Much encouraged by this sign of interest, Jean hurried to the assignation. The alehouse—for that was all it was—was not prepossessing, but Jean was not in the least put off by the blistered sign that creaked over the door, the desperate need for paint of the weathered boards, or the smell, smoke, and filth of the common room. Nor was he in the least surprised when the room fell silent on his entrance. He was quite accustomed to that hostile silence by now. This time, however, it did not last long.
A heavy, brutal-looking man rose from one of the side tables and asked if he was John Treeport. Concealing a shudder at the mangling, he agreed that was his name.
“And you’re looking for a Frenchy what’s took summat of yorn?”
“Yes,” Jean agreed.
“Tall cove, very dark o’ t’skin?”
Jean took a breath. It seemed as if after all his trouble he was finally approaching the pot of gold. “Yes Have you seen him?”
“Yair.” It was a lie. He had never seen Philip, but that did not matter in the least. All he had to do was to repeat Jean’s description back to him. “Black eyes, black hair, riding a big bay what bites.”
“Yes! Yes, that is he. Where—”
“Wait up now. What’s in it fer me?”
“Let’s sit down,” Jean said. “This man has done me and this country a grave injury. I will pay, of course, for information alone, but he is a very dangerous person, and my own companion is in his power, I believe, although I discovered this only recently. I will pay much better for…“
Jean hesitated, not wishing to say in plain words what was obvious—that he wanted Philip dead. Probably it would make no difference. No one would take this dirty brute’s word above his, even if he did intend betrayal. However, Jean did not need to search for a euphemism.
“Want ‘im ‘ushed then?”
“Hushed?” Jean repeated.
“Put t’bed wiv a shovel! Deaded!”
“Yes—that is, he is very dangerous—”
“Carries bulldogs, does ‘e?”
“Bulldogs? No. I don’t believe the man has a dog with him. Why—”
“Don’t be a fool, will ‘e? Has ‘e barkers? Pistols?”
“I’m very sorry that I am unacquainted with thieves’ cant,” Jean said coldly. “Yes, he does carry pistols, and a knife, too. In fact he has already shot one man dead—right through the head.”
If Jean had not been so intent on his own indignation, he might have noticed a most unnatural gleam of satisfaction in the eyes of his companion, who now introduced himself as Black Bart and said firmly that, in this case, he didn’t think he and Jean alone would be able to do the job. Since Bart had never heard of Phillip before, Jean’s questions about him started a plan in his head, and although he had no idea where Philip was, he was not in the least afraid of Philip’s ability with pistols. What had come to him after he heard of Jean’s search for a man who would hunt down someone for him was a marvelous plan to fool everyone all around and accomplish his own purpose, which was to kill Red Meg. When Jean agreed to what he said with alacrity, Bart was halfway home.
Jean, of course, had no intention of assisting personally at all, although he intended to go along. He made no protest when Bart suggested six men. He bargained a little over, the price, but it was, not, to Jean’s mind, exorbitant for a murder, and he yielded on that, too. His pliability did him no good in Bart’s eyes. He was now, in that “gentleman’s” opinion, a mark to be gulled on all points. In any other situation Bart would have taken Jean’s money, knocked him on the head, and dropped him off the pier. However, he had his own row to hoe. He would hire the men Jean wanted, but not to look for or to kill Philip—in whom he had not the slightest interest.
Through the men in Megaera’s group who preferred “the good old days”, Bart was aware of the days when Pierre brought a cargo. From his own investigations and guesses he had discovered that Meg paid Pierre on the night following the delivery at The Mousehole. What he planned was to use the men for whom Jean was paying to ambush Meg before she got to the inn. This would have to be done quite near the place, since Bart had no way of finding out just how Meg came to The Mousehole. Knowing her, he even suspected that she used a different route every time.
