The Cornish Heiress (5 page)

However, decisions two and three required permanent
concealment of who she was. Since Megaera did not believe in honor among
gentlemen—the only real examples she had had were Edward and her father—she
certainly did not believe in honor among thieves. She expected no gratitude.
Who had ever shown her any, except poor John, who was not a man and was too
stupid to think for himself. What she did expect was that, if she let this man
go and he guessed who she was, he would try to extort money from her for not
turning him in to the law. Naturally the situation would become even more acute
if he could help her embark on a career as a smuggler.

A shadow fell over Megaera and she jumped, but it was only
John. When he saw her look at him, he signed
Done
. Megaera bit her lip.
She wanted to talk to the man but did not want him to see her. She was
certainly not the only woman with red hair in the locality, but that
characteristic would narrow the field enough to make identification possible.
She looked up at John.
Cover his eyes. Then come here
, she signed, but
had to show him how to make a blindfold out of a piece of cloth.

In a few minutes John was out again. Megaera took a deep
breath and stepped into the cottage. “You’re one of the escaped smugglers,” she
said. “I don’t care,” she added as he shook his head vehemently. “It’s none of
my business. I’ve no love for the law, and nothing against you.”

As she spoke she looked the man over. His clothing, although
bloodstained and dirty, had been of reasonably good quality and had a crude,
flashy style to it. Megaera’s eyes widened. Was this the head of the gang? The
man who had shot Edward?

“Then why the hell did your dummy tie me up?” Black Bart
whined. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

“You shot at him. Call that nothing?” Megaera countered.
“You broke into his house.”

“No one don’t live here. I been by a hundred times and it’s
been empty. What harm did I do to take a lay down when I was hurt?”

“No harm in that, maybe, but John doesn’t like people
picking his lock and using his house without his say-so. When he came in, you
shot at him too. Lucky you missed. Take more than a bullet to stop John—and you’d
have been dead, the hard way. He’d tear you apart piece by piece. Then you
tried to get at your other pistol. Why blame John for tying you up? It was the
only reasonable thing to do.”

“What’re you goin’ to do wif me?” he asked fearfully.

“I told you—nothing. If you’re one of the smugglers and we
can reach an agreement, you can stay here. If not, John will carry you a few
miles away, take away those pistols of yours, and let you go. Either way we
don’t turn you in—that I swear.”

“Then why the wipe over my face?” The voice was less
whining, but not any more pleasant.

Megaera laughed. “Because I don’t want you to turn us in
either.”

“You! You’re a lady, ain’t you?”

How could he have guessed that, Megaera wondered, and in the
next moment realized it had to be her speech. She had tried to model her
sentence structure on his, but her accent was different. Megaera’s mind
whirled. She had gotten herself into bad trouble. Then suddenly the saw a path
to safety. One group of servants spoke nearly with the same accent as their
masters—gentlemen’s gentlemen and ladies’ maids. She laughed again.

“Sure, I speak pretty so I’m a lady, am I? You remember
that
,
that I’m a lady. John doesn’t like it when I’m not treated with respect. Never
you mind what I am. I came a long way to get in on the smuggling lay, and then
I heard it was finished here. Is it true?”

Black Bart began to curse. Megaera listened calmly, although
she found his language more original than Edward’s. He kept going for a long
time saving his choicest epithets for her late husband, who he believed—quite
correctly—had betrayed them. Megaera treasured up a few remarks about Edward
that she wished she had learned earlier so that she could have said them to his
face.

“You’re beginning to repeat yourself,” Megaera remarked
after a while. “I understand that the cargo and the depot are gone I don’t care
about that. What I want to know is whether the smuggler’s ship was taken or
whether he was scared away for good. If not, I’ll find the money to pay for a
new run, and I have a new and better place to hide the stuff.”

There was a long silence. “This ain’t a trap?” The whine was
back in the voice.

