The Miser's Sister Read online

  While they were talking, clouds had approached from the west. Meeting higher ground, they enveloped it in a heavy fog. Ruth jumped up in alarm.

  “Walter, I must hurry home before the mist grows any thicker. The track is well marked, but it is near an hour’s walk.”

  “You shall ride Dapple, my dear, and I will lead him. You cannot go alone in this.”

  “But I have not ridden a horse in ten years.”

  “He is a quiet pony, you will come to no harm. I shall then return here and claim a bed from one of my flock. I’ll not be expected in Camelford in this weather. Come, Ruth.”

  The moorland track seemed sinister in the all-pervading mist, and Ruth noticed that her betrothed, walking ahead, started visibly every time a sheep bleated or a pile of granite boulders loomed suddenly beside them. They reached the point, not a mile from the castle, where the track branched left toward Brown Willy.

  “Walter,” called Ruth, “you must go back now. I am almost home now, and you might easily miss your way here if you come farther.”

  “If you are quite sure,” he agreed, stepping back to her, “I daresay it would be wise. Keep my cloak, my dear. Your dress is very thin, and your pelisse not much thicker.”

  “Thank you, you are very kind. It was so warm when I set out, but you’d think I would know the weather’s tricks by now. It was foolish of me.”

  Mr Vane helped her down from Dapple’s sturdy back, mounted in her place, and set off with a wave. Warmed by his consideration as much as by his cloak, Ruth watched him out of sight, then turned to her own upward path.

  The fog was patchy now and blowing around her. The track was clear in front for fifty feet, while to either side she could scarcely see the crumbling wall. Five minutes’ walk brought a group of ancient stones looming on her right, then the damp greyness closed in all about her.

  A stone clattered behind her as though beneath a hurrying foot. Telling herself not to be silly, Ruth swung round nervously and peered into the mists. A heavy cloth descended suddenly over her head and strong arms grasped her roughly about the waist. Struggling for breath, she kicked as hard as she was able. There was a grunt.

  “Her been’t no bigger nor a minnow, but a game one zhure enough,” said a muffled voice. “Us’d better put her out or her’ll cause problems.”

  “Not too hard then,” cautioned another voice, which seemed to advance and recede in a most curious fashion. “Her be gentry, not zome thick-skulled tavern wench.”

  Head whirling, Ruth wanted to explain that she did not intend to cause problems, she simply wished to breathe. An unseen cudgel fell, her mind exploded, and she sank into merciful darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Mr. Oliver Pardoe awoke in near darkness and wondered where he was. The tiny room he lay in was unfamiliar, and his feet were icy where they stuck out of the bedclothes, a not uncommon occurrence for a gentleman of six foot two.

  There was a clatter outside the window, and a woman’s voice shouted, “Jerry! Jerry! Ye’ll miss tide if ye don’t run, boy! Grab a pasty and git!”

  “Aw, ma,” replied a sleepy voice, and the cobbles resounded to Jerry’s heavy-footed departure.

  Oliver smiled drowsily and curled up under his quilt. Port Isaac. He had arrived very late last night after losing his way thoroughly in those interminable, high-hedged Cornish lanes. This was Robert Polgarth’s chamber, and doubtless Bob was attempting to snooze on the ancient sofa in the room below.

  Silence had descended on Dolphin Street once more, though distant sounds could be heard from the harbour. Oliver tried to return to his dreams, but the urge to be up and doing gained the upper hand when he heard his host’s aunt moving in the next room.

  A shuddering splash with water from the rose-painted ewer on the washstand, and he threw on his clothes. He looked doubtfully at his boots, which had visibly suffered from four days of travel. Having no idea how to remedy the damage, he pulled them on. Bob would certainly never notice the state of his blacking; nor was Mr Richard Trevithick, the engineer he was going to see today, likely to cavil at less than glossy footwear.

  Opening the door onto the minuscule landing, he came face to face with a tall, elderly, bespectacled woman, draped in miles of blue woollen shawl. She inclined her head regally.

  “Good morning, Mr Pardoe, and welcome to Cornwall. I am Auntie.”