The reasons Bart had not made any attempt to kill Meg and John previously were two—he had no money with which to hire men, every penny he had ever made he spent as soon as it came into his hands, and he did not want to admit that he wanted to “get” Red Meg. Since he had been in Penzance, Bart had found there was an exaggerated opinion afloat about her. John had been invested with an aura of invincibility, and Meg herself was reputed to be a witch.
Although Bart knew better and said so, he also knew it was useless to argue. Had he had enough money he could have compensated fear by payment. But this would be much better. The men would think they were going after some stupid French spy. He would bring them to a confrontation, shoot Meg himself, and the others would take care of the dummy out of self-defense. Then he could shoot Jean, too. Probably he would even have some more money and a watch on him. It would be a nice profit all around.
Jean’s questions roused Bart from this pleasant reverie. “No, I don’t know where ‘e be now,” he admitted, “but I knows where ‘e will be, and I’ve friends what’ll warn me when ‘e comes. There’s a place what we can ‘ide. We’ll need ‘orses. It’s, oh, four miles—thereabout.”
“When will this be?”
Bart shrugged. “’Nother week, maybe. Can’t be sure. Gi’ us t’clinkers so I can pay t’men.”
But Jean was not such a fool as that. He had not carried more than a few guineas with him. These he gave Bart, ostentatiously showing that his purse was empty. “That’s enough to hire the horses and give the men a taste. I’ll pay half the remaining sum when we start and half when we return here—if the French agent is dead and I have recovered the papers.”
Bart scowled horribly, but he realized that this man had dealt with his kind before and was not really a silly mark. It didn’t matter, since his purpose was to kill Red Meg, not to make money. Nonetheless, it really sealed Jean’s death warrant as far as Bart was concerned, and he made a mental note not to underestimate Jean again.
Chapter Eleven
As Philip remarked, two weeks can be a long time, especially if one is sad or in pain. Unfortunately, when days are peacefully slept away and nights are full of work and joy, two weeks can fly swiftly away.
While Philip and Megaera waited for John to bring the ponies to carry Pierre’s goods to safe concealment in the main cave, they had decided on what to do. Philip would return the wagon to Falmouth, picking up Spite from the stable in Penzance so that he would have a mount for the ride back. Meanwhile Megaera would arrange the return of the chaise. She did not say how and Philip, growing wise, did not ask. During the day and a half it would take Philip to return the wagon, Megaera made more habitable the one remaining room in the house on the cliff.
That house had almost certainly been inhabited by wreckers—Megaera feared they were members of her own family, although she made no effort to find out—in the seventeenth century. As the Bolliets grew more respectable they began to frown on so brutal and inhumane an activity. The small house, so convenient for setting fires to lead ships astray so that they would founder on the rocks instead of making a safe harbor, had been abandoned and allowed to fall into ruin. One room, where the chimney provided a strong base, remained reasonably sound.
When she began smuggling, Megaera had had John tighten this room until it was weatherproof, and she had furnished it partially with a table and a comfortable chair. Whenever Pierre was due, she had to spend several hours, as a minimum, and sometimes nearly all of two or three nights, waiting for his signal there. Now she completed the furnishings with a bed, another chair, a small hob for the fireplace, and such pots, plates, and utensils as would be necessary to reheat food brought in. Wine, naturally enough, was plentiful, and Megae
ra had John bring up a small cask of ale from the house.
Her next task was to cover her absences, for she would be away far longer each night than usual. In the past Megaera had used the small hours of the night to deliver, which was why she kept to a limited geographical range and sold in bulk to subsidiary suppliers. Having thought the matter over, she fixed on the romantic nature of her maid and decided to take Rose partly into her confidence. After she returned to the house and was changing from riding dress to evening clothes to dine with her father, she confessed to Rose that she intended to be away nearly all night every night.
There was no need for Megaera to say she had taken a lover. Rose would leap to that conclusion without being told. Trouble and compassion filled Rose’s face; she was terribly, terribly worried. She knew this was wrong. Her lady was not the kind to play with a man who would not or could not marry her. Yet it all fitted together now. Rose was sure Megaera had not been “taken up” from the vicar’s house. She had ridden somewhere to join this lover. And now he had come closer so her lady could spend some time at home and not arouse suspicion.
