Silken Secrets (2 page)

“When will we be moving the silk?” Fitch asked.

“The sooner we get rid of it, the better. I can’t unload it in Dymchurch. I’ll have to ride over to Folkestone. I’ll stop at a few drapery shops there tomorrow and see what kind of deal I can arrange. It will be best not to actually move it till things settle down here in a day or so. You must keep an eye on the hay wain, Fitch. Don’t let anyone near it. And you’d best go up to the attic tomorrow and mop up the flood, too.”

“How can I guard the hay wain, then?”

“You’ll think of something. I daresay you can see it from the attic and go rushing down if anyone comes around. Now, I’m for bed. I wish it had been brandy,” he said sadly, and sat down to allow Fitch to remove his boots.

Sleep didn’t come immediately. Lord Edwin still maintained some vestige of a conscience, but it was fear of yet another dismal failure that kept him awake. His past was littered with failures, every one of them Bertie, his older brother, was only too eager to throw in his face. “You must start at the bottom, Eddie,” he always said. How the deuce should the son of an earl, born at the top of a hill, know what folks did “at the bottom”? Perhaps this was it—they stole. There couldn’t be anything much lower than stealing. Yet, outwitting the Frenchies was hardly stealing. No, no, it was an Englishman’s duty. Success was his duty, too, but Lord Edwin was prey to a dreadful foreboding that success would once again elude him.

Chapter Two

The first thing Mary Anne Judson noticed when she opened her eyes the next morning was that the sun was shining. Tiny golden rays filtered through the lacy leaves of the black walnut tree beyond her window. They pierced the room with shafts of magic, like fairy wands. Then she remembered it was the first of May—her birthday—and a little feeling of excitement curled in her breast. Twenty-four years ago today she had been born to the woman whose picture sat on her dresser beside the miniature of Uncle Edwin.

The picture was really the only means she had of recalling her mother. She felt sad that she couldn’t remember more, but she mustn’t get to feeling sorry for herself on this special day. After all, she had Uncle Edwin.

She smiled fondly as she thought of him. To the world he was a foolish wastrel, but to her he would always maintain some trace of the hero who had rescued her from the parish home for foundlings after her mother died. She had been only four years old at the time, but the nightmare still came occasionally to darken her dreams.

She remembered standing right there by the beadle and Miss Monroe in the office at the parish home while they discussed her fate as though she were a stick of wood with, no ears and no feelings. The office was a dreary green, with a plain wooden floor, the narrow planks turning up at the edges. Miss Monroe had worn a matron’s white apron over her blue gown.

It had been late autumn, just the dreariest time of the year. Her papa’s relatives had come for the funeral, but they were not close relatives. With children of their own to raise, they none of them wanted to be saddled with another. So, it was the parish home for her, and sleeping in the monkish dormitory surrounded by strange children, many of them older than she, all of them terrifying to a newly orphaned child.

It was only to be for a few weeks till her mama’s relatives could be contacted. “They didn’t even answer my letter. I never heard of such a thing,” old Miss Monroe scolded to the beadle that morning. “Her mama was supposed to be so well connected—her sister married to a lord. Ha!
I
never believed it. It’s obvious no one wants her. We’ll have to keep her here, I suppose. Another mouth to feed. And look at her—ugly as sin. No hope of anyone taking her off our hands.”

She hadn’t really been ugly. It was the week of crying that had left her eyes swollen and red and her face shrunken in terror. Her hair, too, was unkempt, and the orphan gowns were horrid worsted things.

Then, while a helpless four-year-old child contemplated a life locked up in this prison with strangers, Uncle Edwin had come pouncing into the room.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “Where is my niece, Mary Anne Judson?”

Mary Anne had looked at him with her big brown eyes pooled with tears. He didn’t look comical to her. Not then, not now. Never. He was her Sir Galahad.

“You’re looking at her. And who might you be, sir?” Miss Monroe demanded.

Uncle had drawn himself up to his full five feet six inches and announced in that supercilious way he still used occasionally, “You are speaking to Lord Edwin Horton of Horton Hall in Kent, madam. Brother to the Earl of Exholme. I have come to fetch my niece home.”

Then he had unstiffened and come toward her, holding a pretty doll. That was thoughtful of him, to bring a doll. “So this is Mary Anne. A pretty little thing, ain’t she? Takes after her mama. The Beatons all had those lovely brown eyes, my own wife included.”

