“Then,” announced Harold Bickmore, looking as impish as a school boy, “we must rectify the situation immediately, Miss Collins!”
Adam turned the knob and leaned on the door. Indeed, it was locked. “Is there a key?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then we’ll break the door down or pick the lock,” said Harold. He saw the look of alarm on Olivia’s face. “I jest, of course. Perhaps the master key – surely that would work?”
“Well, I suppose we could try,” Olivia answered. “I don’t know if this lock is the same as the rest in the house.”
She fished out the key from the pocket inside her skirts. The key would not turn.
“Are there any other keys in the house?” Adam asked.
“Mr. Fitzgerald took the full set of household keys with him, but I found one in the bottom of a vase I was packing away. I didn’t think anything of it, since it didn’t work on the other locks. I will have to go back downstairs for it.”
She retrieved the key from a small decorative casket that sat on the mantel over the fireplace in her room. She handed it to Adam on her return.
To her surprise, the key worked. The mortise lock’s deadbolt retracted with a sluggish clack.
“This is rather exciting,” offered Harold in an exaggerated stage whisper. “Who knows what skeletons will be revealed.”
“Then I’d better go in first,” Adam said, matching the tone, “because I know how frightened you are of such things.” Olivia put a hand to her lips to smother the giggles.
Adam turned the handle and the door opened on stiff hinges. He stepped into the room and she and Harold followed.
Sunlight from the southwest made the space bright and stuffy. The front corner of what was obviously two knocked-together rooms bowed into a curve, the outward expression of which was the tower.
In the center of the circle scribed by the tower was an iron spiral staircase in aged yellowed-white that disappeared into a hole in the ceiling. The walls of the large combined room may have been painted once, but one and a half decades of sunlight from the unfurnished windows had bleached any color out.
Adam ventured in a few steps but slowed as one of the floorboards creaked.
“You’d best stay there, Miss Olivia, until we can ensure the floorboards are still solid,” Harold advised.
She watched the two men circle the outside of the room and then work their way in to the staircase. They glanced at one another as if silently debating who would climb first. It was Adam. The structure groaned as it took his weight.
Harold sobered. “Careful, Adam, the stairs aren’t bolted to the floor. They’re only fixed up top I think.”
Olivia stepped further into the room and watched Adam take each step with caution. He disappeared into the hole above. A moment later, a shaft of light filled the room and fresh air breezed in for the first time in who knew how long, bringing with it the smell of the sea and swirling the dust from the floor.
The staircase shifted slightly, suggesting Adam had stepped up onto the roof of the Kenstec House tower.
After a moment, Harold hollered, “Ahoy up there!”
There was no immediate reply. He and Olivia exchanged glances before Harold took one step upwards, then another.
The staircase rattled with additional weight. Adam reappeared and descended part way down.
“The view is majestic up here!”
“Is it safe for Miss Olivia to climb up?” Harold asked.
“It is.” Adam ducked down so he could see her. “Just come up slowly. The stairs are well fixed at the top. But stay away from the edge when you come out. All that’s guarding it is a decorative iron railing and it’s only shin high. If you stay in the middle, you’ll be fine. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
Olivia shook her head.
Harold backed down to the bottom of the stairs and held his hand out to Olivia. “After you,” he said. “You’ll be quite safe between the two of us.”
Olivia lifted the hem of her skirt and placed a foot on the step and tested her weight. It was solid enough. She glanced up and smiled at Adam who peered down through the three foot by three foot opening. When she drew near, he reached down to take her hand and aided her final step up onto the roof.
The wind hit her as she emerged and threatened to tug her hair from her chignon. She drew close to Adam, staying in the lee of his body. Harold joined them. He whistled. “You’re right about the view.”
The hatchway emerged at the very center of the tower roof, a circular space about eighteen feet in diameter encompassed by the low railing Adam had mentioned. The roof itself, which would have become the floor of an enclosed structure if a cupola had ever been installed, was covered against the weather with thickly tarred canvas.
Olivia felt a strange exhilaration at being at such a height with the open air all around. Adam lightly rested a hand on her shoulder and pointed to the southwest at a cluster of buildings near the edge of the estuary. “There’s Falmouth.”
The beauty of it was breathtaking. It was almost like she was on an island, what with the river Fal to her right and the Carrick Roads to her left, spilling into the Channel which met the horizon. Beyond that, close – perhaps too close – was France and all of Napoleon’s forces ready to strike. She shivered.
“Cold?” Adam asked. She shook her head, not wanting to tear her eyes away from the splendor of the scenery before her.
“Look at this – a perfect view of the semaphore stations at Falmouth and Feock,” said Harold, stepping confidently closer to the edge. “It’s a pity we don’t have a telescope. We could find out the latest news from London.”
“Providing we knew what it meant. The messages are coded.”
The thought of codes and signals meant little to Olivia who was more than content to take in the view. As she watched, one of the twin-masted ships broke away from the cluster of vessels by the mouth of the river and pushed its way further up the Fal. She imagined its voyage at the end of another successful run, bringing news and goods from the New World – and avoiding the French Fleet, which was not averse to taking civilian ships as well as military ones.
