Smugglers' Summer

by Carola Dunn

  “Mrs Pengarth, have you a light-coloured scarf here? Something white, even a petticoat would do!”

  “There’s an old woollen shawl, miss. It’s warm yet but a bit tattered.”

  “That does not matter, it is dark outside. Sir Tristram, I shall need your neckcloth for a sash, too.” She scrambled out of her cloak. “No, I have not run mad. Take it off.”

  “Here, miss.” A puzzled look on her face, the housekeeper offered her well-worn shawl and helped Octavia drape it over her head and shoulders.

  Sir Tristram handed her his cravat, shaking his head. “If I could think of any other way!” he said in frustration.

  “How quick you are!” marvelled Octavia, tying the long white cloth about her waist like a sash. “There! He did not see my face, only the dark cloak. He will think I am Julia, or at least a different female, going to meet a different lover. What a shocking opinion of our morals he will have! Well, it cannot be helped. Pray open the door for me."

  He shook his head again, racking his brains for an alternative, then glanced at Red Jack and moved to obey. “Bring him to the bower by the pond,” he said. “I will come to show you the way. Be careful, Octavia.”

  Mrs Pengarth doused the light. She heard the door open and slipped out, pushing through the ivy, ducking barely visible branches, emerging into moonlight that seemed to make her white garments glow.

  She tiptoed quickly away from the cave entrance.

  The sentry gaped as she hurried past him, but said not a word.

  How dark it was in the woods! On every side, tree trunks menaced her with the threat of concealed dragoons. A dog howled in the distance. Down by the river something whistled, paused as if to listen for an answer, and whistled again. Man or beast?

  A fox bounded onto the path. Her breath caught in her throat as it eyed her warily before trotting off about its business.

  She picked up her skirts and ran.

  At last the chapel loomed black before her. She beat on the door with all her strength, her bare hands making little noise on the solid oak.

  “Who?” came a voice behind her.

  She whirled, pressing her back against the door. An owl floated by on silent wings.

  “Who?” it asked again.

  "Wha'?"

  This time the question came from the chapel.

  “Mr Wynn!” Octavia’s voice emerged as a compromise between a shout and a whisper.

  “Who’s ‘at? Wossamarrer?”

  “Mr Wynn, it is Octavia Gray. Captain Day is ill and the garden is full of soldiers. Oh, please, open the door!”

  “Miss Gray! Come in, it is not locked. Just a minute, it is confounded dark in here. Where is my candle?”

  She found the door handle and opened the door. James Wynn was standing by the altar, lighting a candle. He was in his shirtsleeves, excessively rumpled, his hair more than ever like an untrimmed bush.

  Her terror forgotten, she looked at him with a new curiosity. Julia loved this man, had been thrown into despair when parted from him. What had drawn her to him? His brilliant intellect, his dedication to a cause, his fiery nature, these seemed such unlikely qualities to have attracted a spoiled beauty who had refused the most eligible bachelors without a second thought.

  He turned to her. “The smuggler is ill? Feverish?”

  “Yes, he is hot and restless and his pulse is fast and weak.”

  “Let me put my coat on and I shall come at once.”

  And he loved Julia. That was more understandable: everyone loved Julia. Yet it had taken him weeks to discover where she was, when all he had to do was ask Mr Gray, who would surely not have withheld the information. He had been writing his article; love was not all-important in his life. And Sir Tristram, who also loved Julia, had left her to attend to business on his estate.

  “Where did I put that flask of brandy Deanbridge left me? Ah, here it is. Let us go, Miss Gray.”

  Octavia stumbled after him, trying to keep up with his long strides. It had not dawned on him to offer her his arm, any more than it had dawned on him to refuse to go out on this cold, windy night to help a man he knew nothing of except that he was a hunted outlaw and injured. What a strange creature he was!

  The whistling came from the river again. Pushing her tired legs to the limit, she caught up with him and tugged at his sleeve.

  “Did you hear the whistles?”

  “Otters. I expect the river is full of them.”

  “How do you know it is otters?” she asked. “There are surely none in London!”

