Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “And why were you in all the drapers’ offices this morning having those private meetings? That wasn’t nec­essary, only to buy a shawl.”

  Lord Edwin didn’t blink before answering. He had fore­seen the question, once the subject of his culpability arose. “Very well, then,” he said, eyes staring reproachfully, “if you will insist on humiliating me, I bought the shawl on tick. I hadn’t the cash to pay for it. I had hoped to buy a length of silk to go with it, which is why I visited the other shops after buying your shawl at Folkestone. Things have come to a fine pass when my own niece questions my integrity,” he added, plunging the dagger to the hilt.

  Mary Anne felt the full burden of shame for having suspected him, which was precisely what he intended. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said meekly. How awful of her to have accused him. She felt a very ingrate, almost a sinner. “I mean I’m glad you didn’t do it, but I’m sorry I accused you.”

  Lord Edwin gave a forgiving nod.

  “I wonder what Vulch meant when he said this incident involves more than a cargo of silk?” Mary Anne men­tioned.

  “I expect the loss jeopardizes his whole operation. The Frenchies aren’t going to send their stuff over to a ninny who loses it, now, are they?”

  Lord Edwin was eager to quit the conversation, and arose. “I must see Fitch,” he said, and added to divert fresh suspicion, “about securing the doors. We don’t want smugglers landing in on us while we sleep.”

  He turned and sped from the room. Mary Anne was relieved that her uncle wasn’t the thief, but she was sorry for having given voice to her doubts. She also regretted the contretemps that had arisen between him and Mr. Robertson. Uncle Edwin had a short temper but a forgiving nature withal. He’d have forgotten both arguments by tomorrow. Perhaps he’d even take her into Dymchurch after lunch. About two, Mr. Robertson had said. She went up­stairs and began writing in her new diary.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  In the fine spring weather Mary Anne often went for a ride in the morning. She didn’t have a mount, but Uncle Edwin had taught her to ride on his own bay mare, Bingo, so named for the color of her hide, a tawny amber, the shade of his favorite drink. With age, the brandy color had faded till Badger would have been a more appropriate name, but Bingo’s senile gait suited Mary Anne’s mood that morning. All she wanted was an amble through the pasture and meadow to look at the flowers and feel the warm sun on her shoulders while she daydreamed of Mr. Robertson.

  “I wouldn’t venture too far afield on that old jade,” Plummer cautioned. “Bingo couldn’t outrun a sloth if you was to be chased. With that silk still unaccounted for, God knows who’s lurking about seeking to devour us.”

  “We’ve been searched by Codey. It’s not here, Mrs. Plummer. I don’t think we have to worry.”

  “Fitch and your uncle are acting mighty odd. I don’t know that they’re not in on it.”

  “I expect they’re looking for it. Mr. Robertson has of­fered a reward of ten percent, you know.”

  “That’d be it.” Plummer nodded. She didn’t really think her employer was sharp enough to have engineered the piracy.

  As Fitch wasn’t to be seen, Mary Anne saddled up Bingo herself and led her past the home garden carefully, to avoid trampling what remained of it after Belle’s depredations. Everything looked so fresh and beautiful that day, with the sun shining on new greenery everywhere and the sky a perfect azure. It almost seemed an omen, that cloudless sky. Except that on her personal horizon she would have scattered a few wisps of gray. Joseph Horton, for instance, and her uncle’s little spat with Mr. Robertson. Bess Vulch, too, presented a possible disruption of her cloudless future.

  She jogged along through the meadow and had to dis­mount to open the pasture gate. Bingo’s jumping days were over, poor old mare. Bessie, the sole remaining cow from their herd, lifted her head from grazing to greet Bingo as she passed by. They went out the gate on the far side of the pasture and on to Mr. Christian’s land. He was an old friend and took no exception to his neighbors’ exercising the mare there. Mary Anne’s favorite course was to follow the stream, often stopping to gather the wildflowers that grew profusely in that well-watered stretch of land.

