Smugglers' Summer (13 page)

“You are a Member of Parliament, sir?” She smiled up at him. Much as she disliked political discussions, which, she knew from experience, all too easily deteriorated into argument and even squabbling, it was a subject on which she could hold her own.

Besides, it was gratifying to be sought out by a gentleman with such an air of distinction, a well-bred ease of manner. Though he must be over forty, his brown hair greying at the temples, his close-fitting coat of russet superfine revealed an athletic figure which might be envied by many half his age. According to Lady Cynthia’s revelations in the privacy of their chamber the night before, Sir Magnus was fabulously wealthy and hanging out for a wife. Cynnie thought he was trying to decide between Lady Emma and her friend, Mrs Alverston. At his advanced age it was not to be supposed that he expected to fall in love.

“But he is only a knight,” she had giggled, “so it is scarcely likely that Lady Emma would leave her papa’s house for him, and besides Mrs Alverston is prettier.”

The knight seated himself beside Octavia and showed no disposition to let his attention wander towards either of the supposed objects of his affections. She soon discovered that though a Tory he held moderate views on most subjects. More important, as far as she was concerned, he attended with respect to her own opinions, distilled from many hours of listening to her father’s friends. He even enquired as to her reasons, especially where she differed from her father’s known position.

Accustomed to automatic male disparagement of a female’s intellectual capability, she thought him delightful.

Julia had taken a seat close by. She listened in silence for some time. When she decided to join the conversation, Octavia was half amused, half horrified to hear her expounding James Wynn’s extreme views as her own. Once recovered from his initial astonishment, Sir Magnus was merely amused. Octavia recognised the odiously familiar signs of condescending superiority.

Failing to hush her cousin, she left her explaining the necessity for revolution and went to the window to see if there was any sign of the rain letting up.

Here she was joined by Rupert Marlowe. The young man’s sartorial splendour was somewhat dimmed today, his coat being maroon, waistcoat striped maroon and grey, and boots of normal hue. His shirtpoints, however, were as dangerous as ever, and he was forced to turn his whole body to transfer his gaze from the weather to Octavia.

“Dashed miserable day!” he announced.

“Not for ducks,” she said, watching a family waddling across the lawn towards the upper pond.

“Oh, I say, very good!” He laughed heartily. “Ducks like the rain, you mean to say. Daresay they do, at that. Can’t say I ever cared for it myself. Nothing to do.”

“I will show you the bookroom, if you like, sir. There is an excellent selection of literature."

His plump face took on a hunted look.

“I say, books?” He laughed again, but nervously. “No time. Don’t you think it must be nearly time for luncheon, ma'am?"

Octavia took pity on him and agreed that luncheon must certainly be served shortly.

He brightened. “Jolly good feast last night, warn’t it? Must say, Edgcumbe’s pater knows how to put on a feast.”

“It was interesting. I had never considered how so simple a thing as the etiquette of dining has changed since Elizabethan days.”

“Changed no end,” he agreed vaguely.

Octavia struggled through another ten minutes of attempted conversation before luncheon was announced. The Honourable Rupert Marlowe seemed pleased to have held her attention so long, and insisted on escorting her down to the dining room and helping her to turtle soup from the buffet. She could not make out whether he was really a knock-in-the-cradle, or had simply no idea in his head beyond his clothes. On the whole she was sorry for him.

She compared him with Lieutenant Cardin, who was much the same age. Lord Rupert was second son of an earl and the lieutenant’s father had been a simple sea captain; in many eyes those facts would determine their relative worth. Perhaps England really did need a revolution!

In the middle of the afternoon most of the party were gathered about a roaring blaze in the fireplace of the Great Hall when Lord Edgcumbe and his son returned, soaked to the skin. With them came Sir Tristram, also wet through. He had arrived at the quay aboard the
River Queen
just as they crossed the Tamar after visiting the Edgcumbe holdings at Bere Ferrers.

Octavia’s breath caught in her throat when she saw him. As the others fussed about the sodden trio, she hung back, concentrating on convincing herself that it was for Julia’s sake she was so glad of his return.

Mrs Pengarth appeared.

