Smugglers' Summer (8 page)

“Why, to tell the truth, ma’am, it never crossed my mind to hire a chaise. How Mama would have stared at such an unnecessary expenditure."

“Ah, sister, sister!” The thought of Mrs Gray seemed to drain Lady Langston’s last drop of energy. She closed her eyes and remained inert until Octavia could only suppose she was dismissed.

Twenty guineas! Even if she set aside a tithe for Mama’s Africans, she had never in her life owned so much at one time. Her thoughts turned at once to clothes. She had been conscious all morning that the glory of her new dress was spoiled by her old, shabby shoes, and if she ever went beyond the gardens she would need gloves, a bonnet, even a parasol. If only Plymouth were not so inaccessible.

Pondering the problem of reaching the shops, she wandered over to an ornate cabinet and stared at it blankly. The only person she knew who went regularly from Cotehele to Plymouth was Captain Pilway. However obliging, he could hardly be trusted to choose a bonnet for a young lady.

“An extraordinary piece of furniture, is it not?” asked an amused voice behind her.

She glanced back at Sir Tristram, then focused on the cabinet. To her dismay, it was lavishly decorated with naked figures.

“I must write some letters,” she stammered, knowing her cheeks were crimson. “I wondered if there might be paper and pen within.”

“I expect so, if we can but find them. It is full of secret drawers and boxes, and one can never be sure what one will come across.” He let down the front to form a writing surface. “Have you investigated this desk, Miss Langston?”

Julia had moved to a chair and picked up a magazine. She looked up, then languidly joined them.

“No. Why should I investigate a desk?”

“Sir Tristram says it is full of secret compartments. Perhaps we may find a map showing the way to buried treasure.”

In spite of herself, Julia was interested. She opened a little door, revealing an inkstand and several quills. Octavia took possession of them.

Sir Tristram pulled open a drawer and presented her with several sheets of paper. Then he slid it all the way out. Behind it was a tiny cubbyhole containing several agate marbles.

“That is one of the simplest,” he said. “We used to hide our treasures in it. Now watch this.”

Julia was fascinated. Nobly, Octavia retreated with her writing materials to a small table, leaving Sir Tristram to impress his inamorata without distraction. It was difficult to ignore the oohs and ahs, but she managed to concentrate sufficiently to inform her parents that she was arrived safely and would write again soon with a description of her surroundings.

Lieutenant Cardin was next. He had probably forgotten her existence by now but she had promised to write. A quick note thanked him for his assistance and assured him that her river journey had been without mishap.

She folded the paper and was about to address it to the Customs House when it dawned on her that the only way for letters to reach the post was by way of the Tamar. According to no less an authority than Captain Day, most if not all of the sailors on the river were engaged in smuggling, or free trading as they preferred to call it. It seemed tactless, if not downright dangerous, to expect them to deliver a letter to the stronghold of their adversaries.

She set it aside for the moment and, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, joined the pair at the cabinet.

Julia’s cupped hands contained, besides the agate marbles, a pale blue, speckled bird’s egg, a champagne cork, a jay’s feather, a cartridge, and a horse-brass depicting a Cornish piskie and the motto “Trelawney shall not die.”

“A veritable treasure trove!” exclaimed Octavia, laughing. “I trust the cartridge is empty.”

“That was William’s. The first time he ever bagged a pheasant. We were ten or twelve, I suppose. The game-keeper was teaching us to shoot and I cannot say whether he or William was more astonished when he hit the bird. Out of season, I may say.”

“You mean Lord Valletort?” asked Julia. “He died last year, did he not? I met him only once or twice, though he was some sort of distant cousin.” She noticed the sadness on Sir Tristram’s face. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to grieve you, sir. I spoke without thinking.”

“We grew up together.” The baronet basked in her pity but had the good manners not to push his advantage. He turned the subject. “Miss Gray, there is a sort of box in there—you see it?—which we were never able to open. Perhaps you can fathom the trick.”

Octavia inserted her hand in the space he indicated and felt around. There was a knob, which she pulled on without effect.

“It seems to be stuck,” she said, just as her fingers found an edge of paper. “Wait a minute. There is something here, if I can only grasp it.” Trying to slide it out, she touched some hidden catch. There was a click, the box came loose, and she pulled both it and the paper out of the interior of the cabinet.