  The bluebells were at their peak. She’d stop on her way back and take home a bouquet for the table. The daisies would look well as a contrast. The hyacinths were her favorite, but she knew of old that these were only to be culled by Mrs. Christian, who had planted them for their fragrant perfume. She could smell it wafting on the breeze, as strong as cologne. On a whim, she dismounted to smell the hyacinths.

  Trouble was the furthest thing from Mary Anne’s mind on this perfect day. She knelt down and buried her nose in the patch of flowers, inhaling deeply. Just as she was about to rise, she noticed the fresh imprint of hooves in the soft earth. With the missing silk at the back of her mind, she wondered if it might be hidden nearby. The imprints looked as if they had been made by two or three horses.

  Her heart beat heavily as she looked all around, listen­ing for the sound of an intruder. Only the gurgling of the stream and the cheeping of new birds in the nest inter­rupted the silence. Was the silk here? Where could they have hidden it? There was no building or cave nearby, but it could be concealed amongst the trees, which offered some protection. She tied Bingo to the closest tree and edged slowly forward, following the horse tracks. They didn’t cross the stream but veered eastward toward the old shepherd’s hut a quarter of a mile farther along. A perfect hiding place!

  Her heartbeats grew heavy and her legs shook. What if she found the silk! A reward of a hundred pounds, or possibly guineas! She could have the roof fixed and stop Joseph’s griping. As she came to the edge of the trees, the little thatch-roofed hut came into view. There were no mounts tethered outside it, but the tracks led directly to the door. They’d been and left. She’d steal up and just make sure the silk was there.

  After watching for a few minutes to see that no one was coming, she crept silently from the shelter of the trees and approached the hut. She was still several yards from it when a horse neighed, sending her into alarm. The sound came from the far side of the hut. She froze in her tracks, and as she stood, a dark head peeped out of the doorway.

  “Nom d’un nom! C’est une fille! Arrêtez-elle!” the man shouted.

  Mary Anne’s French was rudimentary, but instinct told her that flight was her best course. She took to her heels and flew like the wind, with a large man following closely behind her. As she darted through the trees, not stopping to look behind her, the sound of his footfalls drew closer and closer. She ran faster, but her skirts made outrunning him impossible. He caught up with her just as she reached Bingo. His rough hands came out and grabbed her around the waist, turning her toward him.

  She saw then, through her terror, that he was a youngish man. His roughly tousled hair and saturnine expression robbed him of charm, but his features were regular.

  His panting breaths fanned her cheek. “Quelle jolie fille!” He smiled and tightened his grip around her waist.

  “Let go of me!” she exclaimed in a voice quavering with panic.

  “Pourquoi es-tu ici?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying. I don’t understand,” she gasped, squirming to free herself, which only made the man tighten his grip till she was pressed close against his chest. It was warm and damp from the chase. The animal smell of masculine sweat was in her nostrils, add­ing to her fright.

  “La soie!” he exclaimed. “Silk.”

  “Silk?” she repeated, trying to give the illusion she knew nothing of it and cared less. “Je ne sais pas.” That phrase at least survived from her schoolgirl’s lessons.

  A smile parted the man’s lips, and his black eyes gleamed with mischief. “C’est trop mal, ma petite. Ah, comme tu es belle,” he added in a voice that was becom­ing dangerously amorous. As he spoke, his lips inclined to hers, and one hand went out to hold her head in place.

  She wrench
ed her head aside and hollered at the top of her lungs, “Help!” This was accompanied by a stout kick in his shins that set him to cursing. But he didn’t lose track of his object.

  Just as his hot lips touched hers, Mary Anne heard the sound of running footsteps. They came from the direction of the hut. She felt in her bones it was his companion, and her heart shriveled in panic. Two of them! Good God, she wished she were dead. Any inhabitant of the coast knew what the Frenchies did with their English victims, espe­cially female victims.

  A cultured voice cut through the air like a whip. “Ça sera assez, monsieur!”

  The words meant nothing to Mary Anne, but she rec­ognized that authoritative voice and her heart swelled in relief. The Frenchman released her at once and lifted his hands in capitulation. A stream of apologetic sounds is­sued from his lips, accompanied by penitent smiles.

