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Authors: Joan Smith

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BOOK: Silken Secrets
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Lord Edwin lurked outside the barn, too ashamed to face his captive. “How is it going with you and young Robertson?” he asked hopefully. “Is he making up to you  at all?”

“We’ve got to hide him some place better than the barn, Uncle. Vulch will soon be here looking for him.”

Lord Edwin was tired of his guest and was in an irritable mood. “I wish the wretched fellow would go away. That’s the trouble with commoners—they don’t know when they’ve overstayed their welcome. Let them get a foot in the door, and they become tenants for life. If he had any gumption, he should have escaped last night. Fitch is putting the silk in the loft before Belle gobbles up the rest of it. There’s ten guineas blown down the wind.”

“About hiding Mr. Robertson...”

“Do what you and Fitch think best with him.”

‘‘Plummer suggested the cellar.’’

“Plummer—she’s the wisest of us all. She won’t hear of having anything to do with him. The cellar, eh? Why not the attic? With luck, he might drown. Well, I’m oiling off to the village. Vulch won’t get a sniff of me when he comes. Tell Fitch not to forget to send Black’s boat back. He should have done it before now. Black likes an early start for his fishing. Fitch is useless when all’s said and done. The man would forget to comb his hair if I didn’t remind him.”

On this condemning speech he walked away from his duties, leaving Mary Anne in confusion. She called Fitch out to discuss the situation.

“You’d better take Black’s boat back. He’ll be waiting for it,” she said.

“Where’s Lord Eddie?”

“He’s gone into the village.”

“What for?”

“He’s just run away, Fitch. That’s the top and bottom of it. After getting us into this he’s abandoned us. You know how he is.”

“He takes life easy,” Fitch agreed with no rancor. “Will you be safe with Robertson?” he asked.

“You’d best move him to the cellar before you go, in case Vulch comes.”

“What about the silk? Shouldn’t I put it in the loft first?”

“Yes—no. Oh, I don’t know, Fitch.” she said, and burst into tears.

Fitch’s heart wrenched to see missie so bothered, but before he could comfort her, he was faced with another problem. Jeremy Black was legging it toward the barn, with a face that looked like thunder. If Robertson realized there was someone out there, he’d call and all would be lost. Fitch ran to greet Black.

“You were supposed to have her back by dawn,” Black charged.

“I was just about to sail her down to your place. She’s in the rushes down at the shore. Sorry, Jeremy.”

“Don’t bother borrowing her again if you can’t get her back when you’re supposed to,” he grumbled, and went off to reclaim his vessel.

It was one duty, at least, removed from Fitch’s broad but not infinitely broad shoulders. Undemanding as Fitch was, even he was beginning to feel ill-used. He feared, too, that if he allowed Robertson to walk up to the Hall, the man might manage to escape. Yet, to carry a writhing, angry, large man such a distance was a formidable task.

“You’ll have to help me move Robertson. You hold the gun on him while I untie his feet and walk him up to the Hall.”

“A gun?” Mary Anne exclaimed. “Oh, Fitch, he knows I’d never use it.”

“You untie him, then, and I’ll carry the gun.”

How had the simple stealing of a cargo of smuggled silk turned into such a wretched piece of work as this? Yet something must be done, and until they could decide how to untie this Gordian knot, they must keep Robertson in custody.

“All right,” she said, and went reluctantly into the barn, carrying the ointment and pen and paper that she might better have left at the Hall.

Mr. Robertson’s accusing black eyes and satirical sneer did nothing to lighten her mood. Fitch held the cocked pistol right at Robertson’s head while Mary Anne approached him. Her heart was in her mouth, lest the gun accidentally go off.

“If you so much as look sideways, you’re dead,” Fitch said. In his irascible mood, he sounded as though he meant it.

Mr. Robertson did risk one sideways look. He looked at Mary Anne. It was a peculiar look: part anger, part amusement, and part sympathy. That tinge of sympathy devastated her.

 

Chapter Thirteen

 

With Fitch holding the gun to Robertson’s head, Mary Anne went to his feet and untied them.

“Up on your pins,” Fitch ordered.

Robertson, with a look that would freeze fire, tried to gain his feet with his hands tied behind his back. When he stumbled, Mary Anne reached out and steadied him. Every fiber of her being wanted to do more than steady him. She wanted to free his bindings and apologize. She wanted to take a brush to his lovely jacket, which was all wrinkled and muddied. She wanted to pitch herself into his arms and bawl like a baby, but all she could do with Fitch there was help him up, then follow as Fitch urged him across the park.

