by Joan Smith
"If you dislike driving alone, Mr. Williams, I cannot think you will have any difficulty filling your gig,” I told him, looking at the girls.
"Ye are very kind, ma'am, but I do not stand in need of any charity."
As I took a peek from the window of the rectory, I noticed he had taken Mary Slack up in his whisky to carry her home, leaving all the others behind to agree how forward Mary Slack was become. And so she was too. I believe she asked him for a ride. She spoke to him first, and he nodded his head as though in agreement. From such a distance, with the cut of his coat concealed, Williams gave a very good impression. I could not but wonder how he looked and behaved when he was being Sir Stamford Wicklow.
Chapter Six
Monday after school I drove the gig and Babe down to Aiken's place to see just where the brandy would be brought in, and of equal importance, where it would be stored till Phillips picked it up Sunday night to take it off to London. Lord Aiken had a sailboat, a great white schooner it was, beautiful. It bobbed at anchor at his dock, the spars sailing straight up into our beautiful blue hazy skies. I was curious to learn whether His Lordship was in residence. This was only a summer home for him. In September it was probable he would be in London. I invented a sudden thirst to have an excuse to seek out his housekeeper, Mrs. Hilbury, for a glass of water.
She was extremely helpful, not only in giving me wine in lieu of water, but in informing me His Lordship was in London, with no intention of returning here in the near future. He planned to go on to his country seat in Oxford when he left the city. Before leaving, I asked casually, “Would it be all right if I went down to have a look at Lord Aiken's sailboat? It calls to mind the old days...” I finished with a wistful sigh, to make her believe I was recalling my golden youth, when I had been a little rich lady, being taken out for sails on His Lordship's boat.
"Go right ahead, Miss Anderson,” she replied immediately. “The lads are in the boathouse this minute getting the rollers ready to put it up for the winter, as Lord Aiken doesn't plan to use it before spring."
Away I went, to scout out the dock and boathouse, to see if the latter might hold the brandy for a couple of days. A glance told me the impracticability of this scheme, with the ship to take up the better part of the covered space. I rambled in the warm autumn sun over the grounds in a pointless way, my eyes darting hither and thither. At the stables, I took a peek in, and knew I had found my spot.
The only nag in the stable was the gig horse that Mrs. Hilbury herself occasionally drove into Salford. Aiken had removed all his mounts and carriage horses, leaving large spaces, with plentiful piles of hay that could give concealment. With only a very small staff in the house, privacy was secured. The stables were well set away from the house too, to prevent even the least sound from being heard.
I allowed myself one quick glance in the window of Mr. Owens’ drapery shop as I passed by, grinning inwardly at how well I had outwitted Williams-Wicklow. He stood at the door, carrying on with Mary Slack in a bantering way. The girl had no more sense than to be chasing after him before the whole town. No doubt the evening would find him in Slack's parlor, trying to pick the brains of her brother Joe, one of my best boys. As close as an oyster, Joe. Indeed, the boys and men were all chosen for their closeness. Williams was wasting his time playing up to Mary Slack.
On Wednesday he came to the church gallery for the choir rehearsal. We were just beginning to practice the hymns for Christmas—we would introduce them at Advent and continue singing them through New Year's. He had a good voice, almost overpowering I felt, though he was modest enough to sing more softly when everyone turned and stared at him. He was either familiar with the songs or could read music. It was such usual fare as Coventry Carol we sang—nothing esoteric at all.
On rehearsal night, Miss Halka always sent Andrew to accompany me home. She was solicitous to keep up every appearance of respectability, due to both my fallen fortune and my criminal activities. On this evening, Williams hung back behind the others. “Could I see ye home, miss?” he asked, when privacy allowed.
"How thoughtful of you, but my brother always takes me home."
"Ye'd not want to be walking the whole ten yards alone,” he answered, smiling.
"Especially not when the neighborhood has lately fallen heir to the most gazetted flirt that ever left London,” I answered playfully, casting a bold smile on him.
"Upon my word ye are hard on me!"
