Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  Then he had unstiffened and come toward her, holding a pretty doll. That was thoughtful of him, to bring a doll. “So this is Mary Anne. A pretty little thing, ain’t she? Takes after her mama. The Beatons all had those lovely brown eyes, my own wife included.”

  It was like balm to her bruised spirit. She loved him on the spot, and she had no occasion ever to think her love was misplaced, even if he did sometimes forget her birthday. What did a present matter? He had given her a home and himself for a family.

  She shook the thought away. May the first. Anything might happen on a girl’s birthday, and to be ready for this nebulous possibility of pleasure, Mary Anne decided to wear her good sprigged muslin. She splashed cold water on her face and shivered into the pretty rose-sprigged gown. It was really too cold for muslin yet, but with that sun shining, it would soon warm up.

  She brushed her chestnut curls back from her face and caught them in a basket with the nacre comb Uncle had given her three birthdays ago. Last year and the year before he had for­gotten her birthday, but perhaps this year he’d remember.

  She rubbed her cheeks to give them a blush of color and examined her face in the mirror. Twenty-four years old! My, she was getting on. She really didn’t look much dif­ferent from last year. Her brown eyes sparkled as brightly. Her cheeks were still full. The simple country life held at bay the ravages of time, but one of these years she’d have to start rouging. Then the hair would silver, and soon her life would be over, before it had properly begun. Oh, dear, and she had felt so happy when she awoke.

  Mary Anne wrapped a white wool shawl around her shoulders and went downstairs quietly to avoid waking Uncle Edwin. She suspected he found the days plenty long enough when he arose at ten or eleven. Horton Hall had no large acres to oversee, no tenant farmers, no forests, and no crops except the home garden and a few acres of hay for the horses and cow and the goat.

  Except that Belle, the goat, seemed to prefer eating the stalls and buckets and her rope. Belle’s presence at the Hall was due to another of Lord Edwin’s generous impulses. Mrs. Christian, their neighbor, had threatened to put the animal down when Belle ate her best umbrella. Uncle Edwin had retrieved the horrid goat from the axe, much to his house­keeper’s dismay.

  “There’s all kinds of creatures in the world, and your uncle’s one of them,” she had told Mary Anne. “He means well, but he don’t think what he’s about.”

  Mrs. Plummer took care of the chickens, and Fitch did the outside work. Poor Uncle Edwin just got in his days as best he could. He’d probably get up at eleven and drive the gig into Dymchurch to talk to his cronies. She’d go with him today, to celebrate her birthday.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Plummer,” Mary Anne said brightly when she entered the breakfast room.

  Mrs. Plummer’s dour face creased in an unusual smile. Like Mary Anne, she had attempted to honor the day by dressing up. A new apron covered her dark gown, and her brindled hair was skimmed back even more tightly than usual from her rosy face. Poor tyke, she thought—it would be a day like any other for Miss Judson, but she’d do what she could. Fitch had orders to kill a chicken for dinner, and a raisin cake was in the process of being made in the kitchen.

  “Happy birthday, Miss Judson. My, don’t you look pretty! Wearing your good gown, eh? I expect you’ll be going into the village.”

  “Perhaps,” Mary Anne said evasively. If Uncle forgot it was her birthday, he might not invite her, and one hated to be the object of pity. “Just toast and tea for me, please.”

  Mary Anne saw the little vase of flowers on the table and smiled her thanks at this token of celebration. Already the loosestrife flowers were falling, sitting like golden stars on the table. While Mrs. Plummer poured the tea, she took a look out the bay window that gave a view of the water beyond. “Did the storm keep you awake last night?” she asked Miss Judson.

  “Storm? I didn’t even know it had rained.” Mary Anne looked out the window and saw the French lugger. “Oh, dear, someone is shipwrecked right on our doorstep!” she exclaimed, and ran to the window for a closer look. It was an unusual-looking vessel. Its hull was low and broad. It had three masts, but the sails had been lowered. “It’s not one of Vulch’s ships,” she said, frowning.

  “They do say it’s a French smuggling boat,” Mrs. Plummer told her with a wise nod of her head. “Meg Castle stopped by on her way to Vulch’s this morning, and they say in the village it got grounded on our sandbar in the storm. They didn’t catch the Frenchies,” she added.