“Such a pity the cupola was never built. It was meant for a view such as this,” she said. “I’m glad I got to see it before I leave.”
“So soon?” asked Harold.
She glanced at Adam’s suntanned face. Was that a frown?
“Not yet,” she replied to Harold, “but I hope I’ll be offered a post after the summer.”
“Well, perhaps we can come back again for a sunset viewing if the lawyer doesn’t mind us making use of the place,” he said. “What’s his name – Fitzsimon? Fitzgibbon? Fitzgerald?”
Olivia nodded on the last and raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
“I shall ask when I next see him, but I can’t imagine he’d have any objection.”
“Why don’t we head back downstairs?” Adam suggested. “I’d wager it’s about noon and Harold here promised us a quality picnic in the garden. It looks much less windy down there.”
Harold and Olivia descended the iron spiral staircase once more, its foot creaking against the floorboards. Adam closed the rooftop door and came down. Olivia shook her head, getting used to the silence again instead of the noise of the wind rushing above.
They locked the room once more and headed downstairs. The hall clock ticked the minutes while the pops and groans from the house settling gave the impression of being inside a living thing.
“You’re a braver soul than me, living here on your own Miss Olivia,” said Harold. “In a place like this, I can entertain the thought of restless spirits.”
Chapter Sixteen
Adam picked up a pencil and tapped it restlessly on the edge of the desk. Bassett blinked owlishly from behind thick round glasses and scowled.
“Some of us are trying to work, Hardacre!”
He put the pencil down.
“How soon did you say?”
“Two weeks.”
The set of the man’s jaw suggested he wasn’t happy with the shortened timeframe for the delivery of a set of plans for a warship that didn’t actually exist.
“Just preliminary sketches will do. Here,” Adam offered a sheaf of densely inked paper. “I’ve written down the specifications; all you have to do is draw the pretty pictures.”
Bassett let out a put upon sigh and reached for the documents.
“Leave it with me but I’m not going to promise anything.”
“He keeps saying that but he always delivers. Don’t you, Bassett?” Daniel Ridgeway stood at the top of the stairs in the upper room of Charteris House. He shot Adam a grin.
Adam pulled his feet off the forger’s desk and put them down to the floor.
The little man merely grunted a reply.
“I hope you have more to say to me than that, Mr. Bassett.”
At the sound of the feminine voice, Bassett stood bolt upright like a sailor coming to attention. Adam tried hard to suppress a laugh. Then he turned and saw who the voice belonged to and found himself momentarily without words.
He, too, rose to his feet.
The woman before him was beautiful. She had the type of figure and face the artists Thomas Gainsborough and George Romney might war over the honor of immortalizing on canvas – as they had done over Emma Hamilton a decade earlier.
The lady wore a fashionable and expensive walking dress, leaf green and trimmed with white embroidery under the bust. A light mantle sat over her shoulders, the fur trim brushing against her elbows.
Bassett leapt to his feet and rushed over to her. “Your Ladyship! You grace us with your presence,” he exclaimed.
The woman gifted her swain with a smile and a kiss to the forehead which made the man blush down to his boots. Adam couldn’t keep in his amusement any longer. He laughed and found himself under the scrutiny of the woman’s grey-green eyes as she turned to him.
Viewed more closely, Adam saw she was not as youthful as she first appeared. Her white-blonde hair – one of her most striking features – was streaked with silver-grey. Around her catlike eyes showed faint traces of lines. Adam decided she might be his age, or even slightly older.
“My dear,” said Ridgeway, approaching, “let me introduce you to our latest recruit, Adam Hardacre.”
Adam had forgotten Ridgeway was even in the room. And it hadn’t gone unnoticed. A faint smile played around the older man’s lips.
“Hardacre, you have the honor of meeting my wife, Lady Abigail. My dear – Lieutenant Adam Hardacre.”
Before Adam knew what he was doing, he found himself taking her proffered hand and bowing formally over it.
Then the thought occurred to him: Ridgeway’s wife knew about this operation? The question must have shown itself plainly on his face because the lady answered.
“Yes, you are not mistaken, Lieutenant. I’m part of what my husband likes to term ‘The King’s Rogues.’ I’m afraid intrigue is our family business.” She leaned in conspiratorially but with clear amusement in her eyes. “You might be surprised how much a man will tell a pretty woman – especially if she is an attentive listener – and how much a woman will reveal to another if they are confidantes.”
Ridgeway laughed and went to his desk. He pulled out a chair for her. She thanked him not only with words but also with a look and a smile that seemed to Adam more a private exchange between lovers than husband and wife.
Bassett, meanwhile, looked on as if about to swoon then collapsed back into his own chair as Lady Abigail sat.
She looked at Adam. “I have some news that is of interest to you, Lieutenant,” she said. “I’ve recently returned from London after making inquiries on your behalf about the girl, Constance Denton.”
Adam glanced at Ridgeway who nodded mutely to confirm he had assigned the inquiry to his wife.
