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Chapter Four
The nerve. The unmitigated gall of the man. She’d practically saved his life at the train station and all he could think about was stealing a kiss. Her mother had warned her Irishmen were charming. She ought to know as she’d married one, Bridget’s father, and been sorry for it until the day he died.
Bridget considered herself an Englishwoman and proud of it. She had no time for flirtations with agents, especially ones of dubious character. She stewed on Mr. Calloway for the rest of the trip.
Finally, her purgatory was over, and she was awake and ready when the train arrived at the remote station in the remote area of remotest northeast England. While the agents climbed out of the sleeping car or gathered their belongings, she climbed aboard the quick, small conveyance waiting to take her to The Farm ahead of the rest. Her driver knew a shortcut the agents wouldn’t learn about until later in their training, and she arrived at the rustic farmhouse, bathed in midmorning sun, in just over a quarter hour. Despite the quick trip, she was shivering and eager to be inside.
She hurried inside, not expecting anyone to be there to greet her, so she was not surprised when no one appeared. Bridget went straight to her office and began to look over the mail. She had more than usual as she’d been away for several days, but she ruthlessly opened, sorted, and filed every document.
“Miss Murray?”
Bridget looked up from the letter she’d been decoding and at the man who stood in her doorway. “Yes, my lord?”
“Our new arrivals will be here in a few moments. Do come and introduce them to me.”
“Of course.” She glanced at her gold watch and saw time had gotten away from her. “Just give me a moment, my lord.”
He nodded. “It’s good to have you back.” Stepping back into the hallway, he closed her door quietly. Her office in the bucolic farmhouse was small but cozy. It had a small hearth and enough room for her desk as well as two chairs and a rug. Sometimes Baron and she sat in here to discuss the plans for the following day over a cup of tea. More often than not, she went to his office, though. She’d come with him from London eight months ago to assist in establishing this new agency training center. He’d given her a choice, but she hadn’t had any reason to stay in London. She wasn’t married, and she enjoyed working for Baron. As his secretary, she’d been given interesting and often challenging work, like the correspondence she decoded now.
Her father was dead, and Baron had always treated her like she wished her own father had. Not that Baron knew she thought of him like a father. She would never tell him. He was old enough to be her father, perhaps a few years older than her own father would have been, and one look at him told her he had been handsome in his youth. These days, his hair was more gray than brown, but his green eyes were still sharp behind the spectacles he wore for reading. And though he used a cane on cold days like this—an old injury, he’d told her—he was still a tall, broad-shouldered man. He had undoubtedly been a formidable agent in his time. He’d been the leader of the now disbanded Barbican group, if what she heard whispered in the corridors of Whitehall was true.
She consulted her code book and finished the last sentence she’d been deciphering then marked her place and put everything away in a locked drawer in her desk. She’d been taught one couldn’t be too careful. Bridget pocketed the key and pulled on her heavy coat and a hat, and wound a scarf about her neck. It was mid-morning, but the wind blowing off the North Sea could be brutal. Baron always smiled when she said this, reminding her they were miles inland from the sea, but Bridget couldn’t account for the blustery winds otherwise.
When she stepped into the hall, clipboard back in hand, Baron was waiting for her. He’d donned his greatcoat but hadn’t bothered with a hat. She thought about reminding him, but it wasn’t her place. He had a wife, after all, though the lady was in London visiting her daughters at present.
“Ready?” Baron offered his arm. He didn’t carry his walking stick, and Bridget wondered if it was because he didn’t want the new men and women arriving to form their first impression of him as a man who needed a cane.
She took his arm, keeping a watchful eye for ice on the steps as they left the farmhouse. If he slipped or stumbled, she would support him. But she needn’t have worried. Baron walked confidently, barely limping. Once outside, he released her and stood with his hands behind his back. He was joined by several instructors, each man looking crosser and colder than the next. Bridget put her own hands in her pockets and wondered how long before the coaches arrived. They’d sent two, both of them in good working order but without any amenities. The new arrivals would be chilled and weary, and it would be hours before they slept. Baron didn’t believe in wasting time. They’d start their training today.
Bridget almost felt sorry for them. But it was hard to sympathize with men and women who lived such exciting, glamorous existences. They risked their lives, that was true, but they also traveled the world. They changed the course of history. She sat in a room all day and read correspondence.
The clatter of wheels on the shoveled drive to the farmhouse jerked her chin up and she squinted at the distant trees that lined the property and kept it well hidden from anyone who had taken a wrong turn off the main road. She saw nothing but the low, wood bunkhouses where the agents slept, white smoke billowing from chimneys; an expanse of fields covered in white footprints; and the tall trees, branches heavy from snow.
And then a coach turned the corner, followed by another, and Bridget straightened. She’d been holding her clipboard close to her chest, but now she lowered it, prepared to check off each new man as he stepped out of a coach. She had their living assignments noted as well as to which instructor each should report first.
The coaches halted long enough for the agents from the train to depart. Five of the new arrivals stood in a line while the sixth, Kelly, of course—still in his rumpled evening clothes—stood off to the side. She would ignore Mr. Kelly as much as she could. After today, she wouldn’t have to see him again.
Baron stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The Farm.”
The Galloways nodded their heads while the others looked about with interest.
“My codename is Baron. I have a real name, but I’ve been called Baron so long I’ve quite forgotten it.”
This produced a few smiles.
“I will be watching and evaluating you while you are here at The Farm. You wouldn’t be here if your skills weren’t valuable. Now we see where you can be of the most use to us.” He gestured to his left. “These are your instructors. They will train you in everything from surveillance to explosives to dialects to ciphering and deciphering. Everything you will need to know. Miss Murray here”—he gestured to Bridget who stepped forward—“will give you your lodging and class assignments.”
Bridget stepped forward, clipboard at the ready. But just as she was about to begin, Kelly cleared his throat and moved forward a step. He still didn’t join the line. Bridget looked to Baron, uncertain whether she should continue or acknowledge the interruption. She really did not care for interruptions.
“Mr. Kelly, I presume.” Baron lifted a hand slightly, signaling Bridget to wait. With a sigh, she lowered her clipboard and her brows, glowering at Mr. Kelly.
“So it is, Mr. Baron.”
“Just Baron, Mr. Kelly. What can we do for you?”
“We can answer a question, Baron. Perhaps these ladies and gentlemen know what it is we’re to do here, but other than the agreement I made—”
Baron waved a hand. “I am aware of your agreement and plan to honor it.”
