Smugglers' Summer

by Carola Dunn

  She was given no time to decide. Mr Wynn jammed his hat on his head, swung round, and started towards them at a rapid pace.

  Dithering, she put her hand on Ada’s arm as he approached. The gesture caught his eye and he glanced at the maid. A puzzled frown crossed his high forehead: he thought he knew her but could not identify her. His gaze moved on to Octavia.

  Always oblivious of clothes, he had not the slightest difficulty in recognising her face.

  “Miss Gray! What a happy chance!”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Wynn.” Her mind spinning with conjecture, Octavia could think of nothing to say but, “Sir Tristram, you remember Mr James Wynn?”

  The gentlemen bowed to each other, the baronet looking as stunned as Octavia felt.

  “Your servant, sir,” said Mr Wynn. “I am looking for passage to Cotehele. Perhaps you can advise me?”

  Sir Tristram glanced at Octavia, his eyebrows raised. If he expected her to send Mr Wynn to the rightabout, he looked in vain. She had promised Julia not to interfere. As for Mr Wynn, he showed not the least sign of awkwardness. It did not seem to dawn on him that there could be any objection to his arrival at Cotehele, nor that Julia might not welcome him after his long silence.

  “Perhaps you would like to join us,” Sir Tristram offered politely. “We sail for Cotehele this evening.”

  Octavia turned to him in exasperation. Why was he deliberately sabotaging his own chances? Was he so overwhelmingly certain of eventual success?’

  At that moment, Lieutenant Cardin hurried up. He had expected to see Sir Tristram but was clearly displeased to find that yet another rival for Miss Gray’s attention had appeared. Mr Wynn flung a look of scorn at his uniform, symbol of the oppressing class, and ignored him.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said to the baronet. “I shall gladly take advantage of your kind offer. Miss Gray, allow me to escort you about the town in the meantime. I have never visited Plymouth before and should like to see any monuments to the days when the Parliamentarians so bravely held it against the power of Charles I.”

  “I have shopping to do, Mr Wynn,” said Octavia crossly. “Perhaps you can persuade Sir Tristram and the lieutenant to show you the sights.”

  Mr Cardin looked at her with hurt in his dark blue spaniel eyes. Sir Tristram grinned.

  “We are a troublesome bunch,” he said cheerfully, “but I must regretfully inform you that you will not find it so easy to dispose of us. Lead on, Miss Gray, and let milliner and mantua maker beware!”

  Octavia wished she had never expressed a desire to shop. If the state of the tide had allowed, she would have insisted on returning to Cotehele at once. With the few guineas left to her, she made her trifling purchases last as long as possible. The Customs officer and the politician were plainly ripe for a quarrel, but the public bustle of the busy shopping streets kept them from each others’ throats.

  At last she could pretend no longer that she intended to buy one of the sprigged muslins displayed by an obliging draper.

  “I fear it is not quite what I was looking for,” she said apologetically, and led her procession out of the shop.

  “Allow me to buy you an ice!” suggested Mr Cardin eagerly. “There is a new confectioner just opened around the corner."

  “Miss Gray will prefer tea and cakes,” said James Wynn in a cold voice. “That coffee shop appears respectable enough.”

  Sir Tristram merely steered her gently towards a nearby inn. “Since we shall be on the water at the usual hour of dining,” he said, “I took the liberty yesterday of ordering a neat dinner at this excellent hostelry. Doubtless it will stretch to include Mr Wynn. Allow me, Miss Gray.” He held a chair for her as the landlord hurried up, beaming.

  “One extra, Sir Tristram? Of course, sir, not the slightest difficulty. I’ll bring the soup this instant."

  Mr Wynn and the lieutenant were seated perforce, and to judge by their appetites must have been well satisfied not to have to subsist on ices or tea and cakes.

  On the walk back to the wharf, their mutual antagonism at last found voice. Deep in argument, they soon outpaced Sir Tristram, Octavia, and Ada. Phrases floated back:

  ". . . lackey of the Hanoverian repression . . ."

  ". . . dangerous revolutionary ideas . . ."

  ". . . starving widows and children . . .”

  “By the time Mr Cardin is an admiral,” observed Sir Tristram, “James Wynn will be a minister of the Crown.”

