“There is no risk in airships,” Maggie blurted. “They go to the Antipodes and back regularly. And quickly. How long does a seagoing ship take to make that journey?”
Grandmother had recovered her ability to speak. “Are you implying that the Seacombe vessels are not only slow, but outmoded?”
“Of course not, Grand—”
“I suggest you restrict your remarks to that limited number of subjects about which you have some knowledge.”
“But I do have—”
“Elizabeth, would you like another cup of this coffee, though it came to us by outmoded methods?”
“I—no, thank you, I’ve had—”
“Margaret, please pour Miss Seacombe another, if you would.”
Crushed, feeling ashamed though she did not understand why she should, Maggie reached for the silver coffee pot. But the Lady got there first.
“Maggie, you have not touched yours. Allow me to refresh the ladies’ cups.”
Moving gracefully, the Lady proceeded to pour. Once she had finished with the coffee, the men came in and before Maggie’s wondering eyes, the Lady not only took over the role of hostess, she became the center of attention, seeing to the comfort of the gentlemen, tucking cushions behind the Baron’s back, making jokes with Mr. Malvern and Tigg. In fact, Grandmother was rather put in the shade and had no choice but to retreat to a corner with Lady Charlotte, from whence pointed comments emerged with some regularity and no audience.
When Maggie finished her trifle—which was first rate, being stuffed with plum jam, ladyfingers, fruit, and mounds of whipped cream, and flavored with what tasted like whiskey—she looked around for Lizzie. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but this whole evening seemed to be exceedingly peculiar, and she wanted to talk it over. Lizzie could be relied upon to separate fact from fancy.
But Lizzie was no longer in the room—and neither was Tigg.
Those rascals! Well, if they could make themselves scarce, then so could she. Maggie devoted half a thought to taking Claude’s elbow and spiriting him out of the room to join them in a lark, but he was deep in conversation with Mr. So-and-so. Never mind. She would find Lizzie and Tigg and it would be like old times, exploring together and making smart asides about the adults that they would never say to their faces.
A quick search of the upper floor and the gallery proved fruitless. It was a lovely night; chances were good that they had gone out into the garden. Perhaps they were even admiring the moonrise over the sea from the cliff-top.
Why had they not invited her? It was most unfair. If she could not rise to Maggie’s defense when Grandmother had snapped at her for asking perfectly reasonable questions, then at the very least Lizzie could include her so that she might be soothed and made cheerful again by their company.
Maggie emerged onto the terrace and closed the French doors behind her. No one was there but the footman, smoking the tail end of somebody’s cigarillo in the shadows by the ivy-covered wall. Her steps were light upon the flagged stairs, and then she reached the lawn, her skirts held up in both hands so the hems would not be soaked with dew as she ran for the rose garden.
But Lizzie and Tigg were not in this pretty spot, which, now that she thought about it, should have been obvious from the first. Tigg was not what you might call a rose garden sort of person. Lizzie wasn’t, either. No, it was quite certain that they were out on the cliff-top, where he could see the sky and point out the lights of the Royal Aeronautic Corps on St. Michael’s Mount.
Fortunately, the moon shed plenty of light, and she remembered the path from Claude’s brief tour of the grounds that morning. When she cleared the ornamental trees that formed the border between the order of the garden and the long grass and hillocks of the cliff-top, the wind off the sea brushed her face. Beneath her feet, she could swear she felt the boom of the waves breaking against the foot of the cliff below.
And there they were.
A bench had been placed about twenty feet back from the edge, and Lizzie and Tigg were seated upon it. Rather close together. Perhaps Lizzie was cold. Oh, she should have thought to bring one of the lovely soft shawls that Alice had brought them from the Duchy of Venice! But it was too l—
Before Maggie could take another step or announce her presence or do anything but gape, Tigg turned toward Lizzie—Lizzie lifted her gaze to his—and he leaned down and kissed her.
9
Maggie clapped both hands to her mouth.
She needn’t have—with the wind and the sound of the sea, they could not hear her gasp, and even if it had been as silent as a church, they did not look as though they were aware of very much but their own two selves.
Lizzie and Tigg!
Goodness gracious. It was one thing to suspect that they no longer harbored the feelings of companions at arms. It was quite another to witness a moment that should be completely private and where three was most definitely a crowd.
She must go away before one of them saw her.
A return to the house by the drawing room or front door was out of the question. Her only choice was to go sideways and hope that she might circle around to one of the servants’ entrances and slip upstairs to her room. Fleet as a hare, she ran to the west, where the headland upon which the house stood dipped down toward the beach.
The beach. That’s where she would go for a few blessed minutes, where there was no one to criticize, no one to look amused behind china cups, where she could enjoy the pleasure of her own company while she gave Lizzie and Tigg enough time to recollect themselves and go back inside before the Lady realized they were gone.
The heath and clumps of thrift on the slope down to the beach seemed to separate rather naturally into a path, though she had to gather up her skirts and crouch on the last bit, where the soil thinned into solid rock and she was forced to pick her way down more carefully. In the daylight, this would be nothing, but at night, the shadows were inky and the footing uncertain.
