by Carola Dunn
Instead of walking down the drive, they took the upper lane. To their left mixed woods of oak and ash and sycamore fell steeply towards the river, trimmed with an edging of flowers among which Octavia now recognised red campion, golden St. John’s wort and purple vetches. On the right a steep bank and drystone wall were overgrown with sweet-scented honeysuckle and dog rose. Sir Tristram seemed oblivious of the delightful surroundings, his forehead still wrinkled.
“I must tell you that I have little faith in the success of your present plan of isolating them together.” Octavia hated to add to his uneasiness, but felt she must warn him. “Julia showed every sign of enjoying his company and conversation when I spent the day with them yesterday.”
“And with your lieutenant! Was he snooping after Jack?”
“I do not believe so. He was with us all day and came up to the house to dine in the evening, so he had no opportunity.”
“So he came merely to visit you.”
“‘Merely’ to visit me,” she agreed. “Do you wish to return to the garden and interrupt Julia’s tête-à-tête? I have not the least desire to keep you here against your will.”
“Are you tactfully telling me that I am out of reason cross? I beg your pardon. I find myself in something of a quandary over the best course to pursue, but I will set aside my deliberations until a more suitable time.”
“Good! Tell me about Jack. You saw him last night?”
“Yes, and he is improved beyond recognition. I would say he is very well, but his left arm is near useless after that infection. Wynn cannot be sure that he will ever regain full strength in it. You know, Wynn’s medical ability is unlikely to weigh with Langston, but my respect for him is much increased. Does Julia know of it?”
“Yes. What are Lord Edgcumbe’s plans for Captain Day?”
“There is a small house at Mount Edgcumbe, near Fort Picklecombe. You probably saw it while you were there; it is not far from a sort of Gothic pavilion with a magnificent view of the Channel. He means to offer it to Jack on condition that he gives up smuggling and marries Martha.”
“He will need some occupation.”
“The fort needs an overseer. It is little used in peacetime and is falling into disrepair since the end of the war with France. Do you think the situation will suit him?”
“A man who spends his life breaking the law is in no position to quibble when offered an honourable situation by his friends! But how will he be able to settle down without the Customs arresting him?”
“The Customs Service is grossly overworked and already the hunt has died down. It is too late to take him red-handed, or to say they followed him directly from the scene of the crime. The earl means to come here in a few days and take him under his protection back to Mount Edgcumbe.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Octavia. “Will he bring a party this time? Mrs Pengarth is not here to prepare for them and my aunt will be panicked again!”
Sir Tristram laughed. “Martha will return to the house this evening. Jack can manage now with an occasional visit.”
“Thank heaven! Miss Crosby will be relieved.”
He looked enquiringly and she told him of Matilda Crosby’s complaints, Julia’s set-down and Raeburn’s confession. He whooped with laughter, blue devils forgotten.
They crossed another lane and entered the woods. The air was still, damp, rich with odours of leaf mould and sap. From the bottom of the steep slope to their left came the sound of rushing water. A squirrel dashed past them, raced up a tall, straight larch and sat scolding them.
The centre of the path was black mud, but the edges, less worn by foot and hoof, were drier. Octavia balanced her way along the narrow strip with an occasional helping hand from Sir Tristram, who strode on regardless of the mire splashing his top boots. They descended the gentle slope until the path doubled back in a hairpin bend, where a rough bench invited them to pause awhile.
“Am I going too fast for you, sir?” asked Octavia in mock concern. “Here is a place where you may rest.”
“Set here for those going uphill!”
“Come and sit down. Listen!”
The stream in the valley splashed and gurgled. Invisible among the tree trunks, a woodpecker hammered, paused and hammered again. The sounds only accentuated the hushed peacefulness.
“How quiet it is. I dread going back to London.” She made a moue of distaste. “But that is a bridge I will not cross until I come to it. Shall we go on?”
The path sloped more steeply now. Below them they could see where it doubled back again. As they neared the next bend, Sir Tristram showed her a precipitous shortcut that he and Lord William had always taken as boys.
