Smugglers' Summer

by Carola Dunn

  The Cotehele groom handed them into the carriage and they set off up the hill.

  “All the same,” said Octavia as they reached the top, “I wish you will not mention the lieutenant to Lady Langston. She might not understand that I regard him only as a friend, and I should not like to worry her.”

  “I misdoubt it’s not my place to bear tales to her ladyship,” said Ada. “Will you be telling Miss Julia?”

  “Oh, yes! And at once, for I cannot wait to see her face when I tell her I have a beau of my own!”

  Chapter 10

  Before the week was out, Julia was forced to admit that she felt the loss of Sir Tristram’s company.

  “There is something about the presence of a gentleman,” she complained, seating herself listlessly on the bench in the arbour by the fish pond, “even if one does not care for him personally. Could you not invite your lieutenant to stay for a week or so, Tavy?”

  “Heavens, no!” Octavia joined her, smoothing the skirts of the sea-green muslin which was the latest addition to her wardrobe. “If Ada is right about his feelings for me, it would be the outside of enough for me to encourage him so. Besides, though he is a true gentleman, he has none of those airs and graces you are accustomed to in town bucks.”

  “No more does my James. For that matter, I should not describe Sir Tristram as an out-and-outer. He has no idea of keeping up the style one expects of his position and wealth. Do you know he brought not a single servant to attend him here?”

  “Shocking! I expect he knew there were enough servants attached to the house to take care of his needs.”

  “You may laugh at me, but what is the point of marrying a man with a vast income if he does not care to live up to it? I should be as well off wed to James.”

  “Have you seriously considered marrying Sir Tristram, then?”

  “It would save such a deal of unpleasantness!” Julia burst out. “I hate being confined to this wilderness, and I hate being at outs with Papa. He has not written a single word to me since we came here. But if I changed my mind now, everyone would say it was creampot love, and besides I do love James.”

  Octavia caught a note of uncertainty in her cousin’s last words. Was separation already weakening her attachment?

  “I am sure that if you marry Sir Tristram, you will come to love him. He is all that is kind and considerate.”

  “A paragon of a husband! Sometimes I think James was only a dream, or that I dreamed he loves me. If only I might see him! Perhaps he has forgotten me. He is so brilliant, so dedicated, why should he spare a thought for a butterfly like me? He needs a wife who can help him in his work, and he has so many friends he is bound to find one sooner or later. You would be perfect for him, Tavy.”

  “I think not. A politician must be always entertaining, as I know all too well from experience, and I dislike excessively having an endless stream of guests in the house. You would be a superb hostess, and enjoy it too, and you would soon get in the way of joining political discussions, for I can do it, without having the least interest in the world. As for you being a butterfly, his character is sadly in need of lightening and a little gaiety about the house could only improve him.”

  Anxious to console Julia, and also to disclaim the possibility of being herself a fitting bride for Mr Wynn, Octavia found herself arguing on the wrong side.

  “However, entertaining takes a deal of money,” she added hurriedly. “If I am glad to accept your unneeded gowns, it is not because Papa’s income is so very small, but because his expenses are large.”

  “Then you must marry a rich man when I marry James, and I will take your castoffs!”

  “I hope you mean to introduce me to some rich, unattached gentlemen, for on those grounds, my poor lieutenant is quite ineligible!”

  “I should be happy to, and I’m sure I can think of half a dozen in London who are not seriously attached, but as long as we languish here nothing can be done. I am tired of sitting here, let us go in.”

  Nothing held Julia’s attention for long. She read a little, played for a while upon the spinet, walked no more than a half mile with Octavia before she grew tired, and grew tired of sitting equally fast. Admonished by her mother, she would set a few stitches in a handkerchief she was embroidering for her father, and then lose the needle. She wrote long letters to James Wynn, then tore them into little pieces and burned them.

  But for her cousin's unhappiness, Octavia would have thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful days.

