The Cornish Heiress (12 page)

He was enjoying himself and said so, apologizing to Perce
for having resisted visiting his home previously. Two weeks passed most
pleasantly, and before the simple pleasures had a chance to pall, a most
disreputable individual delivered, a note to the servant’s door of Moreton
Place. He did not wait for a reply or, more surprising, for a tip, but merely
thrust the folded paper into the hand of the servant who came to the door and
left as hastily as he had arrived.

It was a grubby piece of paper, and the boy who received it
was obviously distressed. It was not the sort of thing that could be placed on
the table where the mail went. Had not Butler had rigid control over the
servants’ hall and been, in addition, aware that Lord Kevern’s guest was up to
something, such a note might have been disdainfully dropped in the fire.
Fortunately the boy who accepted it was far too much in awe of Butler to do
anything without his sanction, and he presented the unappetizing missive to his
superior.

Butler took it, bent his eye on the lad, and said, “Keep
your mummer shut. You never got this. You don’t know nothing about it. If I
hears a word of it, I’ll know where that word came from, m’boy, and you won’t
like it.”

He then ascended the back stairs, more quickly and a good
deal less majestically than he ascended the front ones, and tapped quietly on
Philip’s door. He was well paid for his effort—in general butlers were far too
lofty personages to carry notes; that was what footmen were employed to do—by
the expression on Philip’s face (and the golden guinea Philip passed to him)
when he handed the note over. The expression satisfied his curiosity—this note
was the thing Mr. St Eyre had come to Cornwall for—and the golden boy handed
over mutely testified the need for secrecy and Philip’s appreciation of
Butler’s sagacity. It also gave the lie to the gossip related by her ladyship’s
maid that Mr. St. Eyre had been turned out by his father and was desperately
strapped for cash.

Completely unaware of how much Butler knew and of how little
harm the knowledge would ever do him, Philip choked down his excitement and
tore open the note. It was only two sentences. “Any time after moonrise. I hope
that Roger and Leonie are well.” At first startled by the non sequitur mention
of his father and stepmother, Philip recognized the cleverness in a moment.
Perce knew his parents’ names; possibly Lord and Lady Moreton did also,
although Philip was not certain of that, as they did not happen to move in the
same social circles. Everyone had avoided mentioning Roger and Leonie at all,
lest it make Philip self conscious or unhappy. In any case there was probably
no one else in Cornwall who knew. Thus Pierre had fully identified himself
without writing one single word that could connect him with Philip or vice
versa.

It was hard to make ordinary conversation at dinner and
through the afternoon and evening, but Perce and Lord Moreton understood what
must have happened and they helped cover Philip’s occasional lapses into
absentmindedness. These woke sympathy rather than suspicion in the female
sector of the family, and the kindhearted attempts of Perce’s mother and
sisters to divert Philip’s mind from what they thought were his troubles and
regrets served admirably to pass the hours until he could reasonably excuse
himself.

He spent a little time getting his armament in perfect order
and then, when all was quiet, went to the stable and saddled Spite himself. The
horse had had a long rest after the heavy work of carrying Philip from London
to Sancreed. He was almost too eager, taking the road from Moreton Place to
Drift at a fast canter that was dangerous in the deceptive moonlight. Philip,
being just as eager, had not the heart to check him, but when he directed the
animal across the road into the trackless countryside, he had to pull him in.
There were few places flat or smooth enough to make even a trot safe, but the
steep climb and the equally precipitous descent were sufficiently taxing that
by the time Philip rode Spite into the stableyard of The Mousehole, the horse
had worked the fidgets off and was happy to lip over some hay quietly.

Philip entered the inn with his heart beating so hard he
thought everyone would hear it. He had not noticed what the outside of the
place looked like in the moonlight, but as he glanced around for Pierre he
could not help but see that the worst deficiencies of the interior had
disappeared. The lamps that hung from the rafters were dim and smoky, but that
was all to the good. In the soft light, the shadowy corners looked cozy, and
the bright fire, crackling and spitting over its salt-impregnated fuel, lent an
air of bonhomie and cheerfulness to what in daylight was a miserable room.