A sensible person would have climbed back up and gone to bed. But Maggie was not in the mood to be sensible. In fact, she hoped there was a good collection of smooth tumbled rocks on this beach that she could fling into the sea until she wore herself out.
The tide seemed to be on the ebb, which gave her quite a stretch of wet sand to walk upon. Her slippers would be ruined. Perhaps she would go into town and get new ones, and charge them to the Seacombe account. This happy prospect lifted her spirits somewhat. It would not do to spoil her dress, however, so she looped her skirts over one arm and paced closer to the cliff.
Somewhere above sat Lizzie and Tigg. If they ventured closed to the edge and leaned over, would they be able to see her? For it was certain that she could not see very much up there, no matter how she craned her neck.
She would not go far. If she rounded the headland in the opposite direction, she would find herself on the far reaches of the harbor, and that would not do at this time of night. So she skirted farther to the west, in the shadow of the cliff, until at her feet the cliff base tailed off into a nice scree.
And here were her rocks.
For some time she amused herself flinging fist-sized round stones into the water, aiming for the foamy tops of the waves as they peaked and crashed. Then, for good measure, she flung a few at the darkness of the cliff itself.
Clack. Clack. Plonk.
Oh dear. That wasn’t right. Could there be something other than solid rock in those shadows? It had not shattered, not with a sound like that, but … perhaps there was a cave?
At Gwynn Place, not so far up the coast, there were caves in the cliffs, and the Lady had said that as a child, she had found pirate silver in them.
Oh, for a light!
For the moon had not yet traveled enough across the night sky to shed much light on this part of the cliff. She peered into the dark, seeking what had caused that hollow sound.
She bent and tossed another rock. Plonk.
Definitely a cave. A deeper darkness seemed to lie on the cliff’
s face, and as she put a hand on the rock to steady herself, she felt something strange. Her fingers examined ridges and whorls, spaced in a regular pattern. Carving—or chiseling, at the very least, all around the edge of the opening in the stone. How very curious. And then her seeking fingers found a niche—and in the niche were several familiar shapes.
Moonglobes.
She shook one into life and held it up. Its cool light illuminated the carvings in the rock, which resolved themselves into stones—an arch—a door.
A huge door, large enough to admit a landau, or a ketch or other small sailing boat. But who would make a door in the bottom of a cliff? Some long-dead Seacombe, or someone from years before? For the carvings were old—perhaps hundreds of years old, covered with lichen and moss, the lower ones nearly obliterated by the pounding of the sea. At low tide, half the door would be under water, allowing only a shallow arch for a boat to glide in.
If this were not a pirate cave, which tended not to announce themselves with carvings and stone arches, then was it still in use by those above?
Maggie couldn’t resist. She’d just have a quick look-see, and then she’d go back to the house.
The floor was sandy, with granite protruding up through it like the caves at Gwynn Place. But to the left was a landing-stair, slick with the green weed of low tide. Carefully, watching where she placed her sodden slippers, Maggie mounted the stair to a wide stone quay.
Holding the moonglobe up high, Maggie surveyed the chamber. It was dry, so the tide did not rise this far, but far from clean. The droppings of sea-birds coated the edges of the landing, as though it made a good place to roost, and the skeletons of long-eaten fish lay toward the end. A pile of empty crates was stacked beyond that, and a tarred rope had been carefully coiled to the height of a person’s knee. Mooring hooks protruded from the stones on the edge, so that boats could be tied up. Water dripped in the darkness, and the crash of the surf sounded hollow, as though this cave were being pounded from the outside.
The whole cave smelled of seaweed, rotting fish and old guano, and the damp of centuries gone by.
At the far end of the stone landing, another set of steps chiseled out of the rock itself wound up into darkness. She would bet her week’s allowance that it led up into the house.
How very exciting! Had long-dead Seacombes made their fortune by bringing in goods by boat to their home? Or was the presence of the cave simply a coincidence, and had come with the property when the first Seacombe had bought it?
In any case, she now understood the meaning of the arch and wave in the family crest.
The incoming wave.
She could not see past the circle of light thrown by the moonglobe. There was nothing wrong with her hearing, however. The sound of the surf had become louder. Either the wind had dropped, or …
Cautiously, she looked over the side of the stone landing.
Where her footprints had been in the sand, there was now a glassy sheet of water, lapping against the rocks. Cold fear arrowed through her stomach. How was this possible? The tide could not have come in this fast, could it? But then, she had no experience with tides. The closest she had come was the shallow back-and-forth of the Thames, or the beach at Gwynn Place, and there the Lady always made good and sure they were up on the cliff path before it turned.
She could not get out the way she had come in, unless she waded or swam, in which case she would ruin the only evening dress she possessed.
Her only salvation was the evidence before her eyes of the dry stone dock. But still, she didn’t much like the prospect of spending the night on it, curled up in the stink, waiting for the tide to go back out again.
Maggie, my girl, you cannot go down. You cannot stay. Therefore, you must go up, and hope there is a door at the top with a lock on this side.
She hoisted her skirts up over her arm more securely, lifted the moonglobe, and began to climb.
