Smugglers' Summer (19 page)

“Where shall we go?” enquired Julia, realising that something was afoot.

“The day promises to be hot,” Sir Tristram said. “Shall we go down to the chapel in the woods? There is plenty of shade thereabouts."

“Oh, yes, I have never been there. Is there not some romantic story about the chapel? Lady Emma mentioned it but I did not hear the whole.”

Wondering why the baronet apparently wanted the Customs officer to know where they were going, Octavia told her the story of Sir Richard Edgcumbe’s escape from his enemies.

“It is just like my dream!” exclaimed Julia, much struck. “You remember I told you, Tavy, about Hero and Leander.”

“Not in the least! There are no lovers in the tale and no one was drowned.” Octavia saw that her cousin was not listening. “Now attend, Ju. If Sir Tristram carries the picnic basket and I carry a rug to sit on, will you take some cushions?”

“There are plenty of servants to carry everything,” Julia protested, then caught herself. “But of course they will be all at sixes and sevens after this morning’s disturbance, and it will be more fun on our own.”

She was obviously bursting with questions, nobly suppressed.

“Let us go and tell cook what we want,” suggested Octavia, taking pity on her.

There was a dragoon stationed in the kitchen court. Octavia pulled Julia aside into an empty scullery.

“It’s Mr Wynn,” she hissed. “He’s hiding in the chapel.” Julia turned white. “James is the fugitive they are hunting?” she said faintly. “Is it something he wrote?”

“No! They are looking for a smuggler! James came to see you, and Sir Tristram has hidden him. Surely you do not want everyone to know he is here?”

“They are not after him? Thank heaven! Oh, Tavy, is he really come? I must go at once.”

Octavia managed to persuade her to wait until they had a picnic, pointing out that Mr Wynn could not be expected to survive on love alone. They went on into the kitchens to consult the cook, then back to the Great Hall.

Julia was walking on air.

As they entered the hall, the corporal came in through another door. The Riding Officer approached him eagerly.

“Nary a sign, sir,” reported the trooper.

Furious at his disappointment, the officer turned away.

“Search the grounds,” he ordered curtly.

“No luck?” asked Sir Tristram with great affability. “Perhaps your felon was too badly wounded to swim so far and went to ground in Plymouth.”

“If he’s in Plymouth, he can watch the
Seamew
being sawn in three pieces this afternoon,” said the officer with a sneer. “You’ll excuse me, sir.” Smugly satisfied at the shock on Octavia’s face and Sir Tristram’s tight-lipped disapprobation, he stalked out.

“Cut up the
Seamew?”
cried Octavia. “They cannot!”

“They can, and undoubtedly will. Such is the law.”

“What a dreadful waste! She is a beautiful ship. Remember how she looked when she came to rescue us that day.”

Sir Tristram shook his head sadly. “We must not tell Jack while he is ill,” he said, forgetting Julia’s presence. “The
Seamew
has been his life.”

Julia had not heard a word. She had sat down in a chair, hands folded in her lap in the correct posture for a young lady in company, and was gazing into the middle distance with a dreamy smile on her face.

Octavia sighed. “Ju, come and change your shoes. We shall be able to go soon.”

Chapter 16

It was not a merry party that made its way down the paths of the valley garden. Sir Tristram was glumly silent and Julia was still lost in a happy dream. She kept dropping cushions, until Octavia, exasperated, gave her the rug and took the cushions herself. Not that they were truly necessary for the picnic, but she had thought Mr Wynn might appreciate them in his uncomfortable hiding place.

The undergrowth seemed to be full of troopers. One scarlet coat guarded the little arbour by the fish pond, and another the dovecote. A wizened gardener, grumbling at having his work interrupted, was being interrogated by the red-faced corporal. He denied everything, from having seen a wounded stranger to deliberately speaking in Cornish dialect to confuse the city-bred soldier.

When they came in sight of the tiny chapel, Julia dropped the rug and ran forward.

“James!” she cried, pushing open the heavy wooden door. She looked around, then came out disconsolate. “He is not there. Tavy, you were not teasing me?”

“Of course not! He must be somewhere close by. Are you sure he is not inside?”

“There is hardly room to hide in there. James! Where are you?”

There was a rustling in the shrubbery and Mr Wynn’s thin face and bush of dark red hair appeared around a tree trunk.

