am Fourier, messieurs.” His Gallic eyes fell on Olivia and he bowed to her. “Mademoiselle.”
“Bien! We begin.” He launched into an explanation of the art of dueling and paired the trainees off for practice, replacing one or another to illustrate his point when he thought it necessary. Which was often.
“We commence wiz ze lunge and ze parry—Prime, seconde, tierce, quarte, quinte, sixte, septime, octave.”
Olivia was partnered with Riggs, whose clumsy handling of his foil, rendered safe by the button at its tip, forced Fourier to stop him. He took Riggs’ foil, placed one hand behind his back and faced Olivia.
“En Garde, sil vous plait. Prime.” The others stopped and turned to watch. Surprise registered on more than one face when Olivia acquitted herself well in her first parry. But when she dropped her foil in the second, silence rang in the air. Until Fourier laughed heartily.
“I am saved from shame. Well done, Fairchild.”
At the end of class, Fourier turned to Olivia. “Your fencing glove ees too large, as is ze vest and ze mask, eh? I shall order better equipment for you.” He waved his hand in the direction of the other trainees and turned to leave. “Dismissed.”
The trainees replaced their fencing equipment and proceeded to the library on the ground floor. They were seated around a long table, when the other young men introduced themselves to Olivia.
The trainee next to her offered his hand. He was small-boned—mid-twenties, Olivia thought—his high forehead exaggerated by sparse hair. “Name’s Harold Perkins. Well done in fencing, Fairchild. Fourier’s an exacting taskmaster. Praise from him is praise indeed.”
“Good show, Fairchild. We’re the Reeds. He’s Billy and I’m Bobby. No one can tell us apart so they call us BillyBob.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Olivia thought, swallowing a giggle. She could look them in the eye, for they were not much taller than she was. They had mischievous eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day.
“Carter here,” said the last man. Well-groomed in spite of the unflattering uniform, Olivia sensed there was something arrogant about him. He seemed to have a smirk on his thin lips when he spoke, as if to underline his superiority. His abundant head of hair was always in place, as was a thin mustache. How old was he? she wondered. She couldn’t tell his age, though he acted as though he was far wiser than the other lads. “You’ve fenced before, haven’t you, Fairchild?”
Startled by the hostility in his voice, she said, “Yes, it’s true. Do you find fencing difficult, Carter? I find push-ups far more difficult. Tell you what. I’ll fence for you if you do push-ups for me.” The other trainees laughed in appreciation at what they took for a set-down.
The door to the library opened and the spymaster entered, putting an abrupt end to the laughter and the cameraderie, but not to the 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