Author's Note: Hey everyone! Artemis Rose here. I hope you enjoy this fanfic written by myself and my friend, Robin Goodly. We felt that our beloved Benjamin Tallmadge needed a love interest, since this is something he is denied throughout the series. I look forward to hearing what everyone thinks, especially as this is my first fanfiction.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to TURN: Washington's Spies. This is purely a fanfiction written for fun.

Praeparabit Viam

March, 1777, New York City

"Cecily, are you quite alright? You've hardly touched your supper."

Cecily Dartmore looked up from her plate where she had been pushing the bits of haggis and potatoes around with her fork and met her father's eyes from across the table. He was thoughtfully observing her from over the rim of his wineglass, the dark liquid swirling around as he helped to aerate it.

She sat up a bit straighter and tried not to squirm under his piercing blue gaze. "Yes, I am fine, Father. My apologies if my daydreaming was coming across as rude. I was…merely lost in thought."

Lord Dartmore chuckled from his place at the head of the table. "Well, my dear, you have my forgiveness but I cannot speak for our guest." He turned to his right, to the only other man seated at the table, and raised his glass towards him, gesturing for a response. "Could you forgive this thoughtless behavior, John?"

Their guest, Major John Andre, gave a ridiculously charming smile and turned his smoldering blue-gray eyes on Cecily. "Well, Robert," he replied, addressing her father by his Christian name. The two men's familiarity with each other was still slightly unnerving to Cecily. It wasn't as if they had known the Major for a very long time. It had barely been a year, as Andre had only come to New York that past winter, but the two men were already sharing a comfortable familiarity with each other.

"It appears to me," the Major continued. "That it is not thoughtless but rather thoughtful behavior under discussion. That being said, I would be more than willing to offer my forgiveness if your lovely daughter would indulge me in the topic of her daydream."

Cecily felt her cheeks flush. "My dear Major…I shouldn't like to bore you with what I am sure would be construed as a dreadfully dull daydream."

Andre's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Humor me?"

"Come now, Cecily. The major has made a very simple request. It would do no harm to abide by it." Her father said.

"Well…" Cecily started, feeling trapped. She certainly wasn't going to tell them what she had truly been thinking about, for that would end in her own hanging…no, she would have to come up with something else to appease the two men. Something convincing…

"I was merely thinking about the war." She blurted out, deciding on a half-truth. Her father frowned, but Andre chuckled. "Does that thought amuse you, Major?" she inquired with a raised eyebrow, taking offense. "At least enough to mandate mockery of me?"

Andre cleared his throat. "My apologies. I wasn't laughing at you nor was it my intent to offend you in any way. It's just I wasn't quite expecting that response. At least not…" he trailed off, looking suddenly unsure of himself.

"At least not from a lady?" Cecily prompted, smirking slightly.

To her utter delight the Major looked even more flustered than before. Cecily took advantage. "Are you suggesting that a high standing lady such as myself shouldn't have a concern about the affairs of her country?"

Andre opened his mouth, "I-"

Lord Dartmore burst out laughing. It was a deep, rich sound, and eased the tension between Cecily and Andre. The two of them relaxed back slightly into their seats as Lord Dartmore said, "Oh relax, John. My daughter is merely reveling in your discomfort. She gets that from her mother I'm afraid. Mischief seekers, the both."

Andre smiled and raised his glass in Cecily's directions. "My compliments, Miss Dartmore. There are not many who can render me speechless."

"Your humble nature speaks legions, Major."

Lord Dartmore made a spluttering noise into his wine and proceeded to break into a mild coughing fit. "That will do, Cecily!" he managed in between coughs. "The good Major does not deserve such an insult, least of all from you."

"No, that's quite alright, Robert." Andre interjected. "I rather admire a woman with a sharp wit."

"I assure you, sir, there is much more where that came from." Cecily told him evenly.

"I shall hold you to that Miss Dartmore." Andre replied, a slight smile gracing his elegant lips. "I need some sort of domestic aspect to keep me on my toes during this wretched war which of course…brings us back to the starting topic. Why, I wonder, would a very capable young lady like yourself be pondering over the it?"

Oh, dear Lord, Cecily thought to herself. Anything but that. She had done what she could to steer the conversation away from that particular topic, but it seemed to have rolled right back to it.

In order to get herself out of this unscathed, Cecily played the one card she knew wouldn't raise suspicion: the scared and meek woman.

"I'm afraid," she said, lowering her eyes to the table cloth, as if ashamed of her admission.

Lord Dartmore furrowed his brows. "Of what, my dear?"

