Smugglers' Summer (7 page)

“It is a delightful improvement. I hope you mean to make a habit of it.”

She smiled and her brown eyes sparkled. “I am longing to explore. This is my first day in the country, for you cannot count sitting in a stagecoach with rain pouring down outside, and I slept all day yesterday. I have never been in the country before.”

“Never!” Sir Tristram looked stunned. “You are a Londoner, I collect, but have you never been even to Richmond or Hampstead?”

“Hyde Park is the closest I have come to rural England. I have always been too busy to go further afield.”

“You must allow me to show you around the gardens, Miss Gray. They are particularly fine at this time of year.”

“You know them well? Julia mentioned that you are Lord Edgcumbe’s godson.”

“And his heir William, the Viscount Valletort, was my intimate friend. I spent the greater part of my school holidays at Mount Edgcumbe and we came often to Cotehele.”

Octavia wanted to know why he had not spent his holidays at home and whether Lord Valletort was not still a friend, but she managed to hold her tongue. She felt as if she had known him forever, but this was only their third meeting and she had no right to ask such personal questions. She sipped her tea thoughtfully.

“Tell me about the house,” she said. “It is very ancient, is it not?”

“It is essentially fifteenth century, though there are the remains of an older manor house. The tower is more recent—early seventeenth century. The Edgcumbes have owned it since 1353, but two hundred years later they built the great house at Mount Edgcumbe and since then Cotehele has been used as a dower house and summer retreat.”

“Some rainy day I should like to explore the house, but now I am ready for the gardens. Oh, I forgot your letter. I daresay you wish to finish reading it, now it is de-marmaladed, and perhaps to answer it.”

“It can wait.” Sir Tristram folded it and put it in his pocket, ruthlessly ignoring his bailiff’s pleas for prompt advice and the fact that his reply would miss the tide. “We must go while the sun shines.”

Octavia looked about her curiously as they passed through the Great Hall, with its high timbered roof and grey stone walls hung with arms and armour. They crossed a courtyard, then through a passage beneath a battlemented gatehouse. Looking back at the façade, with its narrow, defensive windows, she was tempted to investigate the house first.

A large figure emerging from a nearby gateway distracted her.

“Captain Day!” she called.

The huge smuggler approached, his eyes widening.

“Miss Gray?” he asked uncertainly, doffing his cap.

Sir Tristram laughed heartily.

“A transformation, is it not, Jack?” he said. “Miss Gray is no longer the waif you delivered yesterday.”

“I’m happy to see you recovered, miss.”

“I must thank you for taking care of me. I was too exhausted yesterday to express my gratitude.”

“It was nothing, miss. A fine earful I’d have had from Martha if I’d done anything else.”

“And thank you for the package. I hope you brought another such for your Martha.”

“I did indeed.” He grinned. “I must be on my way now, or the
River Queen
will leave without me.”

“Take care, Jack,” said Sir Tristram meaningfully.

“Aye, sir. Good day, miss.” Red Jack saluted and strode off down the drive.

Octavia took the baronet’s offered arm and they turned in the opposite direction. “How is it you know Captain Day?” she asked cautiously.

“He is well known locally. William and I used to go out on his sloop when we were boys.”

She thought his answer evasive but did not press him. After a moment’s silence she burst out, “How Mrs Pengarth must worry about him!”

“You know his occupation, then?”

“If I may trust the evidence of my own eyes!” She was going to tell him of the moonlight meeting between the
River Queen
and the
Seamew,
but at that moment they rounded the corner of the house. The view took away her breath.

A lawn, a hedge, a wooded valley framed by two flowering magnolias and leading down to the river, which glinted between the trees. Rounding a hidden bend, the river stretched into the distance; the mists drawn from its surface by the morning sun made a mystery of the hills on its other side.

Octavia became aware that Sir Tristram was watching her face, his own satisfied and slightly amused.

“This is the country,” he said. “Does it meet your expectations?”

“It is magnificent! I never imagined anything half so impressive.”

“Magnificent? That adjective is usually reserved for scenery such as the Alps. We have here a pleasant panorama, charming if you will.”

“You are laughing at me, sir, but indeed, having never seen the Alps, I consider it magnificent.”