  “Allez-vous en,” Mr. Robertson said. Mary Anne turned to see that he was really there and not a figment of her overwrought imagination. The pistol in his hand ac­counted for the Frenchman’s hasty departure.

  The Frenchman scooted away, back to the hut. Mary Anne was trembling so violently that she could hardly stand up. Now that the ordeal was over, tears of relief sprang to her eyes, and she shivered violently.

  “Are you all right?” Robertson demanded in a harsh voice. A hiccuping sob was his answer.

  He pulled her into his arms to comfort her with soothing words of reassurance. How vastly different was the expe­rience of being in Mr. Robertson’s embrace from that of the Frenchie. The gentle pat of his hand on her shoul­der, the firm but unmenacing feel of his arms around her waist, the tender concern in his voice—all were designed to calm her down, and all failed most miserably. The ex­citement, though pleasurable, was almost unbearable. Something in the episode reminded her of the day Uncle had rescued her from the orphanage.

  “There, there, it’s fine, Mary Anne,” he said, and smiled encouragingly down at her. How beautiful his eyes looked, shadowed with long lashes. “You’re going to be all right,” he said, and loosened his arms.

  “So foolish of me,” she said.

  “What were you doing here alone?”

  “I was just—the hyacinths,” she said, and pulled her­self from his arms with a flush of embarrassment. “Smell­ing them—so pretty. I saw the horse tracks leading to the hut. I couldn’t see the horses and thought the silk might be hidden there.”

  “It’s not.”

  Mary Anne looked toward the hut. “We’d best escape while we can,” she said with a nervous look all around.

  Mr. Robertson gave an indifferent smile. She noticed he was still holding the pistol. He stuck it into his waist­band. “I don’t think they’ll bother us.”

  “What were you doing here, Mr. Robertson?”

  “Scouting around for my silk. This positively confirms that the Frenchies haven’t found it. I left my mount at Christian’s and was eavesdropping at the hut. I’ll pick the horse up later.”

  He untied Bingo and they began to walk back toward Horton Hall. “Uncle doesn’t have it, either,” she told him. “I asked him last night. It can’t be far away.”

  “It could conceivably be in London by now,” he coun­tered, “but somehow I don’t think so.”

  “What did Vulch mean last night when he said there was more than just a lost cargo involved here?”

  He hesitated a moment before answering. Mary Anne’s looking for the silk convinced him of her innocence. Any local ally would be helpful, and he could enlist her aid without revealing official secrets.

  “His reputation, perhaps,” he said nonchalantly. “I for one won’t patronize an uncertain source.”

  “That’s what Uncle thought,” she said, and accepted it as truth. “The Frenchies don’t have the silk, you said?”

  “No, they spent the night in Vulch’s stable. I followed them this morning. They’re out looking for it, like me. But I hope, in future, you will confine your search to Horton Hall. Did you happen to have a look around the house?”

  “Mr. Robertson!” she snapped. “I’ve told you Uncle doesn’t have it.”

  “Vulch thinks otherwise. It might be worth your while at least to look. Perhaps someone else hid it there. Ten percent of a thousand pounds is worth a look,” he tempted. “It would buy you a new mount,” he added, as it was borne in on him that the one he was leading was decrepit.

  “Or a new roof.” She sighed. “A sheet of lead came down in the storm.” She thought of the reward and said reluctantly, “Well, I’ll have a look at home, but I know I shan’t find it.”

  “How can I be in touch with you?”

  “Will you be at the assembly Saturday evening?” she asked slyly.

  “Good God, I can’t wait that long! I meant today. The inn, at two?” he reminded her.

  “If I can get the carriage. I can’t walk.”

  “And I can hardly call for you after being hinted away. You could send me a note at Vulch’s place if you find anything.”

  This speech indicated pretty clearly that it was the silk he was interested in and not herself. When she replied, there was a chill in her voice. “If you don’t hear from me, you may assume I didn’t find anything. I shouldn’t think you’ll be hearing from me.”

  “Pity,” he murmured, and smiled softly.

  They stopped then, at the edge of Mr. Christian’s land. Before them was the pasture gate and open ground. She felt he would leave her there, safe on her uncle’s property. She disliked to part on this sour note, with no assurance of ever seeing him again.