Of being caught, Cecily thought. Aloud she said, "Of this terrible war. I hear the battles getting closer and closer each day and I fear that one day they will reach us. I just wish these rebels will stop. Surely they know it is a futile attempt to go up in arms against England, Major Andre?" Cecily batted her eyelashes for additional effect.

The Major smiled. "I do not think you need to fear the rebels, Miss Dartmore. The chances of their armies reaching you here are extremely slim. However, in answer to your other question, although we may know their attempts to be futile, as you put it, they believe their plight to be a legitimate and worthy cause."

"But surely a thing's worth is purely subjective." Cecily blurted before she could stop herself. A bolt of panic shot through her at the rashness of her words. Why couldn't she ever hold her tongue?

Because you can't stop a firecracker once the fuse is lit. Cecily could practically hear Caleb's voice and she had to smother a smile as she was thrown into a memory.

"Unless you dunk it in the river," Abe had cut in, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he and Caleb exchanged looks.

"Abraham!" Anna hit him on the arm.

"And you, Cissy, are like a firecracker when your tongue gets going," Caleb finished with a smirk. "Ouch!" he exclaimed when Anna smacked him as well for good measure. "What's your problem, woman?"

"Don't you 'woman' me, Caleb Brewster," Anna said, raising her hand to hit him again, but Caleb ducked out of the way with a chuckle.

"Eh, Woody. Looks like both of em' need a dunking." Caleb said with a wink as he advanced on the two girls.

"Caleb-" Cecily began, raising a threatening finger, but before she could finish there was a sudden blur from behind her and Caleb disappeared with a surprised yelp. There was a loud splash and a second later a spluttering, very annoyed, and very wet Caleb came up from the water. A lily pad rested upon his head. Cecily, Anna, and Abraham were doubled over, roaring with laughter.

"What in the bloody hell was that for?" he roared at Ben; it was he who had pushed Caleb into the water.

"It had to be done, Caleb," Ben said. "Pushing a lady into a river is no way to behave. Besides," he drawled and gave a crooked grin that always made Cecily's heart flutter. "At least now you don't smell as bad."

Caleb's face turned an angry shade of red beneath his lily pad. "You little shite, I'll get you for this!" After some incredibly creative cursing Caleb managed to slog back onto the river bank, trailing duckweed from his sleeves. He grabbed the lily pad and threw it angrily on the ground.

Ben had started to back up, laughing softly. "My, Brewster, I guess that impromptu bath did nothing for that mouth of yours."
With a roar, he launched himself at Ben, who shot off into the woods, a dripping wet Caleb in hot pursuit. Abe wasted no time running after and Anna let out her customary shout, scolding them all, before hitching up her skirts and joining the chase.

Cecily laughed aloud and began in the direction her friends had thundered off in. She continued to laugh as she crunched through leaves, following the path of trampled weeds.

"Cecily," a voice called to her softly.

She stopped, looking around in confusion.

"Up here."

Cecily did as she was bidden and looked up. To her surprise she saw Ben grinning at her from up in a tree. He held out his hand to her, a silent invitation. Grinning in return, Cecily hoisted her skirt up and grabbed a branch, hauling herself up to join him on the limb with ease. Ben placed his hands on her waist to steady her as she got herself situated and she tried not to let how much his contact affected her show.

"Well, this is a fine hiding place you have for yourself up here, Benjamin."

He had smirked. "Now we just get to sit here and wait to see how long it takes that thick-headed bull down there to realize I'm no longer in front of him."

She giggled. "We may be here a while yet."

"I don't mind that at all. It's quite cozy up here."

Their eyes met. "I agree." Cecily told him.

"Thank you," she added. "For coming to my rescue back there. I should not have liked to take a bath in this dress."

Ben had reached out and brushed back a piece of her hair, making Cecily's breath catch in her throat. "Of course. I'll always be there for you."

That was how it always was in their circle of friends. Caleb and Abe were the trouble makers, Cecily was the sass, Anna was the peacekeeper, and Ben…Ben had always been the silent protector. Always watching, always keeping his distance until one or all of them needed him. He had always been her savior.

Where was Ben now?

"Miss Dartmore?" Major Andre's voice yanked her away from her reverie. Cecily snapped her head to face him, flushing deeply.

"I beg your pardon, Major."

He chuckled. "You need none from me. I was merely saying how you're absolutely correct in saying that worthiness is a subjective trait. However, it can also lead to delusion."

"You're positive that the rebels will be beaten then?" Cecily forced fake hopefulness into her voice.

"Yes, I am sure of it," the Major replied.

