Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  From his foreshortened view of her face, he saw long lashes resting fanlike on her pale cheeks. Her hair curled in wispy tendrils around her forehead from the moisture. Naturally curly hair, a pretty chestnut shade. Her forehead was pinched in consternation. Her touch was exquisitely gentle, shy. He felt a weakening stab of pity for this pretty provincial and tried to shake it away. Then she lifted her long lashes and stared at him.

  “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t answer. In fact, he hadn’t heard actual words, only her dove-soft voice. His attention was all focused on her eyes, which dazzled him at this close range. “Mary Anne,” he said, so softly she wasn’t sure she hadn’t imag­ined it. His voice was a seductive sigh.

  I believe he’s going to kiss me! she thought, and instinc­tively pulled back an inch. It gave him a clearer view of her face, which was an enchantingly pale oval in the dim rush light. “You’re very beautiful,” he said softly.

  A smile trembled on her lips. “Do you really think so, Mr. Robertson?” she asked.

  “From the moment I saw you at the inn.”

  She gazed unblinkingly into his eyes. “I thought you were very handsome,” she said. Then, afraid that she was being forward, she added, “Bess thought so, too.”

  Mr. Robertson’s lips curved into a smile at this peculiar addition. He wasn’t accustomed to having a third party drawn into his lovemaking. “Bess doesn’t treat me so shamelessly,” he said leadingly.

  “You don’t have to tell me! She’d treat you even better if you weren’t a—that is...”

  “A drapery merchant?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it!” she as­sured him.

  “I’m more than a drapery merchant, Mary Anne. You know why I’m here. Help me. You must let me go before Fitch returns.”

  Her face froze in anger. “Don’t think to con me with sweet talk, sir! You didn’t mean a word of it, did you? You were only trying to charm me into setting you free so you could turn us all in. You must think I’m a regular greenhorn.” She hopped up and turned away to hide the tears that gathered in her eyes.

  She felt like an idiot, but at least she hadn’t loosened his bindings, and she wouldn’t. He could grow into a humpback for all she cared. She strode angrily from the barn to wait for Fitch and left Mr. Robertson, still tied in knots and alone, to regret his poor timing.

  He also regretted the loss of the message from France, but as the thing was done, there was no point repining. All he could do now was send word to Whitehall and await the next message. Dymchurch was as good a place to wait as London. And it would be amusing to roast his captors. He thought of all this as he worked to free his wrists.

  Mary Anne had plenty of time to think, too, for Fitch didn’t come back for another ten minutes. Of course she knew that she and Uncle and Fitch were now outlaws, condemned to a life of running. If caught, they were for the gibbet, but this received less than a minute of her time. Mostly she thought of that moment when Mr. Robertson had gazed into her eyes and said, “You’re very beautiful.” He had looked as though he wanted to kiss her. What would it have been like?

  At length Fitch returned. “I can’t rouse the old gaffer,” he said. “He’s dead to the world. We’ll just have to leave Robertson trussed up till morning.”

  Much as she disliked to agree, Mary Anne could find no other way out of their problem. “At least tie his arms and legs separately. We don’t want to cripple the poor man. But make sure you don’t let him get away from you. I’ll go back to the Hall and send Uncle down the minute he wakes up. And, Fitch—you could put that old horse blanket over Mr. Robertson. It’ll be chilly before morning.”

  “I’ll do what needs doing, never fear. You get along home, missie.”

  Mary Anne scampered back to the Hall. She felt a hun­dred years old as she climbed the long staircase to her room. She looked in at Uncle and tried to rouse him, but he only smiled softly in his sleep, dreaming who knew what impossible thing. Perhaps that he had sold the silk and had his ill-gotten gains. She went wearily to her room and slept on top of the bed in her gown because she was too desolate to bother changing.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  As the first red glow of dawn lightened the horizon, Mary Anne stirred and sat up. What day was it? Saturday—the assembly! She sat in confusion a moment, wondering why she was dressed. Then she remembered the whole dread­ful situation and sighed. She’d best get ready for the ordeals of the day. She washed up and put on her second-best sprigged muslin before going to the room where her uncle had spent the night.

