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 com
e 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.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I have thought of a way to serve all our purposes,” Philip replied. “When Pierre buys, he always takes whatever the factors who will deal with him will give him. This is often heavy goods, sometimes, I suspect, stolen or diverted from the port at Falmouth and, indeed, these goods might be useful to the army and navy Bonaparte is forming. But we have two weeks. You heard Pierre say he would prefer luxury goods. We can afford the time to look in many different warehouses and to buy small amounts here and there.”
“Well, yes…“ Megaera had her doubts about the time, but she didn’t want to discuss that now. “But buy what?”
“Indian goods,” Philip answered, his eyes glowing. “Rugs and shawls, Indian muslin, fans and feathers. France must be starved for Indian goods. Her trade has been blocked off since May. I do not suggest silks, because silk is being made at Lyons again and the ladies of the court are forbidden to wear anything else. However, my fa—someone I know told me that Bonaparte’s own wife ignores the rule and appears in public in Indian muslins. There are many new rich among the French, and they are all hungry for display.”
“But what if the factors Pierre dealt with do not handle such goods?”
“Pierre dealt with men who would overlook the fact that they were selling to a smuggler, and French at that. No one would suspect you of such a thing.” Philip laughed aloud.
“N-no.”
Megaera sounded uncertain, and Philip began to assure her that no woman so young and lovely could ever be suspected, that if he had not been assured by Pierre most seriously of her profession he would have believed it a joke. Megaera smiled at the compliments, but of course, Philip’s assurances were of little value. She was not in the least worried about being taken for a smuggler, she was worried about just the opposite. What she was thinking about was the possibility of being recognized as Mrs. Edward Devoran in Falmouth.
Naturally she had never dealt with wholesalers, but what about other tradesmen? After careful thought Megaera decided she had done no business in Falmouth for years and had not even been in the town for a very long time. Also, the chance of meeting anyone she knew socially there was minimal. “Very well,” she said, tossing off the remainder of her drink with a casual abandon that set her coughing. Philip leapt up and patted her solicitously on the back and the paroxysm soon stopped. Meg stood up. “I suppose you want to start tomorrow,” she said. “That will be all right, but I must be back here before Wednesday night. I have deliveries promised that night, and I like to be on time.”
Philip was considerably surprised by the early date she set, but he did not allow it to show. In fact, he was well pleased. He could always insist on returning some time later during the two weeks if he couldn’t think of another way to spend time with her. He agreed easily and walked with her to the stable. His eyes opened a little when the mountain of man that was John rose from the bale of hay on which he had been sitting Pierre had said “giant”, but Philip allowed for exaggeration. Actually the word was fairly close to the truth. Philip was not surprised to see that only Meg had a mount. It would have needed a draught horse to hold John, and it would be pointless since he could surely keep up with Meg’s pony afoot, unless Meg chose to gallop.
Megaera was equally surprised at her reaction. When she had first been married, she had responded quite naturally to her husband. She had never loved Edward, and she had disapproved of his method of winning her, but he professed love for her and she had been very willing to learn to love him if she could. Since Edward was normal sexually and Megaera was a beautiful girl, he had made a modest effort during the first few weeks of marriage. Megaera had just about begun to enjoy his sexual attentions, although she still did not like Edward himself, when he had grown bored by her simplicity and begun to look for variety.
Because Megaera had never loved Edward at all, in fact she had not even liked him, she had not associated the pleasure of her body with sentimental emotion. It was quite clear to her that any man with whom she was willing to couple could wake similar sensations in her. Two things had kept her chaste—pride and the failure of a sufficiently attractive man to appear.
The pride had not only prohibited Megaera from looking among the lower orders for a lover but had prevented her from giving the slightest evidence of dissatisfaction with her husband. Of course, every man and most of the women in the neighborhood knew how unworthy was the recipient of this seeming trust and affection. However, a decent man would not consider causing Megaera the misery of exposing her husband just on the expectation that she might then be induced to start an illicit love affair.
Those few who were unscrupulous enough to try it got short shrift. Megaera by now had enough experience of weak and deceitful men to recognize them within moments of their opening their mouths. Nonetheless, the method she chose to drive them off, those who chose to undeceive her about Edward’s character—an icy assurance that she knew her husband quite well enough without outside instruction—only confirmed the neighborhood’s impression that she was so bewitched by Edward that no other man had a chance.
The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two) Page 13
