Smugglers' Summer Page 16

  Soon she had no breath for anything but climbing, going as fast as she could in case the lieutenant came after them. She reached the top and turned as Sir Tristram joined her. He put his finger on his lips.

  “Speak quietly, they may be able to hear us.”

  “I have made a plan,” she whispered, “in case they close the trapdoor and find the tunnel. You must create a diversion, and I will run down the tunnel and help Mrs Pengarth to get Red Jack out at the other end before they come.”

  “I doubt I could divert their attention enough that they would not notice you opening the door, and still more I doubt that the two of you can move Jack. No, if you are willing, and I see that you are, let us try this. You must stay close to the trapdoor, pretending to be fearful. They do not know how courageous you are and will not be surprised. I shall stay above, having seen the place before. Then if they decide to close the trap, you refuse to stay and call to Cardin to help you out. When I hear you, I shall run down the hill to help Jack escape. I can go much quicker than they will be able to in that tunnel.”

  “That is a better plan,” said Octavia regretfully. “Only what if Mr Cardin sees you go? He will be suspicious. I know! I shall pretend to hurt my ankle and keep him by me in the tower! You must be careful not to twist yours as you go down.”

  “If it comes to that, I shall take care,” promised Sir Tristram, “but I doubt either of our plans will be needed. The cellar has been searched a hundred times without . . . Quick, admire the view! Hallo, Cardin! Has our friend forgiven your presence?”

  “Look!” cried Octavia, leaning over the parapet and pointing down the hill. “Here come the dragoons, and each of them has several lanterns. I wonder where they found so many? I am afraid they are mocking the poor Riding Officer.”

  Mr Cardin laughed, but said rather angrily, “The man’s a pompous fool. The appointment of such as him does not make our task any easier.” He accorded the panorama his perfunctory admiration, then offered to escort Octavia down the stairs. “I would not miss seeing the secret room for anything,” he explained.

  “I have seen it already,” said Sir Tristram lazily. “I shall follow shortly.” He leaned on the parapet and studied the valley garden, where a red uniform was still visible beside the dovecote.

  When Octavia reached the bottom, the dragoons were methodically stacking lanterns against the wall. The corporal winked at her and shook his head. He lit two of the lanterns, handed one to the Riding Officer, and descended the steps into the cellar. His men followed, brought up at the rear by the officer. Mr Cardin helped Octavia down the steps after them.

  “What a horrid place!” she exclaimed, staying close to the exit. She had not had time on her last visit to look about her, nor to hesitate before attempting the tunnel. Now she was glad Sir Tristram had rejected her plan to run down it alone.

  The Riding Officer was standing in the middle of the room, holding up his lantern and peering around with a look on his face of mortal disappointment. There was no wounded smuggler, and no place to hide one.

  Mr Cardin and the soldiers opened the empty tea chests. They found nothing of interest.

  “Perhaps there is another room opening off this,” suggested the young man to Octavia’s alarm. “Corporal, try tapping on the walls to see if they sound hollow anywhere.”

  “These men are under my command!” cried the Riding Officer. “I was about to try that.”

  The corporal shrugged, and motioned to the dragoons to spread out along the walls. Mr Cardin shrugged and joined Octavia. He watched restlessly as the soldiers thumped without result. As the corporal approached the Riding Officer, saluted, and reported no hollow sounds, she realised that her companion was eyeing thoughtfully the trapdoor and its folding steps.

  “Sir Tristram!” she called instantly in a weak voice, praying that he was near enough to hear. “I feel faint. Please help me out of here!”

  The baronet appeared above as the lieutenant anxiously begged her to lean on him. Feeling thoroughly foolish, she allowed them to lift her out of the cellar, carry her outside, and fuss over her. Julia hurried up in alarm, and Sir Tristram stood back to leave her room to reach her cousin.

  He winked at Octavia and went back into the tower. Moments later he came out again, followed by the gloomy Riding Officer and the six dragoons.

  Octavia, who had begun to feel really unwell with suspense, breathed easily again.

  “It is past time we returned to the house,” said Sir Tristram, watching the searchers plod wearily down the hill. “Miss Gray, are you well enough to walk?”