She sensed how his proud spirit detested this final ignominy they were inflicting on him. It could be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Mr. Robertson, who used to look on her with favor, had murder in his eyes. And what would be the final upshot of it? There was no way they could keep him a prisoner forever. Before a week, before the day was out, it would be they who were prisoners. The very futility of this exercise was a further aggravation.

Around the edge of the rope, Mary Anne could see that his hands were rubbed raw. Fitch had bound them so closely, the blood was turning his hands red and swollen.

Mrs. Plummer spotted their advance from her kitchen window and fled into her room so she could truthfully say in court she hadn’t seen a sign of Mr. Robertson at the Hall after he went up to his bed the night before. She remained there till the three had gone into the cellar, and hoped Fitch and Mary Anne had the wits to leave by the side door that went directly outdoors. Mary Anne knew her feelings in the matter and could be counted on to do the decent thing. She didn’t want to have to report any unusual comings or goings when she was under oath.

Mrs. Plummer decided, as she looked around her kitchen when all had fallen silent beyond her bedroom door, that she could honestly say she didn’t know what had happened to her candles, though she noticed they were missing from her kitchen, and she hoped they wouldn’t leave the three of them burning all day in the cellar. Her supply was down to half a dozen, and they were downright obstinate in the village about giving credit.

Below stairs, the three tallow candles did very little to dispel the gloom of a damp, dusty hole. When Robertson was safely disposed on an empty hogshead and Mary Anne had the writing paper in position, Fitch deemed it safe to return to his work. He tied Robertson’s feet again with the cravat.

“I’ll get the silk stashed in the loft. If you have any trouble, come to the barn,” he said to Mary Anne. “I’ll leave you this, just in case,” he added, and handed her the pistol, which she set on a high shelf as carefully as though it might go off by itself.

When he had gone, Mary Anne cast a doleful look at her prisoner and sighed. “We’d best get on with the letter,” she said.

Mr. Robertson dictated a terse note, using words that implied it was being written by Lord Edwin Horton. Mary Anne copied it verbatim, and when it was done, she remembered that her uncle was to sign it.

“You’d best give that to your uncle at once,” he said. “Too much time has elapsed already.”

She was too embarrassed to tell him her uncle had sheered off. Fitch would have to take it to Dymchurch when he got the silk hidden. “Yes. Before I go, I’ll just put some salve on your wrists,” she said, and drew out the can.

“Never mind the wrists.”

“But they looked very sore,” she said. “It won’t take a minute.”

She was glad his hands were tied behind his back. In this way, she didn’t have to look at his face and he couldn’t see her. She pulled the rope a little to allow the blood to flow; it was not loose enough to let him escape.

“We never meant for it to go this far, you know,” she said.

“We?
I understood
you
were only drawn into the affair last night—just before matters took a turn for the worse,” he added leadingly.

“I mean, I’m sure Uncle didn’t want to take you a prisoner. In fact, I know he didn’t.”

“Then why don’t you untie me?” he suggested.

“You know I can’t!” she said, on a hiccup of regret.

Mr. Robertson found his sympathy aroused by her plight. It was ludicrous that he should feel this pity for his captors, but pity was the only emotion possible for at least this one of them. Annoyed with himself, he spoke harshly.

“You will live to regret it if you don’t, Miss Judson. I might be able to keep you out of this if you help me now. Lord Edwin is only your uncle—he can’t mean that much to you. The man is a fool, but gentleman enough, I trust, that he wouldn’t willingly drag you into this unsavory affair. You, at least, might escape unscathed. I can be a good friend. I can also be a ruthless enemy. Otherwise, you leave me no alternative but to—”

He heard a sharp intake of breath and noticed she had become still. Her fingers no longer smoothed the ointment on his wrists. He looked over his shoulder, hoping she was coming around to his way of thinking. “Mary Anne?” he said hopefully.