“We had to hang on to those bushes, there and there, on the way down,” he pointed out. “It is more of a scramble than a walk.”
“It must cut off at least a hundred yards.”
“An important difference when you are twelve or fourteen years old and always in a hurry. In actual fact it cuts off nothing, for the bridge over the stream is very close to the bend.”
“But it is more fun. Let us go that way!”
“If you like, but I must warn you that we invariably returned home with muddy seats to our breeches.”
“I told you, I am wearing my mud-coloured dress.”
“Then allow me to go first, to catch you if you fall.” He started down, sliding, running a few steps, catching at branches to slow his descent then turning to see her progress. She followed, lifting her skirts a few inches with one hand and reaching for the bushes with the other.
The last few feet were still steeper. Sir Tristram bounded down to the lower path and turned to steady her. She let go of her skirts to grasp a branch on the wrong side, missed her footing, and slid helplessly down the muddy slope to an inevitable collision.
She knocked his feet from under him. He landed full-length on top of her, breaking his fall with his arms just enough to let her breathe.
For a long moment he gazed deep into her eyes, then he bent his head and very gently kissed her lips.
At once he rolled aside and stood up. A deep flush staining his cheekbones, he helped her up. Too astounded to speak, she brushed ineffectually at her skirts.
“Miss Gray, I most humbly beg your pardon,” he said, not looking at her. “That was inexcusable of me.”
“Oh, no!” Her breathing was uneven. “It was only a brotherly—no—a cousinly kiss.”
“The devil it was,” he said sombrely, then recollected himself. “You are not hurt? I must have been crazy to let you use that path.”
She looked straight at him. “I enjoyed it,” she said.
They walked on, not touching, she puzzling over his “devil” and he wondering just what it was she had enjoyed.
The mill stream was right beside them now, and very soon they came to the wooden bridge over it. On the other bank was a lush green meadow, with scabious, purple knapweed and oxeye daisies growing amid the long grass. At the far end stood several stone buildings.
A donkey grazed near the stream. When it saw them it ambled over to investigate and stood still while Octavia stroked its velvety neck.
“Perhaps I could learn to ride on a donkey,” she said. “It is not so far to fall.”
“An excellent idea.” Sir Tristram had recovered his countenance sufficiently to smile at her. “The ears are big enough to catch hold of if you lose your seat. This fellow will be busy as soon as the cider apples ripen, but we may easily find another.”
As they approached the mill buildings a medley of sounds reached them: a deep rumble, hammering, clanging, a rhythmic rasp and, now and then, a peculiar hiss.
The wheelwright and blacksmith between them proved responsible for the hiss. They were shrinking tyres of red-hot iron onto wooden wheels by pouring cold water over them. Steam rose in clouds, hiding the red, sweating faces of the craftsmen.
The sight of the hot metal brought back memories of Captain Day’s agony, and Octavia was glad to move on to t
he saw-pit. The bottom sawyer was invisible in a cloud of sawdust as he and his mate above pulled the long saw rhythmically up and down, turning logs into planks.
The workshops of saddler, carpenter, and mason followed, and then they went into the ciderhouse, where the little donkey would soon be walking round and round, turning a wheel to crush the apples. A door at the back opened onto the huge mill wheel; its steady rumble sent a constant vibration through the building.
In the mill itself, next door, Sir Tristram explained the working of the wheels and cogs and shafts that turned the great millstones to grind grain into flour.
Octavia was fascinated by everything, and full of questions. The baronet answered as best he could, referring often to the way things were done in Gloucestershire. At last he laughingly confessed that she had wrung him dry of knowledge.
“Besides,” he said, pulling out his watch, “watching all this labour has made me amazingly hungry. I sent a message to the miller’s wife first thing this morning to ask her if she could provide bread and cheese at midday, and it is nearly two, so let us see whether she has complied.”