The landlord had started to come around his counter when he
saw Philip enter, but as the young man passed under a lamp and his face became
clear, the big innkeeper turned back to pouring drinks without a word. There
must be very few strangers who came to this place, or the landlord had a
remarkable memory for faces. Philip realized he was known and approved. In the
same moment and for the same reason, Pierre recognized him. He stood and
gestured. Philip hurried toward him.

“There is nothing wrong?” the older man asked anxiously.

Philip’s letter had said only that he was in Cornwall and it
was urgent that he see and speak to Pierre. “Nothing,” Philip assured him
hastily. “Papa and Leonie are quite well, and everyone else also. It is
business I need to talk to you about.”

Pierre’s eyes widened a little, but he nodded. “Talk. It is
safe here, especially as we speak French. There is no other ship in, and my
boys,” he nodded at men seated at other, less private, tables, “are safe
enough.”

“For this?” Philip asked, so low Pierre had to lean until
his head almost touched Philip’s to hear. “I am supposed to obtain information
that will be used against France.”

Pierre lifted his brows as far as they would go. Then he
shook his head to stop Philip saying any more. Without another word he rose,
Philip getting up at the same time. Together they walked out of the inn and
down the uneven street. Although the weather was clear, it was sharp with a
wicked little wind that nipped at ears and noses. The street was empty.

“One can never tell,” Pierre said softly. “I would say my
men did not care for their mothers and fathers much less for France or for
anything—except their own pockets and pleasures—but you can never tell. I have
heard one or two speaking with pride of Bonaparte’s victories. It is possible
that a madness of patriotism could fall on one of them. Safety is best. What is
this about?”

As they climbed down the side of the pier and walked along
the rocky shore which was utterly deserted, Philip described the problem. He
explained about the conflicting information and the necessity of discovering
whether Bonaparte really would be capable of invading England and, if so, when
the invasion might come.

“They were working like devils on it in July—that I know,”
Pierre replied. “That is the last time I was in Boulogne I brought a load of
cloth and shoes… Of course! You are the answer to two problems that
I
have,
my son. But I will tell you about that later. Let us think of your matter
first.”

“It as simply this. I must get into the port and shipyards
of Boulogne and see for myself how far the fleet is advanced, how many ships,
what kind, whether men and supplies are available to use the ships—all that and
anything else I can learn also.” He hesitated and then said quickly, “Pierre,
Papa said you would not care, but—but if this will make you feel a traitor to
your country…”

“How many times must I tell you that France is
not
my
country,” Pierre said firmly. “I am a Breton, and I have no cause to love the
French. And even if I were French, I would do what I could against this
Bonaparte. No, I do not long for the old king. He was a fool, and this heir who
is in exile in Germany, this so-called Louis XVIII is even worse. Louis XVI was
only stupid, this one is venal and bitter as well.”

Philip grinned much relieved. He had been troubled that
Pierre would help him because of the long ties of friendship but would be
unhappy about it. “Well, but you must have
some
government,” he
remarked. “Do you want to be like those crazy Americans who cannot have the
same leader for more than four years at a time and even change those who
represent them every two years so that no one can know what to do about
anything before he must go on the hustings again?”

Pierre snorted. “I am not so sure they are crazy. If a man must
give all his attention to being elected, he will have less time to persecute
his countrymen by writing silly laws. However, I am afraid that even the
precautions the Americans have taken will not save them.”

“I do not think that the purpose of the American
Constitution was to prevent the lawmakers from making laws.” Philip sounded a
little choked as he restrained himself from laughing. Pierre’s ideas on government
always gave him the giggles.