“Hush!” he hissed. “The dragoons are searching for me.”

“No, they are not,” said Octavia. “They are after someone completely different.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Sir Tristram confirmed. “They are hunting a smuggler.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Mr Wynn emerged from the undergrowth, decidedly tousled, and opened his arms just in time to catch Julia, who flung herself at him. “My love!” he exclaimed, no whit disconcerted.

Julia burst into tears. “James,” she wept, “I thought you had forgotten me."

He tenderly kissed her wet eyelids. Sir Tristram turned away, his face set.

“Why should you think the dragoons are chasing you?” asked Octavia loudly, shocked by the impropriety of their behaviour. To think that Miss Crosby was scandalised by her breakfasting with a gentleman! “Mr Wynn, why should they chase you?”

He emerged from Julia’s fervent embrace.

“An article I wrote in the
Review,”
he explained, “attacking the Hertfords’ pernicious influence on Prinny.”

“I never liked Lady Hertford,” agreed Julia. “She has such a way of looking down her nose at one. Lord Hertford is a friend of Papa’s, though.”

“I regret having descended to personalities,” said Mr Wynn. “It is beneath me, and quite unnecessary. Principles are the thing. As a matter of principle, I ought to have stayed in London to become a martyr to the cause if necessary, but having just discovered my Julia’s direction, I was forced to come away.”

He spoke with such straightforward simplicity that it was impossible to suspect him of ulterior motives. With the same simplicity he added, “Is that a picnic basket I see? I am very hungry.”

To Octavia and Sir Tristram it was a thoroughly uncomfortable meal. Their companions had eyes only for each other and conversation languished. Octavia realised she was eating faster and faster. She forced herself to stop, and sat sipping a mug of cider, scarcely aware that it was not lemonade, half listening to Julia telling her beloved a muddled version of the story of Sir Richard, in which Leander figured largely.

“Shall we walk down to the quay, Miss Gray?” asked Sir Tristram at last.

“To the quay?” she asked stupidly, startled out of her daze. “Oh, yes, that is a good idea. At least—perhaps I ought to stay with Julia?”

“There is not the least need,” said her cousin. “James will protect me if those soldiers come near.”

Octavia wanted to ask who would protect her against James, but it seemed like too much effort. She accepted Sir Tristram’s aid in rising, and they set off down the woodland path.

It was shady, but not at all gloomy, and she could not understand why she kept falling over tree roots. Sir Tristram offered his arm to steady her; she took it gratefully. They walked for some time in silence.

“Why did you do it?” she asked accusingly, when they were well out of earshot. “Why did you help Mr Wynn to come here and hide him and leave Julia alone with him? You are sato . . . shabo . . . saboging . . . dash it,
what
is that word?”

“Sabotaging? Miss Gray, I regret having to tell you that you are definitely bosky. I should have noticed sooner that you were drinking scrumpy.” Sir Tristram’s face was serious but his voice was full of hidden laughter.

“Crumpy? Whash crumpy? Whash bosky mean?” Octavia clung to his arm. “The worl’s going roun’ an roun'. Hol’ me up.”

“Scrumpy is the strongest kind of cider there is. In half a moment you are going to fall asleep, so be a good girl and hold on to this tree while I take off my jacket. There. Now sit down on it, here on the bank. Whoa, careful!”

“I fee’ te’ble. Don’ go ‘way.”

“I won’t, I promise."

“Ho’ my han’.” The last thing Octavia knew was his hand grasping hers comfortingly as she sank into black depths.

Her hand was still in his when she woke. “Have I slept long?” she asked, perfectly clearheaded.

“Not more than an hour. How do you feel?”

“Perfectly well.” She sat up, turned greenish white, leaned over sideways, and was violently sick.

He held her forehead until she stopped retching, and then offered her his handkerchief. She wiped her face and put it in her pocket.

“Thank you. Now I owe you a handkerchief. I think I shall be all right now; shall we go?”

“If you are sure you can manage?” He helped her up, picked up his coat, and shook the dry, crumbly leaf mould off it. “No headache?” he asked, putting it on.

“No, I do not think so. Was I . . . was I
foxed?”

“I’m afraid so.” He grinned at her. “Don’t worry, yours is not the first head to be taken by surprise by Cornish scrumpy.”

“It was perfectly horrid. I cannot believe that men sometimes drink too much on purpose! You will not tell anyone?”

