Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “They’re up to something,” Mrs. Plummer scolded.

  “I suspected as much when Uncle darted home without even having a glass of brandy. Where’s Fitch now?”

  “He didn’t come in at all. He seems to be loading the hay from the old hay wain onto that boat he borrowed.”

  Mary Anne blinked. “What?”

  “I only got the odd glimpse through the window when the lightning flashed, but it looked as if he was putting hay onto the boat.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Wet hay at that. Oh, there’s something odd afoot here, missie, and I mean to find out what it is as soon as ever Fitch comes in.”

  They went to the window and stared through the shad­ows down to the shore. With no moon, visibility was nearly nonexistent, but they thought they saw some move­ment in the rushes.

  “I’m going to put on some older clothes and see what he’s up to,” Mary Anne decided.

  “Why don’t you wait and ask your uncle when he comes in?”

  “Because he won’t come in, and wouldn’t tell the truth if he did. He’ll join Fitch. This has something to do with his eagerness to get home. And he nearly choked on the lamb when Mrs. Vulch was talking about the storm,” she added as she ran toward the stairs.

  She threw her silk shawl on the bed. It called up a mem­ory of that rather peculiar trip to Folkestone, with Uncle talking to all the drapers in their private offices. He’d bought the shawl at Folkestone, but he’d visited plenty of other shops after that. You didn’t have a private conference only to discuss the purchase of a length of silk, which had been his excuse.

  She disliked to acknowledge, even to herself, what she was thinking. The cargo of silk abandoned at their doorstep. Uncle’s rare good humor the next morning. He had stolen the silk! While Codey searched the stables and ice­house and barn and house, the silk had sat under the load of hay on the old hay wain. And now Uncle had hired this boat to take it away and sell it to one of the merchants he had visited. Good God, if he was caught, he’d hang.

  That’s why Fitch had brought Jeremy Black’s boat here and why Uncle had been on the fidgets when he learned about the storm. Almost before she had digested this dreadful idea, the image of Mr. Robertson cropped into her head. What would he think to learn her uncle was a thief? She must keep it from him.

  She was correct in assuming Uncle wouldn’t come to the house. Lord Edwin didn’t even stable the gig. He drove it down to the shore to consult with Fitch.

  By the time he got there. Fitch had loaded the cargo and was on the lookout for his employer. A strong wind had come up, and before long a regular deluge was pour­ing down on them.

  “I daren’t tackle the trip in this gale,” Fitch warned.

  “Rubbish. You’ll make it with no trouble. Is the stuff safe? You have it in the hold?”

  “She’s high and dry, but she won’t be if I take the boat out tonight.”

  “Use your head, man. You can’t wait till morning. Codey is on the qui vive. He even searched the Hall this afternoon.”

  “Aye, I’m thinking the Hall is as safe a place as any, seeing as how it’s already been searched. We could stash the goods for a week or so till the excitement calms down,” Fitch suggested, and looked to see how this idea was greeted.

  “If they take it into their heads to come back and I’m caught with the goods under my very roof, I’m done for, Fitch. A fox in a chicken coop would look innocent beside me. You’ll have to think of something else.”

  “There’s the stables. Anyone could hide it there. It’s no proof we had anything to do with it.”

  “There’s too much traffic in the stables. People coming and going. The old barn, perhaps... the hayloft, and we take away the ladder to discourage anyone from going up.”

  “It’s heavy work, hauling the bales up the ladder. I’ve already loaded them once tonight and will have to unload them and take them to the barn.”

  “Use the gig. Just get the bales into the barn tonight, and you can take them aloft in the morning. I don’t want you to strain yourself, Fitch. Take it easy. Use the gig, and mind you put it away right and tight when you’re fin­ished. Better finish the job early in the morning. Say, five o’clock.”

  Happy with his contribution, Lord Edwin turned to leave.

  “I’ll have to take the boat back, too, after I’ve unloaded her. I doubt I’ll be finished by five.”

  “I told you,” Lord Edwin said, “use the gig.”

  But the gig wouldn’t wade through the water and lift the hundred bales into itself and unload them again at the barn. Fitch foresaw a hard night’s work.

