Margaret Dashwood's Diary

by Elliott, Anna

  “I am so terribly sorry about your brother,” I said.

  Maggie’s lip quivered at that, and she raised an already sodden handkerchief to blow her nose. “Thank you, miss. He— He were a good brother to me, always. Used to thrash any of the other boys that teased me for being slow. And just the other week, he gave me this.”

  She reached under the collar of her dress and drew out a string of orange coral beads. “That was good of him, too, wasn’t it? He knows I like pretty things. Knew, I mean,” she added, her chin jerking up and down again.

  “Very good of him,” I agreed. “It’s a lovely necklace.” It was lovely—the beads were a rich, deep colour and very well matched. Lovely, and far more expensive than someone in Tom Harmon’s position ought to have been able to afford. “Do you know where he got it?” I asked.

  For the first time, a flicker of uneasiness crept into Maggie’s watery gaze. She shook her head, hunching her shoulders as she turned to stir what looked like a pot of porridge bubbling on the kitchen’s small Franklin stove. “Dunno, miss. He never said.”

  I swallowed. For all her size, Maggie looked utterly vulnerable standing there—her tear-stained face defenceless and lost. Trying to interrogate her seemed like wantonly kicking a kitten. I had to force myself to draw in a breath and say, “Maggie—when I was here the other day, you asked me about Colonel Brandon. And then you said to tell him that he was missed back home. What did you mean?”

  “I—” Maggie’s gaze slid away from mine. I could almost see her thoughts scattering in panicked directions—like a flock of frightened birds—as she tried to think of an answer, and I felt more guilty than ever. “I— Nothing, miss. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Or if I did, I don’t remember. Now if you’ll excuse me, miss, I ought to be getting the breakfast—”

  “Maggie, please.” I stepped closer to her, my heart beating quickly. However dreadful I felt about causing Maggie added pain at such a time, she was also more or less my only hope. “This is terribly important. If you will not talk to me, other boys—boys like you brother—may die, just as he did. Now, I’m going to tell you what I think. You need not say anything. Just tell me—nod even—if I am right.”

  I took another breath. Maggie was looking at me with glazed, frightened eyes—like those of a cornered animal. But at least she had not run away. “I think that your brother Tom fell in with a gang of smugglers operating in this neighbourhood. Tom was not bad or wicked—he only wanted adventure, and a means to earn more money than he could by working with your father as a smith. And somehow or other, you got to know about it. And worried—because though you loved your brother and knew he was not bad, it troubled you to see him involved in something illegal. Something that would surely have grieved Colonel and Mrs. Brandon if they had got to hear about it.”

  Maggie’s eyes grew wider as I spoke—and when I paused, she clamped her hands over her mouth, as though trying to physically hold the words in. But they bubbled out, all the same—haltingly at first, but then in a dull, unsteady rush. “I’ve been that worried, miss, trying to think what I should do. I’ve heard the stories—terrible, they are—of what those wicked smugglers have done to the king’s men. Killed them and cut them to pieces, so they do say. And Tom’s my brother. But the Colonel and his lady have been good to me, always. Got me this job here, and there weren’t many in these parts that would give me such a good place, on account of I’m so slow.”

  I thought of what Marianne—and Colonel Brandon, for that matter—would say if they could overhear the conversation I was at that moment having, and know for what reasons I had come. “Divided loyalties are always hard.” Maggie looked at me blankly and I said, “I mean that you wished to do right by both Tom and Colonel Brandon. No one could blame you for that.”

  “Maybe so, miss.” Maggie raised her handkerchief again and scrubbed at her eyes as the rest of the story came tumbling out. Maggie had gone to visit her parents on her weekly half-day off from her duties about two months ago—and after the visit, Tom had offered to walk with her as far as the edge of the village. “On account of some of them village boys sometimes call me ‘cretin’ and throw stones.”

  On the road, they had chanced to meet some friends of Tom’s—or at least Tom seemed to be friendly with them, though Maggie had never seen any of them before.