She was standing perfectly rigid. Her face had become stiff with outrage. “Are you seriously suggesting I should desert Uncle when he needs me the most?” she demanded. “Leave him like a rat deserting a sinking ship and save my own skin, when I owe my very life to him? What kind of a man are you?” she asked, her voice high with disbelief. “You said you could be a good friend. I’m afraid you overestimate yourself, sir. Friends don’t hurt the people they love. I wouldn’t have you for a friend, not if you begged me. I’d no more trust my safety to you than I’d trust it to Bonaparte himself.

“And you don’t know what kind of a man my uncle is, either. A fool, you call him. He may be foolish, but he’s the kindest, dearest, most generous fool I ever met. I wish the rest of the world could be his kind of fool, that—Oh, never mind. You wouldn’t understand,” she said abruptly. She snapped the lid on the ointment, picked up the letter, and turned to leave, while Robertson sat stunned at her outburst.

“Try me,” he said.

“You’ve
been
tried, Mr. Robertson. A man who could even
suggest
that I save my skin by turning in my accomplices has revealed his stripe. No doubt it is the way
you
would behave. Ladies and gentlemen have a higher standard.” She tossed her head and turned toward the stairs. On an afterthought, she turned back and extinguished all the candles. In her outrage she forgot the pistol, which was out of sight.

“Leave me one light at least!” he called.

“To burn off your rope? I think not, Mr. Robertson. With luck the rats may gnaw it off for you. I make sure you will soon reach an understanding with
vermin.”
On this lofty speech she went upstairs, to be met by Mrs. Plummer.

“Now what’s got you all in a pelter?” Mrs. Plummer demanded. “Has the lad passed out? I thought he looked a darker shade of pale when you brought him up.’’

“No, he’s alert and kicking.”

“Did that vile creature try to get his hands on you?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then what are you crying for?”

“Because—because we’re all going to prison, and Mr. Robertson is horrid.”

Mrs. Plummer’s eyes bulged with curiosity, but with superhuman forbearance she said, “Don’t tell me nothing about it. I don’t want to know, but if that heathen has lifted his hand against you, I’ll go down with my butcher knife and cut it off, as the good book orders a decent Christian to do.”

Mary Anne looked doubtfully at the important letter for Sir George Fitzhugh and went to her uncle’s office. The letter must take precedence over everything else. Whitehall must be notified that the message had gone astray. With Uncle Edwin’s return so indefinite, she took up the quill and added to her crimes by forging his signature. By the time she got back to the barn, Fitch had the silk hidden safely in the hayloft.

“This must be sent to London at once,” she said, and handed him the letter.

“You don’t think it might bring some government men down on our heads?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Fitch, and I don’t care. We can’t do anything to hinder the war effort, or we’ll be in even worse trouble. Post the letter, and if you see Uncle, tell him to come home immediately.”

“Aye, ‘twould be helpful if he’d decide how to get this cargo to Folkestone.”

“Yes, it would. We’ll need the money for our escape. I think the best thing to do is for all of us to get into the carriage and flee. After six hours or so, Plummer can ‘discover’ Mr. Robertson in the cellar and set him free.”

“Nay, it’ll never come to that, missie.” He laughed.

But Fitch hadn’t heard how Mr. Robertson had spoken in the cellar. He was implacable, with so little of decent feelings that he even suggested she turn in her own uncle—and Fitch, who was like a big brother to her. “I fear it will, Fitch.”

Fitch left, and Mary Anne went reluctantly back to the house. She felt she had fallen into a deep, dark well and would never see daylight again. The waters were closing over her head. There was no way out of this. Even if Uncle sold the silk and they managed to run away, they’d soon be caught. Caught like common thieves and locked up till it was time to execute them.

Mrs. Plummer was in the kitchen making her dreaded fish tart. “Is everything quiet downstairs?” Mary Anne asked.

“Quiet as the grave. He must’ve fallen asleep. If anybody happens to be in the cellar, that is to say. Not that I’d know nothing about it.”

The banging of the door knocker was heard faintly from the staircase. The sound was like a death knell to Mary Anne. She felt faint and wanted to run upstairs and hide. Mrs. Plummer’s face was as white as her floured hands, but she tried to put a brave face on it. “Now, who’s that come to pester us?” she asked, but her voice trembled.

“I’ll answer it,” Mary Anne said.

She hastily tidied her hair and straightened her gown before going upstairs. It was a relief to see it was only Mr. Vulch come to call. The man always looked worried and despondent. Today he looked more harried than usual. His face sagged with sorrow.

BOOK: Silken Secrets
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