Smugglers' Summer Page 3

  “Are you unwell?” Octavia asked at last. “I have never known you behave so oddly. Perhaps you have a fever.”

  “Am I behaving oddly?” Julia blushed. “I beg your pardon, dear cousin. My thoughts are wandering, but I will call them to order and attend to what you are saying, I promise. You are reading Sense and Sensibility? A delightful book. I quite dote on Jane Austen.”

  “I told you that at least half an hour ago. Will you not tell me why you are so agitated?”

  “I am so happy, Tavy! And so miserable. No, do not press me. I cannot, indeed I cannot talk of it now. I know what your advice must be and I do not want to hear it! Forgive me. Pray say that you forgive me, and let us go to Hyde Park at once. You will not tell Mama?”

  “Of course I forgive you,” said Octavia, adding reluctantly, “and I will not tell Aunt Millicent if you swear that you are not ill.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “But, Ju, whatever you suppose my advice would be, you know that if you are in the briars I will do everything in my power to help you.

  Julia hugged her. “I know. I’m not in trouble, not yet. Is it cold out? Wait here a moment while I put on my cloak.” Puzzled and alarmed, Octavia was forced to be satisfied with that meagre reassurance.

  The following week, their meeting was again cancelled. Octavia had hoped to persuade her cousin to confide in her; she wrote to her, pleading for an explanation.

  Six days passed before she received any response. A footman in the familiar olive-green Langston livery brought a sealed package, and announced that he had orders to wait for an answer. He condescended to grace the kitchen with his presence, an honour which set the Grays’ cook-maid “all of a flutter."

  Octavia was in something of a flutter too, as she ran up to her chamber. The package was both larger and heavier than a mere letter might explain. With trembling fingers she opened it.

  There was an almost indecipherable note from Lady Langston, begging her to come at once. She could not make out where she was to come to.

  There was a line from Lord Langston, enclosing thirty guineas to pay the fare of herself and her abigail to Plymouth.

  But she had no abigail, and why was she to go to Plymouth?

  And lastly there were several pages in Julia’s hand, liberally sprinkled with blots which, she decided as she read, must be caused by tears.

  “Dearest Octavia,

  “Your unhappy cousin has been Banished to the dreary wilds of Cornwall. Oh say you will come to lighten my Exile! You are the only Companion my unrelenting father will allow. Little does he know how closely concerned you are in my Downfall, for I have not told him, and Never shall, that it was you who introduced me to my beloved James!”

  Octavia paused to admire the style. She had never guessed that Julia had such a turn for the melodramatic. So James Wynn was at the bottom of the mystery. No wonder her advice had not been wanted: it had already been given. She read on.

  The rest of the first sheet detailed the growth of Julia’s attachment to Mr Wynn. Remembering the waiting footman, Octavia skimmed over the list of supposedly chance encounters, followed by clandestine meetings attended only by Ada.

  “All this time,” the letter continued, “Sir Tristram Deanbridge grew ever more particular in his Attentions until, the evening before I saw you last, he asked Papa’s permission to address me. I told Papa I must have time to consider. He strongly urged Sir Tristram’s suit, and but for James I believe I had accepted him without ado. He is everything one might look for in a Husband, but I do not Love him!

  “Papa gave me a week to make my decision. James was Eager to approach Papa in his own behalf but I Dreaded the event and persuaded him to wait. The day came; I told Papa I did not wish to marry Sir Tristram. He asked, did I hold him in aversion? No, said I, but I cannot love him! What is that to do? he asked. You will come to love him after you are married. You do not whistle such an offer down the wind for so feeble a reason!

  “Alas, I Weakened! I confessed that I loved Another! How he Stormed when he learned the Object of my Affections! He called my Beloved a Fortune-hunting Scribbler, a Revolutionary, a Penniless Coxcomb, and many other Names, while your Unhappy cousin was an Ungrateful girl who would bring her father’s grey hairs to the Grave.