  “They … they got to talking,” Maggie said, drawing a gulping breath. “People do talk, in front of me. They don’t think I’ll understand—even Tom. But I … sometimes I understand more than they think.”

  She drew the sleeve of her black dress across her eyes—and I had a flash of thinking how awful, how absolutely awful it must be to feel as Maggie does. To understand that she is ‘different’ through no fault of her own, and yet be unable to hope for change—to have people continually either taunting her or simply behaving as though she were not there at all.

  I could not think of a single expression of sympathy that would not only make things worse, though. So I kept silent and after another shuddering breath, Maggie went on, “They were … I didn’t get all their talk, but I could put together what they were planning, right enough. There was a new shipment of goods coming in from Weymouth the next night. And Tom and the rest were to travel down in that direction and help bring the goods inland. To see that it all got through this area without any of the king’s men finding out. Serve as tubmen and batmen was what they called it,” Maggie added.

  I nodded. “Maggie”—I felt my heartbeat speed up as I spoke the words—“do you remember what any of these friends of Tom’s looked like? Was one of them … did one of them have gypsy colouring? Dark hair and very dark eyes?”

  “A gypsy, miss?” Maggie blinked at me, but then slowly nodded. “Yes, miss. Now that you say that, there was a man like that. I was afraid, because you know what they always say about them dirty gypsies. But this one seemed all right. Young—not much older than Tom. And he didn’t laugh at me behind Tom’s back like some of the others did.”

  I felt the pit of my stomach drop, but I forced my voice to stay gentle, calm. “Maggie, do you remember the names of any of the men? Or anything else that might help in discovering who they are?”

  Maggie screwed up her face in an effort of remembrance, brow furrowed—but then, finally, she shook her head. “No, miss. Sorry. I don’t remember any of their names. There was one—an older fellow—and I didn’t like him. He had a nasty look to his eyes. I think one of the others might have called him ‘Bert’, maybe?” She frowned again. “Might have been ‘Bob’, though.”

  I held back a sigh. “I see. Thank you, Maggie. You have been very helpful, truly.”

  Maggie scrubbed at her eyes again. “You’re welcome, miss, I’m sure, if it’s done any good.” She exhaled another heavy breath, then said, raising her eyes to mine, “You said before … you said this would all help with stopping other boys like Tom from getting killed. But I don’t see how.”

  For everyone’s safety—Maggie’s, too, as much as anyone else’s—I wanted to tell her that it was all right, that she should try not to worry and leave all the rest to me. But I could not. Maggie’s life must be far too full already of people telling her not to bother with things she cannot understand—when really she has far more intelligence than people give her credit for.

  So I said, “I think that a … a friend of mine may have got involved with the smuggling, too. He is good at heart—just as Tom was. I am hoping that I can persuade him to leave the business before Colonel Brandon comes to take all the smugglers to gaol.”

  Maggie blew her nose into the handkerchief. “Well, I hope you do find him, miss.”

  “Thank you. I do, too. Now, is there anything—anything else at all that you can tell me that might help me in learning of their plans—or of where and how they operate?”

  Maggie started to shake her head again, but then stopped, frowning. “Well, miss—I don’t know as it will do any good. But there was something one of them said. It was the older man—the
one I was telling you about. And it seemed like he was giving the others orders. He said …”—the furrow between her brows deepened, and I could hear her trying to echo the man’s exact words—“he said, ‘all you have to do, lads, is see that the barrels get to the seven sisters safe and sound. The Captain’ll see to the rest.”

  “The Captain?” I repeated.

  Maggie hesitated—her broad face turning all at once secretive, closed. “Dunno, Miss.”

  “Maggie, please.” I had to clench my fingers to keep from taking her by the shoulders, and my throat ached from keeping the impatience from my tone. “If there’s anything else you know—”

  Maggie let out a shaky breath and wiped her eyes again. “It’s just I asked Tom afterwards who the Captain was—and he went white as a sheet. He didn’t think I’d been paying attention, I guess. Then he told me I wasn’t to say that name again—not to a living soul. But now Tom’s dead”—her chin jerked up and down—“and if this will really help—” Maggie gulped again, and swallowed. “Tom said something about how the Captain was the man in charge of everything—the one that gave Tom and all the rest of the boys their orders.”