  With or without Julia, she loved to stroll in the gardens, and when her cousin would not accompany her she wandered for miles through fields and woods. One day she found herself near Cotehele Mill. She was tempted to visit it, but decided to wait in the hope that Sir Tristram might go with her to explain its business on his return. She talked to the country folk she met, at first understanding with difficulty the Cornish dialect; later, with familiarity, following it easily.

  When the weather was bad, or she was tired of walking, she read avidly. Her education, under Julia’s governess, had been excellent, and though she had had little opportunity to widen her book-learning since her emancipation from the schoolroom, she had a foundation of taste and discrimination to guide her reading.

  The collection of books in the east wing, though not large, was wide-ranging, catering to the catholic tastes of the Edgcumbes and their guests. Learned histories and lively biographies abounded, and when she tired of heavier fare there were plenty of novels to turn to. She searched in particular for Northanger Abbey, having gathered from Julia’s mention of it that it was suitable reading for a visitor in an ancient house full of secret hiding places. To her disappointment, it was not on the shelves. She wished she had thought to look for a copy in Plymouth.

  Towards the end of June, they learned that the earl had arrived at Mount Edgcumbe with his family and a large house-party. A few days later, Octavia entered the drawing room to find her aunt fanning herself with a letter and looking thoroughly flustered.

  “What is the matter, ma’am?” she cried, hurrying to her side. “Is it bad news, or are you unwell?”

  “My dear, I hardly know,” Lady Langston said querulously. “I am all of a flutter. Here is Lord Edgcumbe announcing he will bring his friends to stay at Cotehele for a fortnight and I do not know how I shall manage.”

  “You always manage at the Priory, Aunt, do you not?”

  “But my housekeeper there knows very well how to go on without a great deal of direction. I must send for her at once. I will write to the Priory.”

  “Surely that is not necessary, when Mrs Pengarth is such an excellent manager. Besides, his lordship cannot expect you to act as his hostess. Does not his elder daughter perform that function?”

  “Yes, I believe Lady Emma runs his household. He mentions that she will be coming, to be sure.”

  “Then you will warn Mrs Pengarth and leave all to her. There is no need to be in a pother about it.”

  “You are such a comfort, Octavia! I am very glad that you are here, I vow. Only what will your mama think? I promised her that I should not take you into company, for I knew she would dislike it excessively. Perhaps you ought to stay in your chamber while they are here? It will be only two weeks.”

  “I cannot suppose Mama would expect me to resort to such strong measures! Indeed, she said when I left that I had reached an age where I might be expected not to lose my head at a glimpse of high society. Nor can she blame you when it is none of your doing.”

  “You think not? I hope you are right. It will be pleasant to enlarge our party. But Langston will be sadly displeased when he hears. He sent Julia here to be out of the way of meeting people.”

  “Of meeting one particular person, I believe, ma’am, and one who is not like to be found in my lord’s train.”

  “No, of course not. His lordship is almost as strong a Tory as my dear Langston. Mr—what was his name?—is not like to come with him.”

  “I daresay Sir Tristram may, however.
You will like to see Sir Tristram again, Aunt.”

  “Oh, yes. Such an amiable gentleman and so much in love with poor Julia. Langston will be pleased that he is come back.”

  “You see, you may be perfectly easy on all counts. Between us, Mrs Pengarth and I will make sure you need not be troubled with any of the arrangements, so you may look forward to enjoying the company. I shall go and see her at once."

  “What a comfort you are, Octavia. I’m sure I am very glad you are here,” Lady Langston said again.

  Mrs Pengarth had already received her instructions, and said she needed no assistance.

  “I take it kindly that you offered, miss, but Lady Emma and me have our own little ways of doing things. His lordship always sends up extra servants and plenty of supplies in good time, so there’s no need for you to worry your head about anything."

  “I never doubted that you could cope, Mrs Pengarth. Lady Langston was thrown into high fidgets and I promised her I would consult you.”

  “You can tell her ladyship it’s all under control, miss. She’s nothing to do but choose which gown to wear, and it’s my belief it’s her dresser as makes that decision, if you don’t mind me saying so, miss.”

  Octavia laughed. “You may be right,” she admitted.