"Very true, but someone must make you realize the whole of feminine Salford does not sit at your feet, Mr. Williams."
"No, at the door of the drapery shop,” he answered, then laughed, delighted with his easy conquest. “I don't see any sign of your brother,” he continued. “Will ye not let me escort ye to your door?"
Looking over the gallery railing, I noticed Andrew coming from the vestry, telling me he had come in the back way to the church. He looked up and nodded. I reached for my pelisse, which I always removed to allow free movement of my arms during rehearsal. Wicklow automatically came forward to help me, again revealing his origins, for I am sorry to say there was not a man in the little musical group or choir who had ever bothered to perform this office for me.
"That's a very nice organ you have there,” he said next. “It looks new. How does it come no one plays it?"
"Ignorance, Mr. Williams. We are all ignorant of the art, though Andrew is trying desperately to learn. He speaks of holding a concert one evening. Christmas may be a good season for it."
"I play a little,” he mentioned, going to the keyboard to have a look at the stops. He was still there, pulling knobs and preparing to be seated, when Andrew clattered up the stairs, stumbling at every second step. He needed new spectacles, but would not get the lenses changed till be dropped this pair and stepped on them. This usually occurred every few months.
"Good evening, Mr. Williams,” Andrew said, peering through the gloom of the poorly lit gallery. I wondered how Mr. Williams had so rapidly made Andrew's acquaintance. Andrew seldom went anywhere.
"Good evening, sir,” he answered.
"I see no introduction is necessary. When did you two meet?"
"We met here last Tuesday,” Williams replied. “I stopped by at my noon hour to admire the church, and your brother was kind enough to point out a few features to me. The font is very impressive. I have never seen one so huge."
"Fifteenth century,” Andrew said. “They immersed the infant for baptism at that time."
"That pair of rood stairs below would indicate the church is very old,” Williams remarked. “I wonder if there isn't a crypt beneath it."
"As a matter of fact, there is,” Andrew informed him. I was sure the revenue officer would request a view of it, but before he could do so, Andrew was pointing out the organ, his pride and joy.
"It's called a baroque organ,” Andrew told him. “It has a beautiful tone, clear and light.” This came as news to me; I would have called its tone squealing or thundering.
"A Praetorius, if I'm not mistaken,” Williams mentioned.
He could hardly have said any words to make himself more interesting to Andrew. Behind those glinting spectacles, the blue eyes smiled, making Andrew look about twelve years old. “You know a little something about organs, do you, Mr. Williams? Do you play at all?"
"A little,” he confessed.
"I dabble a bit myself.” About eight hours a day he dabbled, but still he was not proficient. Dabble was as good a word as any.
"I see you have two manuals,” Williams said, sliding onto the seat.
"Thirty flue stops,” Andrew added. “One of the largest made."
"No swell pedal of course in the Praetorius,” Williams commiserated, in just the proper tone.
"Oh, it's plenty loud enough for this small church."
"True, and you can achieve a good tonal contrast by alternating between the two manuals,” Williams pointed out.
Andrew perked up his ears, like a hound after a hare, at this bit of news. To
nal contrast was not one of Andrew's familiar speeches regarding the organ. They began pushing and pulling knobs, and uttering such words as diapason and stopped diapason and accouple. It was like trying to understand Greek. I could see a fanatical gleam in Williams’ eye that told me the knob pulling would go on for some time. I fastened up my pelisse and went the ten yards home, alone and unmolested.
It was a full hour before Andrew returned, and when he came, Williams was with him, still cropping out with diapasons and badinerie and fonds. Andrew had discovered a fellow fanatic.
"The best luck, Mab. Mr. Williams is an excellent organist. He has taught me a dozen tricks in ten minutes."
"In sixty minutes, Andrew, if you have been there ever since I left."
Williams smiled apologetically. “I see you got home safely, Miss Anderson,” he said sheepishly.
"I fought off the marauders all by myself. What tricks have you been teaching my brother?"
"A dandy new combination of stops—sixteen, eight and four flutes, and he explained about coupling the keyboards,” Andrew exclaimed, smiling widely. “But I don't quite understand what you meant about dynamic range, Mr. Williams. I say, what is your real name?"