“My lord!” she exclaimed. “Lord Ernest, you’ll catch your death! What can you be thinking of to stand about in such a state! Sir Tristram, I did not expect you, sir. You’ll not mind sharing the South Room with Mr Findlay? Off with you all at once!”

The gentlemen took her scolding in good part and allowed her to shepherd them out.

When Sir Tristram returned, he made his way straight to Octavia’s side and presented her with a book.

“A small contribution towards the Encouragement of Literacy,” he quoted himself.

“Northanger Abbey!
How I have been wishing to read it! It is excessively kind in you to have brought it.”

“I wanted you to read it while staying in this historic house. We have bettered the heroine already, of course, having found gold and a secret map instead of a laundry list.”

Julia came up in time to hear his softly spoken comment.

“Do you know about the other desk with secret drawers?” she asked eagerly. “Lady Emma showed it to us this morning when we toured the house. It is in the South Room. How fortunate that you are to sleep there!”

“Why, Ju, have you been unable to come up with a plan for you and me to investigate it?”

“It is not so easy. The only access is through the Red Room, and while we might be able to sneak into one gentleman’s chamber, two is rather more of a challenge.”

“Never fear, Miss Langston, you may leave it to me. I shall drug Freddy’s port tonight, and as soon as he is sleeping soundly I shall rise and tiptoe stealthily to the desk . . ."

“Oh, no,” interrupted Octavia. “You must wait until the stroke of midnight to carry out such nefarious activities. Have you no sense of the Gothic proprieties?”

“You are roasting me,” Julia complained. “I am sure you need not drug Mr Findlay’s port.”

“Indeed you need not!” exclaimed Mr Findlay indignantly, overhearing her incautiously raised voice. “Thank you, Miss Langston, for those kind words. What is this wicked plot against me that you have so neatly foiled? Is Deanbridge planning to assassinate me in order to have you to himself?”

“Perhaps he has found a love philtre and means to try its effects on you.” Julia laughed merrily, her blue eyes sparkling with enjoyment.

“Then you are right. No potion is needed to make me fall in love with you.”

“If I had a love philtre, I should put it in Miss Langston’s tea, not waste it on your port, Freddy,” Sir Tristram said with a smile. “Besides, I daresay Lord Edgcumbe would regard it as an insult to his excellent port.”

“And Lady Emma would object to the adulteration of her precious tea,” pointed out Mr Findlay. “With the duty so high, it costs near as much as port, I believe."

Remembering the empty tea chests below the Prospect Tower, the other three would have been surprised to learn that duty had been paid on any tea at Cotehele. Julia giggled and Sir Tristram exchanged a glance with Octavia.

“Since I have no philtre, both tea and port are safe,” he said quickly. “And Miss Langston’s heart likewise, I fear.

The joking chatter continued, with Lord Wetherford and Cynnie joining them. Sir Tristram made an effort to include Octavia in the conversation, but she wished she had run off with her book to her chamber.

Julia was in her element, surrounded by congenial companions. Her face bright, golden ringlets shining in the flickering firelight, she could not have been more different from the mopish creature of the past few weeks. Nor did she make any attempt to hold aloof from Sir Tristram. She gave him a large share of her smiling attention and he responded with evidently increasing admiration.

Octavia was glad when the time came to change for dinner, though she was not looking forward to the turmoil of another Tudor banquet. Once had been interesting and amusing; the prospect of a whole week made her long for a return to nineteenth-century decorum.

“Are you going to marry Sir Tristram, Ju?” demanded Lady Cynthia as soon as they reached their shared room.

“Perhaps.”

“He is quite a catch! Prodigious handsome and Wetherford says he is well able to buy an abbey, though not so plump in the pocket as Sir Magnus. Why have I never met him before?”

“He does not care for London. This is the first year he has been there in an age, except on business.”

“Of course that will change when you marry him. He will not expect you to miss the season. Wetherford and I mean to spend every spring in town.” Cynnie prattled on about her plans for married life.

Julia was silent. Octavia read unhappiness in her eyes and wished she could talk to her privately. Lady Cynthia did not retire even momentarily to her own little chamber, and they went down to dinner without exchanging a word.