The box was small but surprisingly heavy. There was a leather bag in it which clinked when Sir Tristram lifted it out. He thrust his hand in and pulled out a couple of gold coins.

“Louis d’or!
From the reign of Louis XV.” He emptied the bag on the desk. “A Venetian ducat, and some Roman pieces. Nothing later than 1750.”

“This paper fell out of the bag,” said Octavia, bending to pick up a scrap which had fallen to the floor. “Do you think I ought to read it?”

“Yes, do!” cried Julia eagerly.

“Perhaps it should be given to Lord Edgcumbe unread.” She looked at Sir Tristram and thought he agreed with her but in the face of Julia’s enthusiasm he said nothing. “Very well. There are some numbers on the back. Inside, an old-fashioned hand, a gentleman’s I would guess but somewhat shaky. ‘For my son,’ it says, ‘lest I gamble away all that is not entailed.’ It is signed, ‘Richard, Second Baron Edgcumbe.’”

“The bad baron,” said Sir Tristram. “Losing money at cards or dice, probably foxed to judge by the uncertain writing, suddenly struck by maudlin repentance and setting aside the relics of his Grand Tour: I can picture the scene clearly.”

“The coins are no pirate’s hoard, then, but merely belong to Lord Edgcumbe,” said Julia, losing interest.

Sir Tristram shook his head. “No, not to Lord Edgcumbe. I hope you ladies will trust me to pass it to its rightful owner."

“Who is that?” asked Octavia. “You are being very mysterious, sir. Surely the earl must be the baron’s heir.”

“His heir, but not his son. I cannot say more. It is not my story to tell. Will you entrust the gold to me?”

Julia shrugged and turned away.

“Of course,” her cousin said quickly. “Wait, Ju, we have not yet looked at the other paper I found.”

“Have you not read
Northanger Abbey?
I thought Jane Austen was a favourite of yours. It is probably a laundry list.”

“You know how little opportunity I have had to read.” Octavia’s hurt sounded in her voice and Julia was immediately contrite.

“I’m sorry, love.” She hugged her. “That was beastly of me, forgive me. What is on the paper, Sir Tristram?”

He had unfolded the sheet and stepped to the window to examine it in a better light.

“It is a map of the house and grounds, with certain vastly interesting additions. It seems a number of hiding places were built at various times and this gives instructions on how to find them!”

“It looks very ancient,” said Julia, trying to appear interested.

“At least two hundred years old, for this tower is not shown.

“If I am not mistaken,” Octavia added, studying the map, “the tower was built right on top of the only secret place in the house itself. How very provoking!”

“There is a tradition that Sir Thomas Cotehele, who built the tower, buried treasure chests somewhere about the place. He was a Dutchman whose daughter married one of the Sir Richards and he lived here for many years. I’ll wager he used the old priests’ hole, or whatever it was, to hide his wealth!”

‘‘Mama’s chamber is on the ground floor of the tower," said Julia, her indifference forgotten. “Mama, may we search your chamber for an entrance to the treasure room? Mama!”

Lady Langston sat up, looking flustered. “I was not asleep,” she protested. “You should take a turn about the shrubbery this afternoon, Julia. It is not at all healthy to be cooped up in the house all day.”

“I shall, Mama, but we have found an old treasure map and we need to look about your chamber. May we?”

“There is no treasure in my chamber, child, for I brought scarcely any jewels since we do not entertain."

“Not in it, Aunt, under it. But if you will permit us to look about for an entrance, we promise not to disturb your belongings.”

“Oh, dear.” Her ladyship looked to Sir Tristram for guidance.

“It will do no harm, ma’am,” he said, smiling over the girls’ heads as one adult to another.

It dawned on the viscountess that her daughter was for once in charity with her highly eligible suitor and willing to accept his company, however dubious their enterprise.

“Very well,” she agreed with a sigh. “But Julia, before you go, pray thread this needle for me. The silk seems to be lost."

“Let me do it, ma’am,” offered Octavia. “You two go ahead; I shall join you in a moment.”

Sir Tristram’s look of gratitude almost repaid her for the possibility that they might find the treasure without her.

