Smugglers' Summer (9 page)

“The Jacobites were the Stuart supporters, Aunt. The rebellions of ‘15 and ‘45? Bonny Prince Charlie?” Octavia seized the opportunity of taking her ladyship’s mind off her vexing offspring. The effort was wasted.

“I can see you know a great deal of history, Octavia, but I am sure such an education must be a mistake if it leads to Julia refusing to obey her papa and wanting to marry a murderer instead of a perfect gentleman like Sir Tristram, with fifty thousand pounds a year.”

“Julia’s suitor is no murderer, ma’am. Indeed you malign him.”

“He is not? I must say that is a great relief to me. But how can you be certain? Can it be that you are acquainted with him?”

“He often visits my father.” Octavia was sure her aunt would guess that she had introduced the unhappy pair, but if so she gave no sign of her suspicions. “He is a political writer and expresses himself with extreme vigour in print. In person, he would not hurt a fly. He is greatly concerned with the plight of the unfortunate. Papa believes he will mature into a fine politician."

“Well, my love, I do not mean to speak disrespectfully of politicians, for I am sure my sister goes on very well with Mr Gray. But it
cannot
be thought an unexceptionable match for Julia, the daughter of a viscount and with her own fortune besides.”

Octavia was glad to have relieved her aunt’s mind of at least one of its apprehensions. She had no desire, however, to persuade her that James Wynn was a suitable husband, since she was herself convinced that Sir Tristram was by far the better man to make her cousin happy.

“I am going to get some more cherries,” she said. “Can I bring you anything, ma’am?”

“Just another cup of tea, thank you. I am sure I am by far too fidgeted to eat.”

Since Lady Langston had left no trace of the fish, the pudding, or the bread and butter with which she had been lavishly provided, her niece did not worry unduly at this alarming loss of appetite.

Chapter 8

Lady Langston retired to the drawing room after luncheon, with the stated aim of applying herself to her embroidery. It was generally understood that on such occasions she did not require attendance; indeed, she positively resisted any offer to accompany her.

When this became clear to Octavia, she asked Sir Tristram to show her the bookroom.

“I am a little tired after our morning exercise,” she claimed. “I shall be perfectly happy there while you stroll about the grounds, Julia.”

“I can very well wait until you are recovered, cousin. There is no fashionable hour for the promenade here, after all. I will come with you to choose a book, for I have read nothing this age, I vow.”

“It is not an extensive collection,” warned Sir Tristram, leading them through the Great Hall and into the east wing. “Just a few volumes to while away the hours if it rains when the earl brings a house-party."

The room was too small to be described by so grand a term as library, but all four walls were lined with well-filled shelves. Octavia at once began to collect a pile of novels, biographies, histories, and poetry, all of which looked fascinating to her. Sir Tristram looked at the stack and laughed.

“Shall I call a footman to carry these to your room, Miss Gray?” he asked.

She flushed slightly, but smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye. “I am not used to such bounty,” she explained. “It is ridiculous, but I am half afraid that if I do not lay claim to these, they will disappear before I return.”

“At the very least, a housemaid will return them to the shelves and you will have to hunt them out again. There is no reason you should not keep a private supply elsewhere. Do you care to choose one for now?”

“Yes, I shall take this life of Queen Elizabeth.” She was about to sink into a chair with her prize when she realised that Julia was wandering discontentedly up and down the room, reading and rejecting title after title. Evidently literature held no charms in her present restless state. “Ju, the very sight of these books has revived me,” she said. “Shall we go out now?”

Since her fatigue had been an unsuccessful ruse to allow Sir Tristram to be alone with her cousin, she was perfectly ready for the sort of leisurely stroll Julia preferred.

They walked about the upper gardens this time. Octavia was delighted with the wide green lawns, the shady shrubbery and the neat kitchen garden, tucked away behind yew hedges. There was another lily pond, a small meadow where cows were milked morning and evening and, at the top of the hill behind the house, a tall tower on the skyline.

“I should like to go up to that tower,” Octavia said. “Did not the map show a hiding place there?”

