Smugglers' Summer Page 14

  “Ugh!” she said stepping back, then quickly, before she could imagine the terrors ahead, she seized the lantern and marched in.

  “Slowly, Miss Gray!” There was laughter in Sir Tristram’s voice. “Much as I admire your boldness, we cannot go so fast.”

  Mrs Pengarth followed last, closing the door behind them. Octavia heard it slam and wondered whether they would ever be able to open it again.

  The tunnel’s rock and earthen walls were reinforced here and there with timber. It was far too narrow for three men abreast, especially when one of them was Jack Day. They had to walk in a sort of crabwise shuffle. At least the roof was high enough, the footing was firm and smooth, and the downward slope helped them to keep moving. It also took much of Red Jack’s weight off Mr Wynn’s shoulders, laying it instead on Sir Tristram’s, which were much fitter to bear it.

  A cobweb brushed Octavia’s face and she lost all desire to hurry. Spiders, she thought, and bats and rats. She held the lantern higher and peered ahead into the darkness. Suddenly a drip splashed her forehead and she could not repress a squeal.

  “What is the matter?” asked Sir Tristram sharply. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. There is water coming through the ceiling here but judging from the stains on the wood it has been dripping forever. I do not see why it should choose to collapse just as we pass.” Cautiously she went on.

  There was a long flight of stone steps. By the time they reached the bottom, Captain Day was barely conscious, eyes glazed, his legs moving automatically. James Wynn was not in much better case.

  “Now I see . . . the benefits . . . of exercise!” he gasped, his face pale and sweating. “How much . . . farther?”

  “It is levelling off,” reported Octavia. “We must be nearly there."

  A few paces farther on the passage widened, then opened into a small chamber, no more than ten feet on a side. It was half room, half cave, three walls being unevenly carved from the hillside, shored here and there with wood, and the fourth built with neatly laid blocks of stone. The ceiling was strongly constructed of rough-hewn timber. Octavia remembered that the map showed the lane passing directly overhead. She hoped it was not much used by heavy farm carts.

  Sir Tristram and Mr Wynn carried the captain in and laid him on the damp ground as gently as their aching muscles allowed. Mr Wynn sank down, exhausted, and sat leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. Sir Tristram stretched as widely as he could in the limited space.

  “You’ve a large suitor, Martha,” he said wryly.

  “Aye, and it’s a pity he hasn’t the sense to match his size. But ye may call him my betrothed, sir, for if he comes out of this alive I’ll drag him to the altar afore I let him go back to free trading. Now I’d best fetch bedding, for it won’t do to let him lie in the damp.” She turned towards the passage.

  “Wait!” said Octavia. “There is supposed to be a way directly to the outside. Let me look.”

  Sir Tristram took the lantern and they both scrutinised the stone wall, which seemed the logical place for an exit. It was featureless.

  “I hoped not to have to return through that horrid tunnel,” sighed Octavia in disappointment, turning away. “Oh dear, and who is to have the lantern?”

  “Look!” James Wynn was pointing at one of the corners on the other side of the room from the stone wall. “Surely that is a door, though it looks like part of the reinforcement. Hold the lantern closer, Deanbridge.”

  Sir Tristram stepped over Red Jack’s recumbent form.

  “You are right. Martha, hold this, if you please.” The housekeeper took the lantern and he pulled on a rusty iron bar set in the wood. With a creaking groan the door opened, revealing a curtain of ivy. He held it aside and stepped forward carefully. “Ouch! It opens into a tree. Bring the light closer. Yes, it must have grown since this place was used—it has probably had two centuries of peace!—but I think we can squeeze past it. The entrance is well hidden, at all events."

  He turned back, and Octavia saw that a twig had scratched his cheek.

  “Keep still,” she ordered, going to him and holding his chin with one hand while she cleaned it with her handkerchief. “Now how do you propose to explain that away?”

  “It will not be half so difficult as explaining why we are so late, if we do not go up to the house very soon.” He took the blood-smeared handkerchief. “I doubt I shall die of it, but thank you, nurse. I will buy you a new one. Now, you and I must go with Martha. Wynn, you will stay with Jack for the present. All in all, it is quite the best place for you. Martha and I will return as soon as we can. We shall bring blankets and food. Is there anything else you require?”