  “And mind you cover the stuff well in the barn for to­night. There’s no saying Codey won’t be snooping around.”

  Lord Edwin went darting through the rain to the Hall and walked in to be met by two glaring females.

  “Well, Uncle, you have some explaining to do!” Mary Anne charged.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  “But, Uncle, it’s stealing!” Mary Anne exclaimed, hor­rified, after Lord Edwin had been browbeaten into a con­fession. “You’ll be tried and hanged.”

  “Drawn and quartered.” Plummer nodded severely.

  “Only if I get caught, which I shan’t. They’ve already searched my premises twice. That should convince Codey I’m innocent. The nerve of him, accusing me of thievery!”

  He still bristled with indignation to consider this iniquity. “I shall write that letter to the journals as you suggested, Mary Anne. That was doing it pretty brown, entering and searching my house behind my back.’’

  “The stuff is in the barn now, you say?” she asked.

  “It soon will be, if that lazy hound of a Fitch isn’t asleep on the job. I told him to put it in the hayloft and take away the ladder, but he said he would be too tired. Tired, and all he has to do is put it in the gig. It’s Dobbin who will be tired, after jogging us down to Vulches’ and back.’’

  “Mighty thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Plummer said grimly. “I didn’t hear a word of this. I’m deaf and dumb, if they go asking me any questions. I’m going to make Fitch a pot of coffee. The poor lad must be frozen stiff as my sheets in winter.”

  “An excellent notion, Plummer. Bring me a pot to my office. I have some ciphering to do,” Lord Edwin said, and left, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

  Mrs. Plummer gave an annoyed tsk. “There goes the most selfish beast in nature.”

  Mary Anne went to the kitchen with Mrs. Plummer to discuss the affair. “Are we accessories, Mrs. Plummer?” she worried.

  “Not I; I know nothing about it. I suggest you turn deaf and blind as well, missie.”

  “If Uncle insists on being a thief, I wish he would just sell the stuff to Mr. Robertson and have done with it. I don’t think Mr. Robertson would ask too many questions. He’s very eager to get some silk, for his shelves are empty.”

  When the coffee was made, Mary Anne offered to de­liver it to Fitch. “I’ll take a cup up to Uncle first and try to persuade him to return the stuff to Vulch,” she said.

  “Your uncle’s as stubborn as he is crooked. Let him sell it to Mr. Robertson and have done with it.”

  It was true; there was no dissuading Uncle when he had made up his mind. But she must at least keep him out of jail, and she came up with an idea.

  “You could store it in Mr. Christian’s shepherd hut and have Fitch take the payment. In that way you wouldn’t be directly involved,” she outlined to Lord Edwin.

  “Everybody knows Fitch is my man. You might as well put a notice in the papers. In Folkestone I called myself Mr. Smith,” Lord Edwin added, and smiled at his clev­erness.

  “Fitch could wear a mask,” she suggested. “There’s no saying Jeremy Black will let Fitch have his boat another night, you know. And the trip to Folkestone is dangerous. The customs men are out along the coast all the time.”

  Lord Edwin’s fingers played along his cheek. “There’s something in that,” he
said. “Perhaps I should tell Fitch to take it along to Christian’s hut tonight.”

  With a thought to the assembly on Saturday, Mary Anne objected. “It might be better to make sure Codey has al­ready searched Christian’s hut. It would be a pity if Fitch took it there, then Codey decided to search it.”

  Her uncle was astonished at her cleverness. “By the living jingo, I come to think I should have had you in on it from the start. You’re right; I shall write an anonymous note off to Codey telling him the stuff is at Christian’s hut, and after he searches it, I’ll have Fitch put the cargo there tomorrow, say, around ten in the morning.”

  But if Mr. Robertson got his cargo in the morning, he might leave town before the assembly that night. “I think you should wait a day before transferring the silk to Chris­tian’s hut, Uncle,” she said cautiously. “Just to be on the safe side, you know. Meanwhile, it will be quite safe in the hayloft, since that’s already been searched.”

  “I’ll have Fitch snoop around Christian’s place and see if Codey takes any interest after he finds it empty. If the coast is clear, there’s no point dallying. The sooner it’s over, the sooner I get my money. And there will be a little bonus in it for you, too, missie.’’