  “I will not weary you with all the Ranting and Tears. Suffice it to say that I am sent down to Cotehele, in Cornwall, an ancient and isolated house belonging to Papa’s relation, the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe. There is no Road hither but the river; I have no companion but Mama, who is laid down upon her bed with the Palpitations since we arrived yesterday; my Beloved I have not seen since that Dreadful Day and he knows not where I am.

  “It is given out that I am on a repairing lease in the country, being worn down with the gaieties of the Season. I promised Papa that if he permitted me to write to you, I would not ask you to pass any Message to James, but oh! it breaks my Heart to think that he may suppose I have Cast him Off!

  “Dearest cousin, do not leave me to fall into a Decline alone in this Dreadful place. There is no Society here that my aunt might object to. Pray come, Tavy, if you love your Unfortunate

  Julia.”

  There was one more missive, a twice-folded sheet addressed to “My Sister Gray” in Lady Langston’s hand. Octavia sat tapping it against her hand as she thought.

  Her immediate impulse was to go, if her mother should permit. However desolate Julia’s prison, it was in the country, buried in it apparently, and she longed to escape from London. She did not believe that her cousin would go into a decline. Her character was too sensible and sanguine to indulge in such foolishness. But she was certainly unhappy, and with only a lachrymose and indolent parent present she would have nothing to do but dwell on memories of Mr Wynn.

  It was the outside of enough that James Wynn had pursued Julia, being perfectly aware that he could never be an acceptable son-in-law to Lord Langston! She had no sympathy with him. Nor did she see how Julia could prefer him to Sir Tristram Deanbridge. It was all excessively unfair to poor Sir Tristram. If she went down to Cornwall she might succeed in persuading her cousin to regard with favour the baronet’s manifest advantages of manner, person, and estate.

  She took her aunt’s billet to her mother.

  “I am sure I cannot make head or tail of Millicent’s writing,” was Mrs Gray’s first, acid response. A tall, heavy woman with a commanding countenance, she gave an impression of overflowing energy even while seated at her escritoire.

  “She wishes me to keep my cousin company in the country, Mama. My uncle has sent thirty guineas for my fare.”

  “Thirty guineas! One might decently clothe half the natives of Senegal with thirty guineas! Where are you to travel to with such a sum? Paris?”

  “Only into Cornwall, Mama. His lordship supposed I should take a maid. It will certainly not cost half so much, but I cannot think I am at liberty to donate the excess to the natives of Senegal.”

  “Hoity-toity, miss! These gentlemen born hosed and shod have no notion of the value of money, the way they squander it."

  “May I go, Mama? I have never been into the country, and I so long to see it. I am assured that they will not be receiving visitors. It will be quite different from the summer house-parties at the Priory.”

  Mrs Gray peered at her sister’s letter, then gave up. “As you wish, child,” she said indifferently. “You are old enough now not to have your head turned by catching a glimpse of society, and I daresay you will come to no harm travelling alone on the stage. Betsy can certainly not be spared to go with you, you know.”

  “I know. Thank you, Mama. I shall manage very well on my own."

  “It will take four days, I suppose. You will not wish to travel on the Sabbath, so you will wait until Monday.”

  “Very well, Mama, but I must go and write my acceptance at once.” Octavia curtsied, kissed her mother’s offered cheek, and almost skipped out of the room.

  Apart from such practical matters as wha
t to pack and where and when to catch the stage to Plymouth, the only problem remaining was whether she ought to get a message to Mr Wynn, and if so, what it should be.

  There was no difficulty in reaching Mr Wynn: he came to dinner the next night, looking thoroughly blue-devilled and scarcely opening his mouth, either to speak or to eat. Octavia could not bear to see him so despondent. She had no wish to encourage his pretensions, but she went so far as to say that Julia’s absence was not voluntary. He brightened at once, only to sink again in gloom when Octavia would not provide her cousin’s direction.

  He spent the rest of the evening expatiating upon Julia’s perfections, so that by the time Octavia retired to bed she was altogether out of patience with him.