  “Good morning, ma’am. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “Not ma’am, not ma’am!” said the old lady sharply. “I am Auntie, young man. Surely at eighty-five I can choose what I wish to be called? How can I possibly request assistance of a personal nature from a gentleman who ‘ma’am’s me?”

  “I beg your pardon, Auntie,” replied Oliver, his sleepy blue eyes lighting with amusement. “Pray inform me in what manner I may assist you.”

  “I cannot think how it comes about but my shawl is pinning my arms to my sides. If you would be so kind, sir, as to hold one end, I shall turn myself about until I am free.”

  “Auntie, I cannot possibly render such a personal service to a lady who ‘sir’s’ me.” The words were accompanied by a wicked twinkle. “My name is Oliver.”

  “Hoist by my own petard,” sighed Auntie. “Oliver, dear boy, be so good as to untangle me from the embrace of this pythoninic garment.”

  Chin in hand, he studied the situation.

  “I fear this will be an engineering problem of no small complexity,” he confessed. “I cannot find an end. Will you step into my chamber? The light is better and there is slightly more space.”

  “I’ll wager you say that to all the girls, and not many refuse you, eh? Good-looking young fellow, though a trifle oversized. I always fancied a blond.”

  In spite of himself, Oliver blushed.

  “My father calls me a galumphing clodhopper,” he offered, “and at Cambridge I was known as ‘Elephant.’”

  “And what does your sweetheart call you, dear boy? Well? Are you going to deliver me from durance vile?”

  With considerable difficulty, he extricated the old lady from her wrappings.

  “That’s better,” she said, eyeing the blue monster with dislike. “I think I shall give it to Martha. It will make her a gown and a cloak to match, I daresay. Wherever did I come by it? Shall we have breakfast? I declare I am quite famished after that struggle.”

  Oliver admitted to a certain emptiness in his middle region, and in perfect amity they descended the narrow stair.

  A folding table had taken its place in the centre of the small, square room, and delightful odours were issuing from the minute kitchen to the rear. Martha had arrived, it seemed. Kedgeree, fresh baps, and homemade marmalade made their appearance, and silence reigned as three hearty appetites set to.

  Bob Polgarth finished first, having less bulk to keep up. A small taciturn man, he had greeted his friend and his aunt with a nod; now he spoke.

  “Don’t want to rush you, Oliver, but ye’ve a long way to go. ‘Tis a full day’s drive to Camborne though ‘tis only thirty-five miles by balloon. And after yesterday, you know our Cornish lanes.”

  “I do indeed,” said Oliver, grinning, “and I am not at all surprised that you are a flying enthusiast. I think myself that Mr Macadam’s improved roads are the answer, though ballooning is certainly more exciting. My father does not object to investing in it to a small extent. I’ll discuss that with you and look over your equipment on my return. There is no hurry, is there? The voyage is planned for the spring? Trevithick expects me today, you know.”

  “Nay, no hurry. How did you come to meet Richard?”

  “It was at Manchester, shortly after you left. Sooner or later one meets everyone at Dalton’s lectures, if not at Davy’s. My father has asked me whether he should put his money on Trevithick’s engines or Stephenson’s, and he is in a hurry, so I am sent down to your western wilds to consult the great man at home. Very convenient since I am able to visit you and to make the acquaintance of your charming Auntie.” He winked at
her, and she lowered her lashes coquettishly behind an imaginary fan.

  “You said you’re going to visit Penderric Castle?” asked Bob. “I’m amazed you have acquaintance there.”

  “I’ve none, indeed. The maternal uncle of the present earl is a good friend of my father, and having received no news in some time, he begged me to call and report on the well-being of his nieces. He is not much concerned, I think, with his lordship.”

  “And a good thing, too,” declared Auntie roundly. “A miserly rogue, as bad as his papa or worse. Fit for Bedlam, some say. The elder girl is a little brown thing, engaged to that funny little curate from Camelford. I believe the younger is a pretty child, though she is seldom seen.”

  “Castle’s said to be crumbling away,” added Bob. “Don’t go near it if you are not obliged to.”