  Lord Edwin was still asleep, but the stertorous snores had dwindled to a rumble, and after she gave him a few shakes, he opened his close-set eyes and said, “Yes, yes, I’m awake. Oh, my head! It feels like a sack of rocks.”

  His eyes were as red as a ferret’s, made to look even worse in his ashen face. “That was a bad bottle of wine I drank last night,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, what is it, Mary Anne? Is Fitch ready to arrange the deal with Robertson?”

  She explained the true situation to him two or three times till he grasped all the awful ramifications. He seemed to shrivel before her very eyes. Was this shrunken, fright­ened, foolish old man to be her savior? She knew in her bones Uncle had no more idea how to rescue them than she had herself.

  “But this is dreadful!” he worried, wringing his hands. “I should have known better than to trust Fitch. Why didn’t he make a clean job of it and finish the bleater? And he let Belle eat the message, eh? Serves Robertson right, hiding a message in a bale of silk. Whoever heard of such a way of carrying on? He should have known Belle would eat it. She eats everything. Why couldn’t she have used her goat brain and eaten Robertson? Well, don’t look to me, missie. I don’t know how you are to extricate yourself. Tell Plummer to make a gallon of coffee. I’ll be down immediately.”

  It occurred to Mary Anne that their prisoner must also have coffee and something to eat. “I’ll need a breakfast tray, Mrs. Plummer,” she said when she had given the order for coffee.

  “Lord Edwin invited Robertson to stay overnight, did he?” Mrs. Plummer asked.

  “Yes—that is, not invited, exactly. He’s tied up, a pris­oner in the barn.”

  Mrs. Plummer threw up her hands in horror. “Don’t tell me anything! I didn’t hear you. I’ll prepare a tray for you to take upstairs to Mr. Robertson. I’ll not swing in the wind for your uncle’s sins, and if you was wise, mis­sie, you’d keep away from it, too.”

  “I wish I had kept away from it,” Mary Anne said, but she helped with Mr. Robertson’s breakfast, choosing the choice cuts of ham for him and adding a pot of marmalade to go with his toast.

  “You’ll all end up in Newgate,” Mrs. Plummer repined as she worked. “Holding an officer of the Crown pris­oner—why, you might as well take a knife and put it through the prince hisself. And Vulch will be here looking for him before the sun gets much higher. You can’t leave him sitting in the barn for any passerby to see.”

  “I know,” Mary Anne said. “We’ll have to put him in the cellar or attic.’’

  “Let me know when you’re bringing him, and I’ll leave the house. I don’t want to know nothing about it. I suggest the cellar. If you’re going to have to feed him, you don’t want to be climbing all them stairs up to the rafters.”

  These alternatives were discussed as Miss Judson and Lord Edwin wended their way toward the barn. It prom­ised to be a beautiful day. The newly washed greenery glowed in the early sunlight, and birds chirped overhead, all ignored by the troubled pair. Mary Anne carried the best silver tray, covered with a white tea towel to protect the food, and Lord Edwin acted as lookout, to see they weren’t spotted.

  At the barn door he stopped. “It isn’t necessary for me to go in,” he said. “I mean to say, whatever the fellow wants, he can tell you, Mary Anne. I daresay you could turn him up sweet better than an old reprobate like myself. Be nice to him.
This may all blow over yet. A pretty girl and a bachelor—here’s your chance to nab yourself a parti. Dulce et decorum est, as the Latins say,” he quoted, with awful inappropriateness. “Especially decorum—remem­ber you’re a lady.”

  She stared at his nonsense. “Someone will have to feed him, Uncle! He can’t feed himself, with his hands tied.”

  “Untie him.”

  “He’ll escape if we do.”

  “Oh, guests are troublesome things. I’m sorry I ever invited him. Fitch can feed him, then, if you’re shy. Just say good morning to Robertson and give Fitch the tray.”

  Both men were wide-awake and glaring at each other when Mary Anne entered with the tray. She was relieved to see Fitch had rearranged the bindings to put Robertson out of his misery. He was no longer hunched over, but sitting upright against a stall with his hands tied behind his back. The horse blanket designated for Robertson’s comfort was around Fitch’s shoulders. Both men looked the worse for the stubble of beard that shadowed their lower faces. A glower further detracted from the prisoner’s suav­ity but added a touch of attractive danger.