"You see my dear, nothing to worry about." Lord Dartmore said, reaching across the table to pat her hand.

"However…" Major Andre continued deliberately, ensuring that Cecily and her father fixed their full attention on him.

"John?" Her father questioned. "Do you think this wise?"

"Now, now Robert." Andre said, casually sipping from his glass. "Your daughter has expressed interest and superb intellectual maturity for her age. I see no harm in sharing certain classified intelligence with her."

Cecily frowned. "What intelligence?"

Major Andre leaned forward and spoke in a low voice as if he were afraid someone might overhear him. "Though I am confident of a British victory, I fear that this bloody war will not be over quite as quickly as many of my superiors would like to believe."

"Oh?" Cecily raised her eyebrows, her interest piqued.

"My dear, are you versed in the old languages?" Andre asked suddenly.

Cecily blinked, caught off guard. "Why, yes Major. I have studied both Latin and Greek."

"A well learned young woman. How refreshing. You will understand then, I believe, the phrase illic serpentes vidi in horto?"

"There are snakes in the garden?" Cecily questioned. "You are referring to spies, Major Andre?"

Andre gave her a pleased smile. "Most perceptive. Yes, exactly like spies. I believe that the rebels have managed to organize a spy network to obtain British intelligence."

Careful, her mind warned her as Cecily folded her hands in her lap. "But surely you don't think that any spy network the rebels could conceive is actually a threat to the royal army?"

"Ah, but that is where it gets rather interesting. At first I brushed off the thought of rebel spies asmere child's play that could never actually work. But I was proven wrong when several instances occurred in which highly classified information was leaked and plans were foiled, resulting in…it pains me to say it…American victories."

"And you think these rebel spies are responsible?"

"I see no other alternative." The Major replied. "It has become my top priority to see this threat removed. I fear their existence, if allowed to continue, will prolong the war unnecessarily."

"Oh dear," Cecily feigned being overwhelmed even though her mind was racing. "Do you have any ideas as to the whereabouts of this spy rings base? So you might intercede before they have the chance to unleash another of their nefarious plans."

"No, nothing confirmed but there is a great deal of suspicious activities that surround this tiny little fishing town on Long Island."

Cecily's heart jumped into her throat. Could it be…?

"I used to summer on Long Island with my Aunt before she passed away." Cecily said aloud. "What might the name of this little town be? I wonder if it's the same one."

Even as the words left her mouth, Cecily realized that Major Andre had known precisely what she would say before she uttered it. His eyes glittering in triumph he said, "Setauket."

The room seemed to still. Cecily could only pray her expression gave nothing away as she composed a response.

"Oh my, it is the same! Father, how positively ironic!" She hoped her girlish enthusiasm covered up the real feelings racing through her veins. Traitorous feeling, as they would be construed by her father and the Major alike.

"Quite the coincidence my dear," Lord Dartmore murmured, having remained quiet until then. He was giving Andre a look that was almost…suspicious.

Andre settled back and said, comfortably, "It is a small world we live in, Miss Dartmore. A small world indeed."

By the time Cecily excused herself from the company of the gentlemen and retired upstairs to her room it was getting quite late. Despite her exhaustion she got out her stationery, quill, and a pot of ink, and set them on the small table by the window. Working by the light of an oil lamp, she carefully scratched out a letter. It took her longer to write than she had expected, but she wanted to word it very carefully.

She was also distracted by her thoughts, which continued to drift back to her conversation with Major Andre. Something about his expression at the mention of Setauket made her very nervous. It was almost as if the Major had wanted her to ask him about the location of the spy ring, just so she could admit that she had been there.

To what end though? She wondered. She, Cecily, had nothing to do with the spies in Long Island. It had been years since she was last there, years since those long summer days spent with Ben Tallmadge and the others.

When Mariah came to help her get ready for bed Cecily was dripping wax onto the ribbon binding her letter.

"It's a cold one tonight, Miss Cecily," Mariah said in her rich, southern voice, moving to close the curtains on the darkness. She was a handsome, strong looking woman, who carried herself with as much pride as a well-bred English lady. Her skin was the color of cocoa and her eyes, set above her wide, flat nose and round cheeks, were like black coffee. Mariah had been with the Dartmore family since she was a little girl. Cecily's aunt had brought her on when Mariah was young and seen her raised proper, even providing for an excellent education. When Cecily turned eleven Mariah was hired on to her as a companion and lady's maid. Although she was only a few years older than her mistress, Mariah's matronly ways made her seem decades more advanced.