  “Yes, indeed, if Mr Cardin will be so kind as to support me.” She rose to her feet with an artistic wobble and leaned heavily on the lieutenant’s arm. “Ju, do not look so long-faced. You will see James tomorrow.”

  At the bottom of the hill, Julia bade her lover a tearful good night. As he walked away down the lane he drew a book from his pocket and started to read it, but to Octavia’s astonishment he turned and waved before disappearing into the valley. He must indeed love her cousin if the thought of her could distract him from his reading!

  Chapter 17

  Lady Langston was pleased to welcome Lord Edgcumbe’s young protégé and invited him to dinner, assuring him that it made not the least difference to her that he was unable to change his clothes. Miss Crosby sniffed, but she had seen Mr Cardin at the earl’s table and could not protest.

  “A well-meaning young man,” she said condescendingly. ‘‘His lordship tells me he has great hopes for his future."

  Sir Tristram looked skeptical, not of the lieutenant’s future but of the lady’s claim to have discussed it with Lord Edgcumbe. Octavia guessed his thoughts and frowned at him across the drawing room. He was far too ready to take Miss Crosby up when she made her more questionable statements, and Octavia was doing her best to be charitable towards the poor woman.

  Though she was hungry after the exercise and emotions of the day, when they went down to dinner she found she was even more tired than hungry. Mr Cardin anxiously plied her with food, but it was Sir Tristram’s watchful eye that persuaded her to eat. He must not think that the dreadful business of the scrumpy had spoiled her appetite.

  The lieutenant made a hearty meal. He had had no luncheon, he explained bashfully. The tide had brought him to Cotehele at mid-morning; having heard that fashionable ladies never rose before noon, he had waited until that hour, and then decided that it would be encroaching to make his appearance just before a mealtime. Octavia admired his restraint in not falling upon the remains of their picnic when he finally joined them.

  Julia, seated beside the baronet, was aglow with happiness and behaved charmingly towards him. Even her mother noticed it.

  “I am glad you have taken my advice as to fresh air and exercise, Julia,” she said. “Your looks are improved already, I vow, and your spirits also. Pray continue to take advantage of this delightful weather.”

  “I mean to, Mama,” said Julia with a sparkling, mischievous smile. “I intend to be out of doors from breakfast until dinner every day.”

  “But do not on any account get brown, my love. You must remember to take your parasol. Matilda, what lotion was it you recommended for freckles?”

  “Denmark Lotion and crushed strawberries are both excellent, Lady Langston, though I do not consider Distilled Water of Green Pineapples to be efficacious. However, Miss Gray is more in need of such remedies than Miss Langston, for her complexion is much browner.”

  Julia, Sir Tristam, and Mr Cardin all leaped indignantly to the defense of Octavia’s complexion, leaving Miss Crosby cowed and her victim biting her lip in an effort to avoid dissolving in helpless giggles.

  She was hoping for a private word with the baronet, but when he and the lieutenant rejoined the ladies after their port, Julia again bestowed her attention upon him. She did not care to interrupt their tête-à-tête, though Sir Tristram did not appear to be enjoying it particularly. In fact, he looked somewhat bored.


  Of course, he must know that he owed Julia’s complaisance to her happiness at James’s appearance, not to her pleasure in his company. Behind the mask of boredom, he was undoubtedly suffering the pangs of unrequited love. Octavia hoped he was also making practical plans to win her from the politician.

  Mr Cardin left to catch the ebb tide back to Plymouth.

  Julia decided to retire early, “in order to rise early and not waste the sunshine.” Lady Langston regarded her daughter’s departure as a good excuse to follow suit. Miss Crosby sat on, chattering aimlessly in the face of Octavia’s sleepy yawns and Sir Tristram’s all too obvious irritation.

  Octavia was ready to surrender and go to bed when Lady Langston’s dresser providentially appeared. Her ladyship wished to consult Miss Crosby on some little matter. Would Miss Crosby be kind enough to attend her ladyship in the White Bedroom?

  Miss Crosby would, reluctantly. Bestowing a parting admonitory frown, she flounced off.