“No more than I did about your dolphins. What a lot of secrets we have between us, Miss Gray!”

They walked back towards the chapel. As they neared it, they heard men’s voices raised in anger, and then Julia screamed.

Sir Tristram broke into a run. Octavia followed as
quick as she was able, cursing her long skirts.

James Wynn was struggling in the grip of a couple of redcoats, while Julia hit one of them with both fists, screaming, “He is not a smuggler, indeed he is not!”

The baronet slowed to a saunter and Octavia caught up. “What is going on here?” he asked, in a quieter version of the voice he had used on the lawn-desecrating sergeant. The troopers jumped to attention, letting their prisoner go.

“We’ve caught that smuggler, sir,” reported one of them, saluting.

“No you have not. Mr Wynn is a writer, not a smuggler.”

"‘E’s jist like wot we was told ter look fer,” said the other sullenly, grabbing James’s arm as he stepped back. “Tall, like, wi’ red ‘air an’ talks eddicated.”

“Nonetheless, he is not the man you are looking for. Let him go. Does he look as if he is badly wounded?”

“Naw.” The dragoon doubtfully let go.

“Was not the description of a
big
man, rather than merely tall?”

“Aye, sir, it were,” said the first. He studied James’s lanky figure dubiously.

“Might I suggest that one of you remains here to keep an eye on Mr Wynn, while the other fetches the Riding Officer. I assume he will know whom he is looking for?”

“Aye, sir. Go on, man, do what the gennelman says. I’ll stay and watch this ‘un.”

The sullen soldier left unwillingly as Julia threw her arms about James’s neck.

“There, there, beloved, all is well,” soothed the young man with his habitual calm. “Thank you, Deanbridge!”

“Not at all,” said Sir Tristram politely, and offered the remaining dragoon a mug of cider.

It was some time before his comrade returned. Before they saw anyone, they heard the Riding Officer’s high voice rising in an indignant squeak, to be answered by another, calming, voice.

“Lieutenant Cardin!” cried Octavia. “What on earth is he doing here?”

The lieutenant and the Riding Officer appeared, followed by five cavalrymen, all looking unhappy without their mounts.

“Ha, I knew it!” snorted Mr Cardin, regarding the waiting group. “I told you it was the political fellow. Miss Gray, Miss Langston, I most humbly apologise for my colleague upsetting you!”

“Blockheads!” snarled the Riding Officer at his troops, without a word to the victim of mistaken identity. “I might have known you’d pick the wrong man. Have you searched the tower yet?”

The corporal came forward. “Sir, we couldn’t find no way into the secret cellar as you said were there.”

“Fools! Must I do everything myself? Come with me!” He turned and marched back towards the garden.

“How does he know about our secret cellar?” asked Julia indignantly.

“Is there really a secret cellar?” asked Mr Cardin with boyish enthusiasm. “I should like to see it.”

There was no reason he should not have gone by himself, but Octavia saw that he did not want to leave them and suggested that they should all go. Besides, if by some terrible chance the tunnel should be discovered, perhaps they might somehow be able to save Red Jack. They stowed the cushions, the rug and some food in the chapel, hastily packed up the rest of the picnic, and followed the dragoons.

When they reached the top of the garden, Sir Tristram left the picnic basket under a tree that grew against an ivy-covered wall.

“It is by no means as heavy as it was,” he declared, “but there’s no sense carrying it up the hill and back down again. I’ll send someone for it later.”

Only Octavia read a hidden meaning in his words. Mr Wynn was occupied in exclaiming over his Julia’s bravery in going down into the mysterious cellar, while Julia and Mr Cardin passed the tree without dreaming that it hid the entrance to a still more secret hiding place.

They caught up with the dragoons halfway up the tower hill. The cavalrymen were still on foot, in deference to Lord Edgcumbe’s lawns and paths, and being used to regard walking as exercise fit only for the infantry, they moved slowly. The Riding Officer was still berating them, and their initial sheepishness was turning to resentment.

Everyone crowded into the tower, and the Riding Officer went straight to the loose brick as if he had done it many times before. The trapdoor opened and the corporal peered doubtfully into the dark hole.

“We’ll need lanterns,” he announced.

“Of course we need lanterns, clothhead!” screeched the unhappy officer. “Why the devil are there none here? Fetch some!”