  “Linen for bandages. He is bleeding again, unsurprisingly. What I crave most is rest and sleep!”

  “You have done a good day’s work. I confess it is more than I would have expected of a political essayist! We will leave you the lantern and bring more fuel for it. Come, Miss Gray, let me hold back the branches for you.”

  Octavia slipped out into the night, followed by Mrs Pengarth. The moon had set, and the sky was bright with more stars than she had dreamed existed. Their faint light showed black silhouettes of trees and bushes but left the ground in obscurity.

  As she hesitated, she felt Sir Tristram’s arm about her shoulders. He guided her after the housekeeper, who went round by the gate not, Octavia was glad to see, through the stone passage under the lane.

  They walked in companionable silence until they came to the corner of the house, where Mrs Pengarth awaited them.

  “Sir, I had best go first to be there to meet you. The staff will wonder if we go in together.”

  “Go ahead. We shall sit here for a few minutes. You are not cold, Miss Gray?”

  “No, not at all.” She could feel the warmth of his arm all the way down to her toes.

  They sat on the bench and he pointed out constellations to her: the Plough, Orion, Cassiopeia. She would have been happy to stay there forever; all too soon he stood up, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet.

  Suddenly she was tired.

  The lights from the house illuminated their way. In no time they were going up the stairs and through the inside porch into the drawing room.

  Julia turned from the window and came eagerly to greet them. Lady Langston looked up from her embroidery frame.

  “It is very late. I was growing quite worried,” she said placidly.

  “Oh, Sir Tristram, you have hurt your cheek!” cried Miss Matilda Crosby, jumping up. “Let me fetch you a court plaster at once!”

  “A mere scratch, ma’am. Pray do not disturb yourself. I—ah—now how did I come by this scratch, Miss Gray? I cannot remember, I vow.”

  He raised his eyebrows at Octavia, who repressed a giggle.

  “How could you forget, Sir Tristram? You were taken by surprise when a big wave made the barge roll, lost your balance, and fell against a—a spar!”

  “Of course, a spar it was.”

  What exactly was a spar? Octavia wondered. She was sure it was part of a boat but whether it might inflict such an injury, she had no idea. However, her aunt and Miss Crosby raised no demur, though Julia was looking at them with suspicion.

  “What did you buy in Plymouth?” she asked.

  Octavia looked blank. “Good heavens!” she said, “I must have left all my packages in the carriage. I am by far too tired to do anything about it now. If you will excuse me, Aunt, I believe I shall go up to bed.”

  “We were all about to retire,” said Lady Langston.

  “Thank you, Sir Tristram, for taking care of my niece. How fortunate that you did not fall overboard.”

  “Very fortunate, ma’am. It might have proven difficult for Miss Gray to explain my absence had she left me to drown."

  As soon as they reached the bedchamber, where Ada awaited them, Julia turned to Octavia.

  “Did you post my letter?”

  She had forgotten all about it. It had lost its purpose
when Mr Wynn appeared. However, she had not consulted Sir Tristram about how much she ought to tell her cousin. If she said that Mr Wynn was here, Julia would want to see him at once.

  Catching Ada’s eye, she nodded. “I am sure James will very soon give you his answer."

  “Tavy, what have you been up to today? I would wager that you and Sir Tristram are sharing some secret. That business of the scratch on his face!”

  “Wait till the morning, Ju. I am quite worn out.”

  “We’ll have you fast asleep in your own chamber in no time, miss,” said Ada, hurrying to help her undress. “There’s no need to share with Miss Julia now."

  Good, thought Octavia sleepily. All the same, by the morning she must come up with a story to satisfy her cousin.

  Chapter 15

  Julia was still asleep when Octavia went down the next morning. As she had hoped, Sir Tristram was at the breakfast table, and he was obviously waiting for her.

  Unfortunately, Matilda Crosby had also risen early. She was methodically consuming a plateful of kidneys, kippers, and kedgeree which made Octavia feel bilious.