“The information you received from…” Lady Abigail frowned a moment in recollection, “…Miss Olivia Collins was quite correct. Constance was delivered of a boy on the twelfth of May 1794, and she died of childbed fever ten days later, but not before giving the child a name. Christopher John Hardacre.”
Adam reeled with the news. A son! Somewhere out there was a boy who bore his name. Indeed, if he had survived infancy, he’d be a young man of nineteen or twenty now. Christopher John Hardacre.
Lady Abigail continued, “I should point out that my contacts and I are not the only ones who have been inquiring into your past.”
“Who?” The question came from Ridgeway, his tone serious. She addressed her answer to him. Any residue of flirtatious amusement was gone, her husky voice now sober.
“They don’t know, but the request for information came from the superintendent himself who simply said he’d received a letter from a family connection.”
“Do we know who?”
The lady shook her head. “I’ve asked my contacts to find out. It could be a relative, although twenty years is a long time to be following up on a long-lost connection. Perhaps, some article clerk is being thorough in trying to track down the remaining heirs since the squire’s death.”
“Then that has to be someone here in Truro. Isn’t that’s one of the local men, Denton’s family lawyer?”
“Peter Fitzgerald,” said Adam.
Two sets of eyes, one pair grey-green, the other blue, looked at him expectantly.
“I suppose it makes sense. He’s the family’s lawyer. I met him briefly about a month ago. Through Olivia…Miss Collins…I know he’s dealing with probate on behalf of the family. He’s an officious fellow, but harmless enough.”
“Be mindful of him anyway,” Ridgeway instructed.
Lady Abigail rose and so did every man in the room. She kissed her husband on the cheek.
“Will you be home early? Marie and her friend are expected back from boarding school this afternoon.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve missed our petite-fille since she didn’t come home for the Easter holidays.”
Again, the Ridgeways shared a look – one of a husband and wife, of proud father and mother, and yet of lovers still. For a moment, Adam wondered if he would swoon like Bassett – or become violently ill, a cynical voice inside offered.
He swallowed that voice down.
“Is there any way of finding out what happened to the boy?” The question came unbidden before Adam could censor it.
He now had Ridgeway’s full attention.
“Are you sure you want all that trouble?”
Adam glanced to the floor briefly. “You’re right – it was so long ago. Perhaps I am better off believing he was adopted by a good family and is earning an honest trade somewhere.”
Ridgeway gave him a look that was not without sympathy. “It’s a good fantasy to have – the last thing you’d want to learn is that he was hung as a murderer at Tyburn.”
The furrows between Adam’s eyebrows ran deep.
“Think it likely?”
Ridgeway gave a noncommittal raise of his shoulders.
“It depends on how much like his father he was.”
The Angler’s Arms barn was dressed for the troyl. Swags of greenery festooned the walls, studded with posies of wildflowers of white, yellow and shades of pink. Outside, a pig was roasting on a spit, the smell of which was already making Adam famished.
He had been looking forward to this event all week. Frankly, it was exhausting to be on alert all the time; mindful of every action in case one is watched, and watching everyone else around you, looking for a hint they might be a spy and a traitor.
But tonight was all about the simple pleasure of a country dance among friends, where he could give himself over to the moment without reserve. It would be like furlough.
He settled himself on the edge of an unopened barrel by a door near the back of the inn.
He noticed Will lurking around the back of the kitchen. They shared a nod. No doubt, the young man was waiting for his moth
er and one of her maids to leave in order to help himself to one of the fairings, a crisp, sweet and spicy ginger biscuit that had been left out to cool.
A moment later, the lad lunged out of sight a moment before emerging with two of the delicious morsels. Adam was surprised to find himself presented with half of the spoils.
The young man grinned at him.
“If Mamb catches me, I’ll tell her ye were the pilferer, then I won’t get a clip around the ear for it.”
Adam laughed. “Don’t be so sure your mother won’t give me a pinch for it either, so we’d better eat these now and leave no evidence.”
“William Bartholomew Trellow!”
The young man jumped and then winced at the sound of his full name being yelled in top voice by his mother.
“Make yourself scarce, Will. I’ll try to delay her for as long as possible,” Adam said with mock urgency.
Will didn’t require a second invitation. Adam chuckled as he watched the large young man sprint down the length of the barn and nearly lose his balance skidding on loose gravel as he rounded the corner.
He heard the sound of a woman’s footsteps and was conscious of the fairing in his hand, the smell of warm ginger reaching his nose. For a half-moment, he considered taking off after Will.
Instead, he turned, waiting to face his punishment like a man. But instead of seeing the thunderous face of Polly Trellow, he saw a vision of beauty. He immediately got to his feet.
Olivia smiled at him nervously and lightly brushed the back of her hand down the skirt of her cream dress embroidered with flowers of light blue, pink and green.
Adam held up the filched fairing. “Share this with me?”
Olivia shook her head. “Miss Lydia made a gift of this dress when she left and this is the first time I’ve worn anything so fine. I’m afraid I’ll spill something and spoil it.”
He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. He loved the way her lips parted when he did that. The dress was flattering to be sure, he considered, but it was still only a dress.
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