  I could feel my heart racing again. “And did Tom— Did he tell you who this ‘Captain’ was?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, Miss. But he said that the Captain weren’t no common labourer. Thought it was a great joke, Tom did.” Maggie screwed up her face again in an effort to call up the memory. “He said, ‘Them gentry-folk think they’re so high and mighty and better than the rest of us. They haven’t a clue that all the time they’re sitting down to their fancy suppers with their silver spoons, there’s the greatest villain and thief in three counties sitting right there beside ’em.’”

  Later

  I have thought and thought about what Maggie told me today. I feel as though the top of my head is in danger of flying off from the sheer force of the thoughts spinning endlessly round and round.

  The Captain—the man in charge of the smuggling ring—is a gentleman, according to Maggie’s account of what Tom knew. Of course, it is not as though I have made the acquaintance of every single man of quality in the county. But at the same time, I cannot shake the likelihood that the Captain is someone whom I have met—someone I know.

  Pierre de Courtenay? Could Mr. Chalmers have actually been correct in his accusations that M. de Courtenay is a spy—and a smuggler? I should absolutely hate to think so.

  Mr. Palmer? On the surface, that possibility seems absurd to the point of farce; if I set out to imagine a less credible candidate for a master villain or spy than Mr. Palmer, I am not sure that I could. But then, he has—rather unaccountably—prolonged his and his wife’s stay in the neighbourhood. I cannot believe it is simply because he is so very concerned with Charlotte’s comfort. There is, too, the fact that he has been slipping out of the house at night. And he refused to tell me where he had gone.

  Then there is the third possibility—the one which seems to me, at this moment, to be the most likely of all. Though I cannot tell whether there is actually a convincing case to be made against him, or whether I am merely letting personal dislike colour my opinion. That, and the unquestionable fact that I did find Jamie in his grounds. I mean, of course, John Willoughby. If I do not necessarily think him a cold-hearted villain, I do believe that he might be weak enough—and fond enough of money—to betray his country by spying for France.

  I have only just managed to get away to write this all down. Marianne, for reasons best known to herself, has decided to host an impromptu party here tomorrow night—on a scale so grand it very nearly amounts to a ball—in order to welcome Colonel Brandon home.

  Knowing Colonel Brandon, I cannot imagine for a moment that he would not prefer a quiet evening at home to a grand gathering. But Marianne refused to be persuaded otherwise. So, a ball there is to be.

  One positive aspect of the affair: Elinor came by this afternoon to report that she has persuaded Eliza to attend; she can easily bring Joanna down from their cottage and put her to bed in one of the guest bedrooms. And I know that M. de Courtenay is also invited, for I wrote his invitation myself.

  Monday 28 June 1802

  My hands are still shaking—almost too much for me to write these words. I am safe in the old-fashioned grandeur of my room at Delaford House, sitting up in bed with the blankets and down-filled pillows piled around me and the portrait of Henry the 8th once again smirking at me from over the mantel.

  But I keep half expecting at any moment that it will all prove a mere delusion: that bed, papered walls, scowling king, and all will melt away, and I will find myself back in the forest grove with my arms pinned painfully behind me and the point of a knife pricking my throat.

  I keep telling myself that it is ridiculous to feel frightened now, when it is all over; at the time, I was actually much too angry to be really afraid. Despite my efforts, though, my fingers keep going of their own accord to touch the thin cut just under my chin. And yet incredibly it is not really that or the attendant memories making my hands shake now.

  Since Colonel Brandon is to arrive tomorrow, tonight was more or less my last opportunity for putting my half-formed plans into effect. Though it was not until I was on my way—wrapped in my darkest cloak and trying not to stumble as I made my way in the dark towards the north woods—that I realised precisely how half-formed my plans were. There were a dozen ways in which my undertaking might go wrong, or simply come to nothing at all: ‘Seven sisters’ might not refer to the circle of seven standing stones after all, to name but one.