  “I daresay I should drop by, for Sir John particularly requested it and informed Lord Penderric of my itinerary. In fact, he apologised to me for using my father’s wealth as an inducement to his lordship to receive me! However, it can wait until I come back. Auntie, I must be on my way. You’ll give me a kiss to wish me safe journey and safe return?”

  “Rogue!” she beamed, as he planted a smacker on her upturned cheek.

  The night before, he had left his curricle at an inn on the outskirts of the village, and a boy had led him through a dark maze of alleys, passageways, and stone stairs to his friend’s cottage. The sun shone as Bob led him back.

  “What a rabbit warren,” Oliver complained.

  “Aye,” agreed Bob. “Only the one road, down one hill to the harbor, then back up t’other side. Valley’s so narrow and steep I suppose this was the easiest way to build.”

  “It’s attractive, if inconvenient,” Oliver replied. The sun reflected warmly from the rows of whitewashed stone cottages; nooks and crannies everywhere still glowed with marigolds and pansies in this southernmost corner of the realm. A series of steps led them to a height whence they could look down over the harbour with its fishing boats.

  “The mackerel boats go out as the lobster men come,” explained Bob.

  “And the smugglers?” queried Oliver.

  “Doing badly since the war ended and brandy is imported legally. Not worth their while bringing it round here, adding to the cost, when Kent and Sussex are so close to France.”

  “I suppose now it’s available, most people prefer it legal even if it costs more. Also, I think some ex-Navy ships and men have been transferred to the Excise. Pity. Cornwall is a romantic setting for the Gentlemen, more so than the Sussex marshes, if less practical.”

  “Nothing romantic about it,” grunted Bob. “Dangerous men and not averse to a bit of wrecking when times are slow. Preventives are always welcome in my house.”

  They walked on.

  “Should’ve warned you about Auntie,” said Bob abruptly. “Whole village thinks she’s mad as Penderric. All worship her, though. Always a helping hand.”

  “A little eccentric, perhaps, but I liked her enormously,” Oliver assured him. “Is she really eighty-five?”

  “I think so.” He grinned suddenly. “She took a fancy to you, dear boy. She’s always on the look-out for a new beau.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  * * * *

  At the Scrimshaw Inn, a pair of unattractive horses were set to Oliver’s curricle. Looking at the long, steep hill ahead, he hoped they would reach the top in a condition to take him as far as Wadebridge and the nearest post-house. He made his adieux and set off.

  In the end he walked most of the hill to save his team. With only the light curricle behind them they attained the summit in reasonable shape. Oliver was glad to see that the road was not buried between high walls and hedges. There was close-cropped turf on each side, with patches of heather and furze and occasional sheets of rock. Sheep wandered everywhere, moving off the track with a frightened scuttle or dreamy slowness as he approached.

  He soon realised that the apparently open road was misleading. Every few hundred yards it was blocked by a gate, where a wall crossed it at right angles. He had to jump down, open the gate, lead the horses through, and beg them to stand still while he ran back to close it. Fortunately, they showed no disposition to leave without him. In fact, at the fifth gate he forgot to close it and tried to urge them on only to find that they refused to budge an inch until they heard it click behind them. He wondered what could have possessed him to leave home without his groom.

  At the seventh or eighth stop (he had lost count by then), there were a few stunted trees leaning rheumatically away from the onshore winds and sheltering a stone trough. Oliver was feeling hot and sticky, so before tackling the gate he went to splash his face with the clear water. The horses whickered nervously, and he looked up to see a villainously mustachioed man jump over the wall and run to their heads, followed in short order by four more. Three bore cudgels and the fourth a horse-pistol, which he waved threateningly as they advanced on Oliver.

  Oliver’s pistols were, of course, in the curricle.

  “Be you Oliver Pardoe?” the man with the gun demanded.

  “What’s it to you?” he countered, startled.

  The leader looked somewhat taken aback.

  “Well, be you?” he persisted. Oliver was silent. Only one of the ruffians was near him in size, but their advantages were all too obvious. “The cap’n zignalled,” the man said dubiously to his colleagues. Then he appeared to make up his mind. “Ye’ll have to come along o’ we.”