“Ever hear of a lady Customs officer? Don’t be a fool.
Anyway, you don’t have to tell me anything now. I’ve business elsewhere. John
and I will be back here tomorrow night after moonrise. If you want to do business,
we can talk about it then. If you don’t, just be gone and don’t come back.”

As she said it, she signed
Hold him
to John. When he
was helpless in the giant’s grip, she went over him carefully, extracting from
various places two more pistols, two knives, and a lead weight in a piece of
cloth. She then searched the cottage carefully but could find nothing besides
the gun he had dropped when John had first seized him. Having removed all the
weapons, she signed that John should come out and lift her to her saddle. When
she was mounted, she indicated that the prisoner should be turned loose, and
left. John was not very willing, and Megaera had to assure him that the man would
go away soon.

After she was safely home, Megaera considered what she had
done. She thought the remainder of her jewelry plus Edward’s would bring in
enough to pay for the smugglers’ cargo and that the cave that opened on the
opposite side of the hill from the site of Bolliet Manor would serve perfectly
to hide the smuggled goods until they could be delivered—not all in one night
but a little at a time. The cave would serve her better than the smugglers
because there were several interlocking passages behind it. One of the passages
led right to Bolliet Manor and two others to smaller caves and, eventually, to
other exits in the hill.

In fact, the cave had many advantages. She could reach it
without ever apparently leaving her house. In addition, either the local people
had forgotten the caves and passages existed or they were so terrified of them
that they would neither speak of them nor go near them. Megaera herself had
only learned of their existence because some antiquarian gentlemen had come
from London to investigate them, having found references to them in letters
written during the Civil War. Apparently the Cavaliers had hidden from the
Roundheads there at some time. Perhaps that was when the legend of their
fearsomeness had begun, because there was nothing there—except the danger of
getting lost if one did not know one’s way around. Megaera’s father had
uninterestedly given permission for exploration, and Megaera had been curious
enough to follow the scholars around until the whole complex was familiar to
her.

That was the easy part. The hard part was going to be to
keeping her identity secret. After all, there was no way to blindfold a whole
smuggling crew. First Megaera thought of disguises—a wig, a mask—but she soon
realized that such things would be worse than nothing. They would draw
attention to the fact that she had some reason to hide her identity. She needed
to be a different person, recognizable as a definite individual.

Thus was born Red Meg—a stranger to the district, a lady’s
maid on the run for stealing her mistress’s jewels. That explained the money
and the speech. John was no problem. Although his disability and his size were
distinctive, no one except the people immediately connected to Bolliet
Manor—and Dr. Partridge, of course, who was as good as mute—knew him. Like
John’s mother, Megaera never let him leave the grounds of the manor, except to
go to the lonely cottage. Now he would have to go with her, of course, but she
was sure she could control him.

Megaera collected clothing here and there, a groom’s
breeches, a boy’s shirt, a jacket old and patched and too large. She collected
the appurtenances a person would need to make life moderately comfortable in
the cave—an old bed and mattresses, blankets, braziers, other old furniture
from the attics. John spent the whole day carrying the things into the cave.
When it was all set up, Megaera dredged dirt through her hair, dirtied her face
and hands thoroughly, smeared mud and soot on the old clothes. Finally she and
John set out on the long tramp to the cottage.

It was not cold, but Megaera shivered all the way there. She
recognized the chill as fear, but she was not sure whether she feared the
smuggler would be gone and her last chance to save her home gone with him, or
whether he would be there and she would be involved in an enterprise that could
ruin her. That thought made her laugh in the midst of her fear. She could not
be ruined any more thoroughly than she had been by her loving father and
unloving husband. She could not even marry for money. Convention dictated a
year of “mourning”, and by then Bolliet would be in the hands of the
moneylenders.

He was not gone, although Megaera had thought he was at
first. She would not enter the cottage, fearing an attack even though she had
taken his weapons. But he would not come out either, also fearing a trap. At
last, knowing he could not remain forever in the cottage and believing that she
would send the brute in after him, he emerged. It was the first contest of
wills between them, and Megaera had won it. She was quick to follow up the
advantage.