Mr. Williams’ eyes flew open a fraction wider, as I bit back a smile, for Andrew meant by this only what was his given name. “I'm Andrew—Andrew Anderson. I daresay you're William Williams."
"No, Stanley,” Williams corrected, the eyes settling down with relief.
"You really must come over when you have a moment free and give me another lesson. I think I have nearly got the idea of the footwork—the root and the alternate, you know, as you were explaining to me, only I'm not sure how you figure out what the alternate is."
"I would be happy to come. I am eager to get my hands on the organ. I used to play at home, and miss it. I'm pretty rusty, I fear."
"I wish I had such rust,” Andrew said.
"Would you care for a cup of tea, Andrew, or a glass of wine?” Miss Halka asked.
"Tea, I think, if that's all right with you, Williams?” my brother answered.
Mr. Williams nodded in a little perplexity and took a seat. Andrew would happily have talked organ the whole visit, but Mr. Williams was more conscious of his social duty. He began diverting the talk, bit by bit, to other matters. I first thought this was to include Miss Halka and myself, but his true purpose was not long in dawning on me. He was trying to see if Andrew knew anything about the smuggling. He broached the matter again by talking about charity and the poor of the parish, but soon his true subject was out.
"Is smuggling much of a problem?” he asked, in a conversational tone, not changing his voice or posture.
"The real problem is the necessity for it,” Andrew replied, with a certain little ecclesiastical shake of the head he had picked up since coming into office. “It is not right that so many people be forced to earn bread for their families’ mouths by that means."
"It is unfortunate, but still smuggling is illegal and the folks could find some other way to earn their bread. Fishing, for instance, ought to provide good income here on the coast."
"Good income? No, Williams, it provides a very poor income, unless a man can afford to outfit a fishing vessel for himself, and they are too poor to buy a rowboat, most of them. What chance has a downright poor fellow to make a living, fishing with a rod or net? Commercial fishing requires a large investment. Some of them are hired on as hands on the larger ships, of course, and eke out a living in that way. They're paid a shilling a day. They make six shillings and nine as a carrier of brandy in one night, I hear. That's about a week's wages on a fishing smack."
I could see Mr. Williams come to attention at the mention of the specific sum paid smugglers. Actually, the price mentioned was out of date. I had raised the rate when I got a better price from Pettigrew. “I expect the larger, ocean going fishing vessels pay more,” was what he said
"What a life for a family man! Gone from his family for months on end. I almost think smuggling is preferable,” Andrew said.
"I am surprised to hear a man of the cloth speak for breaking the law."
"Oh no, you misunderstand me,” Andrew corrected him at once. “The law ought certainly to be changed."
"Until it is changed, it ought to be obeyed,” Williams decreed.
"I don't know that it is required of a man to uphold a bad law,” Andrew decided, sinking rather rapidly into disinterest.
"If every man decides for himself which laws he likes, we would soon be reduced to chaos,” Williams challenged him.
"I speak only of bad laws. As a man of the church, I am more interested that my people obey God's law, and I can find nowhere in the Ten Commandments that a man ought not to smuggle."
"Thou shalt not steal,” Williams reminded him.
"The government should not steal from the people, especially the poor people. Mab is just back from London, and indeed I have to go there myself from time to time, and we cannot justify such extravagance as is seen there among the wealthy, most noticeably the royal family and the aristocracy. Clothe the naked, feed the hungry, comfort the afflicted—those are the laws with which I am concerned."
I smiled my gratification at Andrew. Inside that distracted exterior, he had been pondering the problem I had presented to him some time ago. Williams was now regarding him with downright suspicion. I rushed in to divert his thoughts.
"All this smuggling has nothing to do with us. Naturally Andrew, the local minister, has nothing to do with it."
"Who does run the local outfit?” Williams asked blandly, as though he were inquiring for the name of a good tailor.
"No one knows, Mr. Williams,” I told him. “It is kept a great secret, because of being against the law, you know."