  Mary Anne’s eyes grew wilder. “Then they’re still around somewhere!”

  The ladies exchanged a frightened glance. “I sharpened up my butcher knife. If the brutes come into my kitchen, they’ll live to regret it,” Mrs. Plummer said.

  She went to make the toast, and Mary Anne stood look­ing out at the lugger. It must have gotten blown badly off its course. It was parallel with the shore, its bow riding a little higher than its stern. There would be some excite­ment today, with the excisemen seizing the cargo and tugboats pulling the lugger free. Uncle wouldn’t want to miss that. Mary Anne mentally weighed the merits of going to Dymchurch versus staying home and watching Dymchurch come to them. Half the town would be here for the excitement.

  When Mrs. Plummer returned with the toast, Mary Anne said, “I’m surprised Officer Codey isn’t here, keep­ing an eye on the cargo.”

  “There isn’t any cargo,” Mrs. Plummer informed her. “Codey was here at five-thirty this morning. He had Fitch take him out in his boat, and the hold is empty as my cupboards. The Frenchies must have delivered before they got stuck.”

  “Oh. In that case, there won’t be any hurry in removing the boat.” Nor would Dymchurch come in mass for such paltry entertainment.

  Mrs. Plummer placed the toast in front of Mary Anne. On the plate beside it there sat a little square box wrapped in silver paper. “Mrs. Plummer! You shouldn’t have.” Mary Anne smiled and eagerly pulled off the paper. “A diary! How lovely! I’ll start writing it up right today. I’ve often wanted one. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” The dame smiled and returned to her kitchen. Just what you’ll have to write in it is a mystery to me, my dear, she added to herself. A shame for a pretty lady like Miss Judson to wither on the vine. She would have liked to buy her something more, but with no wages for several months, a person was limited to the treasures already in her possession. It was a rare stroke of luck she’d won the diary at the church bazaar.

  While Mrs. Plummer fretted and worried about her mis­tress, Miss Judson fondled the little leather diary and felt she was blessed to have such good friends. There were plenty of girls with no family and no friends—ladies, gen­tly born like herself, who had to go out and work for a living as governess or nursemaid. She had Uncle Edwin and Mrs. Plummer, Fitch, and all the neighbors. She could probably have Joseph Horton, too, if she wanted him.

  Her mind wandered to this neighbor and relative of Un­cle Edwin. Joseph lived at Seaview, just a few miles down the coast. He was really a very nice gentleman, and it was a pity she couldn’t care for him as she should. He was to inherit Horton Hall when Uncle Edwin died. Added to his own Seaview, he would be quite an eligible parti. He wasn’t particularly ugly or ill-natured. “A long, dry drink of water” was Mrs. Plummer’s peculiar description of Jo­seph. He had a good character, worked hard, went to church on Sundays, didn’t drink to excess or gamble.

  Why couldn’t she like him? Was it because of his slurs on Uncle Edwin? Was it the proprietary way he came to the Hall every week, condemning everything and often dropping a hint that the owner of an entailed estate could be forced by law to attend to its maintenance?

  This certainly didn’t do his suit any good, but even without that annoyance, Mary Anne knew she could never like Joseph Horton, much less love him. There was no romance in him. She dropped the crusts of toast on her plate and stared with unseeing eyes at the bay window. She probably had read too many novels. What she would like to writ
e up in her new diary was that she had met an exciting new man—tall, dark, dashing. Maybe someone like the French smugglers. Someone who led a life of danger and intrigue...

  “Good morning, my dear! Happy birthday!”

  Mary Anne looked to the doorway and blinked in sur­prise. “Uncle, it’s only eight o’clock! What are you doing up so early?”

  And in his good jacket, too, she noticed. He’s going somewhere—oh, I hope he takes me with him! Lord Ed­win’s dark eyes sparkled with mischief. She could see he was in an excellent mood, which was very strange. He didn’t usually sleep when it rained, and lack of sleep turned him into a regular bear.

  “We must celebrate your birthday, my dear. I thought we might drive you over to Folkestone and buy you a pres­ent. It isn’t every day a young lady turns, er—eighteen, is it?”

  “I’m twenty-four today, Uncle,” she reminded him.