  Or tonight might not be a night when the smugglers planned to meet. That seemed the most glaring flaw in my plans of all. It is not as though I can claim intimate knowledge of how a smuggling operation is run—but I could not suppose that Jamie and the others would obligingly gather at the standing stones night upon night, waiting for me to find them.

  Still, all day after leaving Elinor, I felt as though ants were crawling all over my skin, my every nerve stretched tight with the urge to do something—anything. And walking out to the standing stones was far better than tossing and turning in bed.

  Luck was with me. Or rather, I am not exactly certain that I can call it luck, considering the way the night very nearly ended. But at least the smugglers were there.

  I was halfway up the small hill that surmounts the standing stones’ clearing when I heard the men’s voices and froze, my heart lurching sickeningly hard against my ribcage. The voices were loud, angry and rough-sounding. And it sounds absurd, but until that moment, I had not actually considered what I should do if I found any of the smuggling gang. Just finding them seemed impossible enough. But there, standing in the shadows of the moonlit forest with my pulse beating to the ends of my fingertips, I realised for the first time that I could scarcely stroll into the clearing, introduce myself, and then add, And by the by, Colonel Brandon is coming to hunt you all down tomorrow, I thought you might like to know.

  I did not even know for certain that Jamie himself would be there.

  The next moment put an end to that question, though—and to my moment’s hesitation, as well—as I drew close enough to make out actual words.

  “Think ye can swindle me, ye dirty gypsy?”

  The voice was rough and uneducated—and I thought oddly familiar. Though I had small attention to spare for trying to determine where I had heard it before.

  Jamie—his voice, at least, I recognised at once—said in a surly tone, “A fifth share of all profits. That’s what we agreed on.”

  “That’s what we agreed on.” The other man’s voice took on a mocking, sneering tone. “If ye think I’m going to pay a filthy bit of roadside rubbish the same’s what I pay my other men, ye can think again. Ye’ll get tuppence on the pound and no more. Now hand over the rest of the coin before I skin that dirty dark-skinned hide off of ye.”

  “Try it.”

  At least, I think that is what Jamie said. My heart was pounding almost too loud for m
e to hear as I caught up my skirts and ran up to the top of the hill—managing by some miracle not to trip over any roots or knock myself senseless by crashing into a tree.

  The moon was at the full tonight, so that I could clearly see the clearing below. Jamie, standing with his back to me, and—

  I caught my breath as I recognised the other man. Mr. Bartholomew Merryman, the itinerant peddler who so grossly mistreats his horses.

  He looked every bit as menacing tonight as he did the other day in the village: jowly face dark with anger, sleeves rolled to the elbow to show the bulging muscles of his arms. He was holding a knife; I could see the blade gleam in the moonlight. And he advanced on Jamie, the weapon raised and a slight smile curving the edges of his mouth.

  Time seemed for an instant to freeze—as though I had been forcibly detached from my body and stood watching the whole scene play out from some immense height. My mind frantically flipped through and discarded useless courses of action as Mr. Merryman and Jamie slowly circled each other, as if they were engaged in some bizarre form of dance.

  Then Mr. Merryman lunged, and time re-started itself with a jolt that almost made me gasp. The knife flashed towards Jamie’s chest—but Jamie had already moved. So quickly that he was almost a blur of motion as he dodged, ducked, spun under Mr. Merryman’s guard, and aimed a kick at the big man’s knee that made his leg buckle under him.

  Mr. Merryman let out a bellow of rage and pain and staggered. But kept his hold on the knife, and struck out again.

  Again Jamie dodged, spun, and in the same movement stooped and caught up a heavy stick from the ground which he wielded like a club—this time managing to catch Mr. Merryman a blow across the knuckles that sent the knife flying off somewhere into the dark.

  My heart, which had momentarily stopped beating, restarted again at a hectic pace. Jamie was a good fighter, and a fast one. Even before his time in the army, Jamie and his brother between them probably knew every dirty trick for hand-to-hand combat that there was.