“Since you’re here, you want to do business,” she said briskly.
“What do I call you?”

“Black Bart, but my name’s Bertram Woods,” he answered,
scowling. “What’s yours?”

“Margret,” Megaera replied readily. She had that all planned
and was delighted it was going her way. She had even stopped shivering. “Some
call me Red Meg,” she went on.

“Margaret what?” Black Bart asked.

She laughed at him. “Love children don’t have double names.
Red Meg’s good enough for you. Now where and when do we meet the smuggler?”

‘‘Not so fast. Did you bring the money?”

Megaera laughed again, contempt clear in the sound. “Not a
penny, nor will you see a halfpenny of it until I’ve collected from my
customers. Then you’ll get your cut—just like everyone else. You can get more
if you get the men together and manage them, but I’ll hold the clinkers and
I’ll deal with the Frenchy. No argument—take or leave.”

Bart reasoned and pleaded, insisting that no smuggler would
have anything to do with a woman. Megaera’s heart sank because that was
certainly possible, but she knew that if she did not control the money and the
deliveries, she might as well give up the enterprise completely. She held out
stubbornly, refusing to discuss the matter at all. Her way or not at all—and in
the end it was her way, all her way.

Black Bart had given Megaera an ugly feeling from the moment
she first laid eyes him. Pierre Restoir, the smuggler, had an exactly opposite
effect. He was a big man, his bald head and wrinkles betraying his age;
however, his body was still strong and lithe and his bright dark eyes showed a
spirit as young and lively as a boy’s. Megaera liked and trusted him on sight,
and, although he was obviously startled at having to deal with a woman, soon it
was clear he was delighted with the arrangement. He was fair and reasonable in
his demands. Megaera bargained hard because she had to wring every coin she
could out of the deal, but they soon came to terms.

After their first transaction was complete, Pierre drew her
aside and told her to meet him at The Mousehole to arrange future deliveries
and payment. “For you, Mees Meg, eet will be better, and I do not like to come
ashore when cargo ees deliver’,” he said, speaking in his heavily accented
English because he thought Meg did not understand French. “If eet become for me
necessary to run, I should be on my ship. That other one, I would not trust ‘im
with the name of a place friendly to me. ‘E ees not ‘onest, that one. ‘E would
betray a frien’ and enjoy eet. But you,
petite Megotta la rouge
, you
would not. Also, eet ees not wise that those others,” he glanced at the men who
had fetched the cargo and were loading it on the ponies, “should ‘ear too
much.”

“I must bring John,” she said.

Pierre laughed. “But, of course. For me eet ees safe—’e does
not talk—and for you eet ees better ‘e be always near.”

The boats were beginning to scrape onto the beach. Red Meg
came out of her vivid memories with a start and began to direct the loading of
the ponies. She and Pierre were old friends now. Tomorrow night she would meet
him at The Mousehole, pay him, and arrange for the next shipment in about two
weeks. He tried to come frequently from September through November or December.
After that the weather got so bad they could not count on a regular schedule.
Megaera stocked up over the autumn months—there was plenty of storage space in
the subsidiary caves—so she could service her customers without interruption
over the winter.

On the way back to London with Philip the next morning,
Roger’s qualms were eased. He was not less fearful or less guilt-ridden, but both
emotions were made bearable by the glow of happiness that had transformed Philip.
They were driving themselves without even a groom up behind because Roger had
thought Philip would burst if he could not talk. He was so happy that even a
hangover could not depress his spirits.

“I had better not take Blue Boy,” Philip said, coming out of
a few moments of frowning silence. “He’s best for steady work, but a pale dapple
like that is too noticeable. In fact, I wonder if all my horses are too good.
Do you think I should buy some old hack?”