"I think perhaps a heating pan," Mariah continued, proceeding now to the fireplace where she crouched and started spooning hot coals into a metal bed warmer. "Lord Dartmore and the Major are still down in his study. I swear, if those men had a proper lady in their lives they would not keep such dreadfully late hours."

"My father has lost all the good habits you taught him, Mariah." Cecily blew on the wax to help it cool. She set the letter down and stood up, untying her robe and slinging it carelessly over the bedpost. She tucked her feet under the thick comforter on her bed, burrowing down into the pillows. "Major Andre is a bad influence."

"On you as well, Miss Cecily," said Mariah. "You let that handsome man lure you into those long conversations. Dinner went twice as long this evening!"

"Just because he's handsome does not mean I am hanging onto his every word." Cecily was mildly offended at Mariah's suggestion. She was perfectly capable of keeping her head when a good-looking man talked to her; Ben was proof enough of that. "The Major is interesting."

Mariah huffed. "Lord knows it takes a man of extreme caliber to keep up with your wit." She slid the bed warmer beneath the sheets and then smoothed out the blankets. "And don't you take that as a compliment! I know how your mind works, child."

Cecily stuck her tongue out at her childishly. "Mariah, can I ask you to do something for me?"

Mariah, who had been hanging up Cecily's castoff robe, turned at the sudden change in Cecily's tone. "Of course."

"Only- I don't want you to say yes just because you feel obligated."

"Goodness, child, what is the matter?" Mariah asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. She took one of Cecily's hands in her own. "You know I will do anything for you."

Cecily squeezed her hand in gratitude. "I need you to deliver a letter for me. The man it's for –well, I don't know where he is exactly."

"This is most cryptic, Miss Cecily."

"It needs to go to Caleb Brewster. Last I heard he was somewhere around Long Island, on the Continental side."

Understanding passed between the two women. Mariah knew well where Cecily's loyalties lay. She would smile and oblige just as much as Cecily before the Major and his men, but Mariah harbored no love for the British.

She stood up, her face set. "Give the letter to me. I'll see it delivered."

"Thank you." Cecily replied, grateful. Then, realizing something she grabbed Mariah's sleeve as she began to turn away. The other woman gave her a startled look as Cecily began to explain. "Oh, and please tell him that knowledge of the contents of this letter are for him only. He must not speak a word of it to anyone else, under any circumstance."

Mariah observed her thoughtfully for a moment. "You mean you don't want Benjamin Tallmadge to know its contents." She said finally. It wasn't a question.

Cecily averted her eyes guiltily. Curse this woman for always being able to see straight through her. Mariah tsked under her breath. "Lord only knows what you're up to and quite frankly I don't even want to know."

"Well that's a relief considering I wasn't planning on disclosing the information." Cecily told her with a saucy tone.

Mariah chuckled and shook her head. "Heaven help me…" she mused.

"You'll still see it delivered, though?" Cecily asked again, suddenly feeling slightly desperate. "And include the bit about it only being for Caleb's eyes?"

Mariah smiled and smoothed Cecily's hair back lovingly, the gesture familiar and comforting. "Of course I will."

Facta, Non Verba

Colonel Gabriel Alphonse Marshal Castor of the 1st King's Dragoons was concerned, chiefly, with the outcome of the war, but his passionate interest lay in the cultivation of good breeding. There was nothing, he reasoned, more important for a nation than to have citizens of quality stock. Having devoted most of his life to the breeding of horses he believed to be quite an authority on this. He had discovered that the purer the parents, the nearer to perfection the offspring. It followed then that a man so attuned to the fine details of genealogy would be also fascinated by imperfections, and so he was.

He was described by men who knew him as being tall; in reality he was not, but was often mistaken for such due to his almost constantly being mounted. He was rather unremarkable looking, clean shaven and with his long brown hair bound in the style shared by most of the Dragoons. It was his eyes, however, which distinguished him from the rest of the Calvary. No one had eyes like Colonel Castor. When he fixed them on a person they would squirm uncomfortably, like a small animal caught beneath the gaze of a particularly scrupulous owl. Colonel Castor missed nothing.

Dawn was only a few hours hence, and a chilly mist hung in the air. It seemed to ooze out of the very trees that made up the copse, inching moist white fingers into the boots and collars of the soldiers until the men were shivering and stamping their feet.

There were about half of a dozen of them, and they were all privately hoping that they would not need to discharge their rifles. It was very likely the powder would be too wet now because of the mist.

Amidst the soldiers two men knelt upon the hard ground, their hands bound behind their backs. One was a man wearing the dusty but expensive clothes of a merchant, his frame soft around the edges from dining on rich meals. The other was his black slave, a young man with arms like saplings who looked capable of wielding an axe with an accuracy that was making the soldiers nervous.