Julia brightened. She had been walking without complaint, but equally without enthusiasm, indifferent to the beauties of the rural scene.

“The Prospect Tower is an interesting structure,” said Sir Tristram. “I think you will be surprised when you reach it, even if we should not find the secret. Do you go on ahead, while I go back to the house for the map. I shall join you there presently.”

He watched them start up the grassy path. Even in the sullens Julia was a diamond of the first water and when she smiled she was quite the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. And what a surprise the little cousin had turned out to be! At their first meeting he had thought her a plain, unpromising piece and she had looked infinitely worse the next time he saw her. Yet a haircut and a new gown had worked a miracle. She was really quite pretty, and her cheerful, obliging temper threw Julia’s crotchets into strong relief.

Of course Julia had every excuse for her behaviour. Their situations were vastly different. Miss Gray had been granted a temporary reprieve from a life of toil in straitened circumstances. Julia had been exiled from her friends, torn from the entertainments of a successful season, parted from the man she fancied she loved.

He did not like to think of this last. Where the devil had he left that map?

When he rejoined them at the base of the Prospect Tower, both the girls were in whoops.

“I have never seen anything more worthy to be called a Folly,” cried Julia. “Why ever did they build it in such a ridiculous fashion?”

Close to, the square-seeming structure was revealed to be three sided, and each side concave. The windows were false, bricked in, and when Sir Tristram unlocked the door with a key obtained from the housekeeper, they could see that the external division into three storeys was equally deceiving. The interior was hollow, with a wooden stair winding precariously up the stone walls, and no roof.

“A Folly with a purpose,” Sir Tristram assured them, “as you may see if you dare climb up with me.”

Somewhat to his surprise, both the young ladies were eager to go. The stairs looked solid, with a rail on the open side, but he went first in case there were any loose or rotten boards.

It was a long climb, the tower being some sixty feet high. Had there been windows, they might have contented themselves with the view from the halfway point. They were moving very slowly, with considerable panting, by the time they reached the landing at the top. It was worth the effort.

Octavia had thought the view from the gardens magnificent. This was overwhelming. The air was crystal clear. Every detail of the closer woods and fields stood out, and in the distance, to west and east, the high rolling hills of Bodmin Moor and Dartmoor stretched to the horizon. Southward the river twisted and turned, now hidden, now revealed, until it widened into Plymouth Sound.

She realised with a start that she had missed what Sir Tristram was saying.

“I’ll try to point it out to you. You see where the headland seems to block the river? That is where Mount Edgcumbe lies. By river it is several hours distant, by land, a good day’s journey, but as the crow flies ten or eleven miles. No, I believe you cannot see it without a spyglass.”

“What am I looking for?” asked Octavia.

“The tower of Maker church, Miss Gray. That is the purpose I told you of. With the aid of a spyglass, or with lights at night, messages can be passed from one to the other."

“Smugglers?”

“I daresay. Officially, simply signals telling of arrivals and departures, or a warning in time of danger. The coming of the Spanish Armada, perhaps, or the Round-heads during the Civil War.”

“But you think it might be used by smugglers?” she persisted. “That would explain the secret room.”

“There is no room for a secret room,” protested Julia.

“Underground,” said Sir Tristram. “I inspected the map as I walked up from the house. Let us go down and see whether we can find the entrance.” He sounded extremely skeptical.

Octavia’s knees were shaking when she reached the bottom. They went outside and she and Julia supported each other, giggling, while the baronet unfolded the map. He laid it on the grass and they all bent over it.

The ink was faded but perfectly legible. There was a loose brick in the wall directly opposite the door. Behind it was a lever, which would open a trapdoor.

They tried it. With a click and a scrape, a section of floor in the darkest corner moved downwards, leaving a black hole.

“But we have no lantern!” Julia lamented.

“I can fetch one in a moment. Wait here and do not go near the entrance.” The hitherto imperturbable baronet set off at a run.

He returned shortly, breathless and dishevelled, bearing a lighted lantern. Lying full-length on the dusty floor, he held it down in the hole and peered over the edge.

“There are steps of a sort,” he announced. “I can’t see much else. I’m going down.”