  Unearthing a small trunk in the attic, she discovered that every garment she possessed fitted into it, making choice unnecessary. She packed on Sunday, keeping out only the drab stuff gown and heavy cloak she would wear for travelling. With mounting anticipation she called Betsy to help her close and rope the box. A hackney had been ordered for five o’clock the next morning, and there was nothing left to do but try to sleep in spite of her excitement.

  The great day dawned bright and clear. The hackney arrived on time and the driver carried down the trunk. Mr and Mrs Gray arose betimes to wish their daughter a safe journey, and Mr Gray went so far as to press a guinea into her hand “for any little necessaries you do not care to be beholden for to his lordship.”

  Octavia arrived in good time at the Belle Sauvage Inn on Ludgate Hill. Her name was on the waybill, so she had no difficulty obtaining a seat inside the coach, but to her disappointment she was not next to the window. As the huge vehicle rumbled out of the yard, the coachman crying “Mind your hats!” to his twelve outside passengers, her view was almost completely blocked by the stout farmer on her left and the positively enormous woman on her right.

  She deeply regretted not being able to see the countryside, but at least for once in her life she felt positively slim.

  It soon became apparent that this mode of travel did not agree with her. Her companions all talked ceaselessly in loud voices, and as none of them cared for fresh air, the atmosphere inside the coach soon grew stale. At the frequent halts, there was no time to descend to stretch her legs. When at last they stopped at an inn for luncheon, her soft voice was lost in the hubbub of the coffee room and she managed only a sip of scalding tea and a bite of bread and butter before the coachman herded everyone back aboard.

  As the long spring day wore on, she found she was developing a headache, a rare occurrence with her. By the time dusk fell and the stage rattled under an archway, to new shouts of “Mind your hats!” followed by “Everybody off!,” she was so relieved she could not have cared less what town she was in.

  A bowl of soup and a comfortable feather bed sent her off in good spirits the next morning. She had the window this time, and for a full hour enjoyed the sight of the bare, rolling hills of Salisbury Plain, their short grass scattered with grazing sheep. Then it began to rain. The glass misted over and she was once again confined to a jolting box.

  At nine o’clock in the evening of the fourth day, the coach rolled into yet another rain-washed inn yard. Octavia was helped down by a stalwart young Customs lieutenant who had been entertaining her, or so he believed, with tales of the sea since Exeter.

  “Well, here we are in Plymouth,” he said, suddenly bashful. “I’ve to report to my ship, but I shall be free tomorrow. I’d be honoured, miss, if you’d allow me to show you round the town and the dockyards.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cardin, but I shall not stay here longer than I must.” Octavia passed a weary hand across her forehead. “The sooner I reach my friends, the happier I shall be. I suppose you cannot tell me how to get to Cotehele?”

  “Cotehele? Lord Edgcumbe’s house? Your friends reside at Cotehele?” His voice was incredulous as he took in her travel-worn appearance.

  “Yes,” she said with some irritation. “If you cannot help me, I expect the innkeeper will know.” She turned away to watch the coachman unloading her trunk from the roof.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” stammered Lieutenant Cardin. “Of course I know how you may reach Cotehele, only I do not precisely know the tides at present. You there!” He hailed an ostler. “When does the tide turn?”

  The man looked at his uniform and grinned. “Tides is your business, Mr Revenooer. Hosses is mine."

  “There’s not an inn servant in the town couldn’t tell you precisely when the next cargo of run brandy is due,” muttered the lieutenant, looking harassed. “But you are tired, miss. Pray come inside and sit down while I make further enquiries."

  He offered his arm. Octavia took it gratefully and he ushered her into the inn. He saw her seated on a wooden settle in a quiet corner of the coffee room and went to find the landlord. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and relished the feeling of being stationary.

  Mr Cardin returned in a few moments.

  “The innkeeper was more cooperative,” he said with satisfaction. “They like to keep on the right side of the Customs. The tide has just begun to ebb, so low tide will be in six hours or so, say three o’clock in the morning. There’s a barge, the River Queen, leaving Phoenix Wharf, heading upriver. It’ll carry limestone but mine host says Captain Pilway’s not averse to taking on passengers. Unless you care to hire a boat?” Again he looked doubtfully at her shabby dress.