  “Where’s Lord Eddie?” Fitch asked.

  Her eyes slid to the barn door, and Fitch headed for it. “Wait, Fitch!” she called. But, of course, Fitch didn’t heed her. She realized then that Fitch needed breakfast, too, and to freshen himself after spending the night in the barn.

  She looked grimly to the prisoner. “I have some break­fast here,” she said, and set the tray on the ground beside him.

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “Stubbornness won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Robertson. You might as well eat. You’ll need your strength to try to escape.”

  “I escape better when I’m awake.”

  “There’s no laudanum in it—worse luck.” Now why hadn’t they thought of that?

  She dragged a bale of silk toward him and sat on it, with the tray on her knees. She whisked off the cover, revealing a breakfast that still looked attractive, though it was stone cold.

  While Mary Anne busied herself pouring coffee and creaming it, Mr. Robertson studied her. “What’s the ver­dict?” he asked. “Has Lord Edwin not come to his senses? You might as well let me go. It will come to that in the end, and meanwhile I expect I’m a rather troublesome guest.”

  “Sugar?” she asked, ignoring his taunts.

  “Two.”

  She stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar and held the cup to his lips. He sipped carefully and detected no foreign substance.

  “About what you said last night, Mr. Robertson...”

  “It’s the only way—unless you plan to murder me.”

  “I don’t mean about letting you go free! You can see that’s impossible. You’d only report us to the law. I was referring to something else. You said you should notify Whitehall that the message went astray. If you’ll dictate the note, I’ll write it up and post it for you.”

  “They wouldn’t accept it as genuine if it weren’t written in my own hand,” he parried.

  She lifted the cup to his lips again, and when she offered the toast, he bit off a piece. “You could send something—your ring or something else—to let them know it comes from you,” she suggested.

  “This is reality, Miss Judson, not a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  “You’re not very helpful!”

  “I don’t make a habit of helping thieves,” he sneered. As the letter had to be written, however, he added, “The superior I report to is Sir George FitzHugh at the Admiralty.”

  “I’ll have Uncle write the note. He used to work at the Admiralty. He knows people there who can vouch for him.”

  “Let us hope his colleagues don’t remember him too well,” he said with a satirical glint in his dark eyes.

  It went against the grain to recommend the ham after this snide remark. Mary Anne didn’t recommend it, but she speared a piece with the fork and jabbed at his mouth.

  She noticed Robertson’s feet were tied with the cravat. “Fitch used the rope for your wrists, did he?” she asked.

  “Yes, they’re chafing rather badly. He has some hopes I’ll take an infection and spare you the bother of my future care.”

  She was appalled to hear they had added any more wounds to the officer of the Crown. “I can get some salve if they’re troubling you,” she offered.

  Mr. Robertson hunched his shoulders indifferently. “The letter is of more importance. It should be sent off immediately. I’d like to speak to Lord Edwin.”

  “He won’t see you.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s ashamed, I suppose. Uncle doesn’t readily accept responsibility for his wrongdoings. I’ll give him the mes­sage.”

  Mr. Robertson gave her a frustrated look. “You already have it. You’ve endangered lives by stealing the cargo of silk and losing the message from France. You endanger your own lives by holding me here. This can’t go on for­ever. Ultimately you must free me, and by prolonging the inevitable, you only make it worse for yourselves. I had hoped to be able to convince your uncle of this, but it seems he’s as mindless as you and Fitch. That’s my message. Try, if you can, to convince him.”

  She listened but knew too well the futility of trying to talk sense to her uncle. “If you don’t want any more breakfast, I’ll go and get the pen and paper now. You didn’t try the eggs,” she said.

  When she looked at the tray, she saw Belle had con­sumed eggs and ham, and was finishing her meal by eating the napkin.

  “The letter, Miss Judson!” he said.