“Let’s take it in stages, Philip,” Roger suggested. “You
have to get to Cornwall and meet Pierre at The Mousehole. Probably you’re right
that you should ride rather than arrive either by post or in your own curricle.
The point is, I don’t know how often Pierre comes over. With the watch being kept
for French ships so intense, it might be difficult for him to get through.”

“I do not believe it,” Philip said, grinning happily. “They
are watching for ships of the line or a whole flotilla of little ones, not for
one
chasse-marée
. And if Pierre were going to give it up or not come for
a long time, he would have written to you. Someone at The Mousehole could have
mailed the letter for him.”

Roger suppressed a sigh. Philip was right. Pierre would have
let him know if he did not intend to return to England for a long time. “All right,”
he agreed, “but I don’t know his schedule. You might have to wait a few weeks
or even a month, if you happen to arrive just after he made a delivery. You can’t
live at The Mousehole. I doubt it’s a first-class posting inn.”

Philip hooted with laughter. “It is probably worse than the Soft
Berth was. I do not care for that, but they would not permit me to stay. They
would tell a stranger there were no rooms. Where the devil did you say this
Mousehole was?”

“Pierre said you must take the coast road out of Penzance. About
a mile and a half along the road, there are a few houses. Just beyond the last one
the road branches. You must take the left fork. Pierre said to look hard; it’s only
a rough track and pretty overgrown. Another mile and a half or so will take you
to The Mousehole. It’s on a tiny cove.”

“Smuggler’s rest, eh?” Philip suggested.

“Probably,” Roger replied, “but if I know Pierre he doesn’t
land cargo there. I doubt he even brings in the
Bonne Lucie
. By the way,
he also calls her
Pretty Lucy
when he’s in England. For Pierre it would
be too obvious to use a regular smugglers’ place. I’m sure they know his
business, but he doesn’t do it there.”

But Philip had not been listening. His brow was furrowed
with his own thoughts and he was repeating “Penzance, Penzance,” under his breath.
Then he said louder, “Five miles from Penzance! That is what he said. Five
miles from Penzance.”

“No,” Roger insisted, “I’m sure Pierre said a mile and a
half—”

“Not Pierre,” Philip interrupted, his eyes dancing. “Perce
Moreton lives five miles from Penzance at a place called Sancreed. I think I
might just arrive at Perce’s—”

“Without an invitation?” Roger asked, horrified.

“I have had many invitations, but who wanted to go all the
way to Cornwall at the time?”

“He may not be at home.”

“Know he is at home, Philip said with a laugh. “On at me
about the delights of Cornwall when he was trying to wean me from my wicked
ways. It will not matter if Perce is not there either. His mother and father
know me pretty well. Always took me along with Perce for tucker when they came
to visit him at Eton. Perce told them I was an orphan because you had run away
to France— Oh, good God, that is perfect!”

Roger looked at his son warily. Joy and mischief mingled in explosive
proportions in Philip’s face. “I have a feeling that I am about to become the
goat,” he said faintly.

“Watch your horses,” Philip recommended.

“I was driving before you were born,” Roger pointed out,
nonetheless checking on his team. His son was a notable whip.

“Naturally,” Philip responded. “It must be that familiarity
breeding contempt thing—unless, of course, you just do not have the knack…”

Roger could not help laughing. “It’s you who are losing your
knack, my boy. That red herring is far too smelly. Now just what does my being
in France thirteen years ago have to do with Lord Kevern’s parents?”

“Well, I do not think anyone ever bothered to explain to
them what happened to you—I mean, the subject never came up. Likely Lord and
Lady Moreton still think you are not much of a father, abandoning me like that
right after my mother died—”

“I didn’t expect to be gone for more than a few weeks,”
Roger said guiltily. “I’m sorry—“

“Do not be ridiculous,” Philip interrupted. ”
Grand-mère
et
Grand-père
were there. I worried about you, sir, but I did not
feel abandoned. Anyway, it is going to be very useful now. I shall tell the
Moretons that you have thrown me out.”