  Everything proved to be under control except Raeburn’s feelings. The Langstons’ butler was decidedly offended to learn that Lord Edgcumbe would bring his majordomo with him, and it took all Octavia’s tact to smooth his ruffled feathers without referring him to her aunt. Julia helped by saying that her mother would be excessively put out if she had to share his services with a crowd of strangers.

  Julia was in a high gig, her megrims vanished at the prospect of a lively gathering of members of the Haut Ton. Cotehele was transformed instantly from a wilderness to the perfect setting for a house-party. She planned picnics, outings to gather raspberries and cherries, musical evenings, and river cruises.

  “I expect his lordship and Lady Emma will have their own plans,” Octavia remonstrated.

  “It can do no harm to have suggestions ready, in case I am asked,” Julia answered gaily. “Do you think we ought to show them the map and the hidden room beneath the Prospect Tower? We might have a treasure hunt.”

  “By all means a treasure hunt, with cryptic clues such as you have told me you have at the Priory, but let us keep the secret of the tower to ourselves. It may be that Lord Edgcumbe already knows of it and would be displeased to have it generally discussed.”

  “The Edgcumbes came to stay at the Priory one summer, but it was before I was out, and though I have met them in town, I do not know them well. The earl has the reputation of a wit, and I believe he is partial to amateur theatricals. Only think, he once wrote an opera! Perhaps he will write a play for us to act in.”

  “I hope not! Surely your mama would not let you take part in a play? I am very certain mine would be excessively shocked at the thought.”

  “It would be perfectly unexceptionable, I assure you. It is not very different from charades, after all, which I have often acted in. Indeed, we were to perform a play at the Priory once, only the gentlemen quarrelled so about who was to be the hero that it all came to nothing.”

  “If you were to be the heroine, I am not in the least surprised that they quarrelled, but it sounds vastly improper to me. I could not join in.” Octavia was in a quake at the prospect.

  “It is not as if you were being asked to make a living on the stage. What a puritan you are, Tavy! If you were needed I am sure there is no reason you should refuse, but I daresay Lord Edgcumbe will not suggest such a thing anyway. It is scarce a year since his son died. And besides, he is more likely to do so at Mount Edgcumbe, where he can assemble a larger party and there are nearer neighbours to be the audience.”

  Octavia was profoundly thankful. The idea of dressing up in peculiar clothes and parading in front of an audience filled her with alarm. She did not think it was delicacy of principle though. An examination of her feelings confirmed the melancholy suspicion that she was simply afraid of making a cake of herself in front of a selection of the beau monde.

  She had been looking forward to the Edgcumbes’ arrival as the nearest she would ever come to making a debut in Polite Circles. Suddenly her confidence was gone. New clothes and a different style of hair were feeble foundations on which to build a new image of herself.

  Her governess’s lessons on the niceties of correct behaviour in fashionable young ladies had passed over her head, as she had expected never to need them. She knew very well how to go on at one of her father’s informal political gatherings, how to humour her mother’s philanthropic friends. Now she was to be faced with terrifying creatures she had only heard of: Corinthians, Tulips, Wags and Dandies, perhaps even a Nonpareil. Did Lord Edgcumbe number a Court-Card among his acquaintance? What did one say to a Fop at the breakfast table? How was she to deal with a Coxcomb, or, God forbid, a Rake?

  And the ladies! The ladies would see at a glance that she was an encroaching mushroom, a crow in peacock’s feathers. They would laugh at her efforts to set herself up as one of them.

  She could see only mortification ahead.

  “Mama is right!” she blurted in a panic. “My aunt was right! I shall stay in my room while they are here.”

  “What fustian!” Julia exclaimed. “What has put you in such a tweak, Tavy? If it is only that you do not wish to act, of course you shall not.”

  Octavia tried to explain her apprehension.

  “Fustian!” her cousin repeated. “It is not as if you have the patronesses of Almack’s to turn up sweet. Even if they guess that you are not accustomed to go about in society, there is nothing in your manners to offend the highest stickler. Be yourself and you will be all the rage.”