“Then they
are
crazy,” Pierre stated, sounding so
disappointed that Philip could no longer help laughing aloud. Pierre cast him a
jaundiced look. “You have been corrupted by your father’s notions. For a
barrister it is reasonable to desire more and more silly laws. It is his life’s
work and much to his profit to protect his clients against such laws.
Naturally! If there were no laws, there would be no lawyers. But you… Pah! The
English are more crazy than the Americans. Everything has either a custom or a
law.”

“We are a—a conservative people,” Philip offered merrily.
“We like to have rules and live within them.”

“You, my son?” Pierre laughed. “You never heard a rule but
you must break it within the minute. How many years did I listen to your father
moan that he was more often in your school than any other parent in its
history. Did they say, Philippe, speak English—then you spoke French. Did they
say, do not do this—then you, who had never desired to do such a thing in your
life, did it at once. Did they say, do this thing—then you, who had done it
every day for years, dug in your heels and would not do it again for begging or
for whipping.”

“Oh, come now, Pierre, I was not so bad as that,” Philip
protested, blushing.

“You were! But since your father was not much better, I do
not know what he was moaning about. You both think just as I do, but all you
English are mealy-mouthed. Take your father talking about Leonie as
Mademoiselle de Conyers to me, as if he hardly knew her, when—”

Pierre stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Philip let out a
single whoop of laughter and then clapped his hand across his mouth. There was
no doubt that his father did tend to wrap things up in white linen when he
could. However, Philip was not shocked by Pierre’s revelation. French-born
Leonie was far franker than her husband, and Philip had known for some years
that his father and stepmother had lived as man and wife in France without
benefit of blessing by the clergy. Leonie could see nothing wrong with what she
had done, and said so.

“Do not be vulgar,” Pierre said repressively. “The young
should not criticize their elders and betters.”

That made Philip laugh again. “I have not said a word,” he
pointed out innocently. “How can I be critical or vulgar?”

Pierre snorted again. “It is not hard for an Englishman to
be both without trying,” he teased. “But I should not let you divert me in this
way. What I started to say was that this Bonaparte is worse than the kings.
They were born to power and could let things alone. He cannot stop prying and
adjusting and arranging. If the French are not rid of him, they soon will not
be allowed even to breathe except by his order. No, I will feel no shame, no
guilt for helping you. The French are, most of them, too stupid to understand,
but I am doing them as well as myself a great service by helping you.”

“And the English also,” Philip said seriously.

“No,” Pierre said also seriously. “An invasion would cost
some lives, but it could not succeed in the end, and I think the English could
break Bonaparte more quickly that way. However, that is not for us to decide.
Your government has asked you to do a thing and you think that thing is right
and desire to do it. For me, who does not care who governs anywhere, that is
sufficient. Now, what is your plan?”

“Truthfully, Pierre, I have none. I have papers as a
merchant, but I am a little worried about using them. I thought it would be
best to ask your advice, since you must have a better notion of what is
happening in France than we can have.”

Pierre smote himself in the forehead. “It is time for me to
die!” he exclaimed theatrically. “I have heard you say something so eminently
sensible that I have nothing to argue about. I cannot believe it! I retract my
words. You do
not
take after your father. Never did he not have a plan
and uphold it in the face of every argument of good sense and practicality.”

“And his plans always worked,” Philip remarked rebelliously.

“That is true,” Pierre conceded with amused sourness, “but
my plans would have worked just as well and would not have been so hard on the
nerves.”

“I have no objection to quiet nerves,” Philip claimed, not
too truthfully. “I had some excitement on the way here.”

“What do you mean?” Pierre prompted when Philip hesitated.

Philip then described what had happened at the inn and his
shooting of the highwayman. His voice faltered over the latter, and Pierre put
an arm over his shoulders and squeezed briefly.

“Better he than you, my son, and likely you did him a
kindness. He was killed clean. He felt nothing, not even fear. Do not give the
matter another thought. Remember, if you engage in this adventure, he may not
be the last. However, we will try to avoid that. I
do
have a plan.”