The Cornish Heiress (14 page)

“I assure you the wine and brandy here are far above the
quality of the place itself he said with a gentle laugh. “At least, the brandy
is. I have not tasted the wine, but—”

“Do you think they even carry any?” Megaera asked, looking
sidelong at the few men who remained now that Pierre’s crew had left.

They were not prepossessing specimens, certainly, and quite
unlikely to have a taste for fine wine Philip shrugged. “I can ask. If there is
no wine, perhaps a brandy-and-water? Or hot rum with lemon? No, perhaps there
would not be lemons here—but perhaps there would. Sailors are very partial to
lemon or lime, you know.”

“No,” Megaera admitted. “I don’t know. I admit my
acquaintance with sailors is small, but that is true of a great many people. Do
you think my tongue will wag if you make me drunk?”

Philip assumed an expression of injured innocence. “Not at
all,” he disclaimed. “Simply I do not wish you to be chilled and delay Pierre’s
business.”

“Oh, what a clanker,” Megaera groaned, but she could not
help smiling, and she did not at all wish to refuse the drink and have to
leave. She had not had such an enjoyable time in years. “Very well, order what
you think I will like. If I don’t drink it, you may.”

“But that will make me drunk,” Philip protested.

“And how will that make you different from any other man?”
Megaera remarked with such bitterness that Philip leaned forward and took her
hand.

“What have I done to offend you?” he asked earnestly. “I was
joking, I swear—”

Her expression softened and she patted the hand that held
hers before she withdrew it. “Sorry. It has nothing to do with you. I’m a
little too familiar with the effects of overindulgence in brandy. Forgive me.”

“If it distresses you,” Philip assured her, “I will not
drink at all. It is of no consequence to me. I only thought you would be cold
on the ride home—truly.”

His response astounded Megaera, who had expected him to
laugh or to say something stupid about his own ability to hold his liquor or,
if he wanted to be cruel, ask why she was encouraging the habit by bringing
duty-free liquor into the country. The odd thing was that the response
astounded Philip, too. He had been walking around better than half soaked for
almost six months—brandy on the table with his breakfast to dull not only the
aching head and heaving stomach engendered by the previous night but also the
boredom and frustration of his life. Of course, as soon as he had taken on this
piece of work he had cut down his drinking. It would not do to be fuddled with
French agents after him. However, it was a surprise to him that what he had
said was true. He had no desire at all for another drink.

Even more surprising was his resentment for Meg’s sake.
After all, it was more usual than not that any lower-class woman would be well
acquainted with fathers and brothers and husbands the worse for drink. That was
far less frequent in his own class, not because the men drank less but because
they did not do so in the presence of their women, and there were servants to
care for them (or take the punishment) when they became helpless or obstreperous.
But Philip could not associate this delicate, violet-eyed girl with the lower
classes, and he felt a sudden strong desire to protect her from needing to deal
with such degradation.

Megaera was smiling a little mistily. She knew Philip had
not meant be would forswear liquor entirely, but no man had ever offered so
much as not drinking in her presence. The suggestion raised this man, whom she
believed to be an illegitimate son of a common smuggler, to a level of
thoughtfulness and generosity never achieved by any “gentleman” of her
acquaintance.

“Don’t be silly,” she said softly, patting his hand again.
“I would prefer that you don’t get awash, but I have no objection to a sip to
keep out the cold. I’ll even join you—if I can stomach what they serve me.”

Philip looked at her anxiously for a moment to be sure she
meant it, which, pleased Megaera even more by proving what he said had not been
an idle gesture, then turned and motioned to the landlord. After some
negotiation—The Mousehole was not equipped to cater to refined tastes—a drink
was settled upon. It was at that moment that Philip realized he did not know
what to call Meg. To the landlord he said, “For the lady,” and that covered it,
but sooner or later he would need to address her by name. Pierre called her
“Miss Meg”, but it was obvious that she was fond of the old man. She might not
wish to extend the liberty of such familiarity to so new an acquaintance.

“Miss—what?” Philip asked.

“What do you mean, miss what? I didn’t say I was missing
anything.”