  “I do not aim so high!” Octavia could not help laughing at the exaggeration. “If I can but rub through without putting you or myself to the blush, I shall be more than satisfied.”

  She hoped against hope that Sir Tristram would return with the other guests. It would be such a comfort to find a friendly face among the crowd.

  Mrs Pengarth came in to ask if the two young ladies would mind sharing a bed, so that she could put another young lady in the little chamber. Julia declared that her bed was large enough for a family; sharing with her cousin was no hardship.

  “But Octavia’s room is scarce wide enough to turn round in,” she added. “Who is to have it?”

  “A Lady Cynthia Marlowe, miss.

  “Cynnie! That’s famous! You will like her, Tavy, I promise. She shall use our chamber for dressing.”

  “Thank you, miss. I was hoping you’d not mind.”

  “Is Lady Cynthia’s brother coming?”

  “So I understand, miss. Him and our Lord Ernest was at the university together.”

  This news sent Julia into a fit of the giggles. Mrs Pengarth smiled indulgently and departed, leaving Octavia to try to make sense of her cousin’s gasped explanations.

  “Never mind,” she spluttered, “you will see. Cynnie is the dearest girl, but Lord Rupert . . . !" She wiped tears of merriment from her eyes.

  For three days the house was filled with bustling maids bearing buckets and mops, dusters and beeswax, armfuls of linen, as the chambers in the rarely used east wing were prepared for habitation. Gardeners brought wheelbarrows full of vegetables and flowers; odours of baking and roasting filled the kitchen court and seeped into every room. On the third day, grooms arrived leading several riding hacks. The stables were soon as busy as the house.

  The fourth day dawned windy but bright. It took Octavia two hours to decide which of her four new morning dresses was most suited to make a good first impression; she finally settled on an Indian mull with deep rose and white stripes. Julia, still lounging in bed with her morning chocolate, laughed at her as Ada brushed her curls.

  “I shall wear blue,” she said, “so as not to clash. Ada, there is a bit of pink ribbon somewhere which matches that gown. Thread my
locket on it and it will be the perfect ornament. I believe I shall get up now. At last there is something to look forward to!”

  The earl and his guests were expected to arrive with the tide early in the afternoon. Octavia was too apprehensive to eat any luncheon. Lady Langston, sighing, decided she must forgo her customary postprandial nap in order to be on hand to greet her host. Julia jumped up a hundred times, vowing she heard the wheels of the carriages carrying the company up from the quay.

  The brief meal concluded, her ladyship decided they should sit in the Great Hall.

  “Such an old-fashioned house,” she lamented. “The drawing room is certainly more suitable, but tucked away as it is, and not half large enough, I daresay, for the whole party, and I do not care to be remiss when his lordship has been so kind. Yes, we shall wait in the Great Hall. I shall not regard the draughts."

  Neither Octavia nor Julia could sit still. Octavia wandered about the hall, looking with unseeing eyes at the halberds and muskets on the walls. Her cousin stationed herself by the door into the courtyard, and gazed towards the gatehouse arch.

  “They are come!” she cried at last, as a pair of horses crossed her view.

  Octavia ran to her side. It seemed to her that at least a score of gaily chattering ladies and gentlemen passed under the arch and along the cobbled walk towards her. The introductions left her befuddled, aware only of Lord Edgcumbe himself, a fine figure of a man in his mid-fifties, of Julia’s friend Lady Cynthia, and of Lady Cynthia’s brother.

  The sight of Rupert Marlowe was enough to drive all the other guests from her mind. He was a young man of medium height but his hair was brushed up in such a way as to add at least five inches. His shirt collar reached nearly to his ears, and the stiff-starched points in front threatened his nose on either side. His neckcloth was a miracle of snowy intricacy reaching to his chin, his emerald green coat so tight that the slightest movement of his arms threatened to burst a seam. A waistcoat of cloth of gold embroidered in green silk with flourishing vines completed his upper half, while matching gold tassels adorned the green-dyed tops of his gleaming boots. Judging by his mincing walk, these latter were as much too tight for him as the coat.