by Jo Beverley
She recognized the old earl’s scribbled notes. De Vere must be collecting them as he found them. She took them out and flicked through them.
Some were nonsense. Some were clear. Look up nao cha. Some were cryptic. Bats or cats? That is the question. Two pieces made her frown, though.
One said: Mel and Belle. Belle and Mel. Who should tell? Toll the bell.
Another said: Mel and Belle, Belle and Mel. Go to hell. To demon’s land, in fact! Ha! Ha!
“Ha! Ha!”? What a childish form of madness that illustrated, but what had impelled him to write these notes?
Gifford had hinted that the earl had played some part in Mel’s capture, and the notes certainly showed animosity.
Why? Why would the earl have planned trouble for Mel and Lady Belle? Smuggling had provided the money he’d used to indulge in his mad pursuit of an heir. Until the end he’d seemed an enthusiastic supporter.
Did a madman need reasons?
She shrugged and put the notes back in the box. Whatever had stirred in his deranged mind, it was history now. He was dead, and Mel and Belle were at the other side of the world. She went to the globe that stood on its stand beside the courtyard window, turning it to look at Australia, so very far away.
She still couldn’t forgive Lady Belle for taking all the money without regard to her son’s safety, but perhaps she understood a little better now. Con’s return had taught her something of the power of love, and now she knew the power of desire.
Her experiences with Rivenham and Lavalle had made her shut off that part of herself, made her deny that it existed. Easy enough when she hadn’t met a man who tempted her.
She suspected now that she was beyond temptation. Eleven years ago, in two weeks of sunshine and friendship and one day of sinful exploration, she had been captured for all time.
She spun the globe idly.
Con had not been as trapped as she, thank heavens. He had escaped the shadows of that day to find love elsewhere, and it was proof that sometimes life was just. He’d done nothing wrong.
Her eyes were looking at the globe without seeing it, but something alerted her brain.
South of Australia. An island.
Van Deimen’s Land ...
To demon’s land.
Dragon spit! The mad earl had planned to send Mel to the penal colonies of Australia! It sounded as if he’d planned for Lady Belle to go there too, but that was impossible unless he’d guessed that she’d do something so outrageous.
Did he know her well enough to be able to predict what she’d do? Susan wasn’t aware of the earl and Lady Belle knowing one another at all, except, she supposed, as members of local society growing up together.
But even if he had planned to send them both off to “demon’s land,” why?
His madness had been a cunning sort, not completely wild. He’d always had reason for the things he did.
Why?
She was staring out of the doors into the garden as she thought, and she suddenly drew back. De Vere had come out of the library doors, and was heading this way.
She turned and walked quickly out of the room. The mad earl was history and she had an urgent present to deal with.
For the rest of the afternoon, between dealing with routine matters, she checked all the bedrooms for secret spaces. Nothing. To take care of the corridors she set Ellen, Diddy, and Ada to sweeping and dusting them, telling them to check as they went for cracks in the walls.
After a visit to the kitchen to check that all was in order for dinner, she climbed to the top floor, which would be the attics in a normal house. Here most of the space was taken by two large water cisterns.
The big one on the west side held water for the house, including the fountain, and was original to the house. Because the house sat on the cliff, the water was pumped up from the village by a clever screw design worked by horses. The smaller one on the north, above the Saint George rooms, held and heated the water for the Roman bath. That drew water from the main cistern by a gravity feed. Beneath it a stone hearth held charcoal to heat the water.
She noted that her orders were being followed. The fire was steady, and four buckets of charcoal stood nearby. If Con took it into his head to use the big bath, it would be ready for him. She was aware of a stupid tenderness about arranging such comforts for him. She was his housekeeper, for heaven’s sake. She was paid to arrange every detail of his comfort.
Even so, it pleased her.
For the first time she wondered if the gold could be hidden in one of the cisterns.
She carefully opened the hatch and peered through warm steam. It would have been quite a cunning hiding place for something indestructible like gold, but there was no sign of a box or bag, or a line to anything submerged.
She went to the other, bigger cistern, and checked that. Nothing, though running the fountain so much had left the water low. She’d send a message to the village to get it filled.
She stood there smiling sadly at the memory of that encounter by the wildly spraying fountain.
Precious, but painful. A clear demonstration of what she had thrown away.
She moved on briskly to check the rest of the floor. She’d never known the old earl to come up here, but he might have sneaked up in the night. She had previously checked every box and piece of discarded furniture here. Now, she looked for more cunning places, but poke around as she might, she found nothing.
As she prepared to leave, dusting off her hands, she noted the ladder that led up to the roof. She was sure the old earl would not have gone up there—into the open, by gad!—but she might as well be thorough. She kirtled up her skirts and climbed up, unlatching and pushing open the heavy trapdoor. It stopped just past the vertical, thank heavens, or she would have had to let it fall with a shocking bang. When she climbed out, she saw that it rested against a chimney.
She’d never been up here and she found herself on a wide walkway between the slope of the roof and the chest-high battlements. She gave thanks they were chest high—it was a long way down.