The miller’s cottage stood close by. Its garden was gay with sweet William, love-in-a-mist and candytuft, and a yellow climbing rose ran riot above the front door, blossoms nodding in the gusty wind. Inside they found a cosy kitchen and a table set with bread and cheese, not to mention Cornish pasties and blackcurrants with clotted cream and a tall earthen pitcher of cider.
Octavia looked at the latter mistrustfully, and was happy to accept a glass of primrose wine instead.
While they ate, Sir Tristram talked about Dean Park, about his staff and tenants and neighbours. Octavia ventured to ask about his family, and found out at last why he had spent so much of his youth with the Edgcumbes.
His father had been a diplomat and spent little time in England. His mother had died young, of yellow fever, in some foreign port, and he and his sister had lived with their respective godparents, there being no suitable relatives. He scarcely knew his sister, who was several years older and had married her godmother’s son.
Octavia’s eavesdropping in the chapel had taught her his opinion of his brother-in-law. It had been the reason for his sudden decision to marry. That, she felt, was a delicate subject, and fearful of mentioning something she ought not to know, she turned the subject to her own family.
Seven brothers and sisters with families of their own provided plenty of material for amusing anecdotes. Sir Tristram was soon helpless with laughter at the exploits of her nieces and nephews.
“You always make me laugh,” he said, wiping his eyes.
Octavia realised with surprise that it was true. She could not recall ever having made anyone at home laugh. In fact, in spite of boasting to Julia that she was used to take part in political discussions, she never said very much of anything at home. She was becoming a shocking chatterbox.
Not unnaturally, this thought made her fall silent. Sir Tristram looked at her questioningly, puzzled at the effect of his words, but said nothing. Overcoming their hospitable hostess’s reluctance to be paid, he settled with her and they went out into the meadow.
“Shall we walk farther along the valley?” he suggested. “There is plenty of time before we need return.”
She agreed. They went back over the little bridge and followed the path beside the stream. Octavia averted her eyes when they passed the spot where she had fallen, and he did not comment. They walked for the most part in silence, though he did point out a mossy tree trunk lying across the stream from which he and Lord William had frequently fallen into the water.
They came to an elaborate stone dam, where the stream was divided into two branches. The upper branch ran in a conduit to the mill wheel, which it turned by falling on it from above. Sir Tristram had explained the system back at the mill and now passed the dam and pond lost in thought. Reaching the hamlet of Newhouses, he turned back without consulting Octavia, then came to himself with a start.
“I beg your pardon! I have so often walked to this point and no farther that I do it without thought. Do you care to go on?”
She smiled and shook her head, and he soon returned to his reverie. Walking beside him, for even in his concentration he never outpaced her, she took pleasure in his company, the exercise, the woods and rushing stream. She resolutely refused to think of anything else.
As they passed the mill and went on down the valley, the stream grew wider and slower and began to meander between reedbeds. A double-arched stone bridge crossed it, but they turned the other way, going towards the Tamar and Cotehele Quay.
“I must go away,” announced Sir Tristram abruptly as the buildings by the quay came into sight. “Ten days, a fortnight, I cannot be sure. You must do something for me while I am gone: do not let Julia elope with Wynn.”
“If I can,” said Octavia, heavyhearted.
Chapter 20
The Tamar was shrinking as the tide ebbed. A flock of tiny sandpipers dashed back and forth across the newly exposed mudflats, stopping as one to poke busily then darting away again, their legs moving too fast to see.
The only vessels at the wharves were a fishing dory and another rowboat. Three salmon fishers sat outside the Edgcumbe Arms, mending their nets. One of the three hailed Sir Tristram.
“Ahoy, zir!” He was a wrinkled, bent old man who looked as if the river damp had got into his bones long since. He hobbled up to Sir Tristram and Octavia. “Oy be afeard oy zees trouble acomin’, zir,” he announced, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.
Following the gesture, Octavia saw he was pointing up the path through the woods towards Sir Richard’s chapel.
The other men were nodding solemnly, and a dock-worker, coming out of the tavern, joined them.
“What is it, Ned Poldhu?” asked the baronet. “Are the dragoons returned?”