  “I was brought up in the country, Miss Gray,” he said patiently.

  “Oh!” She was surprised, having thought him as much a Londoner as herself. She really knew very little of him, except that he had long legs. “Pray do not go so fast, I cannot keep up."

  He slowed his pace, and she held on to his sleeve. Even his unsatisfactory company held at bay the terrors of the night, and she resumed her thoughts.

  She was sure it was not from kindness that James Wynn was doctoring Red Jack. It was simply something that needed doing and that he could do. His championship of the poor and oppressed rose from an abstract sense of injustice, not because he cared about his fellow man in any more personal way.

  In that he was the opposite of Sir Tristram, who was the kindest man, no, the kindest person she knew. How could she help but love him?

  She ought to have been more sympathetic to her cousin. Now she understood the aching misery of unrequited love. Though at least Julia had had hope, whereas she had none. Sir Tristram had already given his heart.

  With a shiver she pushed the knowledge away. They were going uphill now and it was time to think of practical matters.

  “Mr Wynn, stop a moment,” she whispered. He obediently came to a halt and she arranged Mrs Pengarth’s shawl more securely over her head. “There is a sentry by the dovecote. We must make him think we are sweethearts.” To her annoyance she felt herself blushing, and wished he would realise what he had to do without her spelling it out. “Put your arm around me and do try to walk more slowly. He is certain to be suspicious if we race by him like hounds after a fox.”

  He settled his arm uncomfortably about her waist. As they stepped out of the woods and into the moonlight, Octavia was suddenly acutely aware of the impropriety of what she was doing. To wander about the garden at midnight with a gentleman’s arm embracing her was bad enough. To permit two gentlemen the same familiarity— and on the same night!—was nothing short of disgraceful.

  She was no noble heiress to be forgiven an occasional lapse from the highest standards, so the least hint of such behaviour could ruin her reputation forever. She shrugged.

  There was only one person whose opinion she cared for, and he knew exactly what she was doing and why.

  James Wynn’s arm tightened in warning as the sentry, lounging against the dovecote, caught sight of them and straightened to attention. His eyes fixed stonily on a point some six inches above their heads, he let them pass without challenge. Octavia wanted to giggle, wishing she could recall the exact words of Sir Tristram’s reproof. With luck, it might also stop the man gossiping about the havey-cavey goings-on in the gardens of Cotehele.

  The baronet was waiting for them by the arbour.

  “You can let go of her now!” he growled at Mr Wynn in an undertone.

  The awkward arm was hurriedly removed, and they followed him to the cave.

  Octavia saw at once that Red Jack was worse. Martha Pengarth was cradling his head, wiping his face with a wet cloth and trying to soothe his restless tossing. She looked up at James Wynn with a frightened face.

  “Probably an infected wound,” he grunted, pulling back the blanket that covered the big man. “Let me see if I can find any swelling without taking off all the bandages. Deanbridge, the lamp.”

  Octavia sank tiredly down onto a cushion and leaned back against the wall.

  “You are burning the candle at both ends,” said Sir Tristram, looking at her in c
oncern. “Perhaps I should take you back to the house now."

  “No!” said James Wynn sharply. “I may need all the help I can get. Yes, here it is, just above the elbow.” He unwrapped the bandage. “Scarcely a scratch, but see how red and swollen it is. It is too far gone for brandy to disinfect it. I shall have to cauterise. I need a sharp knife, and a fire.” He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Jack’s knife is with his clothes,” said Mrs Pengarth. “I’ll get it.” Very gently she moved his head from her lap and went to a corner, returning with a sailor’s all-purpose knife in a leather scabbard.

  Mr Wynn drew it. The blade glinted wickedly in the light of the lamp, which Sir Tristram held towards him.

  “This is the only fire. We could build one, but the smoke would suffocate us."

  “It will have to do.” He held the blade in the flame, plunging the room into a nightmarish, flickering red light. “Deanbridge, you will have to hold his arms, and you sit on his legs, ma’am. Miss Gray, if you will be so good as to come and help wherever help is needed?”

