The Lovers of a Spy: A spy that plays a deadly game of love....and Revenge

By Jim Walton

The Lovers of a Spy novel is a romantic, intriguing spy and love story rolled into one. It begins in Scotland when a knighted Confederate spy marries a titled Scottish Lady who has inherited a vast estate then tragically dies, leaving it to Sir Percy, the spy. The spy carries on but is extremely unhappy until he is forced to bec

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Walton
• Release date: Aug 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578744681

Jim Walton

The books are written by Jim Walton, a distant relative of the original Walton family that emigrated from England with Wm. Penn who settled in Pennsylvania in 1682 with a group of Quakers. Jim Walton is a successful businessman and entrepreneur in the computer and technology training industry. He has recently published several Civil War, Romance stories, and a biography of his life as an adventurous young man growing up in the rural Midwest. He was honored by his college alumni as the most successful graduate in 2007..

Book preview

1

I sat looking into the large flickering fireplace when I was distracted by something standing in the far doorway. It was a little boy about six years old with red hair leaning on the doorsill with his thumb firmly embedded in his mouth. I smiled at him, and he removed his thumb and smiled back. He slowly walked towards me, stood at my feet looking up at me, and shyly said, What is your name? I decided to start a dialog with the little lad by saying, I will tell you my name if you tell me yours, young Sir. Just then, Rebecca walked in the room attired in her green day dress and red tartan sash, looking the same as the day I last saw her. She quickly picked up the young lad and looked intently at my face as if I were a stranger , I softly announced with a smile. It’s me, Percy. Percy Townsend from America. Glaring, Rebecca quickly replied, I know. It has been years since we last saw each other. I have not heard from you. My son Jack insisted you were still alive and living in the Bahamas with your wife and son. My smile must have faded by her remark. She quickly placed the red-haired lad on the floor, then p ut both hands on her hips, and in controlled defiance, she spoke . What is wrong, Percy? Why have you decided to come back?

The nanny retrieved the young lad from the room as Rebecca and I sat together on the couch in front of the fireplace speaking of the war, the upcoming marriage between her son Jack and Mary, my settling in the Bahamas, my wife and child, the terrible storm, the tragic drowning death of my family and the wedding of my sister Ruth and my friend John Henry. Time went by, and soon it was very late in the afternoon.

Rebecca called for the butler to bring us some refreshments. Soon he quietly entered the room carrying a tray with two glasses of well-aged red wine to sip while we talked. I took the opportunity to remark about the young red-haired lad and his relationship with Rebecca. The lad you are referring to is my son. His name is John. Oh. so, you are married then? I remarked as I sat the glass on the table. No, my dear Percy, I am not married. She paused then said, John is our son. You are his father. I was dumbfounded as I looked. My jaw dropped, and an expression of great surprise came across my face. At first, Rebecca’s face was solemn, but when she saw my reaction, she began to laugh. Soon she composed herself and said,

Major Percy Townsend, the Confederate Ambassador to Great Britain, the friend of the Prince of Wales, the great Confederate spy, the bravest soldier of the South, the richest man in the Caribbean, the kindest of men, my benefactor, my friend, my love, is surprised to hear he is a father. What are you to do, my dear boy? All I could say was, When…. She smiled and whispered in my ear, Don’t you remember that night I seduced you from this couch and led you to my room? Has your memory been poor since then? Then why hasn’t Jack told me? I cried. I told him not to tell you under the penalty of being disowned. She replied.

I regained my composure and quietly said, Why didn’t you inform me of the impending birth? Because my dear Sir Percy , I did not want to cause you scandal, negative notoriety, and confusion in your pending marriage and position of authority. She answered as she got up from the couch and extended her hand to me. Come and let us sup together as a family. We will discuss our plans later. She confidently said, leading me into the dining room where Jack and Mary sat at the long candlelit table with broad smiles on their faces.

It was the long-lost voice of his beloved Rebecca on Percy's learning of his progeny. He remembers this occasion currently of every evening. He reminisces of his dead wife of red hair and her green dress with the clan’s tartan sash worn over her ample bodice smiling at him over the long, candlelit dining table during dinner. After dinner, she would quietly creep up behind the high back couch where Percy sat in front of the massive fireplace and kiss the nape of his neck, and he would smile, pat her hand and nod his head in recognition of her kiss. He would always know when she was present by the scent she wore. Even now, he still feels her kiss and sometimes feels her warm presence about him.

At dawn the next day, Percy and his resident deerstalkers decided to take to a hunt, riding on stout horses high up in the hills of the Balam Estate, they saw sika and distant roe, both more accustomed to the terrain than them. They watched as they effortlessly leaped away, and out of rifle range.

After a late breakfast prepared by the deerstalkers, in a few hours, they were back out stalking. Less than ten minutes into the afternoon stalk, a sika stag was spotted.