  “How can you laugh!” cried Octavia. “Why ever did you invite him to go with us? What will my aunt say when he appears? You will have no one but yourself to blame if Julia runs off with him.”

  “I find them amusing. He would have found some other way to reach Cotehele. He shall hide in the chapel by the river and your aunt need not know. And you cannot suppose that I wish to be married to someone who would prefer to run off with another man. Does that answer all your questions? Come, do not look so distressed! I do not mean to tamely hand over Miss Langston to my rival, I assure you. If I am lucky, she will find that he does not live up to the picture her imagination has painted during his absence. In any case, I fancy the world would not counsel me to despair. Are you so certain she will prefer him?”

  “I cannot imagine why she should, except that they say love is blind. Surely she will not be so foolish as to choose him!”

  “You are a fervent supporter of my cause, Miss Gray.”

  “I am very fond of Julia; how could James Wynn possibly make her as happy as you could?” Octavia’s throat felt strangely tight. She walked faster, trying to catch up with the others.

  They found them on the quay. They had apparently discovered common ground somewhere for they were chatting with every appearance of amicability. Octavia heard Julia’s name mentioned, and guessed that once the lieutenant had discovered that the object of Mr Wynn’s affections was not herself, he had dropped the quarrel. Even James Wynn must find it impossible to carry on a dispute with so friendly and open a young man.

  Mr Cardin begged for permission to visit Octavia at Cotehele. She felt it unwise to encourage him, but Julia was going to have two lovers in hot pursuit and she felt entitled to have an admirer of her own. The glow in his eyes made her glad to have given him pleasure, though sorry to have given cause for hope when, much as she liked him, she had no intention of marrying him, if it were to come to that.

  The barge was ready to leave. As she stepped aboard, Octavia wondered why she was so sure she did not want to be Mr Cardin’s wife. She had no doubt that he would be a kind and loving husband, and though the disadvantages attached to his profession were daunting, the alternative of returning to her parents’ house in London was anything but inviting.

  She shook herself mentally. What a fool she was to build such speculations on so few meetings! He had not even offered for her. And if she wished to marry only to escape returning to her parents, why had she so firmly discouraged Sir Magnus? She had liked him equally, and he had a vast fortune to make up for the disadvantages of his age and Toryism!

  “You are very silent, Miss Gray. Are you sorry to leave Mount Edgcumbe?” asked Sir Tristram.

  She looked up, startled, to see that they had already tacked away from the harbour and were approaching St. Nicholas’s Island.

  “Mount Edgcumbe? The place, yes. It is very beautiful, the setting, the way the park is laid out, the gardens. It must take longer than a single week to tire of it. But I find I enjoy a fashionable crowd no better than the constant coming and going at home. I look forward to the peace of Cotehele.”

  “I do not expect much peace there!” lamented the baronet, glancing at their fellow passenger, who sat with his nose buried in a political treatise. “Mr Wynn, you do not care for scenery?”

  There was no response.

  “He has not heard you,” Octavia said, laughing. “He told me once that when he is concentrating nothing can distract him. I have seen him at my father’s table, with his dinner before him, so lost in thought tha
t everyone else had eaten and left before he came to himself.”

  “Surely you exaggerate! A man who . . . Wait a moment. What is going on?”

  The barge had slowed nearly to a stop, and their captain was leaning over the side, talking to someone who must be standing in a smaller vessel, since only his head was visible.

  Sir Tristram jumped up and hurried aft. She heard his exclamation, “What the devil?” and then he called to her, “Miss Gray, come here, if you please, and quickly!”

  James Wynn did not stir as she hastened to join them.

  “It’s Jack Day,” Sir Tristram said as she approached. “It seems the Seamew has been taken filled to the scuppers with contraband, and he has been shot. His men have got him away, but he is badly hurt.”

  She looked down and saw the giant lying inert and bleeding in the bottom of his gig. The one-eyed man leaned over him, wrapping one of his wounds in a dirty rag, while the hook-handed ex-navy seaman, Dan Small, held the rail of their barge.

  "‘Tis the young lady as fell in the water,” he said in surprise. “We c’n trust the cap’n to her.”