  “Tea and toast, please, Raeburn,” she requested, averting her eyes.

  Sir Tristram looked up in disapproval. He himself was provided with two hefty slices of cold beef, several marmaladed muffins and a tankard of cider.

  “Must eat more than that,” he said. “You are growing quite thin.”

  “Am I?” asked Octavia, pink with pleasure.

  “Yes. Have some buttered eggs, they are excellent.”

  “You have tried them already, have you? Bring me just a little of the buttered eggs, then, Raeburn, if Sir Tristram has left any. Thank you.”

  “In my day,” said Miss Crosby with a titter, “young ladies would not dream of being seen to break their fast in public.”

  Sir Tristram stared at her plate with raised eyebrows.

  “How quaint old-fashioned customs sound,” Octavia hurriedly intervened. “I wonder what they ate for breakfast in Tudor times?”

  “Larks’ tongue pies and lampreys,” suggested Sir Tristram with a grin. “I wonder if Lord Edgcumbe has ever served larks’ tongue pie at one of his banquets."

  “It sounds horrid. Sir, I must ask your advice on one or two matters.”

  “I am at your service, ma’am, as soon as you are finished breaking your fast . . ."

  She glared at him and he left off the words “in public” which she had seen on the tip of his tongue.

  “That is like to be long before you,” she pointed out, sipping her tea. “Raeburn, pray do not refill Sir Tristram’s plate.”

  Miss Crosby was heard to sniff and mutter something indistinct about modern manners. She ate slower and slower, as if determined not to leave them alone together. The baronet finished his sirloin, washed it down with cider, and stuck two half muffins together.”

  “Shall we walk outside?” he proposed. “It is a beautiful morning.”

  “Is it? I did not take the time to look. Yes, let us go out. You will excuse us, Miss Crosby.”

  Muffin in hand, he ushered her out.

  “What is the connection between Captain Day and Lord Edgcumbe?” she demanded as they crossed the courtyard.

  “Unf!” he said through a mouthful of muffin.

  “Do not try to evade the question! You told the sailor his lordship would approve any aid given to his relative."

  “Did I! He is some sort of distant cousin, I believe.”

  “I do not believe you, sir. Or at least, there is more to it than that. And if he is a descendant of the Bad Baron, I know all about him so you need not fear to tell me.”

  “Oh, do you! And who told you that story?”

  “Lord Ernest. I promise you I was very cross with him for revealing to a stranger his own family’s scandalous behaviour.”

  “And shocked, I hope, at a tale unfit for a female’s ears. Yes, Jack Day is the second baron’s grandson. The present earl sent him to school and bought him the Seamew, though I daresay he did not foresee the use that would be made of her!”

  “Did you give him the gold that we found in the cabinet?”

  “No. I gave it to Martha Pengarth.”

  “Very sensible,” applauded Octavia. “Shall you . . ."

  “It is my turn to ask a few questions. What have you told Miss Langston?”

  “Nothing. Not even about Mr Wynn.”

  “Good. She is to know nothing of Jack. The fewer people who can connect him with this place, the better.”

  “My cousin is no chatterbox, sir."

  “I place less reliance on her discretion than I do on yours, ma’am. Shall we sit down? I fancy there will be enough walking to be done once you have revealed Mr Wynn’s presence. I took him to the chapel in the woods early this morning.”

  They sat on the bench at the corner of the house. Considering how best to tell Julia the news, Octavia neither noticed the view nor recalled last night’s starry sky.

  “She guessed last night that we were hiding something. I shall tell her I have a surprise for her,” she decided, “and we shall take a picnic lunch. Then we can leave the food for him."

  “Must I come with you?”

  “Of course! Oh, I see what you mean. Will it be very painful to you if she rushes into his arms?”

  He pulled a face. “It is not a spectacle I look forward to with pleasure.”

  “No. I am heartily sorry for it, but I think you must come, if only to carry the picnic basket! We cannot trust a servant to go with us. Besides, it will look very odd if you stay behind.”

  He sighed but acquiesced. “We had best take twice as much food as we need. We can leave some with Jack. By the way, Martha has received an urgent message calling her to the bedside of a sick relative.”