“Oh, madam—” she began.
“Let me be, Rose,” Megaera said fiercely. “I know what I’m doing and it will only be for two weeks. Only two weeks…”
“I’ll help you, my lady. You know I’ll do anything. I only…”
“Thank you, Rose, but you mustn’t worry about me.” Megaera’s violet eyes stared out into space. “I understand what I’m doing. I’m not a fool. This is the way I want it to be. All you have to do is make sure no one else knows I’m gone.”
But it really didn’t matter whether any of the other servants found out. The upper servants, Megaera knew, were all devoted to her, and any lower servant would be bullied and terrified into silence. For a woman in her position, taking a lover was an “acceptable” secret, and the entire household would rally round to protect their mistress from her friends and neighbors. Megaera was in such a glow when she went down to dinner that it penetrated Lord Bolliet’s alcoholic haze, and he complimented her on her looks and regretted that he had arranged to meet some friends after dinner.
Megaera accepted this statement with good grace. Her father’s “gentleman’s gentleman” and “groom” always accompanied him now when he went out. They knew who were acceptable companions. If Lord Bolliet attempted to join any company with whom they were not familiar, they would gently steer him along better-known paths—men who knew he could not pay gaming debts and would sometimes let him play with them out of pity. Actually it was far more likely these days that Lord Bolliet had no intention of going out and “meeting friends”. It was a euphemism for drinking himself insensible in his own chambers. He often said he would go out, then took another couple of drinks to “steady his judgment”—and then decided he was too “comfortable” to go out. Megara did not even sigh. In a sense her father had been dead for many years.
This night she hardly heard, although she replied suitably. Every part of her except her body was already in the cave waiting for Philip. Since it had been clearly stated that Philip would be leaving with Pierre, Megaera had not felt it necessary to keep any check on her feelings. She knew she would suffer after he left, but she would not think about that except in a positive sense. After he was gone, there would be practical sense in weeding him out of her heart. She would recognize how ridiculous it was to mourn the departure of a smuggler’s bastard. His image would pale—after all, she could hardly remember what Edward looked like. She had only a vague idea that he was fair and flabby.
At present Megaera felt fully justified in enjoying her brief fling to the uttermost. And enjoy it she did. Each evening, as soon as dinner was over, she fled the house to meet Philip at the cave. There she changed her clothes and they waited until it grew dark enough to load the ponies for deliveries. Megaera had had to decide whether to include Philip in these expeditions. If she did so, it would be necessary for her to expose to him the network of tunnels and the subsidiary caves. The decision did not take long. She excused her precipitate capitulation to the desire for every second of his company she could glean by telling herself that he could not betray her. He would be gone, probably forever, in two weeks. The only tunnel she did not show him was the one that led to Bolliet Manor.
Philip was even happier than Megaera. He did not need to fear the pain of any permanent separation—at least not if he survived his mission to France. Although he did not define to himself exactly how he would maintain the relationship between himself and Meg, he did not spend much time worrying about it either. He would “arrange something”. Many men he knew kept a mistress in high style. Why should he not do so also? In any case the problem was at a distance. He reveled in Meg’s company in the present and looked forward with anticipation to the future. When he had done his duty to England, he would come back and make some settlement that would make Megaera his forever.
The only shadow on Philip’s picture of a perfect future was his fear concerning Meg’s activities. More and more often as he laughed with her or loved her he would remember there had been an attack on her. And there was the ever-present danger that local Customs officers might be forced into making an arrest, or that London would initiate another cleanup of smugglers like that of 1802. He tried to convince her to give up the trade or at least suspend operations until he returned, but he met a blank wall. Although she was deeply moved by Philip’s concern for her safety, Megaera had her own duty, which was saving Bolliet.