  “Of course you can,” Octavia assured him. “We shall take him to Cotehele to Mrs Pengarth. It will be easy to hide him there."

  “If ‘e don’t slip ‘is anchor afore we gets ‘im there,” said their boatman gloomily. “’Urry up, now. Think what ‘is lordship ud say was we taken red-’anded.”

  “His lordship will most certainly approve your aid to his relative,” Sir Tristram assured him.

  “Relative?” Octavia was momentarily distracted, until the injured man moaned as he was lifted. “Oh, be careful! He is bleeding dreadfully!”

  The commotion had at last attracted Mr Wynn’s attention. He wandered up, book in hand, and watched with interest as Red Jack’s red-stained bulk was laid gently on the deck.

  “Tha’lt take care on ‘im!” the one-eyed Yorkshireman begged Octavia. “We mun go back, see if there’s aught to do to help t’others.”

  “I shall take care of him,” intervened James Wynn firmly. “I studied medicine for two years before I found my vocation. I shall need water, and clean linen, plenty of clean linen.”

  Sir Tristram offered his spotless neckcloth, and the captain his grubby one. Mr Wynn was examining Red Jack, ruthlessly ripping off his clothing. He took the cloths and demanded more.

  “Turn your backs, gentlemen,” ordered Octavia. “Ada, come and help me.” She pulled off her petticoat. Several feet of the French lace Captain Day had given her went to staunch his wounds.

  “Good girl,” said Sir Tristram approvingly, then looked at her closely. “Are you going to faint? You are shockingly pale.”

  “I ought to help,” whispered Octavia, “but I cannot bear to see it. The men are needed to sail the boat.”

  Sir Tristram’s arm was about her waist, supporting her, leading her to a seat well away from the carnage on the aft deck. “I ought not to have let you see!” he said in self-accusation as Ada clucked in alarm and searched for her smelling salts. “Stay here. Ada, look after her. I shall assist Mr Wynn. I must admit, he has surprised me!”

  “And me. Oh, how could I be so foolish! Hurry back to him, sir, I shall do very well.”

  The crew was crowding on all possible sail. They were swinging northward towards the narrow strait between Cremyll and Devil’s Point when a Customs’ cutter hailed them.

  “Lord Edgcumbe’s private ship, with guests for Cotehele!” shouted the captain. “If I lose the tide you’ll answer to his lordship!”

  The cutter turned away.

  Chapter 14

  As they approached Halton Quay, Octavia peered apprehensively through the dusk towards the washing line. No red petticoat. She sighed in relief.

  A hazy half moon rose. By its glimmering light, they saw a gig waiting for them on the quay at Cotehele.

  “We will have to trust the groom to drive us up to the house,” said Sir Tristram, consulting Octavia in a low voice, “but I think it best not to let him see where we take Jack from there.”

  “The room under the Prospect Tower?”

  “Yes. Do you think Wynn can be relied upon to keep his mouth closed?”

  “Judging by his hauling poor Mr Cardin over the coals for his profession, his sympathies lie with the free-traders, not the law. We will need a lantern. I had best fetch one as soon as we arrive, and warn Mrs Pengarth. I’ll meet you at the tower."

  The captain ordered his men to carry Red Jack ashore, swathed in bandages, but showed no further disposition to help. The three of them disappeared into the Edgcumbe Arms as the gig started up the hill.

  Their driver, a dour, elderly Cornishman, showed no interest after his first glance at Red Jack’s recumbent form. Without demur he followed instructions to go straight to the end of the lane instead of turning to the front of the house. They stopped at the gate to the tower field. Octavia and Ada slipped into the house through the kitchens.

  “Ada, you had best go to your room and do not come out until we are known to have returned. I know I can trust you not to tell anyone what has happened.”

  “Can’t I tell Miss Julia, miss?”

  Octavia thought for a moment. “No, best not. At least until I have asked Sir Tristram. And do not tell her about Mr Wynn, either, not yet.”

  “Very well, miss. Here’s Mrs Pengarth’s parlour. Take care, miss. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “Thank you, Ada. Hurry now, and try not to be seen.” She knocked on the door.