One of the Stalkers helped Percy to a position for the best shot. Lying prone under cover of trees, Percy calmly takes the shot, at one hundred twenty yards, and the stag drops.  The stalkers congratulated Percy on a great shot! The stalkers retrieved the stag as an excellent trophy for his trophy room.

Lord Percy, please be reassured I have done the chores properly, please retire to your residence before you catch your death. Said Michael, the husbandman. It was already becoming dark, cold, and misty as Percy stood by the stable door, watching and listening to the Percheron horses noisily eating their ration of oats and hay and enjoying the earthy odor of the stables. He realized his feet were almost frozen, so he nodded his approval to his hired man as he closed the stable doors. With his deerhound dog, Angus, He slowly walked the graveled path to the side door and up the steps that went into the scullery of the manor house, Balam Castle. Before entering, Percy paused, looking up at the imposing castle that represented the Lords and Ladies that lived there long ago. In his mind's eye, he recalls the physical being of his domicile.

Balam Castle stands three stories high, built of deeply weather-stained grey four-foot thick limestone. The ground floor is elevated five feet on a base of rusticated stone. Small windows squint out from the basement, while those that stare from the rest of the levels are nearly eight feet high and four feet wide. The roof is tarnished copper, green with age, with a cornice surmounted by a line of spear-headed, vertical iron spikes. The architecture asserts contradictory medieval, baroque, and neoclassical elements without resolution.

The front of the house is about one hundred sixty feet wide in all. The overall impression is of three halls oriented with their ends towards the viewer, connected by a corridor running perpendicular. There are thus two prominent wings, plus a central portion. The facades of the left and right sides feature slightly projecting bays filled with tall windows, and trapezoidal gables. The sections between each wing and the central portion feature projecting window bays, like those of the sides.

Four tower-like, engaged columns dominate the forty-foot facade of the front. Two stories above, a balustraded flat roof creates a balcony. The top of each pillar forms a semi-circular projection of the gallery, the whole effect evoking the gatehouse of a medieval castle. The massive front entrance door is five feet wide and seven feet high, of roughly carved oak wood bound in iron.

The front entrance is reached by a five-foot-high platform that extends about eighteen feet forward onto the lawn. Low, broad staircases run perpendicular, giving access to the platform on either side. A thick stone balustrade edges the platform and stairs. Behind both full front stairs is a narrower, steeper set. A set that runs down under the front platform, which gives access to the basement. Below that is the dark, damp dungeon.

He knew his supper would be waiting for him as he pushed open the heavy oak door and felt the warmth of the house rush at him and began to unfreeze his nose. The flickering lamp was shining brightly as the cook had left it on the scullery table, knowing he would be disrobing from his badger fur coat. He bent down and unfastened the latch on his boots then used the boot jack that was part of the chair he was setting on to pry off his heavy boot. He rubbed the warmth back into his feet as he looked and listened for any activity within the manor house. Spring would be late this year, he thought while he sat down at the scullery table, picked up a two-pronged fork and broad-bladed knife, and began to eat his favorite supper of roast beef and boiled potato. The lamp was the only light setting next to the table, showing his shadow on the wall, the odd shifting lone portrait of himself. What he didn’t eat, he would toss to Angus that waited patiently for his morsel.

The servants are all retired for the evening. All would be silent in the Trophy room while Sir Percy would sit on the Chesterfield couch, stroking the head of his faithful dog lying next to him and stare at the waning firelight until it was glowing coals emitting flickering tongues of blue flame. He took a deep breath, more like a sigh. Percy felt worthless even though he was considered wealthy; had land, livestock, and priceless possessions. But, he had no one to love or talk with. All of those who he loved was gone. All gone, all dead.

For many nights, Percy would set alone by the fire in a dark room with ghosts that once were alive but now only fading portraits on the cold stone wall that were swirling around him. He felt worthless and depressed at what he would have to face life alone. Percy knew he wasn’t a young man any longer. His hair was gunmetal grey and getting thin. His beard was salt and pepper and grew slowly, much like his pace. His death would not be grieved; his burial next to Rebecca would not be made known.

He reached for his ivory-handled pistol; he looked at it for a while, remembering how many times it had come in handy and served to save the life of his King and himself. Now it would be a necessary part of his death. He rubbed it for luck as he always did before using it the last time. He put his thumb on the hammer to cock it and thought what it would feel like to be dead. He closed his eyes, started to raise the weapon to his lips. The metal was cold to his lips and made him think what this would do to old McGregor, finding him cold and slumped over on the couch, unresponsive to his morning greeting. He was losing all hope for happiness. Why live when no one cared if he lived or died.

The click of the pistol hammer was deafening in the darkness of the Trophy room. Old Angus raised his head to see what made the noise. The sound echoed throughout the vast smoke-filled chamber. While Percy pressed the gun barrel to