It was like balm to her bruised spirit. She loved him on the spot, and she had no occasion ever to think her love was misplaced, even if he did sometimes forget her birthday. What did a present matter? He had given her a home and himself for a family.

She shook the thought away. May the first. Anything might happen on a girl’s birthday, and to be ready for this nebulous possibility of pleasure, Mary Anne decided to wear her good sprigged muslin. She splashed cold water on her face and shivered into the pretty rose-sprigged gown. It was really too cold for muslin yet, but with that sun shining, it would soon warm up.

She brushed her chestnut curls back from her face and caught them in a basket with the nacre comb Uncle had given her three birthdays ago. Last year and the year before he had forgotten her birthday, but perhaps this year he’d remember.

She rubbed her cheeks to give them a blush of color and examined her face in the mirror. Twenty-four years old! My, she was getting on. She really didn’t look much different from last year. Her brown eyes sparkled as brightly. Her cheeks were still full. The simple country life held at bay the ravages of time, but one of these years she’d have to start rouging. Then the hair would silver, and soon her life would be over, before it had properly begun. Oh, dear, and she had felt so happy when she awoke.

Mary Anne wrapped a white wool shawl around her shoulders and went downstairs quietly to avoid waking Uncle Edwin. She suspected he found the days plenty long enough when he arose at ten or eleven. Horton Hall had no large acres to oversee, no tenant farmers, no forests, and no crops except the home garden and a few acres of hay for the horses and cow and the goat.

Except that Belle, the goat, seemed to prefer eating the stalls and buckets and her rope. Belle’s presence at the Hall was due to another of Lord Edwin’s generous impulses. Mrs. Christian, their neighbor, had threatened to put the animal down when Belle ate her best umbrella. Uncle Edwin had retrieved the horrid goat from the axe, much to his housekeeper’s dismay.

“There’s all kinds of creatures in the world, and your uncle’s one of them,” she had told Mary Anne. “He means well, but he don’t think what he’s about.”

Mrs. Plummer took care of the chickens, and Fitch did the outside work. Poor Uncle Edwin just got in his days as best he could. He’d probably get up at eleven and drive the gig into Dymchurch to talk to his cronies. She’d go with him today, to celebrate her birthday.

“Good morning, Mrs. Plummer,” Mary Anne said brightly when she entered the breakfast room.

Mrs. Plummer’s dour face creased in an unusual smile. Like Mary Anne, she had attempted to honor the day by dressing up. A new apron covered her dark gown, and her brindled hair was skimmed back even more tightly than usual from her rosy face. Poor tyke, she thought—it would be a day like any other for Miss Judson, but she’d do what she could. Fitch had orders to kill a chicken for dinner, and a raisin cake was in the process of being made in the kitchen.

“Happy birthday, Miss Judson. My, don’t you look pretty! Wearing your good gown, eh? I expect you’ll be going into the village.”

“Perhaps,” Mary Anne said evasively. If Uncle forgot it was her birthday, he might not invite her, and one hated to be the object of pity. “Just toast and tea for me, please.”

Mary Anne saw the little vase of flowers on the table and smiled her thanks at this token of celebration. Already the loosestrife flowers were falling, sitting like golden stars on the table. While Mrs. Plummer poured the tea, she took a look out the bay window that gave a view of the water beyond. “Did the storm keep you awake last night?” she asked Miss Judson.

“Storm? I didn’t even know it had rained.” Mary Anne looked out the window and saw the French lugger. “Oh, dear, someone is shipwrecked right on our doorstep!” she exclaimed, and ran to the window for a closer look. It was an unusual-looking vessel. Its hull was low and broad. It had three masts, but the sails had been lowered. “It’s not one of Vulch’s ships,” she said, frowning.

“They do say it’s a French smuggling boat,” Mrs. Plummer told her with a wise nod of her head. “Meg Castle stopped by on her way to Vulch’s this morning, and they say in the village it got grounded on our sandbar in the storm. They didn’t catch the Frenchies,” she added.

Mary Anne’s eyes grew wilder. “Then they’re still around somewhere!”

The ladies exchanged a frightened glance. “I sharpened up my butcher knife. If the brutes come into my kitchen, they’ll live to regret it,” Mrs. Plummer said.