  Octavia touched her purse, where twenty-three guineas of the thirty still remained. “How soon could I get there if I hired a boat?” she asked.

  “No sooner. Nothing goes up the Tamar without a flood tide. But it would be more comfortable for you.”

  “I shall do very well with the limestone.” She was after all her mother’s frugal daughter, she thought with a sigh. “I’ll send a message to Captain Pilway. Thank you, sir, for your help. I believe I shall take a room here and rest until it is time to go.”

  He flushed. “I took the liberty of ordering a pot of tea,” he confessed. “I believe you are burned to the socket and my mother says there is nothing better than tea to perk you up. And if you will not think me encroaching, I shall return at half past two to show you the way to the Phoenix Wharf.”

  For the first time she noticed that he had nice eyes, dark blue with a rather sad, doglike expression.

  “Thank you, sir. You are very kind, and at that horrid hour it will be reassuring to have a friend present.” She smiled at him.

  He bowed awkwardly over her hand, and strode out.

  The tea was vastly welcome, still more so the small but neat chamber where she sank into a troubled sleep without undressing. She was called at two, tidied herself as best she could with the aid of a single candle and a small square of mirror, and went down to the silent, half-dark coffee room. The drowsy maid who had woken her offered to fetch bread and cheese or cold meat, but she settled for another pot of tea and some biscuits.

  These last she nibbled at and then slipped into her pocket. She was cold with the chill of the small hours of the morning. The tea was reheated, black as pitch and bitter as aloes, but it warmed her hands and she swallowed some with an effort.

  “Summun’s coom for thy trunk,” the maid announced, covering a yawn with her hand.

  Octavia went out into the passage and found a skinny, wrinkled little man carrying her trunk out to a two-wheeled barrow. An oil lantern burned smokily above the door, but more light came from the full moon, sailing in the starry night sky. It had stopped raining at last.

  Quick footsteps sounded in the street and Lieutenant Cardin turned into the yard. He had doffed his uniform, and without its anonymity he seemed more of a real person, if anything was real in this strange, pale world. Wordlessly, Octavia took his arm and they set off, followed by the rumbling of the iron-wheeled barrow.

  “This is the Barbican,” he said in a low voice as they entered a maze of narrow streets. “It is the oldest part of the town, and rather picturesque. I wish I could show it to you
by daylight.”

  She murmured a response. They were walking downhill now, and the damp air smelled of seaweed, fish, and tar. They turned a corner and were on the quay.

  A burly man stepped out of the shadows.

  “Miss Gray?” he queried in a voice so deep it might have been Neptune’s. “Cap’n Pilway at your sarvice. Take care wi’ thet chest now, Joey. This way, if you please, ma’am.”

  Mr Cardin pressed her hand warmly. “Let me know that you are arrived safely,” he whispered. “A note to the New Customs House will find me. Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye. And thank you.”

  She followed Joey down a long, slippery flight of steps, open to nothingness on her right. Captain Pilway’s hand on her elbow steadied her. The plink and gurgle of water grew closer until she could see a long shadow lying alongside, moving gently up and down. A two-foot-wide abyss, inky black and crossed by a single plank, separated the steps from the restless barge.

  “Tom?”

  “Aye, cap’n. All’s well.”

  The captain picked her up with two hands about her waist and lifted her across as if she weighed no more than a feather.

  Chapter 4

  Beyond the shadow of the quay the moon shone bright on Plymouth Sound, silvering the ripples and whitening the swirling wake as the sailing barge took the breeze. The Barbican, the Citadel, and the Hoe loomed as dark masses and the opposite shore of the estuary was a black line between sea and sky.

  Seated on a neat coil of rope, Octavia leaned back against her trunk and wondered if she was dreaming. The creak of the wheel, manned by the silhouette of Captain Pilway; the slap of bare feet on wood as Joey and Tom moved to adjust the square sails; the rush of water against the hull: all these were as foreign to her as the salty tang of the air blowing in her face.