  Sir Tristram heaved a sigh of relief. “That woman,” he said awfully, “is enough to drive a saint to murder. I have been waiting all evening for an opportunity to congratulate you on your quick thinking in the tower."

  “Why, thank you, kind sir! Mr Cardin was looking with the greatest suspicion at the trapdoor, and I had to divert him without making you think all was discovered. I must confess I myself was impressed with my acting ability, though I felt like the veriest widgeon, swooning away like that. Are you going down to take the food to Mrs Pengarth?”

  “In a while, when the household is asleep.”

  “Were you not afraid, when you left the hamper under the tree, that it might attract attention? I did not think of it at the time.”

  “I left it under the wrong tree,” he said smugly. “It was at least thirty feet from the secret door. I only hope I can find it tonight in the dark.”

  “Well, if that was the wrong tree, I should certainly never find the right one! Ada! What is it?”

  The abigail had peeked round the drawing room door. She came into the room.

  “Excuse me, miss, I was just thinking, with last night and Mrs. Pengarth going off and all and the troopers all over, if she was to be somewhere where she couldn’t get about, like, is there anything I can do to help? Like if you was to bring me her linen to wash, or I could make some soup for the captain while nobody’s in the kitchen. I don’t mean to presume, sir. I’d like to help.”

  “Both excellent ideas, Ada,” approved Sir Tristram. “If you can have soup ready in about an hour, I will come to the kitchen for it. Thank you!”

  Octavia hugged the maid, who looked at her with concern.

  “You’re worn to a shadow, miss, and half-asleep! Off to bed with you!”

  “In a minute. You go on and I shall come in just a minute, I promise.” Ada went out and she continued to Sir Tristram, “There is just one more thing I must ask you. What are you going to do to persuade Julia to love you instead of James?”

  “I believe my best course is to leave them alone together as much as possible. Do not frown! Did you not hear them talking? He lectures her on politics! Today there were enough interruptions to make it bearable, but a steady diet will pall very soon. Tomorrow there will be no interruptions—you and I are going to visit Cotehele Mill, without them."

  “Are we indeed?”

  “Your pardon, ma’am! Miss Gray, may I beg the pleasure of your company on an expedition to the Mill?”

  “That sounds delightful, sir. If I ever wake up.” She yawned hugely, smiled sleepily, and wished him good night.

  She was fast asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, even before Ada had blown out her candle.

  It seemed scarce a few minutes later that she gradually became aware that Ada was shaking her.

  “Miss Gray, wake up! Wake up, miss!”

  Octavia blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning already? What is the matter? What time is it?”

  “It’s just past eleven, miss. I’m that sorry to wake you when you’re so tired, but Sir Tristram needs you. It seems the Riding Officer left dragoons posted in the gardens.”

  “Oh dear, how excessively awkward of him!” She sat up, wide awake. “But how can I help?”

  “He said he had a plan, miss, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said to wear a dark gown and a dark cloak with a hood, so I got these from Miss Julia’s room. I don’t know what he’s up to, miss, but you will be careful, won’t you?”

  Octavia dressed quickly and hurried down to the Great Hall. By the light of a single candle, Sir Tristram was pacing impatiently up and down. He came to meet her and took her hands in his.

  “I was sure you would come. Did Ada explain? I must go to Jack and those damned dragoons are everywhere. I hope that if you are with me they will think we have a lovers’ rendezvous. It is a great deal to ask of you, I know, though if you keep the cloak close about you they cannot be sure who you are. But they will guess, after seeing the four of us today, and there may be talk.” He searched her face.

  “I hardly think soldiers’ gossip is likely to reach my aunt,” she said calmly, “still less my parents in London!”

  “I knew you were game! It is bright moonlight, which lends colour to our story. Leave all the talking to me.”

  “You take care of her, sir!” ordered Ada, who had followed Octavia in and was listening, arms akimbo, a disapproving look on her face. “Why Miss Gray should risk herself for a smuggler she don’t know from Adam beats me, related to the earl or no, but if go you must, miss, take these here flasks of hot soup for the poor man. They’ll fit nicely in the pockets of your cloak.”