“Nay, zir,” he cackled. “T’other way about. ‘Tis Cap’n Day’s men acome to zee how he do go on. Stopped fer a mug o’ zider, they did, an’ zum vool did tell ‘em as there be a ‘Ziseman livin’ in the chapel.”
Sir Tristram looked at the rest of the men.
“Aye, zir, ‘tis true,” confirmed one, “ ‘zeptin’ it were rum as they did drink.”
‘Twere owld Barney,” said another, tapping his fore-head significantly. “Telled ‘em ‘bout the Customs lieutenant acomin’ upriver all the time, beggin’ your pardon, miss.”
Octavia blushed fiery red and hoped he did not mean what she thought he meant.
“Waren’t nowt we could zay,” shrugged the wharfman. “Them bein’ rarin’ to go after the gentleman.”
“When did they leave?” asked Sir Tristram sharply.
“Vive, ten minute agone. Armed, they was, and right cantankersome.”
“They know me. I do not fear them. Octavia, I hope you will come for your cousin’s sake, but stay behind me.”
She had little choice, since he set off up the track at a pace she could not match. The path was straight for some distance so she could see him, and soon spotted the sailors from the Seamew.
Sir Tristram called to them but they ignored him, or did not hear. Their rolling, unhurried gait carried them round a curve and out of sight.
Octavia picked up her skirts and ran until she was breathless. Her legs felt like lead. She walked a few steps, trotted, then walked again. Sir Tristram disappeared round the curve. The way was uphill now and she could run no more, but she was close enough to hear the men shouting.
Julia screamed.
At last she reached the clearing by the chapel. Julia was standing against the door, her arms spread as if to defend it against all comers. Sir Tristram was nearly at her side, his mouth open, his voice indistinguishable from those of the four smugglers, who were all still shouting. They had drawn pistols and cutlasses and were advancing in a semicircle on the chapel. Octavia recognised the piratical face of the one-eyed Yorkshireman, and hook-handed Dan Small.
Julia’s high voice cut through the clamour.
“James, jump!”
Everyone fell silent. There was a rustling in the bushes.
“Good-bye, my love!” called James.
The sailors rushed towards the sound. Sir Tristram and Julia ran after them. Octavia followed slowly, still breathless, a grin dawning.
By the time she joined the others at the top of the cliff, the smugglers and Sir Tristram were all in whoops. Julia alternated between scolding them and calling words of encouragement towards the river.
Octavia looked down. James Wynn sprawled on his back in the mud, his legs buried above the knees. As she watched, he attempted to lever himself up. His arm sank in to the shoulder and he pulled it free with a great deal of difficulty and a horribly glutinous noise.
“Help him!” wailed Julia.
Biting her lip to stop herself joining the laughter, Octavia hurried to her cousin’s side and put an arm about her shoulders.
“We’ll rescue him, never fear,” she promised. “The tide is still ebbing so there is no immediate danger. Oh dear, whatever possessed him to jump over?”
“Sir Richard Edgcumbe escaped that way,” said Julia with injured dignity. “I shall never believe another romantic legend as long as I live.”
“I was afraid you had misinterpreted the story. Sir Richard only threw his cap over, and even then he must have known it was high tide for his enemies would never have been misled by a cap lying on the mud!”
“James said they are Bow Street runners come to arrest him for the article he wrote, so I told him he must swim across the river and find somewhere to hide.” Julia burst into tears. “And I was so afraid he would drown and now everyone is laughing at him and they will catch him and take him away to prison.
“No, Ju, they are smugglers! They think he is a spy for the Customs and Excise. Sir Tristram will tell them he is not, as soon as he stops guffawing.” She glared at the baronet.
“But why should they think he is a spy? And why should they believe Sir Tristram that he is not?”
“He has been seen talking to Lieutenant Cardin. It seems everyone at Cotehele knows James is here, and probably why, but the smugglers misunderstood what some old man said. I daresay he was jesting about our suitors.”