“It is worth going out of one’s way for,” he conceded. “The river adds a felicitous touch worthy of Capability Brown, in spite of being entirely natural! Should you like to sit on this bench and admire it or shall we go down into the gardens?”

“Let us go down. I shall save my admiration for when I am tired of walking, and when you are not by to roast me for my choice of adjectives!”

Crossing the lawn, they passed through a gap in the yew hedge and down a flight of steps. Turning left at the bottom, Octavia found herself entering a long, dark stone tunnel. It had a sinister air, even though she could see daylight at the other end. She stopped and looked back at Sir Tristram.

“It runs under a lane,” he explained. “The way is quite smooth, but take my arm if you are uneasy.”

She could not really claim to be nervous, but took his arm anyway, then hoped that he did not think her so gooseish as to fear a gloomy passage.

When they emerged into sunlight, she could not repress a cry of delight. The valley was filled to the brim with flowering bushes. There were rhododendrons in every shade of pink and purple, scarlet and orange azaleas, yellow laburnum, all set off by the different greens of their own foliage and the taller trees scattered among them.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Sir Tristram. “It is years since I saw it at this season and I had forgot . . ."

“Glorious?” said Octavia. “Surely that word is better applied to a conquering hero returning in triumph . . ."

“Wretch! I am hoist by my own petard. We will take this path and I shall see if I cannot impress you with my knowledge of botany."

“That will be easy, for I am shockingly ignorant. I am willing to believe anything you tell me!”

They wandered down a twisting gravel path. Between the bushes and trees were banks of wildflowers and he pointed out red and white campion, tall foxgloves and tiny, deep blue speedwell. There was a fish pond, edged with yellow flags, overlooked by a thatched arbour, and a stone dovecote shaped like a huge beehive and half buried in greenery. Somewhere an invisible stream gurgled and chattered, rivalling the cooing of the white fantail pigeons.

The garden turned gradually into woodland, and soon they could again see the Tamar through the trees. Sir Tristram pointed out a path leading along the river to the quay.

“It goes by Sir Richard’s chapel,” he said. “Shall we go that way?”

“Is it far? I ought to go back to the house soon. I have not seen my aunt since I arrived and she must surely have risen by now. What is Sir Richard’s chapel?”

As they walked on through the wood, he told her the story. Sir Richard, the great-grandson of the first Edgcumbe of Cotehele, had supported Henry Tudor against King Richard III in the Wars of the Roses. The King’s supporters followed him to Cotehele and surrounded the house, but he managed to slip past them. He headed for the Tamar with his enemies in hot pursuit.

Hiding in the bushes on the high bank of the river, he filled his cap with stones and threw it down into the water. King Richard’s men heard the splash; they looked over the cliff and saw the floating cap. There was no sign of Sir Richard, so they assumed he had drowned, and went off.

In due time, Sir Richard emerged from the bushes and fled to France. When Henry beat his enemy at Bosworth and became king in his place, Sir Richard returned to Cotehele. In gratitude for his escape he built on the cliff above the river a tiny chapel, dedicated to Saint George and Thomas Becket.

They reached the chapel as the tale ended. It was a little stone building, whitewashed inside. Octavia gazed down the cliff and saw that the ebb tide had exposed mud flats along both sides of the river.

“It must have been high tide when it happened,” she said. “How very fortunate for Sir Richard! If his enemies had seen his cap lying on the mud, they would not have stopped searching.”

They took a different path up the hill, crossing a flat stone bridge over the tiny rill she had heard, which tumbled and scurried in its hurry to join the river. When they reached the arbour by the pond, Octavia was ready to rest for a few minutes. It was nearly a week since she had had any exercise worthy of the name, and her legs were weary.

Sitting on the wooden bench, she relished the peaceful scene. Huge carp swam lazily in the pool; pigeons strutted and bowed on the roof of the dovecote; a climbing rose scented air filled with the chirp and twitter of bird-song.

A flutter of wings and a scolding sound made her look up. A tiny brown bird with cheekily tiptilted tail perched on a crossbar, regarding her with bright-eyed disapproval. Its long, sharp bill held an insect.