  Lady Langston’s dresser was with the housekeeper, both enjoying a small glass of port as a nightcap. Mrs Pengarth jumped to her feet as Octavia went in.

  “Miss Gray! Goodness, I had no idea you were back. What can I do for you, miss?”

  “I must speak with you privately.” She looked at the lady’s maid, who curtseyed and left the room. “Pray sit down, Mrs Pengarth. I fear I have bad news for you.”

  “Jack!” The woman did not sit down, but she leaned against a table and held her hand to her heart. “Is he dead?”

  “Oh, no! But badly hurt. We have brought him here, to the Prospect Tower. There’s a secret cellar where he can be hidden. Will you come with me? We need a lantern.”

  “Bless you, miss! I’ll fetch a lantern and come with you, but that cellar is known to everyone, even the Customs. It’s been searched a hundred times. Whatever shall we do?”

  “The secret passage: we will have to risk it! Come quickly.”

  As they hurried up the hill, Octavia explained how they had found out about the passage. Mrs Pengarth had heard no more than rumours that such things existed. She thought it should be safe, if the untried entrance worked, the passage had not collapsed, the cave at the other end had not been filled.

  “Hush now!” said Octavia sharply. “If that is not possible we will think of something else. Sir Tristram will not let Captain Day be taken easily.”

  “I knew this was going to happen one day. You don’t know what it’s like, miss, always looking over your shoulder, wondering if this’ll be the day he gets caught. Are the revenuers close on his trail, miss?”

  “I don’t believe so, but they saw us pass and may well be suspicious.” A figure detached itself from the shadow of the tower and moved towards them. “Sir Tristram? How is he?”

  “Extraordinarily weighty. Martha? Jack is still unconscious, but Mr Wynn says that at present he is suffering only from loss of blood. Nothing vital was hit.”

  “Mr Wynn, sir?”

  “I’ll explain later,” said Octavia impatiently. “Come in and light the lantern. Sir Tristram, Mrs Pengarth says the cellar is common knowledge. We must try the passage.”

  “It was four years ago, sir, the Customs found it.”

  “The passage it is, then.” He closed the tower door behind them and held up the flickering lantern. “Wynn, I fear we have some way to carry your patient yet.”

  James Wynn, sitting tiredly on the floor beside Red Jack, raised his arm in w
arning as Mrs Pengarth flung herself on her knees at his side.

  “Don’t touch him, ma’am. You will disarrange my makeshift bandages. It is bad enough that he must be moved. Where to now, Deanbridge?”

  Sir Tristram was examining the wall for the loose brick, not easy to find in semidarkness and without the map.

  “Where the devil is it?” he muttered as he broke a fingernail on the wrong bit of masonry. “Aha, here we are.” The trapdoor opened. “Now how are we going to manage this? I wish I had thought to ask for two lanterns, Miss Gray!”

  “I will go down first and hold the light so that you can see the steps,” offered Octavia.

  “Are you not afraid?”

  “Just because I am a trifle squeamish at the sight of blood, you must not think me altogether hen-hearted! Where you and Julia have been, I do not fear to follow.” She took the lantern and held it up while the gentlemen struggled to lift Captain Day.

  He groaned and opened his eyes.

  “The devil has got me fast by the legs!” he cried. “Pray for me, Martha!”

  Mr Wynn, his thin face and wiry red hair lit by the wavering lantern, did look somewhat devilish. Mrs Pengarth, overjoyed to hear his voice, hastened to reassure him as the master of Hades lowered his legs and Sir Tristram laid him gently on the floor again.

  The situation being explained to him, Red Jack vowed his own two legs, if the doctor/devil would leave them to him, were fitter to carry him than anybody else’s. He staggered to his feet, and with Sir Tristram and Mr Wynn supporting him on either side he managed to descend into the cellar.

  “Don’t put me down, gentlemen,” he warned, “or it’ll be more than we all can do to get me up again. Where to next?”

  Octavia set the lantern on an empty tea chest and tried to close the trapdoor. Mrs Pengarth had to help her. As it swung up, it revealed a door-latch, much larger than most but otherwise perfectly ordinary. She lifted it and pulled hard. A section of the wall swung out, revealing a black opening from which dank, musty air blew in her face.