Up so high, however, the breeze was a brisk wind, cool and fresh off the sea. Enjoying it, she began a circuit, noting that the roof was shallow enough not to show from outside, and that it sloped from the courtyard side to the battlements. A groove ran around the walkway, and she finally came to a hole and realized that the groove collected the rain and funneled it here, which surely led down to the water cistern.
An efficient design. It made the recently added gargoyles particularly ridiculous, however. She leaned carefully out between two merlons to look at the one on the nearest corner. On true medieval buildings they were usually waterspouts. This one snarled uselessly into nowhere.
An image of something, that. She preferred not to look at it too closely.
She was on the sea side now, and she leaned her elbows on the rough stone to look out across the Channel. On this overcast day, the distance was misty, but up close the waves rippled silver on the steel gray sea, and fishing boats bobbed industriously on it. Shrunk small by distance, a sailing ship swooped along, heading west toward the Atlantic, perhaps to Canada, or south to Spain, to Africa or India.
Or to Australia.
Gulls swirled and cried, and the sea air whipped past her skin, brisk and unbearably clean. To right or left she could see misty miles down the coast.
Other places, other people.
Places she would have to go to, people she would have to live among. The old fear of not belonging cramped in her, but she made it release. She would do what she had to do.
She continued on her way, looking out all the time, dazzled by this new view of her commonplace world. Patchwork fields spread green or brown, the new grass dotted with animals. She had an angel’s view of coppices and stands of evergreens, and the occasional majestic solitary tree. Of hills and valleys and silvery hints of water.
She looked down on the cottages, farms, and church spires of her familiar life—and out at distances containing secrets, and
even adventures.
When she arrived back at the trapdoor, she almost could not bear to go down.
Trap. Indeed.
She’d thought she’d evaded the trap of Crag Wyvern, but she had come here, first by day, and then to live. And she was still here when she wanted to be elsewhere....
Just a little while longer.
She quickly climbed down the ladder, managing the tricky business of bringing the heavy trapdoor down behind her, then latching it, sealing out the light and air.
The upper floor felt stale and suffocating now, and she hurried away and down the circular stairs to the floor beneath. Even there she was in one of the narrow dark corridors, and she hastened on, down and down, around and around, and out at last into the fresh air of the courtyard.
She inhaled, but it wasn’t the same as the air she’d breathed above.
Once again she hurried to escape Crag Wyvern, but this time she wanted only freedom and fresh air. She burst through the great entrance arch and took a deep breath.
She was in the shadow of the house, however, and she picked up her skirts and ran, ran out of shadow into light, down to the cliff edge where the wind blew off the sea, swirling her skirts and tugging her hair loose from confining pins.
The sailing ship still billowed on its way, the fishing boats still danced on closer waves, the men on board letting down nets or hauling them in. The calls of the gulls were louder here, and the vegetation was alive with insects and small birds. Delirious with delight at everything, she sat, arms around her knees, to soak it in.
How long was it since she’d done this? Simply enjoyed the air and the world around. Too long. She rolled to lie on her stomach like a child, to look down at Wyvern Cove tucked below, to watch the people coming and going, the old men working on boats, or sitting mending nets.
The salt tang of sea and seaweed mixed with the smell of fish here, but she loved it. It was part of her world. Not for much longer. But there must be other places as sweet, and she would learn to belong.
She rolled away from the view onto her back, looking up at the misty sky. She felt small, but whole, or more whole than she had for a while.
She lay there a long time, knowing she should move.
She was not a child anymore, but an adult with employment and responsibilities. She should be in the house doing something....
She couldn’t think of anything in particular needing her attention and so she stayed where she was, feeling rested for the first time in days.
Since Con had arrived.
It was more than that, though. It was the pull of the earth.
She’d used to do this all the time, to connect to the earth with as much of her body as possible, but somewhere along the way she had forgotten.
Had it been as long ago as eleven years?
Surely she’d done this since then. But she couldn’t remember when. After Con, the appeal of the open headlands and the beaches had faded. No, not faded, but become shadowed by memories and regrets.
To Aunt Miriam’s delight, she’d then spent more time with her cousins doing the things young ladies were supposed to do. Young ladies were certainly not supposed to sprawl on cliff tops.
Housekeepers were not supposed to, either.
She really must get up and return to Crag Wyvern....
It was as if the earth held her down with gentle hooks, however, or as if her hungry need of the earth pressed her there. She closed her eyes and let her other senses drink deeply.
Clean breeze over her skin, tugging at her hair, playing with her skirt.
Cries of gulls and curlews, faint calls from people below in the village. Children laughing. A dog barking. The ever-present rumble of waves on shingle.
All the wonderful mixed smells from plants and sea that she’d breathed in all her life.
A shadow fell across her lids. She opened her eyes, but she knew before regaining her sight who it would be.
He towered over her and she supposed she should be afraid, but all she could think was how wonderful it would be if he fell on top of her, if he kissed her. ...
“You still like the cliffs,” he said.