  “I hope you can do without her help, Martha,” said Sir Tristram grimly. “Jack is going to cry out when the red-hot steel touches, and he’ll bring a pack of dragoons down on us. Octavia, find a cloth and hold it across his mouth with all your strength. If there’s more than a peep out of him, all is up with us.”

  Numb with horror, Octavia untied the neckcloth which had served her as sash and folded it into a pad. She knelt by Red Jack’s head and laid it loosely over his mouth.

  The writer-politician lifted the knife. Its blade glowed dull red. He adjusted the lamp to give the best light and bent towards his patient. Octavia looked away.

  “Octavia!” Sir Tristram’s voice was commanding. “You must watch or you will not know when to exert your full strength.”

  Biting her lip, she turned her head and watched the knife descend. Just before it touched the angry flesh, she pressed hard with both hands on the captain’s mouth.

  The great body convulsed. Martha Pengarth and Sir Tristram barely managed to hold him down, but only a muffled moan emerged through the cloth.

  "Once more."

  Again she forced herself to watch, fighting down nausea. The smell of burned hair reached her as she braced for the struggle. There was none. Red Jack went limp.

  Sir Tristram lifted her to her feet. She leaned against him, shaking.

  “Brave girl,” he murmured, “oh, my brave girl! It’s over, that’s all. I’ll take you home now. Wynn and Martha can manage. Come now, here is your cloak.”

  He left her in Ada’s care and went back to the cave. She staggered up the stairs, stood like a statue while Ada took off her filthy gown, tut-tutting, and fell into bed.

  She expected the memory of Red Jack’s agony to keep her awake in spite of her tiredness, but her last thought before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep was of Sir Tristram.

  Whatever happened in the future, they had worked together this night and nothing could take away her memory of it. He had counted on her aid; she had given it freely and seen the admiration and gratitude in his eyes.

  That must suffice.

  Chapter 18

  Octavia woke to the sound of the ancient clock striking noon. Her first sensation was of hunger, and she rang the bell quickly. If she hurried she would be in time for luncheon.

  Ada appeared at once.

  “Morning, miss,” she said cheerfully, drawing back the curtains to reveal a sunlit hillside. “I was right next door, in Miss Julia’s room, working on that dress you wore last night. It won’t be fit for much, I misdoubt.”

  “Perhaps I shall need it again tonight! It was one of my old ones, and I mean never to go back to such dowdy stuff, whatever Mama may say, so it does not matter.”

  “That’s the spirit, miss. Can I get you a tray? You must be right sharp set after all that running about.”

  “I am starving, but I shall go down.” She threw back the covers. “Where is Julia?”

  “She went down to breakfast, miss!” said the abigail in a marvelling tone, as they went through to the other chamber. “If that’s not a sign of true love, I’m sure I don’t know what is. Then out right away, leaving word to my lady she was gone a-walking in the gardens. Them dragoons are gone, I’m glad to say. What will you wear today, miss?”

  Octavia chose one of her new walking dresses, an amber muslin trimmed with straw-coloured lace. She hurried down to the dining room, where she found Raeburn putting the last touches to the cold buffet.

  “Morning, miss,” he answered her greeting. “My lady and Miss Crosby will be here any moment.

  “And Sir . . . the others?”

  “Miss Julia went out early, miss!” Unaware of James Wynn’s arrival, the butler was still more astonished than the maid. “Sir Tristram got up uncommon late, not more than an hour ago, I’d say, and he took a hamper and went after her. They’ll be picnicking in the garden again, I daresay.”

  “I am too hungry to go looking for them now,” said Octavia in disappointment. “Pour me some tea, if you please, and I shall wait for my aunt.”

  Miss Crosby and Lady Langston came in almost immediately. Miss Crosby made a spiteful remark about gentlemen being obliged by good manners to stay up till all hours listening to the chatter of thoughtless young women.

  “Octavia is less given to idle chatter than any young lady I know,” said Lady Langston fondly, putting an end to that line of attack.