  Laughing, Octavia took the flasks and stowed them away. “Why, Ada,” she said, “until I came here I never had an adventure in my life, so I am making up for lost time.”

  “That’s my girl!” approved Sir Tristram. “Let’s be off.”

  The moon was shining brightly, though hidden now and then behind racing clouds driven by a brisk wind from the west. Octavia was glad of her muffling cloak even before they came upon the first sentry, at the corner of the house.

  “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Hush, man, it is I, Sir Tristram Deanbridge. Do you want to rouse the whole house?”

  Octavia clung to his hand, pulling back as if afraid. Having heard the sentry’s challenge, the corporal strode up with a lantern and she turned away.

  “‘Tis Sir Tristram, right enough,” he said. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but what are you a-doin’ up and about at this . . . Ah, I didn’t see the young . . . Very good, Private Jones, all’s well. Good night, sir."

  “And a fine moonlit night it is,” agreed Sir Tristram breezily. “Come, my love, shall we go down to the garden?”

  Octavia’s hand tightened involuntarily at his words. Suddenly she wished they were not acting, that their only purpose was in truth a lover’s tryst. He put his arm about her waist and she shivered.

  “Are you cold, sweetheart?” he asked, deliberately loud enough for the dragoons to hear.

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice. Tears rose in her eyes and she blinked them back. If only he meant it when he called her sweetheart! If only he loved her, not Julia! If only . . .

  “I think there is another dragoon by the dovecote,” he whispered. “We shall go through the passage under the lane, then down the path past his post, so that he knows we are about and does not challenge us at the wrong moment. Then back up to the cave. The lower sentry will think we are going back through the passage, and Private Jones, that we are still in the garden.”

  Forcing herself to concentrate on their mission, Octavia followed him down the stone steps into the passage to the valley garden.

  The second sentry ventured a remark about all women being hussies at heart. Octavia felt her face burning as Sir Tristram delivered a blistering reproof. When they passed the man again a few minutes later, on their way back, he saluted smartly, his eyes fixed on a point above their heads.

  “He won’t troub
le us,” Sir Tristram murmured as soon as the solid stone of the dovecote was between them. “I’ll wager he’d not investigate any noise now unless you called him by name. Look, here is the hamper. I hope it is not full of ants. This way.”

  Octavia looked around carefully as she followed his broad back. She wanted to be able to find the cave herself in case it was ever necessary. Leaves fluttered and branches swayed in the wind, creating a confusion of moving shadows; rustling foliage and the gurgling rill masked the sounds of their footsteps on the gravel path. An owl hooted close by, making her jump, and a cloud covered the moon. She bumped into Sir Tristram.

  “This is it.”

  “I shall never be able to find it,” she whispered back.

  “I’ll show you tomorrow in daylight. Come on, I’ll go first to open the door. Under the branches here. Careful.”

  She heard him knocking very softly, then a darker patch appeared in the blackness. A thud and a clink as he put down the picnic basket, a muffled oath, and he reached back to take her arm and guide her in.

  The door closed behind them and Mrs Pengarth uncovered a lighted oil lamp.

  “Oh, sir, thank heaven you’ve come! Jack’s in a bad way. He’s come over feverish and don’t hardly know me. What am I to do?”

  Captain Day’s eyes were glazed, his face red and sweating. He kept shifting restlessly, muttered under his breath. Octavia stepped to his side, lifted his huge hand and felt for a pulse in the thick wrist. When she found it, it was rapid and fluttering.

  “Have you ever done any nursing?” she asked Mrs Pengarth.

  “No, miss. It’s nursery maids and abigails do such, and I went from chambermaid to housekeeper. What shall I do?”

  “I have never done any either, being the youngest in the family. Sir Tristram, his pulse feels bad to me. We ought to bring Mr Wynn to see him.”

  “Through a garden full of dragoons!” groaned the baronet. “How do you propose we manage that?”

  Octavia looked about the cave in search of an answer. It looked more like a room now, with cushions and rugs on the ground, a pitcher of water in one corner, Martha Pengarth’s grey cloak hanging from a nail, partly concealing her carpetbag.