The sound of approaching hoof beats made the men turn. Out of the mist two horses appeared, slowing to a trot as they neared the group. Both riders dismounted smoothly, one removing his feathered helmet before approaching the soldiers and their prisoners.

"Is this them?" asked the man who had taken off his helmet. That was Colonel Castor.

"Yes sir," said the second rider. "They were trying to sneak through the woods and avoid the border check."

The man who looked like a merchant took that moment to pipe up. "I was just trying to reach Charleston without being stripped of all my goods! The last two times I've taken this trip you English-men-" he nearly spat the word "Have taken it upon yourselves to relieve me of my stock. How can an honest man make a living when it's 'seized for His Majesties troops'?"

"I find your story to be unlikely," said Castor. "If that was indeed the case, why do you not have any supplies with you?"

The merchant's reply was only a second too late. "I buried them. They're stashed in the woods. I was going to get them when I was grabbed by these soldiers." The merchant was realizing that Castor was the man in charge and, more importantly, someone that could potentially be bribed. "Please, sir," he said obsequiously, "you are a gentleman of class. You must understand the necessity of trade!"

"Certainly," said Castor. He was not looking at the merchant however. This entire time his eyes had been fixed upon the black captive. He had been noticing that the slave's ebony skin was mottled with white. "This is your slave, is it?"

"Yes sir, had him since he was a nubbin."

"Do you have a name, boy?" Castor asked the slave.

The slave raised heavily lidded eyes to the Colonel's face. He looked away again so quickly it was as if he had been burned by Castor's gaze. He half glanced in the direction of his master, clearly unsure whether to speak or hold his tongue. Slowly and with extreme care he said, "Caliban." His voice was deep and hollow, like the reverberations of a brass gong.

Castor's lip curled in a smile. "The monster from the Tempest. You are a scholarly man, then, master?" He asked the merchant.

"One does a little light reading," said the merchant humbly.

"I myself share a passion for the Bard," said Castor. "Back to the issue at hand, Master-?"

"Dogson, sir."

"Master Dogson."

"This is a misunderstanding. I'm just a merchant, sir."

"The border check points are there for your safety, are they not?"

"Yes, I know they are. I'm sure you will forgive my foolish thinking."

"I trust I can rely on you to understand the error of your ways?"

"Certainly, sir, of course." The merchant nearly gasped the words. The relief was painfully clear in his face. He did not seem to notice that the soldiers surrounding him were suddenly edging away.

Castor crouched down in front of Dogson so that his eyes were level with the merchant's. The merchant's face, before breaking into profound relief, was suddenly afraid.

"I know who you are," Castor whispered to him.

"S-sir?"

"You are a spy and a traitor to the crown."

Dogson spluttered. "What? That is ridiculous! Of course, I am not-"

"Your slave," Castor tilted his head slightly towards Caliban "was seen passing illegal correspondence to a rebel in Charleston during his last visit, a rebel who, once we arrested and interrogated him, gave us a name. Your name, Master Dogson. We were unsure who you were until we saw the two of you together."

"This is absurd!" Dogson said desperately. "I am not a traitor."

"Shhh," Castor placed a gloved finger to his lips. Dogson fell silent as if struck dumb. "Do you know how to make a thing perfect, Master Dogson?" Castor drew a wickedly curved dagger with a beautiful ivory handle from his belt. "You must first cut away the imperfections."

Dogson's scream echoed sharp and brief around the trees. It lingered in the air, shimmering like the mist.

Castor cleaned the blade of his knife on Dogson's lapel. He gave the merchant a shove and he slumped to the ground, blood seeping over the earth.

"Caliban," Castor addressed the slave. "I have a proposition for you."

Caliban was staring at the ground between Castor's feet. He could see the limp form of his former master out of the corner of his eye.

"Would you be willing to hear me out?"

Slowly, Caliban swallowed. "No man ever asked my opinion before, sah," he rumbled.

"I will put it this way. You can come with me and hear what I have to say, or you can join your master. Wherever he's gone," Castor added with a meaningful glance downward.

Caliban pondered this. "I think I will go with you, sah."

Castor's smile was predatory and not at all comforting. "Excellent."

Under Colonel Castor's command there was one man from Lyon, a little Frenchman who had spent nearly his entire life walking the forests of America. He was Castor's best scout and was known for his fondness for rifles. Severin, as was the scout's name, had a nick-name for Colonel Castor, which had quickly been adopted by the rest of the soldiers.

Sang-froid: cold blood.