  “Good God, you’re becoming ancient! Twenty-four, eh? So much the better. Soon you can put on your caps and have done with all the wretched matchmaking business.” It was really only Joseph Horton’s attentions that brought on this testy speech. “Where is Plummer? I want gammon and eggs.”

  Uncle never had anything but toast and tea for breakfast. Often only tea. “Have you had some good news?” Mary Anne asked hopefully. “Did the government give you your pension?”

  For twenty years Lord Edwin had been angling to get himself on the list of king’s pensioners. Whitehall was proving remarkably stubborn about rewarding him for his five months of sitting at that demmed desk, with only one window in his office.

  “Nothing of the sort. It is all Bertie’s doings, keeping it from me. Ah, there she is. Gammon and eggs, Plum­mer.”

  “There’s no gammon, Lord Edwin.”

  “No gammon? What kind of a house is this? You’re twenty-four now, Mary Anne. Time you took hold of the reins and brought this place to order. Bring me some eggs, then—half a dozen eggs—and fry them in bacon fat. Don’t tell me we have no bacon fat.”

  “We have plenty of that, and precious little else,” Mrs. Plummer said, and strode from the room.

  While Uncle was waiting for his breakfast to arrive, Mary Anne told him about the grounded boat in the bay. He went to the window to view it but expressed no inten­tion of staying home to watch it being hauled away. “Mrs. Plummer said the brandy had already been unloaded,” Mary Anne mentioned.

  “Brandy?” he asked, with a sharp look. Then he re­membered to be ignorant on the subject. “All gone, eh? Too bad.”

  When he had eaten and Mary Anne had gone upstairs for her bonnet, Lord Edwin went in search of Fitch. He found him in the attic, floating beetles in the puddles. “I told you to keep an eye on the hay wain!” he exclaimed.

  “Best not to stick too close to it. It might look suspi­cious,” Fitch replied. “Codey’s been and gone. I took him out to the boat myself. He’s spending the day spying on Vulch’s place, trying to catch the Frenchies.”

  “Ho, he underestimates his man if he thinks Vulch is stupid enough to let them get caught. They’re long gone back to France. I’ve found an excellent excuse to go to Folkestone to make my inquiries.”

  “Who’ll drive the carriage for you?”

  “Damme, I’ll have to borrow Jem from Mr. Christian. Scoot over and get him, Fitch. I’m taking Mary Anne for a birthday treat. I’ll go to two or three draper shops and see where I can get the best price for the silk. You wrap up the shawl while I’m gone. I’ll give it to her tonight and say I bought it in Folkestone.”

  “You’ll have to keep her out of the way when you make your inquiries, then.”

  “A good point, Fitch. I’ll tell her to choose some rib­bons—that’ll keep her busy.” He rattled the coins in his pocket and pulled them out. A pitifully thin purse, but a lunch and ribbons could be eked out of it. In a week’s time he’d have a thousand pounds, or possibly guineas.

  “Carry on,” he said, and returned below stairs to wait for Jem.

  The drive along the coast to Folkestone was pretty in May, with all the greenery freshly washed by the storm the night before. The sea was an iridescent gold today, and the vessels on it rode as peacefully as toy boats. The ships’ sails billowed, but they didn’t bulge. On days like this Lord Edwin often wished he were a sailor, but he didn’t speak the language. He never could tell what the admirals were talking about. Luffing and bows and spits—it was worse than Latin.

  At Folkestone they took a spin along the leas at the top of the sea cliff before driving down to the picturesque old fishing town with its irregular streets. “Ah, here is a drap­ery shop,” Lord Edwin exclaimed, and held the door for Mary Anne to enter. She had no idea what her present was to be. She suspected a length of material for a gown was beyond her uncle’s purse, but doubted he had brought her all the way to Folkestone for ribbons, which was what he suggested she look at.

  He was obviously planning to surprise her. She noticed across the shop that he asked for the manager and was shown into an office. Her curiosity mounted higher. Even a length of material hardly required a private conference. Then she smiled ruefully. Of course, Uncle wouldn’t know that. She waited for the door to open and an impatient manager to show Uncle Edwin out. For ten minutes she waited, and when finally he emerged, the manager was smiling broadly. How very curious!