The staircase, while not as tight a corkscrew as the tower stairs at Colliford Castle, was still fairly steep. It was wide, though, presumably to accommodate a man carrying a crate like the ones down below. She tried to count the steps, but lost the count somewhere around one hundred twenty. But she had no choice now. It was go on or sleep with soaked feet on a bed of stone.
An eternity of climbing passed, in which the muscles of her legs, though fit, began first to complain and then to wobble. Just when she was convinced that one more step would bring utter collapse, the moonglobe showed her a door.
Thank heaven above.
Gasping, her free hand pressed to her side, Maggie took a moment to recover from the climb, wishing not for the first time that she had not laced her corset so tightly. Henceforth, she would forego fashion in favor of practicality, because it seemed that in her case, there were far more opportunities to succeed at the latter than the former.
Finally, she pushed herself off the rough granite of the wall and examined the door. There was no knob, only a curious configuration of blackened iron that did not look as though it had been used in years. But looks, as anyone could tell you, were deceiving.
In the light of the moonglobe, she studied it. To the unskilled eye, it would be utterly perplexing—a series of gears and clockwork that appeared to have no central focus, no means of triggering entry. Which would make sense—if more than one person were using the dock and stair, keys could easily be lost or stolen. But the key to this lock was in the memory … or in one’s powers of observation and past experience with locks.
Maggie leaned in and followed the configuration backward from the latch. Was that it? Could it be that simple—a figure eight, with the trigger point here—?
Maggie pressed what appeared to be a blackened nail head. It gave under her thumb and the mechanism began to move, its parts clicking and creaking and at one point jamming before she gave it a thump with her fist and it lurched into motion once more.
Thunk! The mechanical lock lumbered to a stop in its terminal position.
Maggie pushed on the door and, moonglobe held rather in the manner of a stone ready for throwing, stepped through.
10
Lady Claire Trevelyan allowed Mrs. Seacombe to see the last of her guests off at the door, and found Andrew Malvern out on the terrace, gazing over the gardens and enjoying the scent of the sea mixed with roses and a lingering hint of cigarillo smoke.
“I have never been so glad to see the end of an evening, and considering my mother’s fondness for society, that is saying something,” she said as she joined him.
“It was quite the performance, I must say. I had not believed you capable of it.” Andrew offered her his arm and they paced down the steps and into the garden, where their conversation might be less likely to be overheard.
“It put quite a strain on my ingenuity,” she admitted. “But I was so angry that I could not think how else to put a stop to it. How dare she treat Maggie that way? Did you hear her? Margaret, clear away these cups. Margaret, wipe up your mess. Let me introduce Margaret, Elizabeth’s companion.” Claire’s voice rose and cracked in an imitation of Mrs. Seacombe’s tones. “She was lucky I merely displaced her shining star and did not up-end the coffee pot over her head.”
“You are too well bred for that.”
“Sadly, yes.” Claire made an effort to rein in the temper that had risen once more in the re-enactment of the offending remarks. “And I would not want Maggie to stoop to such behavior, either. I have grave doubts about the wisdom of our going up to Gwynn Place and leaving the girls here. It cannot be healthy. Maggie must be sensible of the difference her grandparents are making between them.”
“If she is, then you must give her credit for being more of a lady than her grandmother, and not showing it.”
“Yes, but she cannot be expected to stand there and meekly take the slings and arrows aimed at her. She has not been brought up to accept belittlement or unfairness.”
“Perhaps the question we ought to ask is, why are they doing this? Surely they would
not hold her parentage against an innocent young girl who is not only lovely, but accomplished as well?”
She squeezed his arm as they walked slowly among the roses, her heart swelling with affection. “Have I told you lately how glad I am that you understand all that goes on between me and the Mopsies?”
With a pat of his hand upon her own gloved one, he said, “Not lately, but I am glad you honor me with your confidence, Claire. Sometimes I forget that there are only seven years between you—and that you are not in fact their older sister. It cannot be easy sometimes to know which is the right course in their upbringing, even now that they are out in society.”
“I have had many a white night worrying about them, it is true—especially after the recent events at Colliford Castle. But to return to Maggie, yes, I am certain that the Seacombes are making her pay for what they see as their daughter’s shortcomings. Why else make it plain that they view her as merely a companion for Lizzie—a drudge, someone they must put up with for the sake of the legitimate child?”
“Will you speak to them?”
“I fear I must. I cannot let this go on, even if it results in our being turned out of the house before Wednesday.”
The sound of low voices at the other end of the garden stopped her, and in the moonlight she recognized a familiar white dress. But who was this at Lizzie’s side?
“Lizzie—Tigg—are you enjoying an evening stroll as well?” Andrew said as they met in the middle, by the sundial.
“Yes, we are.” Both Lizzie’s hands were wrapped around Tigg’s arm, and their bodies swayed toward one another in a manner that told Claire that her eyes had not been deceived earlier. Lizzie couldn’t keep a smile of womanly pleasure from glimmering in and out like the sun in clouds, and Tigg’s gaze only strayed from her face when it was absolutely necessary for the sake of politeness.
Magnificent Devices 6: A Lady of Spirit Page 6