“What!” Roger roared.

“Well, what other reason would I have for going to Cornwall,
of all unlikely places? And for staying? And for coming back? You have paid my
debts three times, given me a stake, and told me to get out and not come back.
That is quite—“

“Quite outrageous!” Roger broke in. “Philip, you are
enjoying this!”

“Certainly,” Philip agreed promptly. “And you see it is
reasonable that in such straits I would join, the smugglers—to sustain my bad
habits, I guess.” He could see pressure building up in his father and added
slyly, “Are you going to try to tell me you did not enjoy getting Leonie out of
prison and helping all those people escape? Martyred, were you?”

“I was very worried about Leonie’s safety,” Roger said with
dignity, but his lips twitched. Philip had punctured his sense of propriety,
and he was proud of his son’s quick wit.

It was really a believable reason for Philip to take up with
Pierre, and what the boy was saying was, sadly, common enough. Irate or
uncaring fathers had been known to disown sons for less than Philip had done.
Many more simply stopped the funds that supported their wild offspring and let
nature take its course. Debts and harassment, sometimes debtors’ prison,
usually tamed the cubs into more moderate behavior.

“What are we going to tell Leonie?” Philip asked next.

“The truth,” Roger replied. “You know she can
smell
a
lie on either of us, and she would be far more hurt and worried if she sensed
that we were lying. Fortunately she has a great faith in Pierre. Knowing you
are with him will be a great comfort to her.”

Roger was right about that, but Leonie would not have made a
fuss in any case. The light in Philip’s eyes and the worry in Roger’s demanded
calm and support from her. She understood well the need to do one’s duty; her
father had done his regardless of consequences, and Leonie had been proud of
him. Now she swallowed her fear for the young man who had seemed to be God’s
gift to fill the hole her brother’s death had left in her heart. Philip’s duty
was to serve his country; hers was to make that service as easy as possible by
allowing him to do it without being dragged at by her fears.

With Leonie only the positive factors of the adventure were
discussed. Roger explained that Philip would be in no danger on the sea even if
the
Bonne Lucie
should be sighted or even captured by a British ship.
“First of all, Pierre has signboards with the English name,
Pretty Lucy
,
which he places over the French name, and he has a Union Jack he can raise. And
even if they’re stopped, there will be papers identifying Philip and any vessel
he uses for transport as under the protection of the Crown. The worst that
could happen is that they would be brought to Dover or Portsmouth. There will
be special clearance in sealed papers there.”

“And in France?” Leonie asked. She managed to control her
voice so that there was no tremor in it, only interest.

“Of that I am not certain,” Philip replied. “I have no doubt
that Lord Hawkesbury will have suggestions, but I think I will take Pierre’s
advice. From what Papa says, the matter is urgent, but not urgent in the sense
of days or weeks. If Pierre thinks I will need something special from the
Foreign Office, I will—simply come back to London. However, somehow I feel he
will manage best from his end.”

“Yes, he will know,” Leonie agreed.

“And the Terror is over, my love.
Madame la Guillotine
is retired. Even if Philip is caught in France, he will be safe. Smugglers are
encouraged by Bonaparte, you know. All he does is take away their gold for his
war and send them out again.”

Leonie smiled. “It seems a most sensible attitude.”

Her eyes were on her embroidery, and the men did not see the
shadow in them that turned their normal golden hue mud-colored. It was useless
for her to say that she knew the same indulgence would scarcely be shown to
spies. She could not imagine what excuse a smuggler would give for being in the
government shipyards of Boulogne, but there was no sense in raising points like
that either. They were as obvious to the men as to her. Some excuse would be
found. Leonie just hoped it would be good enough.