  She put Belle out into the yard, picked up the tray, and left. Fitch had gone to freshen himself at the house and to have breakfast. Her uncle was gone, pacing back and forth beyond view of the open doorway.

  “Mr. Robertson would like to talk to you,” she said.

  “Talk to me? Whatever for? He has a lot of gall—talk to me, indeed, after feeding me doctored wine. I have a good mind to turn him off.”

  “Perhaps you should, Uncle. We can’t keep him here forever. Let us set him free.”

  “What, to report us to the constable and pack us off to the roundhouse? I know what goes on at that roundhouse. One draught of small ale a day—that’s what you get. No wine, no brandy. And the food! Why, it’s worse than Plummer’s ragout. Fitch was put in for a week when he beat up the greengrocer. Oh, no, they don’t get me in the roundhouse, thank you.”

  “It won’t be the roundhouse. It will be Newgate for you and Bridewell for me.”

  “There you are, then. Newgate’s no better than the roundhouse. We can’t set him free. And while he’s out of commission, Fitch must arrange to sell the silk.”

  “Oh, Uncle,” she said wearily, and went to the Hall to get the pen and paper. Fitch was just finishing breakfast when she entered by the back door.

  “How’s the prisoner?” Mrs. Plummer asked Mary Anne. “Not that I want to know a thing about him, but it seems to me the poor soul must be in misery, all tied up and not able to tend to his natural functions.”

  “His wrists are chafed from the ropes. Do you have some ointment, Mrs. Plummer?”

  “Ointment ain’t what I meant,” she said severely, but she went to the cupboard and got it.

  “I’ll tend to him now,” Fitch said, and left.

  Mrs. Plummer took the tray. “Your little diary will be getting more than it bargained for, eh, missie?”

  “Yes, indeed, but I don’t seem to have time to write in it. Oh, that reminds me. A pen and paper. Mr. Robertson must write a letter.”

  “I don’t want to know nothing about it. The only decent stationery in the house is in your uncle’s desk. I was thinking, if Belle has mussed up one bale of silk so it can’t be sold, we might get new curtains for the saloon out of it. I can dust if off. There’d be plenty for a new gown for the assembly as well, if we got at it right away.”

  “The assembly? Oh, I can’t go to that this year.”

  “Miss the assembly and let that bold chit of a Bess Vulch have he
r way with all the men? Of course you’ll go. Bring up the gold silk, and I’ll use your blue gown for a pattern. It will just match your shawl.”

  Mary Anne assembled the ointment and writing mate­rials and returned disconsolately to the barn. It was still only six-thirty, but the countryside was already stirring. Soon Vulch would learn his guest had vanished and would be out looking for him. They’d have to move Mr. Robertson and the silk.

  Lord Edwin lurked outside the barn, too ashamed to face his captive. “How is it going with you and young Robertson?” he asked hopefully. “Is he making up to you at all?”

  “We’ve got to hide him some place better than the barn, Uncle. Vulch will soon be here looking for him.”

  Lord Edwin was tired of his guest and was in an irri­table mood. “I wish the wretched fellow would go away. That’s the trouble with commoners—they don’t know when they’ve overstayed their welcome. Let them get a foot in the door, and they become tenants for life. If he had any gumption, he should have escaped last night. Fitch is put­ting the silk in the loft before Belle gobbles up the rest of it. There’s ten guineas blown down the wind.”

  “About hiding Mr. Robertson...”

  “Do what you and Fitch think best with him.”

  ‘‘Plummer suggested the cellar.’’

  “Plummer—she’s the wisest of us all. She won’t hear of having anything to do with him. The cellar, eh? Why not the attic? With luck, he might drown. Well, I’m oiling off to the village. Vulch won’t get a sniff of me when he comes. Tell Fitch not to forget to send Black’s boat back. He should have done it before now. Black likes an early start for his fishing. Fitch is useless when all’s said and done. The man would forget to comb his hair if I didn’t remind him.”

  On this condemning speech he walked away from his duties, leaving Mary Anne in confusion. She called Fitch out to discuss the situation.

  “You’d better take Black’s boat back. He’ll be waiting for it,” she said.

  “Where’s Lord Eddie?”

  “He’s gone into the village.”