"I see,” he answered, trying to stifle all his annoyance with my poor answer. “Still I should think that between a schoolteacher and a minister, you would have some idea."
Edna had been sitting perfectly rigid in her chair since the conversation had turned to smuggling. She looked as though she had been turned to a pillar of salt. It was fortunate that Williams was not paying any attention to her, but he now turned in her direction, as though to judge whether she might not have some sources of information as well as the minister and the teacher. I spoke up quickly, to prevent his seeing her chagrin. “Officer Crites is the one who can tell you all about it. He is well informed on the matter."
"He makes no arrests; I wonder if he isn't one of them."
This was so far off the mark I had to laugh, and then I had to explain my laugh away. “You misjudge him. He tries very hard. A year or so ago he thought they were storing it right in the school. Imagine the gall! But in the end he decided it was only an apple gone bad that caused the odor."
"Bad apples do not smell like brandy."
"It was a horrid smell anyway,” I answered innocently.
"Say, Williams, I have just had an idea,” Andrew interrupted, smiling in a way that said “organ.” “If I dropped over to the shop tomorrow with my book, maybe you could find a minute to explain to me about that root and alternate you spoke of."
"He might possibly be able to spare you one minute,” I said, with a coquettish glance at the Lothario.
He met the look, pleased that I was flirting with him. “I would be happy to help you,” he said.
There was nothing unusual in the words, but he had slipped into an accent during the visit that was not far removed from a gentleman's, and seemed to become aware of it at about this time. He arose immediately to begin a series of leave-takings, throwing in every low-class idiom he had picked up from the shop. “Ye'll be thinking I've no manners at all, overstaying my welcome, as ye might say. And yourself having to be at your school bright and early too, Miss Anderson. I'll be off home then, and thank ye kindly for the cup of tea, Miss Halka."
He was gone, with the burst of rusticity unnoticed by Andrew, who took up his book of organ techniques and went to his room, without saying goodnight to
either of us, but mumbling something about roots and alternates.
"Do you know, Edna, I think for a minute there Mr. Williams began to suspect Andrew."
"I nearly died of fright. Won't it be a great nuisance if he decides to set up spying on us?"
"Good God, and Jem stopping off at our door as often as you please. I must find some good excuse to account for it. The Hesslers have enough evidence of their smuggling wealth that he will know perfectly well they are in on it."
"Oh, but the higgler stops at plenty of homes, what with buying and selling and doing errands as well."
"We have never dealt with the higgler—rather a pity. It would look odd if we should switch our custom to him now, after having our milk and eggs from the Browns for a year. Edna,” I exclaimed suddenly, “our wits are gone begging. Jemmie buys as well as sells He shall buy those pretty bookmarks you embroider, and sell them to his other customers on his regular rounds."
"I have already given them to anyone who reads books."
"Something else then—you must take up the manufacture of some small item—glass beads perhaps."
"I wouldn't have an idea how to make them."
"No, no—buy them and string them into necklaces for sale to the farmers daughters. That will give Jem a good excuse to come to us as often as he must."
"There are no beads for sale in town. It's a pity we hadn't bought a box when we were in London."
"I'll post an order off for them this very night."
I did so before I set my head on its pillow, and Miss Halka was soon in business as a fabricator of necklaces, and making a tidy profit out of it too.
Chapter Seven
I had thought Crites would often be stopping off at the drapery shop, as he would serve as Williams’ contact in the neighborhood, but I never once saw him anywhere near it. An event occurred which led me to believe Crites had no notion of Wicklow's true identity. It occurred on a Friday as I wended my weary way home from school in my gig. It happened that Dame Aldridge sat with me, her own horse having stretched a tendon. Crites hailed us up along the way, riding his old underbred gray mare. It was generally understood that when Crites raised his right hand to you, it was only a salutation, but when the left hand was held straight out before him, the oncoming person was to stop, as though his arm were a toll gate. Today he raised his left arm. I always experienced an unpleasant twinge of guilt and even fear when I saw Crites, though my main preoccupation these days regarding smuggling centered on Williams, the more dangerous opponent.