  “Then she and Sir Tristram must have had matters of import to discuss,” said Miss Crosby brightly. “What business, I wonder, had dear Miss Langston’s suitor with Miss Gray?”

  Her ladyship came to the rescue once more, her placidity unshaken. “Books, I expect, for they are both amazingly fond of books. Raeburn, I will take one of those currant tarts. I am particularly partial to blackcurrant tarts.”

  “A bluestocking! Of course, a gentleman may discuss literature with a lady, but nothing is less likely to lead to an offer of marriage than an excessive acquaintance with books.” Satisfied with this thrust, Miss Crosby allowed Octavia to complete her meal in peace.

  This she did with a hearty appetite, but scarcely noticing what she ate. Sir Tristram had changed his tactics and followed Julia, after saying he intended to leave her alone with James Wynn. She read a message in his actions.

  He was warning her not to refine too much upon their closeness last night, reminding her that she was not really his sweetheart. “My brave girl,” he had called her. She was to ignore the first word though the last two could not be retracted. Had she done or said something that revealed to him her discovery that she loved him?

  Her only clear recollections were of the glowing knife descending and of his reassuring arms about her afterwards. “My brave girl,” he had said. “It is over.”

  “Are you quite well, Octavia?” asked her aunt. “You look a little pale. You had best go out in the fresh air with Julia.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said obediently, but she chose to wander alone about the upper gardens, brooding on the unreasonableness of life.

  Julia was in high spirits when she came in to change for dinner.

  “I wish you had been with us, Tavy,” she cried. “We quite expected you to join us. James and Sir Tristram were talking politics and I learned such a lot! Did you know Sir Tristram is a Whig? I’ll wager Papa does not know or he would not be so eager to have him for a son-in-law.”

  “I expect he does know. It is James’s radicalism and poverty to which he so strongly objects. He cannot insist that you marry a confirmed Tory!”

  “Well, Sir Tristram said as we came up, that he has a most respectable friend whose ideas differ little from James’s. He thinks it is James’s eloquence which makes him seem so extreme. Actually, he said James’s words run away with him.” Julia giggled. “Can you not picture them, on little spindly legs, scampering off as fast as they can go?”

  “You did not feel Sir Tristram’s presence as an in
trusion?”

  “Heavens, no. James likes someone to argue with and I am still too ignorant. Besides, I agree with everything he says; his views seem perfectly reasonable to me. And Sir Tristram did not act like a rejected lover, which would have made me uncomfortable.”

  “Though James would not have noticed. No, Sir Tristram’s manners are far too good, and I daresay he has not quite given up hope yet."

  Octavia determined that her manners should prove as good as the baronet’s. No one should guess her unhappiness; she would join the others and endeavour to be cheerful. She might never see Sir Tristram again once she left Cotehele, but until that dread moment, he must have no reason to think her anything other than a sympathetic friend.

  When they went down to the drawing room, Lady Langston called her niece to her. Once again her ladyship had reason to congratulate herself on the effectiveness of her remedy; fresh air and exercise had restored the bloom to Octavia’s cheeks, the smile to her lips.

  Sir Tristram came in, slightly out of breath, his cravat arranged with less than its usual neatness. Octavia thought he must have gone to the cave after escorting Julia up to the house. The dinner gong rang at once, so she was not able to ask for news of Jack Day. He smiled at her as he led Lady Langston down to the dining room, but to her relief made no comment about her absence. She did not want her aunt to know she had been alone all afternoon.

  Private conversation at the dinner table was impossible. Sir Tristram did not linger over his brandy, but by the time he came up, Miss Crosby had entangled Octavia in a discussion of the works of Hannah More. She upheld her bookish reputation admirably, since the philanthropist was her mother’s favourite writer. The Religion of the Fashionable World and Practical Piety she was thoroughly acquainted with, and she had even read Moral Sketches, published as recently as 1818.

  Since Miss Crosby had been unable to obtain a copy in the year since its appearance, this was momentary defeat. However, she was not about to admit it. Though Octavia offered to have her mother send a copy, she persisted in questioning her on every detail of the work.