“No.” Philip laughed. “I meant, what am I to call you?”

“The men call me Red Meg,” she said, smiling. “Pierre, a
polite Frenchman—no, Breton, I’m sorry. He becomes quite incensed when I mix
them up. Anyway, Pierre adds an honorific—Miss Meg. Either will do.’’

Philip was silent while the landlord put the drinks on the
table and he paid. Then he said slowly, “Would you not… When we go to Falmouth,
I will need to show a proper respect. Will you not tell me your surname?”

“Well!” Meg exclaimed. “If you are not the most persistent,
curious…“ She paused then and thought about it. It did not matter why Philip
had made the point—he was right. She would have to give a name to the factors
with whom she did business. “Very well,” she said, “you may call me Margaret
Redd when we go to Falmouth. Here you’d better say ‘Meg’ like everyone else, or
I probably won’t answer you.”

“Just as you like,” Philip answered. It was obvious to him
that Redd was not Meg’s name, really. “I did not wish to offend you by assuming
the same familiarity that Pierre might have won by long acquaintance.”

Megaera did not answer that. She lifted her drink and sipped
it because she was afraid her voice would be unsteady. She was deeply moved by
the delicacy Philip showed toward her. He could not have been more thoughtful
of her feelings if he had met her in a fine drawing room rather than this
dirty, smoky common alehouse. Strangely it did not occur to Megaera to be
worried by this. Having blocked Philip’s attempt to discover her name—only she no
longer thought it was that, as he had looked honestly surprised when she
accused him of curiosity—she never feared that he might have recognized her
breeding. She put his thoughtfulness down to the natural politeness of Philip’s
French breeding—but she liked it, and him more than any man she lad ever met,
except Pierre, who was too old in Megaera’s opinion to be considered a “man”.

Since Megaera did not want her silence to become noticeable,
she cast about in her mind for a safe subject and found one immediately. “Did I
understand your fath—oh, I’m sorry, I meant Pierre. Did I understand correctly
that he doesn’t care which of several types of merchandise we buy for him so
long as these are ready in stock?”

Philip had opened his mouth in surprise when Megaera almost
called Pierre his father, but before she was finished speaking he decided that
it would be very wise to permit her to keep this particular delusion. It would
solve many problems, giving him a background, explaining Pierre’s faith in him,
and, best of all, preventing Meg from asking questions he would find difficult
to answer. Obviously, from her swift apology and her blush, she believed he was
a bastard and might be sensitive about it—or she herself felt it improper to
mention. Either way she would avoid the subject of Philip’s antecedents, and
that was all to the good.

Thus he ignored that part of her remark and answered the
question about business. “Yes. Since the war all English goods are scarce and
valuable in France.”

Megaera was again silent for a moment, sipping her drink
while a new problem came into her mind. “I have just thought of something quite
dreadful,” she said hesitantly. “I suppose you are the wrong person to talk to,
but—but—isn’t it wrong for me to help buy things that will aid the French war
effort? Oh dear! I’ve given Pierre my promise, and I must—”

“But there is no reason to worry,” Philip hastened to assure
her. “Pierre and I do not love the French, and particularly not Bonaparte, any
better than you. I know Pierre does not sell to government procurers. I swear
that is the truth,” he added when he saw the doubt in Megaera’s eyes, and
explained about the taxes and Pierre’s determination to avoid them. “So, you
see, we are doing Bonaparte more harm than good. Besides, if Bonaparte cannot
get English cloth and leather, he might be forced to start making such things
himself—and that would be bad for our trade.”

“
Our
trade?” Megaera echoed.

“I have lived in England a very long time,” Philip said
hastily, cursing his slip. “To speak the truth, I am more English than French
in my sympathy—if not, in my speech.”

Megaera frowned suspiciously, then her face cleared. Of
course, Philip’s mother must have been English. Perhaps he had only gone to
live with his father after she died, or perhaps she had come back to England
when Philip was a boy. There were many explanations, and each would account for
Philip’s fluency in English as well as his attachment to the country. Megaera
could not doubt the honesty of that slip. It was, she was sure, quite
unintentional and betrayed the truth—that after his loyalty to his father,
Philip preferred England to France.