  “No! I don’t want anything to do with stolen goods!”

  Lord Edwin stared at her foolishness. “Stolen from the Frenchies! That isn’t stealing; it’s patriotism. Vulch didn’t pay for the cargo. I checked with him tonight. ‘Old Albert Menard is out his blunt,’ he told me, and laughed. In times of war, you know,” he added piously, “it is every Englishman’s duty to bilk the Frenchies out of all we can. The money would only go to buy bullets for Boney.” On this piece of rationalization, he lifted the coffee cup and sipped daintily, wishing he had a tot of brandy to put in it.

  He took up the pen and began his note to Codey and the letter to the journal. Mary Anne carried all the weight of worry and guilt that her uncle seemed to ignore. But she was happy to know Uncle was only stealing from the Frenchies. That would be a good point to make if he ended up in the dock. She put on her wrap and took the coffee down to Fitch.

  The night air was heavy with fog and drizzle. Through the cloudlike mist she heard the heavy clip-clop of hooves and the jingle of the harness. She soon saw the gig lum­bering up from the shore, heavily weighted with its cargo of silk. Fitch was hunched over the reins, urging the nag on to a faster pace. He jerked to attention when he dis­cerned her.

  “Oh, ‘tis you, Miss Judson!” he exclaimed. “I’m just-just—”

  “I know all about it, Fitch,” she said severely, and handed him the jug of coffee. “You and Uncle should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Ashamed! Why, it’s an act of patriotism.”

  “I know all about your patriotism, too,” she said, and accepted a hand up into the gig. She told Fitch about the plan to put the stuff in Christian’s hut and sell it to Mr. Robertson.

  “A mask, eh?” He smiled, rather pleased with this piece of melodrama. “You don’t think Robertson would turn nasty? I mean to say, if he knows we stole the stuff, he might take it into his noggin not to pay. Plummer tells me he had a pistol when he rescued you from the Frenchies. I don’t have a pistol—not one that works.” Nothing “worked” at Horton Hall, including the master.

  “He’s a businessman. He doesn’t care who he buys his silk from. He’ll pay, never fear.”

  “But it was odd he carried a pistol,” Fitch said.

  “Yes, that was odd,” she agreed, frowning into the shadows.

  Why would a drapery merchant travel with a pistol? And, really, Mr. Robertson hadn’t at all the air of a mer­chant. He was very elegant, with that ease of manners more usually encountered amongst the ton. She had al­ways thought it odd he had come racing after his silk so early, too, almost before it had time to arrive in London. Did all merchants take so active a part in the delivery of their goods? He had been out searching the neighborhood when she met him at the shepherd’s hut.

  Was it possible Mr. Robertson was something other than what he let on? But who could he be? The only other class interested in smuggling was customs men. Good God, was he a customs man sent to the coast to catch the smugglers? He had even put out notice of a ten percent reward, and that was an old customs trick.

  She remembered, too, that he had not only carried a pistol but had spoken French like a native. Was he perhaps a Frenchman in disguise—perhaps the leader of the party who had abandoned the ship? He might have been hiding out at the hut to try to capture the thief—her uncle!

  “Oh, dear,” she said in a weak voice. “Stop the horse, Fitch. I must speak to Uncle!”

  Fitch drew to a halt and she hopped down. She raced toward the Hall, her mind in turmoil at the awful imbro­glio she had nearly thrown her uncle into. A minor worry was soon added to her heavier fears. The sodden grass was making a mess of her evening slippers, and with the spring assembly looming, she must preserve them. She’d have drier walking if she went home under the trees that sheltered the west side of the Hall and entered by the back door.

  She flew toward the row of beeches and scampered along, congratulating herself on this idea. The leaves were so thick, the ground under them was still dry after that downpour. It was as she made the dart toward the protection of the last tree that she heard it—the telltale clink of a harness and whickering of a horse. As she entered the dry darkness of the tree’s canopy, she nearly fell against a warm flank. The nag, in its surprise, emitted a louder sound than before.