  More curious still, Uncle didn’t carry any parcel from the shop, but went across the road and repeated his per­formance in two other shops. It was the noon hour by the time they had canvassed all of the drapery stores, and they went back to the leas, still without a parcel, to have lunch­eon at Bates Hotel.

  Lord Edwin was in fine fettle, praising the good mer­chants of Folkestone and their wares, laughing, and in­sisting she have a second glass of wine, but what he didn’t mention was her gift. After luncheon he was still chirping merry and asked Mary Anne what she would like to do. Bereft of inspiration, she suggested they take a walk along the shrub-grown and sheltered paths between the leas and the Lower Sandgate Road.

  Knowing her uncle’s aversion to churches, she only glanced at the Church of Saints Mary and Eanswith from outside, then returned to the carriage, and eventually they drove to Dymchurch, with pauses at Sandgate and Hythe to look in at a few more drapery shops. Lord Edwin’s indifferent team was in no hurry to get home.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  It was just coming on evening when they entered Dymchurch. “We’ll top off our outing with dinner at the inn,” Lord Edwin announced. His pockets were to let by this time, but he had settled up at the inn last quarter day, and his credit was good there.

  “I expect Mrs. Plummer has dinner waiting, Uncle,” Mary Anne pointed out. It went against the grain to do it. Dinner at the inn was a rare treat, and on May Day there was bound to be a good crowd. The old traditional May Day celebrations had diminished, but the season still put folks in a holiday mood.

  “Let it wait. We’ll have it for a midnight snack,” he said grandly, and pulled the check string.

  He held the door, and Mary Anne went into the quaint little inn, which was bustling with unusual activity. “A private parlor, if you please,” Lord Edwin ordered.

  There was, of course, none to be found on this busy day. In fact, there was a small crowd waiting for a parlor. The talk was all about the grounded smuggling vessel. Word had gotten about that the cargo was silk, not brandy. Lord Edwin was impatient for his mutton and began to make a commotion with the inn servants. His annoyance rose to indignation when a parlor was freed and a Mr. Robertson was called to take possession of it.

  “Now, see here!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting the better part of an hour.”

  Mary Anne pulled at his elbow. “Only five minutes, Uncle,” she whispered.

  Lord Edwin knew Mr. Robertson was no inhabitant of Dymchurch and forged on to strengthen his spurious claim to the private parlor. “If you want to turn off a regular patron for a stranger, so be it,” he said grandly. But to ensure that this in
equity didn’t occur, he added, “And call the proprietor while you’re about it, my lad.”

  Meanwhile, Mr. Robertson had stepped out from the crowd and turned a disgruntled gaze on Lord Edwin. Mary Anne saw him, realized he was the challenger for the par­lor, and felt a deep stab of regret that her uncle should be making a cake of himself in front of such an out-and-outer. Her breath stopped in her throat as she gazed. She had never seen such an attractive man in Dymchurch be­fore. He might have stepped straight off a London stage. He had that dramatic, larger-than-life quality.

  Yet, as she measured him, she decided he wasn’t actu­ally taller than six feet. Joseph was six feet two, but Joseph shrunk to insignificance beside this gentleman. Everything about the stranger was top of the trees. His dark hair, not quite black—it had coppery lights under the lamps—was meticulously barbered. It was brushed forward in the fash­ionable Brutus do. His profile, as he spoke to the clerk, was clean-cut. He had a sculptured nose and a granite-strong jaw. The eyes looked as black as thorn buds, and the overall contours of the face were extremely pleasing.

  He still wore afternoon clothes, but their London patina put the evening clothes of Dymchurch in the shade. A blue superfine jacket adhered to his body as closely as a second skin. A discreetly flowered waistcoat, an immaculate cravat, biscuit trousers, and shining Hessians completed his attire.

  “Is there some problem?” the stranger said to the ser­vant. Mary Anne’s ears were enchanted with his deep, cultured voice, so unlike her uncle’s high-pitched whine. What must he be thinking of us? she wondered.

  Lord Edwin deigned to glance at the interloper then and was immediately struck by the fact that he was alone. The smallest parlor in the inn seated four. He stepped forward with a hungry smile and offered his hand. “Tem­pest in a teapot,” he explained. “It seems we’ve both reserved the same parlor. No reason we must behave like apes and squabble over it. We can act like the civilized gentlemen we are and share it, what? Happy for your company, Mr.—”