The sun was behind him, hiding any expression.
“Of course.”
She should get up, curtsy even, but she refused to scramble to her feet like a guilty child, and the earth still hugged.
Of course, she was a very guilty housekeeper. It made her want to smile.
He suddenly sat by her feet, legs crossed, and she could see his thoughtful face. “Gifford knows your brother is Captain Drake.”
She thought for a moment of denying it, but this was Con. “I know. He told me, too.” She sat up. She could meet him halfway.
“Why?” he asked.
She froze, unready for the question. But then here, outside in the sunshine on the cliffs, she had someone she could tell.
“He wants to be my lover.”
“What?” His gray eyes seemed suddenly to become paler, silver.
“He has an excuse,” she said quickly, then realized that pushed her farther than she wanted to go.
“You have been encouraging him?” Though he hadn’t moved, she felt as if he were putting space between them. Telling him everything would probably drive him from her entirely, but wise or foolish, she had to be honest.
She looked away, though, away to the side at the wandering cliffs and the ruffled edge of the sea. “Some years ago, I made a mistake with a man. I ... I thought I wanted to make love with him. But it was a mistake.” Dear Lord. How did anyone put these things in words?
Say it simply.
She looked him in the eye. “I encouraged a military officer to make love— No, it wasn’t love. I barely knew him. Whatever you want to call it. It was my idea, though he didn’t need much encouragement.”
“I’m sure he didn’t.” She could tell nothing from his tone.
She sucked in a breath and went on. “Apparently he spoke of it to Gifford as he lay dying, so Gifford thinks I do that sort of thing all the time.” She managed a shrug. “Thus, he wishes me to do it with him. In return, he’ll turn a blind eye to Captain Drake and the Dragon’s Horde.”
She watched him, fearful of his response, but immensely lightened by depriving Gifford of the power the secret would have held. She was lightened, too, by having someone she could tell about that painful event.
But Con?
Had the wild air gone to her head that she thought she could confide her most perilous secrets to this new Con?
“I’ll destroy him.” It was said with cool certainty.
She grasped his arm. “No!”
Silver eyes. Dragon eyes. “I see. You are not unwilling, then?”
“Of course I am.” She was still holding him, through heavy cloth, but holding him. Was this the first time she’d touched him? “Don’t duel him, Con. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”
He laughed and pulled free. “You don’t have much faith in me, do you?”
Oh, Lord! “In a duel anyone can be hurt! And I don’t want him killed either. I detest him now, but he does not deserve death.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. “Susan, I’m an earl. I don’t need to call Gifford out to deal with him. If I want him posted to the tip of Cornwall, I can do it. I can send him to India, or to the hell pits of the West Indies, or to guard Mel Clyst in Botany Bay. If I want him thrown out of the service, I can do that too.”
“But that would be unjust.”
Too late, she realized it sounded like a criticism rather than a protest.
“It’s an unjust world. What do you want me to do?” After a moment, he added, “I think I can still act Saint George on occasion.”
He said it without expression, but it carried her back.
This wasn’t Irish Cove, and they were both fully dressed, but she knew he, like she, was instantly back in another lifetime, before....
“I’m not a maiden.” What an idiotic thing to say.
It stirred the hint of a smile. “I believe I’m aware of that.”
“I mean ...” Suddenly it seemed essential that they have truth on this. “There have been others.”
“You just told me that, didn’t you?”
Now she wanted to clarify that there’d been only two others, and only two other times.
“There have been others for me too,” he said, quite gently. “Rather more, I assume.”
“Of course. And I’m glad of it.”
But this was all going wrong. Her words weren’t forming into the right meanings. She struggled to her feet.
He rose beside her. “Why are you glad?”
She tried again. “I don’t want you to have suffered because of what I did that day. I am sorry, Con.”
Oh, how inadequate that sounded.
He looked away, turning to face the vista of sea. “It’s all so long ago, Susan. And it’s impossible to imagine that anything could have come of it, isn’t it? Two fifteen-year-olds. Me a younger son with my way to make in the world. You a young lady not considered ready for the world at all.”
He was speaking so lightly that she wanted to protest, to insist that it was more than that. But perhaps for him it had been a simpler matter. Horribly embarrassing and painful at the time, but now a thing of the distant past.
And there had been many other women.
“That’s true,” she said, brushing off her skirts. “Even if I had ended up in a compromised condition they would likely not have made us marry. A visit to a relative, a family paid to take care of the child ...”
She would never have allowed that, so like her birth and upbringing except that there had never been any attempt at secrecy. But he did not need to know that.
He turned back to her. “I’ll warn Gifford off. If he has any sense, he’ll heed it.”
“He thinks we’re lovers.”
He raised his brow as a query, but a blanket of ... comfort was growing around them. He wasn’t assuming she’d told Gifford they were lovers.
“He saw us by the fountain,” she explained.
“We never touched by the fountain.”
“Even so.”
He grimaced. “Perceptive of him.”
She remembered then that Con had propositioned her by the fountain—out of curiosity’s sake.