It was such a pleasant conviction and made Megaera so happy
that it did not occur to her it was just the kind of “slip” an agent would make
to induce the conclusion she had reached. She was fortunate, for suspicion
would have made her miserable to no purpose at all. As it was, she smiled
brilliantly at Philip, feeling even more comfortable and attracted to him.

The sensation was mutual. Philip had not previously given
any thought to the subject, but he suddenly realized that it
was
unpatriotic
to deal with French smugglers. The gold and silver paid for brandy and
wine—utterly useless products, although delightful—were supporting the war
Bonaparte was waging. Philip was surprised by this revelation. He had bought
plenty of duty-free liquor himself. The Soft Berth at Kingsdown still was a
smugglers’ den. There were plenty of Frenchmen and Dutchmen who made the short
run from the northeast coast of France or Holland to the Kentish shore, even
though Pierre no longer did so.

And more than guineas crossed in the smuggler vessels,
Philip guessed French agents must cross and come ashore, perhaps as crew, just
as he intended to do in the other direction. Perhaps they concealed their
purpose sometimes, but often enough, Philip was sure, the English contacts of
the smugglers either did not think about it or did not care that they were
helping seed their country with spies. It was a pleasant thing to know that Meg
was certainly not one of those who did not care. Now, Philip decided, he could
make sure she would think about it in the future. She might even be a help in
catching, an agent.

“I am glad you spoke of that,” he said. “Pierre and I, as I
said, do not love the French and do not wish to assist them. Neither do you, I
am sure, yet both of us may do so without intention. I know Pierre does not
give passage to French agents, but other smugglers may do so—”

Megaera gasped with surprise. It was obvious she had never
thought of it. Philip nodded in recognition.

“Yes, and even Pierre might be tricked by a crewman who
might desert or meet someone secretly to pass information. Again, Miss Meg, we
can be helpful.”

“Tell me how—and call me Meg. Never mind the ‘Miss’.” She
leaned forward eagerly and took an unguarded swallow of the drink she had been
sipping with careful reserve.

“Two ways. Make sure no one who comes ashore to help unload the
cargo slips away—”

“Pierre’s men don’t unload my cargo.”

“Good. That is one less chance, but I do not believe that to
be true in all cases. Perhaps the men who work for you also work for some other
group. Probably they would not tell you, but it does not matter. Most of them
are loyal Englishmen. They are only trying to make a little extra money, which
they need—”

“As I do,” Megaera interrupted again. In the next moment she
was appalled at what she had said, and she hastened to add. “Please don’t ask
why. I won’t tell you. I—I just couldn’t. I didn’t want you to think… Go on,
tell me what you want me to say to the men.”

Philip was most interested in Meg’s spontaneous remark, but
he judged it wise to pass it for the moment and continued blandly, “What I have
just been saying to you. That they should watch for anyone coming ashore and staying,
or coming and accepting papers, a wallet, anything, from a stranger. Even more
important, they should watch for a stranger who seems to be joining the
smugglers and who is not a known member of the crew. That is how agents most
commonly cross to France. After all, the packet boats no longer run. They do
not have much choice. A French naval vessel would have to sneak in to pick them
up. That would not be easy, and there would be the complication of getting word
to France that a pickup is required. Whereas a smuggling ship may come in quite
often and be safer—you know how frequently Pierre crosses. Also a naval vessel
will often ignore such a ship even if it is recognized as French. The navy is
as fond of brandy as anyone else.”

“I’ll tell my men,” Megaera agreed earnestly. “You’re quite
right that they are mostly decent men who need money. Certainly even the ones
who make a living in evil ways by choice would not, most of them, wish to help
French agents. But you said there was something else we could do.”

Philip grinned and his eyes danced. This idea was the best
he had had in a donkey’s age. It would increase Pierre’s profit, give him far
more time with Meg, and do as much damage to the French war effort as one
small, virtually unarmed vessel could do while improving England’s balance of
trade Megaera, watching him, smiled in sympathy, and Philip laughed aloud.