It took several minutes to sort out her aunt’s silks and find the right one to match the pink rose she thought she had been working on. More time was lost in trying to find her way amid the confusion of stairs and landings. In the end she had to ask a maid.

“You mean the White Bedroom, miss? ‘Tis just through the Punch Room, under the arch and up them stone steps. Careful, miss, they’re right steep.”

She reached the top of the granite staircase in time to hear her cousin say pettishly, “The map is perfectly useless. It shows nothing in the least resembling this room."

“No luck?” she asked. “What a shocking disappointment! I quite thought to find you both dripping with emeralds and pearls and running your hands through chests of Spanish doubloons.”

“Not a single emerald,” said Sir Tristram. He spoke cheerfully but it was plain he was mortified.

Octavia doubted it was because of the lack of treasure. She was sure that he had taken up the hunt with such enthusiasm because of Julia’s interest. Her cousin was behaving like a spoiled child, her usual sunny temper and friendliness changed to irritability.

If that was the result of falling in love, Octavia was glad she had never succumbed.

“I should like to see if we can discover some of the other hidey-holes,” she said, “but not immediately. It seems a very long time since I breakfasted and if my aunt does not have luncheon served I shall repair to the kitchens and see what I can find."

“I should be happy to join you, Miss Gray, but I am even happier to be able to assure you that Mrs Pengarth provides a more than adequate luncheon in the dining room at about this hour.

“Come, Ju. I expect you are hungry, for I remember you never eat in the morning. A cup of chocolate will not sustain you for very long.”

Sir Tristram looked relieved, and Octavia hoped he set down Julia’s disagreeable remarks as the effect of a lack of proper nourishment.

Lady Langston joined them as they entered the dining room. The table in the center was laden with cold meats, a side of salmon, bread still warm from the oven, huge bowls of fresh fruit.

“Mmm, strawberries,” said Octavia. “Oh, and cherries! I do not know which I like best.”

“Then have some of each,” suggested Sir Tristram. “And this is a gooseberry fool, if I am not mistaken. My lady, if you care to be seated I shall serve you.”

The viscountess sank into a chair near the window. “A morsel of salmon and just the tiniest bit of the fool,” she murmured. He served her with generous portions of both, and a couple of slices of bread and butter, setting the plates on a small table at her elbow. “Thank you, Sir Tristram. Has Raeburn brought in the tea? He knows I like a dish of tea at noon.”

“Here it is, Aunt,” said Octavia, pouring a cup and taking it to her. She returned to the table, selected a deep red cherry and popped it in her mouth. “What is in the jugs?”

“Cider,” answered Sir Tristram, helping Julia to clotted cream on her strawberries. “Made at the mill in the valley. There are two kinds, and I must advise you not to take the darker one if you do not want to sleep all afternoon.”

“Is it so strong? I had better stick to tea, perhaps. Julia, shall I pour a cup for you?”

“Some salmon, Miss Langston?”

“A little, thank you. It is good but we have had it every day since we arrived.”

“It is caught in the Tamar at this season. In the last century, in fact, it was so plentiful that a law was passed in a local village that apprentices should not be given it more than twice a week.”

“I shall have some,” decided Octavia, as Julia retired to a settee with her luncheon. “I am not yet grown tired of such a treat.” Resisting with difficulty the fragrance of new-baked bread, she took her bowl of cherries and went to sit by her aunt.

Sir Tristram, with a loaded plate, joined Julia on the sofa. They made a charming picture, her golden ringlets contrasting with his carelessly arranged dark locks, his strongly built form complementing her slender figure. Lady Langston looked at them and sighed.

“Such a desirable
parti,”
she whispered. “He is everything that is amiable, too. Yet my silly girl will whistle him down the wind, for one cannot expect a gentleman to put up with the sullens forever.”

“She is conversing with him perfectly amicably at present, ma’am. It is natural to her to be friendly with everyone, and he has so much to recommend him that I am sure she cannot continue to reject him.”

“It is so very unfortunate that she should have conceived a
tendre
for that other young man. I do not recall his name, and I believe I have never met him but Langston says he is shockingly ineligible. A revolutionary, my dear, who would murder us all in our own beds like the Jacobites in France. Or do I mean Jacobins? I could never keep the two of them straight.”