Mr Findlay attached himself to Octavia. Although he had scarcely noticed her existence previously, he insisted on escorting her into the Great Hall, sat beside her, and helped her to all the choicest morsels.

She thought him rather dull, but she could not fault his persistence. He made straight for her side when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, and cast not a glance at the corner where Julia and Sir Tristram were laughing together. She was almost tempted to believe that he had indeed taken a love potion, and that it had miscarried and fixed his interest on her. The only alternative was that he had been dazzled by her evening dress of garnet silk, newly trimmed with smuggled French lace.

In the course of the evening she gradually lost her shyness of him and stopped trying consciously to behave like a demure young lady of fashion. By the time the tea tray was brought in she was perfectly comfortable talking to him, though her opinion of him had not changed.

“Dare I taste it?” he said as he passed her a cup of tea. “Perhaps you too should beware, Miss Gray.”

“I can think of no reason why anyone might choose to put a love philtre in my tea,” she answered, sipping.

“Can you not? You are an exceptionally modest young lady.”

Octavia could not make out whether he was laughing at her or merely flattering her because flattery was a habit. She drank her tea in silence, thinking that her mama had been quite right to shun society.

She would have liked to consult her world-wise cousin about Mr Findlay’s strange behaviour when at last Lady Cynthia retired and left them alone together. Julia was engrossed in her own wretchedness.

“James has forgotten me!” Her ringlets tightly confined in curlpapers under her lacy nightcap, tears running down her face, she looked like a small, lost child.

Octavia hugged her. “Surely not! He has not written lest the letter be intercepted, and you know yourself the difficulty of his coming here.”

“He has forgotten me. When next Sir Tristram offers, I shall accept him."

Her own heart sinking inexplicably, Octavia protested. “Is it fair to accept him when your heart is given to another?”

“If Mr Wynn spurns it, it shall not remain long in his keeping,” said Julia proudly. “I like and respect Sir Tristram, and Papa says that is sufficient foundation for a happy marriage. Perhaps I may learn to love him once we are wed.” She blew out the candle.

“Oh, Ju!” Kissing her cheek for lack of words of comfort, Octavia lay down. She was aware of her cousin lying rigidly wakeful beside her, but exhausted by a difficult day she soon drifted into sleep.

She found the next day no easier. The rain continued, confining everyone to the house. Mr Findlay once again devoted himself to her amusement, though they had no interests in common that she could discover. Still worse, Lord Rupert had overnight conceived a puppylike admiration and followed her everywhere, to Lord Ernest’s obvious annoyance.

She managed to escape for long enough to enjoy a rational conversation with Sir Magnus; to retire with her book, as she longed to do, was out of the question.

If Sir Tristram had not already declared his intentions, Julia might have been accused of setting her cap at him. She exerted all her arts to charm him. Octavia thought her more charming when she was being natural, but Julia had spent two seasons successfully attracting gentlemen so she must be supposed to know what she was about.

Lady Emma was heard to ask Lady Langston when an announcement was to be expected.

By the time everyone dispersed to change for dinner, Octavia was desperate for a few moments of solitude. She dressed quickly and hurried down to the chapel. She was not of a religious turn of mind, but she would be out of the way of the servants and no one else was likely to find her.

She sat down in a pew at the back, behind the rood screen, and tried to bring order to her confused thoughts. Suddenly she heard Sir Tristram’s voice.

Looking round in surprise, she realised it was coming from the alcove above, where the old solar opened onto the chapel.

“I must thank you, Freddy,” he said, “for taking care of Miss Gray. I should think you might safely leave her to Marlowe now.”

“Shouldn’t dream of it,” came Mr Findlay’s reply. “That mooncalf would bore her to death within the day.”

“I didn’t mean you to devote every minute to her for the rest of your stay. Just to entertain her now and then so that I might have a clear field with Miss Langston.”

“But it’s a pleasure, my dear chap. The Incomparable’s cousin is a taking little thing, ‘pon rep, and something of an Original when you come to know her. It’s for me to thank you for forcing me into her company."

Octavia was paralysed. She longed to flee, feared her footsteps might be heard, and could not help wishing to hear the rest of the conversation.