  “Well, thank you for rescuing me,” she said with the small smile that activated the dimples at the corners of her lips. He noticed the dimples vanished when her mouth was open, but those prim, closed-mouth smiles were delight­ful.

  “Perhaps I should see you safely to your door.”

  “I’ll be all right now. This is our pasture—you can see Horton Hall,” she said, pointing to it.

  The patch where the lead sheeting had fallen was visible from this direction. The sheets that still adhered to the roof were rusted around the edges and coming loose. Mr. Robertson felt a stab of pity for a young lady who would spend her reward on a piece of lead. He had already dis­covered Mary Anne’s circumstances from Vulch, but asking her gave him an excuse to linger.

  There was some charm in this idyllic country setting, far from the intrigues and affairs of London drawing rooms that were his more usual haunt. “Have you lived with your uncle long?” he asked.

  “For as long as I can remember. My mama was his wife’s sister. Uncle Edwin made an unwise match, which is why he is so dreadfully poor. Younger sons should marry wisely, I suppose.”

  “And your own father?”

  “Papa was a younger son, too. He tried to raise horses in Ireland. He got thrown from a wild buck he was trying to tame and broke his neck. That’s when Mama came back to England. Uncle Edwin says she should have bought a small property with Papa’s money, but she was restless. She lived in Bath for a spell, then Brighton. But I don’t remember any of that. She died when I was four, and that’s when Uncle Edwin took me in. Really, it was Aunt Hattie who took me, but then she died, too, a few years later, so it’s just Uncle and I alone now.”

  Mr. Robertson listened closely to this tale of woe. One aspect of it smote him more closely than the rest.

  “Younger sons should marry wisely.” Truer words were never spoken, but it was also true that an elder son was expected to garner himself a noble heiress. A man in his situation was not expected to bring home a penniless bride.

  Mary Anne noticed the expression he wore and brought forth for his consideration her sole advantage. “I’m con­nected to some highly placed people through Uncle Edwin,” she said baldly. “His older brother, Lord Exholme, is an earl with a fine estate in Sussex. We visited Longcourt one Christmas. They have a ballroom and everything, but I was too young at the time to attend the ball. Is all your family in trade, Mr. Robertson?” she a
sked, to highlight the difference in their connections.

  “Only I have sunk so low,” he told her. One Christmas visit told him pretty clearly that Exholme didn’t acknowl­edge the girl.

  “I expect there’s a good living in it.”

  “At least my roof is in good repair,” he riposted.

  “Bess Vulch is very pretty, don’t you think?” was her next remark.

  Mr. Robertson had no difficulty following her reason­ing. “A pleasant girl,” he answered vaguely.

  “She has a dot of ten thousand and is very popular hereabouts.”

  “I’ll wager she is,” he replied, and laughed aloud at her transparent musings. “But then, of course, she has no highly placed connections.”

  “Her papa is an M.P.”

  “Yes, quite. I had forgotten that advantage. Take care she don’t nab Joseph while you’re out flirting with Frenchies. He was there last night when we returned, you know.”

  Far from taking offense, Mary Anne’s face lit up like the sun. “Was he really? How splendid!”

  “Are you and Joseph not—how shall I word it dis­creetly—are you two not courting?”

  “Well,” she said, frowning over their situation, “he’s trying to, I think, but I don’t care for him, and Uncle hates his interfering ways, so it doesn’t seem to be coming to a head.” She glanced at the little pearl ring and spun it around on her finger.

  Twenty-four years old. “Perhaps I’ll have him in the end,” she said disconsolately.

  Mr. Robertson observed the downturn of her pretty lips and felt a pronounced aversion to Joseph Horton, whose self-righteous prosing the night before had repelled him.

  “I take it that catastrophe isn’t imminent?” he asked.

  “Not till he’s paid off his mortgage.” There seemed to be nothing more to say. “I’d best be getting home now.”

  “I’ll help you up.”

  He put his hands around her waist and lifted her into the saddle. She was light in his arms, and when she looked down to thank him, a smile trembled shyly on her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson,” she said.