“I shall come with you,” said Julia in a voice which brooked no denial.

Octavia looked wistfully at the hole, then down at her yellow gown, already besmirched from brushing against the wall. Julia, in keeping with her declared lack of interest in dress, was wearing a plain blue muslin, probably the plainest frock in her wardrobe. Besides, she had plenty more to choose from.

“I had best wait here, in case the two of you land in the briars,” Octavia sighed.

Sir Tristram first, then Julia, they disappeared.

A squeal from Julia was followed by a thump and a muffled curse. She could hear their voices but not what they were saying, and there was no answer when she called a question. Frustrated, she turned to the map.

A dotted line led from the Prospect Tower diagonally past the corner of the house to a point opposite the centre of the east wing. Orienting herself on the river, Octavia decided it must be where the tunnel from lawn to valley garden passed under the lane. There was another secret room there, or rather a cave, she decided, peering at the writing. And the dotted line was marked “tunnel.” She went to stand beside the hole in the floor, bent down and shouted. “Can you see the entrance to a tunnel?”

“No. The walls are all solid stone.” Sir Tristram’s voice echoed.

“There ought to be one. Wait a minute, I cannot read it in this light. I shall go outside and see if there are more instructions.”

The instructions were very simple. Close the trapdoor and the way to the tunnel would be clear.

“Not while I am down here!” cried Julia. Her head appeared, ringlets liberally decorated with cobwebs.

Sir Tristram came up too, brushing futilely at his filthy coat and filthier trousers. “I believe I have had enough excitement for one day,” he admitted, slightly sheepish. “If you care to go down and try it, Miss Gray, we shall wait for you."

“Not I. What did you find?”

“A number of empty chests, labelled ‘Darjeeling—Calcutta—London.’ I would guess that the contents were divided into smaller packages before continuing their journey.”

“They still smelled faintly of tea,” Julia added as they walked down the hill, “so it cannot be very long since the place was used.”

“Luggers meet the India clippers in mid-Channel,” said Sir Tristram knowledgeably. “Most of the cargo is unloaded before they ever reach port.”

“You know a great deal about it.” Julia was curious. Octavia was about to tell her about Captain Red Jack Day when she caught a warning look from the baronet.

“There are reports in the newspapers from time to time,” he said. “On the rare occasions when the Customs actually manage to catch them.”

The afternoon had flown past. They had missed teatime, and Lady Langston had already retired to change for dinner. The girls hurried up to their rooms.

Ada was horrified at the sight of Julia’s disarray.

“I hope her ladyship didn’t see you like this,” she clucked. “There’s a gown laid out on your bed, Miss Gray. And if the gentleman was to see you, Miss Julia, it’s off and away he’d be like a scalded cat. I’ll fetch up some hot water."

“No such luck,” said Julia gloomily. “He did see me."

Octavia had to agree with her. She thought her cousin’s intrepid descent into the secret cellar had entirely restored the baronet’s esteem, while the smudge on her nose only made her look more enchanting than ever.

The gown on her bed was another of Julia’s, newly altered. Peach-coloured sarsenet, with a white lace petticoat, it was trimmed with tiny rosettes of white lace. Used to managing without a maid, Octavia slipped into it, ran a brush through her curls, and danced into Julia’s chamber.

“That is quite perfect for you!” her cousin cried. “Ada, did I not have matching slippers? They were open-toed, as I recall, so they ought to fit. And I know the very thing to go with it.” She darted to the dressing table and searched through her jewelry case. “Here it is. It is yours.”

She clasped a gold chain around Octavia’s neck. The oval gem depending from it glowed with a matching peachy hue, several shades deeper than the silk.

“Oh, no, Ju, I cannot take it!”

“It is only a carnelian. If your mama objects, I shall keep it for you and you may wear it when you visit. After seeing how pretty you are in elegant clothes and with your new coiffure, I refuse to let you sink back into drabness.”

“You are a darling.” Octavia hugged her. “Whatever happens in the future, I shall wear it now and enjoy it. Do you really think I look pretty?”

“Only look at yourself in the mirror. You cannot doubt your own eyes."