  “That is all very well, but who is to run the house in her absence? I am sure my aunt will not know what is to be done.”

  “She has left an upper housemaid in charge. Doris, by name, I believe. Satisfied? Martha will stay in the cave until Jack is able to care for himself, so it is up to us to supply them.”

  “You will have to make a habit of walking out of the breakfast room with a handful of muffins! I fear Miss Crosby disapproves of me, though I cannot think how I have offended.”

  “Like her, you are a poor relative. However, unlike her, you are young and beautiful. Enough cause for envy."

  “I must strive to be kinder to her,” Octavia said, her cheeks flushed. “Oh! What is that noise?”

  Round the corner of the house rode four scarlet-coated dragoons. Harnesses jingling, their massive horses’ ironclad hooves chopped the lawn into a muddy morass.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing!” demanded Sir Tristram in an icy voice that cut straight through the noise.

  The cavalrymen had passed without seeing them. They reined in and looked back, then one of them rode back and saluted.

  “Orders to surround the ‘ouse, sir,” he said reasonably. “Beg pardon, ma’am, if we frighted ye.”

  “Whose orders, sergeant? What damn fool told you to ruin his lordship’s lawn?”

  The troopers looked around in dismay. Clearly the difference between a rough meadow and a greensward with several centuries of care behind it had never dawned on them.

  “The Riding Officer, sir,” said the sergeant, his voice sullen. “We’re seconded to the Customs. ‘E never warned us ‘bout no lawn. I’ll ‘ave to ask ‘oo you are, sir. Orders to hindentafy hevery male hin’abitant.”

  “I am Sir Tristram Deanbridge, a guest of the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe. Where is this impertinent Riding Officer?”

  Two of the horsemen sniggered.

  “In the ‘ouse, sir, directing the search. Please to go in, sir. No one’s to leave. I got to surround the ‘ouse, sir!” He sounded almost desperate.

  “At least go round by the path, man! Come, Miss Gray, let us see what is toward. This could prove most amusing!”

  “Amusing! You have an odd sense of
humour, I vow! What if they find Jack? They will know we must have helped him.”

  “Do you regret it?”

  “No, but that does not mean that I am not terrified!”

  They walked back through the gatehouse, passing a dragoon stationed there, and into the courtyard. Octavia recognised the Riding Officer at once: it was the tall, thin, elderly man who had ordered her trunk opened on her arrival at Cotehele Quay.

  She pulled on Sir Tristram’s coat.

  “That’s him!” she whispered. “The one I told you of. I made everyone laugh at him. He is certain to hold a grudge.”

  The baronet laughed aloud and patted her hand. “My dear, I cannot think of anything less likely than that he should recognise you. Remember, I saw you then! Act the haughty wellborn miss and he will never think to have seen you before. Chin up, now!”

  Everyone in the courtyard, the officer, seven troopers, Raeburn, two footmen, and a maid, turned to gape at that laugh.

  The stout butler, his voice filled with dignified outrage, appealed to the baronet.

  “Sir, this person insists on searching the house in the King’s name. Her ladyship has not come down yet.”

  “I’ve a warrant!” declared the Riding Officer, his high voice belligerent, waving a large sheet of paper. “I have reason to suppose a dangerous criminal may be concealed in this house!”

  “A dangerous criminal?” said Sir Tristram with assumed interest. “A highwayman, perhaps, or even a murderer?”

  “A smuggler, sir, and badly wounded when his ship was taken in Plymouth Sound yesterday.”

  “A dangerous, badly wounded smuggler? I suppose he swam up the Tamar, climbed the hill, and broke into the house while we slept. Truly a formidable man!”

  “You may laugh, sir, but I’ve a warrant. I’ll thank you not to obstruct me in carrying out my duties.”

  “Am I obstructing you? I do beg your pardon. Raeburn, you will allow this—ah—person and his men to go where they please. You will instruct the staff to observe their every move and notify you of any damage incurred. You may head the list with a badly cut up lawn, the destruction of which I myself witnessed. That will be all.” He turned to Octavia. “Shall we go in, ma’am?”