Most of the time these shadows and the awkward places where conversation touched on the secret spots in each life did not in the least mar the joy Philip and Megaera felt. They discovered similarities in outlook and interests that should have raised the strongest doubts in each mind about the genuineness of the other’s role. Instead both marveled at the wonder of meeting a person whose finer nature had triumphed over an unsavory background.
They worked during the early hours of the dark, making a quicker job of it with two men moving the kegs and cases of bottles. Philip was at first puzzled by the fact that Meg stayed out of sight so carefully, even sending John to collect payments. Then he called himself a fool. John was awe-inspiring; Meg was not. Just one look at the big deaf-mute gave customers a marked disinclination to hesitate, argue, or cheat about payment. John could not be questioned or threatened. For those who knew a woman ran the gang, seeing John gave the impression that any woman who could manage him must be a fierce Amazon. Those who did not know would assume a powerful and brutal male leader. Altogether it was a logical move, and it never crossed Philip’s mind that Meg concealed herself because her customers might recognize her as a social equal.
When business was finished, pleasure reigned supreme. John was left at the cave to disperse the ponies to their fields or stabling, and Megaera and Philip rode cross country and climbed the back slope to the ruined house on the cliff. Generally Megaera brought food from the cave, which had come earlier from the kitchens of Bolliet Manor. Sometimes Philip purchased some from an inn. They ate and talked and made love. At first light, Megaera would leave. She never permitted Philip to accompany her, because she did not wish to explain why she went into the cave and never came out.
After her first refusal Philip did not ask again. Their two weeks were too precious to spoil with arguments about anything. It would be soon enough, when he returned, to invade Meg’s privacy to discover what he would need to offer her in cash and security to wean her from her unsavory profession. He had not forgotten that she said a desperate need for money had driven her into smuggling, but he expected that his task would be made much easier by being able to reveal the truth about himself.
Usually Philip was too grateful to be allowed to sleep off his hard work and hard lovemaking in the warm bed, which was still faintly scented with Meg’s sweet body, to resent being excluded from part of Meg’s life. He felt a little guilty, because he was aware that she must be as limp with sexual satiety as he was, but it was her decision
to go alone.
Insensibly the days flew by until the last. Megaera had thought of canceling her deliveries for that night, but she did not dare because she felt that any break in the routine would make the pain of parting more excruciating. Everything was as much the same as they could make it—except for an occasional silence, and the fact that neither wished to eat the customary supper. It was after they got into bed that their mutual awareness of parting became apparent. There was a ferocity about the way they claimed each other, and both seemed insatiable.
Since that first night in Falmouth there had been no exigency about their lovemaking. Sometimes they coupled when they first got into bed, but as often that was only a time for sleepy fondling and soft, loving words. Sex came later, after a few hours of sleep or sometimes not until morning, when both were rested. This last night was different. They united explosively as soon as they had torn off their clothing, but Megaera did not release Philip after climax. As she had that first time, she clung to him and, as he had that first time, Philip did not fail her.
Exhaustion claimed them both after that, but not for long. Again, as on that first night, each was constantly aware of the other’s presence, but there the similarity ended. In Falmouth there had been peace in the awareness; now it was like the effect of strong drink on a high fever. As soon as his body would rouse, Philip was all over Megaera again—and she received him as if she had not touched a man in years. Both knew they were behaving foolishly, that flogging their bodies into orgasm after orgasm could not keep the hunger and loneliness of the future at bay, but neither could stop. Even when it was no longer possible to distinguish whether climax was pain or pleasure, they touched and caressed and coupled.
Light brought sanity. In the dawn their last caresses were tender rather than passionate, Philip whispering assurance to Meg that he would return as soon as he could, Megaera replying that she would wait forever. In the stress of the moment she had forgotten Mrs. Edward Devoran completely. She was all Red Meg, all simple, direct woman. Philip was her man and she was his woman and there was no consciousness of class or birth.
The Cornish Heiress Page 20
