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 on
e 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.”
“Let me hear it,” Philip said cautiously.
He had heard Roger’s arguments about Pierre’s plans. Too often the reason Roger would not listen was because the plan entailed Pierre taking all the risk while Roger sat safely in a hideaway. Being eager for action himself, Philip could understand how that would be easier on Pierre’s nerves. It was always easier to face danger oneself than to permit a loved one to do so.
“I can obtain for you papers that will identify you as of the Douane, you understand, the Customs. That is better than a merchant. An officer of the Douane is free to travel and also it is a good reason to be curious and poke your nose into many matters. Unfortunately, this will not make you free of military installations. Bonaparte’s grip on the army and navy is much stronger than on any other part of the government. Of course, there is much corruption on the procurement end. Even God, I think, could not enforce honesty in the purchase of military and naval goods. However, there are spies watching everywhere, and informers watching the spies. Moreover, the number of military inspectors is smaller and too many are known to each other.”
“Do not bother apologizing,” Philip laughed. “I am completely enchanted with what you offer. By God, if I cannot find a good excuse to get into Boulogne’s port and naval yards as a Customs officer, I am an idiot. There are so many—”
“Wait,” Pier interrupted. “I am not finished. Last July when I went to sell cloth and shoes at Boulogne—that was when I discovered the spies who spied on the spies and found an honest man could not make a decent profit—”
Philip snickered, and Pierre scowled at him but neither was interested in reviving the familiar, comic argument about the distinction between illegal and dishonest.
“It is not decent,” Pierre went on with real anger, “for a price to be agreed upon and then a new official to come forward, all of a sudden, and announce a tax on all sales. Always the tax is paid by the final purchaser. That is the custom.”
“You see,” Philip teased, “there are uses for custom and law.”
Pierre hit Philip gently on the head. “Quiet, whelp. Do not be impertinent.”
Philip laughed. “But, Pierre, you are not reasonable. If the government is the final purchaser—as it must be at Boulogne—it cannot pay tax to itself. That is silly. But, still, money is needed to pay for the material. So the seller pays the tax, which makes it possible for the government to buy again.”
“I may or may not be reasonable,” Pierre remarked dryly, “but I am not a fool. All such a procedure results in is raising the price of the goods—and by far more than the value of the tax. I was willing to sell direct to the government in Boulogne. Now I take my goods elsewhere, sell to a private procurer. Sometimes he sells to the governme
nt, more often he sells to still another private party. Each time the price goes up, and the final seller, knowing he will be taxed, merely increases his price by the amount of the tax or, perhaps, a little more.”
Philip made a moue of distaste and shrugged. He knew what Pierre said was true, but he was not interested in trade. Although the attitude was changing slowly, the heritage of the land-based aristocracy was strong in Philip. He accepted that involvement in trade to make a living was degrading—but not, naturally, in the course of an adventure. He felt his father’s stint as a gunsmith in revolutionary France was a brilliant act, and was himself quite prepared to be anything including a cowman or a street sweeper.
“That is not to the point,” Pierre went on. “What is important is that I dealt with the master of the port in Boulogne, and he has a daughter of whom he is dotingly fond.”
“Daughter,” Philip echoed, instantly alert. “Do you think—”
“Very likely,” Pierre assured him. “She is young, not very attractive—less from bad features than from bad manners. She is awkward and spoiled. She interrupted her father and myself several times with nonsense, which a well-regulated daughter would never do, and her father did not reprimand her. Now, it is possible she is affianced or married since then, but I think her father is the stupid kind of man who wishes to hold his daughter for himself.”
“But then he would scarcely welcome my attentions to her.”
“But no,” Pierre said, smiling, “on the contrary. If it is clear that you will only stay for a short time, that you have come only to investigate some particular problem, for example, and your permanent base is far away, then the gentleman will be glad for you to escort his daughter. You will not be a suitor for her, you see, only an amusement.”
“That will be an interesting experience,” Philip remarked, laughing. “Every papa I have ever met seemed positively panting to unload his dear daughter—or daughters.”
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 11