“Hush, don’t move,” said Sir Tristram in a low voice. “It’s a wren, and I’ll wager it has a nest nearby.”

Octavia held her breath. After another moment of close scrutiny, the wren decided they were harmless. It flew up into the thatch atop the arbour, returned a moment later with emptied beak, and darted off in search of further prey.

Letting her breath out in a sigh, Octavia said simply, “I like the country."

“Just wait until it rains, and there is mud everywhere.”

“A very good excuse for staying home with a book!”

“I must show you the bookroom up at the house. Miss Gray, you are in your cousin’s confidence, I think. Tell me, have I any hope of winning her?”

Startled, she looked at him. His gaze was fixed on his clasped hands and his cheeks were flushed.

“I—I hardly like to say, sir. I have known you such a short time. To be giving you advice seems scarcely proper, even if I knew the answer.”

He turned to her. “A short time! Yet I feel as if we have been friends forever. You may say what you think without fear of offending. How should I hold you responsible for Julia’s coldness! What am I to do?”

“Do not despair, I beg of you. Only let me observe her behaviour to you before I venture to say anything more.” She wondered if he knew he had a rival.

“Forgive me. I do not mean to oppress you with my demands. I fear I have spoiled your morning.”

“Oh, no. I have enjoyed it immensely. And I
will
help you, if I can, but give me time. I must go now. My aunt must be wondering where I am.”

“Of course.” He rose at once.

To her relief he did not begin a catalogue of Julia’s virtues, another point in his favour against Mr Wynn. Instead, he showed her the little well, with its moss-grown lintel, which sheltered the cold, clear, bluish spring that fed the streamlet and pond.

“When we were boys,” he said, “we used to throw in pennies and make a wish. I do not remember whether any of them came true.” He sighed, and they went on in silence through the tunnel and into the house.

Crossing the Great Hall, they met a tall, slim, dignified woman with greying hair, whose dress proclaimed her an upper servant. Sir Tristram introduced her as Mrs Pengarth. Her curtsey was as stately as that of a dowager meeting a queen.

Octavia looked with interest at the housekeeper. It was difficult to imagine the lively Red Jack wooing this respectable matron, though she thought they might suit very well if the smuggler ever decided to settle down.

“Her ladyship and Miss Langston are in the drawing room,” said Mrs Pengarth in response to the baronet’s query. “You know the way, sir.”

As they negotiated stairs and landings, which seemed to crop up in the oddest places, Sir Tristram explained that the housekeeper was in sole charge of the house for many months of the year. The earl was rarely there, and though he had an agent to look after the estate and gardens he did not consider it necessary to employ a butler or steward especially for Cotehele.

“No wonder my aunt brought Raeburn, then,” said Octavia. “I cannot conceive how she would go on without a butler. With Raeburn and her dresser here she must feel completely at home, and without the fatigue of having to welcome callers or pay visits. Poor Julia is the only one to feel the lack of society!”

Chapter 7

The entrance to the drawing room was a strange sort of interior porch of carved wood. Beyond it was a light, airy room, comprising the entire second storey of the tower of which the top floor was the girls’ chambers. The inevitable tapestries, faded to a yellowish grey, depicted the History of Man, perhaps a more edifying tale than that of Hero and Leander, or the Trojan Wars in Octavia’s own room.

Lady Langston reclined upon a carved ebony settee, apparently exhausted from the effort of rising from her bed. An embroidery frame lay in her ample lap, but the needle sticking into it was unthreaded.

Julia knelt on a seat in an alcove in the far wall, gazing listlessly out of a small window which faced east, across the river and eventually to London, some two hundred miles beyond.

After bowing to the viscountess, Sir Tristram went to join her.

Octavia curtseyed to her aunt and kissed her cheek.

“Dear child,” murmured her ladyship. “How good of you to join us in our exile. I hope you are quite recovered from the journey?”

“Yes, aunt, perfectly. I have some money left from what Lord Langston gave me. I will fetch it down to you.”

“No, no, keep it, my dear. Langston undoubtedly intended that you should travel post, but since you came on the common stage you shall certainly keep your savings. When I think of your discomfort, I declare I grow quite agitated. How came you to do such an imprudent thing?”