  “I cannot prevent you from taking my money,” said Oliver with outward calm, “but I do not see why you want my company.”

  “Niver you mind,” growled the leader. He motioned, and two of the others closed in on either side.

  Oliver was not easily provoked to violence, and in this case it seemed useless anyway. Yet he could not tamely submit to being abducted by these rogues. He fought.

  He fought well. Two of his assailants went down, and the man by the horses was coming to the aid of the remaining pair when a cudgel met the back of his head and he sank to the ground.

  “Handy with his dukes!” was the last thing he heard.

  Chapter 3

  Oliver awoke in near darkness and wondered where he was. His bed seemed excessively hard, and his head was so painful that he shut his eyes again quickly before catching more than an impression of gloom.

  He groaned.

  Miraculously, a gentle hand descended on his brow.

  “Are you awake?” asked a soft, feminine voice anxiously.

  “I think so,” he replied with extreme caution.

  The owner of the voice burst into tears.

  “I was afraid you were dead,” she sobbed. “You haven’t moved since those dreadful men brought you here.”

  Memory began to return.

  “How long ago was that? Where the devil are we? And who are you?” He opened his eyes. Rough, rocky walls stretched into the darkness, dimly illuminated by an oil lamp hanging some fifteen feet distant. His head warned him not to sit up.

  The sobs had already subsided to an occasional sniff.

  “I think it was just one tide ago, but I cannot be sure for I sometimes fall asleep. We are in a cave, I don’t know where. And I am Ruth Penderric. Who are you?”

  “Oliver Pardoe, Miss Penderric. Next question: Who are those men? Why did they bring us here?”

  “They are smugglers, and they want ransom for us,” answered Ruth with valiant composure.

  “Miss Penderric, I must congratulate you on the clarity of your responses under these trying conditions. Wait a bit... Penderric... Lady Ruth!” Ignoring his splitting head, he raised himself to look at her. In the flickering lamplight little was visible but a pair of frightened dark eyes in a pale face.

  He reached out and took her hand. As he moved there was a metallic clank and a tug on his ankle.

  “You are chained to the wall,” said Ruth, “like me. There’s no way out.” She clung to his hand, and he became aware that she
was shivering. “I saved you some bread and water. Not very hospitable, I fear, but it’s all there is. Would you like it now?”

  “In a moment,” he replied absently. “My lady, you mentioned the tide. Surely it does not enter this cave?”

  “No, there is another cave below here that is quite filled up at high tide.” She paused, then faltered, “If my brother does not pay my ransom soon, they will put me down there to drown, they said.”

  Oliver took the slight figure in his arms and held her until she stopped shaking, murmuring reassurance.

  “Things look bad,” he admitted, “but don’t be afraid. I shall find a way to escape. Trust me.” He was far from believing his own words.

  Ruth laughed tremulously.

  “You are so very large that it is easy to have confidence in you.”

  She freed herself from his arms but remained close to him. How thin she was! Oliver resolved to ignore the gaping pit beneath his waistband. When she pulled from a cranny in the rock a hunk of stale bread, wrapped carefully in a scrap of cloth, he shook his head.

  “I am not hungry. You must eat, my lady, to keep up your strength for our escape.”

  “Pray call me Ruth, sir. I cannot feel that this is a moment to stand upon ceremony.”

  “Ruth, then. Eat. And I am Oliver.” Again he spoke absently. In spite of his lack of hope, he must investigate his surroundings and not tamely await his fate. Remembering his last attempt at resistance, he fingered the lump on his head. It was sore, but the sickening pain was gone.

  His companion in misfortune was nibbling on the bread. The chain running from her ankle to the wall was easier for him to reach than his own, so he started examining it. In this damp, salt-laden air, it might well be rusted through.

  He was to be disappointed. The links were bright, apparently newly forged. It was locked securely at one end onto one of the daintiest ankles of his acquaintance, and at the other to a huge ring that had obviously been recently mortared to the rock. The mortar was set as hard as stone. He turned his attention to his own chain.