She went to make the toast, and Mary Anne stood looking out at the lugger. It must have gotten blown badly off
its course. It was parallel with the shore, its bow riding a little higher than its stern. There would be some excitement today, with the excisemen seizing the cargo and tugboats pulling the lugger free. Uncle wouldn’t want to miss that. Mary Anne mentally weighed the merits of going to Dymchurch versus staying home and watching Dymchurch come to them. Half the town would be here for the excitement.

When Mrs. Plummer returned with the toast, Mary Anne said, “I’m surprised Officer Codey isn’t here, keeping an eye on the cargo.”

“There isn’t any cargo,” Mrs. Plummer informed her. “Codey was here at five-thirty this morning. He had Fitch take him out in his boat, and the hold is empty as my cupboards. The Frenchies must have delivered before they got stuck.”

“Oh. In that case, there won’t be any hurry in removing the boat.” Nor would Dymchurch come in mass for such paltry entertainment.

Mrs. Plummer placed the toast in front of Mary Anne. On the plate beside it there sat a little square box wrapped in silver paper. “Mrs. Plummer! You shouldn’t have.” Mary Anne smiled and eagerly pulled off the paper. “A diary! How lovely! I’ll start writing it up right today. I’ve often wanted one. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it.” The dame smiled and returned to her kitchen. Just what you’ll have to write in it is a mystery to me, my dear, she added to herself. A shame for a pretty lady like Miss Judson to wither on the vine. She would have liked to buy her something more, but with no wages for several months, a person was limited to the treasures already in her possession. It was a rare stroke of luck she’d won the diary at the church bazaar.

While Mrs. Plummer fretted and worried about her mistress, Miss Judson fondled the little leather diary and felt she was blessed to have such good friends. There were plenty of girls with no family and no friends—ladies, gently born like herself, who had to go out and work for a living as governess or nursemaid. She had Uncle Edwin and Mrs. Plummer, Fitch, and all the neighbors. She could probably have Joseph Horton, too, if she wanted him.

Her mind wandered to this neighbor and relative of Uncle Edwin. Joseph lived at Seaview, just a few miles down the coast. He was really a very nice gentleman, and it was a pity she couldn’t care for him as she should. He was to inherit Horton Hall when Uncle Edwin died. Added to his own Seaview, he would be quite an eligible parti. He wasn’t particularly ugly or ill-natured. “A long, dry drink of water” was Mrs. Plummer’s peculiar description of Joseph. He had a good character, worked hard, went to church on Sundays, didn’t drink to excess or gamble.

Why couldn’t she like him? Was it because of his slurs on Uncle Edwin? Was it the proprietary way he came to the Hall every week, condemning everything and often dropping a hint that the owner of an entailed estate could be forced by law to attend to its maintenance?

This certainly didn’t do his suit any good, but even without that annoyance, Mary Anne knew she could never like Joseph Horton, much less love him. There was no romance in him. She dropped the crusts of toast on her plate and stared with unseeing eyes at the bay window. She probably had read too many novels. What she would like to write up in her new diary was that she had met an exciting new man—tall, dark, dashing. Maybe someone like the French smugglers. Someone who led a life of danger and intrigue...

“Good morning, my dear! Happy birthday!”

Mary Anne looked to the doorway and blinked in surprise. “Uncle, it’s only eight o’clock! What are you doing up so early?”

And in his good jacket, too, she noticed. He’s going somewhere—oh, I hope he takes me with him! Lord Edwin’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief. She could see he was in an excellent mood, which was very strange. He didn’t usually sleep when it rained, and lack of sleep turned him into a regular bear.

“We must celebrate your birthday, my dear. I thought we might drive you over to Folkestone and buy you a present. It isn’t every day a young lady turns, er—eighteen, is it?”

“I’m twenty-four today, Uncle,” she reminded him.

“Good God, you’re becoming ancient! Twenty-four, eh? So much the better. Soon you can put on your caps and have done with all the wretched matchmaking business.” It was really only Joseph Horton’s attentions that brought on this testy speech. “Where is Plummer? I want gammon and eggs.”

Uncle never had anything but toast and tea for breakfast. Often only tea. “Have you had some good news?” Mary Anne asked hopefully. “Did the government give you your pension?”

For twenty years Lord Edwin had been angling to get himself on the list of king’s pensioners. Whitehall was proving remarkably stubborn about rewarding him for his five months of sitting at that demmed desk, with only one window in his office.