  Her first instinctive thought was that Fitch had used Un­cle’s mount and forgotten to stable it afterward. With so many things on his mind, it was no wonder. She patted the horse and began feeling for the rope to untie it. Her fingers encountered hide as smooth as silk and the firm hindquarters of a horse in the prime of life, which Uncle’s nag hadn’t been for a decade. Almost at the same moment she realized there was a second horse tethered on the other side of the tree.

  Codey! was her first awful fear. But Codey rode a rusty old cob not much better than Uncle’s Bingo, and he rode alone. No one in the neighborhood had such bloods as this except Vulch. The sneak had ridden over in the dark of night to have another look for the silk. Poltroon that he was, he’d been afraid to come alone. He had one of his grooms or footmen with him. Vulch instilled no terror in Miss Judson’s breast. The only emotion there was hot an­ger.

  She strode out from the concealment of the tree and headed for the stable, certain that was where he was searching. As she drew nearer, she even saw the erratic movement of a rush light through the gaping boards of the building. With no effort at silence, she threw open the door and called in the direction of the light, “Well, Mr. Vulch, can I do something for you?”

  It seemed, in the moment the light remained lit, that a dozen men suddenly jumped out at her, though she actu­ally remembered only three distinctly. Two of them came from the unused loose boxes, and they were horrid, rough-looking men she didn’t recognize. In the hand of one she glimpsed a hoe; the other held a pistol.

  The only gentle­man in the group was not Mr. Vulch but Mr. Robertson. He looked as startled to see her as the others did. He was the one holding the rush light. Its reflection burned in his eyes, giving him the aspect of a demon.

  His mouth opened in silent astonishment. That was the last thing she saw before the rush light was whipped out of his hand and extinguished. In the pitch black of the barn she was suddenly shoved aside. There was a flurry of activity and a mumble of muted words as the intruders pelted out of the barn to disappear into the night. She stood gasping in fright as the horses under the beech tree were untied and the men clattered away.

  Mary Anne’s heart pounded like a drum at the back of her throat. She stood trembling, too frightened to move. Who were those men? As rationality returned, she moved to the door, gathering fortitude to bolt for the house. She listened a moment to be sure they were gone, then tiptoed to the door. She was about to leave when a moan came from the bowels of
the stable. Oh, God! One of them was still there, and he was hurt—or playacting to lure her in. She flew out the door and ran pell-mell into a wall of human flesh.

  “What’s afoot?” Fitch demanded. “I heard the clatter of horses from the barn. Are you all right, Miss Judson?”

  “Fitch!” she gasped. “There’s someone in the stable. He’s wounded, I think.”

  There was a sound of a body stirring in the shadows. With Fitch there to protect her, Mary Anne had lost her fear. “Who is it?” she called bravely.

  A man stumbled into the dim visibility of the doorway, clutching his hand to his head.

  “It’s Robertson!” Fitch exclaimed, and gave Mary Anne a warning glance.

  She saw the look and knew she should heed it, but to see Mr. Robertson with what looked like blood trickling down his forehead caused reason to flee. “James, are you all right?” she demanded, and hurried forward to help him. The “James” popped out unnoticed by her.

  He steadied himself with an arm on her shoulder and shook his head. “I may live,” he muttered. “Lucky it was only my hard head they smashed.”

  “Help me get him into the house, Fitch!” she ordered, and with Fitch propping him up on one side, Mary Anne on the other, they hobbled to the kitchen door. Mrs. Plummer had retired for the night. She overheard the fracas from behind her bedroom door, which was adjacent to her kitchen. She got out of bed and put her ear to the door.

  “Light the lamp,” Mary Anne said. When it was lit, she said, “Here, seat him at the table. Shall I send for a doctor, Mr. Robertson?” she asked, examining his head. What had looked like blood in the darkness proved to be only a lock of wet hair that had fallen forward. The bruise, a sizable one, was on the back of his head.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Robertson decided, after tenderly feeling his bump.

  Mary Anne became aware that Fitch was wildly gestur­ing and followed him outside the door for a private word.

  “I can’t abandon my work,” he whispered. “I recog­nized Jed Parker as he pelted off. It was Vulch’s men in the stable, looking for the stuff.”