In fact, it was this problem that held everyone’s attention
most closely in the private office Lord Hawkesbury maintained in his home. At
the small desk near the window, Jacques d’Ursine was writing out the papers
Philip would carry. No one, Lord Hawkesbury swore, beyond the four in that
office would know of Philip’s mission. That was why they were meeting in Lord
Hawkesbury’s home rather than at the Foreign Office. So why, Lord Hawkesbury
asked, was Roger so reluctant to give any information on his French contact.
Perhaps they could provide more help if they knew more.

Roger had already discussed this matter with Philip. Nothing
was to be said about Pierre absolutely nothing. Governments, Roger pointed out
cynically, had no honor, even the best of them. What Lord Hawkesbury knew would
get into some record somewhere. His intentions might be excellent; he might wish
to be sure that Pierre was rewarded for his help, or protected. Nonetheless,
when the emergency was over, other foreign secretaries might feel differently.
Pierre would be known, a marked man and ship. Philip agreed with his father and
merely made his face a blank as Roger replied to Lord Hawkesbury’s urging.

“Impossible. He has my word that I would never name him or
his ship. I have already violated my promise by giving this information to
Philip. In the interests of the country I was willing to go that far. And, you
know, my lord, that even with the best of intentions, absolute secrecy might
not be possible.”

“Are you accusing me—or Jacques—”

“Of nothing, my lord,” Roger said hastily, although he was
by no means as sure of Lord Hawkesbury’s discretion as be would like. In
company he felt to be secure, his lordship might say more than was healthy. The
less he knew, the better off Philip would be. “However, you are an important
personage. Your private residence is not a secret. It is not impossible that this
house is discreetly watched.”

“It may be, of course,” Hawkesbury conceded, “but I hoped it
would be thought that I would conduct only private affairs here. Perhaps it
would have been better to meet at the Foreign Office after all.”

“No, my lord. If I thought so, I would have said so. But we
must work on the assumption that we
are
awakening suspicions somewhere.
Philip must do his best to convince anyone who might be interested that his
behavior is natural.”

“Yes, of course. Do you have some plan for this?”

“Well, I-I have been—er—running into debt a bit, my lord,
and I thought I might spread it around that my father had lost patience with,
me. It—er—is not completely untrue, except that it had nothing to do with the
debts. So it would be reasonable, you know, that I should go into the country.
Well, I would be going in any event. Hunting, you know.”

“You aren’t going to meet a ship in Leicestershire,”
Hawkesbury remarked.

“No, no, but—er—anyone who was watching me would rather
stand out in such company. When I was sure there was no one, I could move on.
Or if there were, my friends and I—I could say it was a joke or agents of my
creditors or something—and we could—er—take care of them or him—whatever.”

“I see. And then?”

“I cannot say for certain, my lord. I just do not know.
However, I promise I will make all the haste I can. I understand that if there
is a fleet, it must be quite ready, since no one in his right mind would think
of invading during the winter storms.”

“Bonaparte is not in his right mind,” Jacques d’Ursine put
in.

“I do not believe that,” Philip said. “Those victories—“

“Luck! Dishonest grasping at other men’s skill—” d’Ursine
interrupted shrilly.

“Yes, yes, Jacques,” Hawkesbury soothed. “Are you finished
with those documents? And don’t forget to include the identity papers that the
Ministry sent over. We don’t want to make this meeting too long, you know, in case
someone is watching.” He paused a moment to be sure d’Ursine had returned to
his work and then looked back at Philip. “You know what information we need?”

“Yes. The number of ships and their condition of readiness
first. Then, if I can, the condition of roads in the area, supplies, number of
men employed, troops in readiness, anything that would help the War Office
judge when an invasion might be launched and the number of troops that might be
committed to it. And, of course, whatever I can pick up in addition.”

“We
must
know about the ships. If we had had more
ships available in the Mediterranean, Bonaparte would be in our hands now He
would never have reached Egypt and never have come back either. And there was
not even a threat of invasion then. Now, with the patrols we are forced to keep
the French have far too easy a time importing all kinds of supplies. Our
blockade is much hampered.”