by Laura London
“Do you really think we are going to be invaded?” I asked him. It seemed so strange to contemplate.
“No, he’s too busy dealing with the blockades and Continental armies to invade this man’s island,” said Christopher with assurance. “No need to hurry with your French, ’Lizbeth.”
“Well, that’s comforting. You know everyone who lives near the coast worries about being ravished in their beds by foreign soldiers. Julius Caesar landed his galleys here; so did William the Conqueror. There is always a lot of drama connected with these coastal towns. Just twenty-five years ago, William Pitt sent soldiers here to burn all the fishing boats because some of them were built with false bottoms to hide contraband goods. Mrs. Goodbody’s brother-in-law is bitter about it to this day.”
“But as we both know, that didn’t stop the smugglers,” Christopher declared.
“Hell’s bells, no,” flashed Christa. The twins had clambered up to join us. “The excisemen still fight it out with the smugglers. Isn’t that right, Lizzie? And I’ll bet plenty of spies sneak over here, too.”
“I’m going to tell Mrs. Goodbody you cursed,” Caro shot at her twin. “She is going to wash out your mouth with soap.” They chased each other across the hillside. I looked at Christopher, suddenly remembering his father may have been shot by spies. If he was disturbed it didn’t show.
“C’mon, Christopher, I want to show you the church,” I said. We climbed the narrow path up to an even higher level and threaded our way along a row of pollard limes. Far out to the left, in dour isolation, stood the Time Bell Tower, an important landmark. Its huge clock is used to determine the sailing times for ships in the harbor. On a clear day, they say it can be seen for miles out to sea. I dutifully pointed it out to Christopher, who expressed a desire to see it closer.
“Maybe there is a way to climb up inside and look out to sea?” said Christopher hopefully.
“Oh no, it’s much too dangerous. Two years ago there was a terrible accident there. A couple of village boys climbed out on the ledge underneath the clock to see a heron that was nesting. They lost their footing in a gust of wind and fell to the bottom and were killed. Now it’s kept locked all the time.”
We reached the medieval church, pulled open the heavy oaken door, and stepped inside. The interior of the ancient church is colored a deep, ashen gray, the smoky light that filters in through the high clerestory windows falling lifelessly upon the stone walls. The place is almost crushingly claustrophobic. The roof is supported by pillars of pewter-colored marble which adds to the air of dead elegance. I showed Christopher a crack in the side wall which was caused by an earthquake in the last century.
“There’s an old catacomb underneath the church,” I volunteered in a whisper. “Below the chancel. It contains old skulls and shinbones that were saved when the graveyard was dug up at some point in medieval times.”
“Can we go look at it?” said Christopher. I wasn’t expecting him to say that, but I supposed I should accommodate a guest. We began the trek down the center aisle to the chancel. It seemed a very long way. The twins were tiptoeing. When we reached the door that led below, we pulled it open and were at once hit with a wave of chill, dampish air. We each took one of the smelly fish-oil lamps that stood on a nearby table, ready for those who made the pilgrimage into the basement crypt. I felt the need to put on a brave front so I led the way down the mossy steps to the earth-lined passageway below. As we came out of the stair-hall our lamplight filled a cavernous chamber that was lined from floor to ceiling with skulls and long bones.
“There must be thousands of skulls here,” came Christopher’s voice in my ear.
“Two thousand. At least that’s what they said last time they were counted. They’ve started keeping count of them since Gypsy women started coming here to steal the bones for boiling down to make an infusion against rheumatism.”
Christa stood with her arms wrapped around her, rubbing her shoulders to keep out the cold. “They say the smugglers use this place as a hideout. There are millions of tunnels leading through the ground here,” she told Christopher.
I suddenly got the most pronounced sensation of being watched. The light slanted crazily off the eyeless sockets of the skulls, giving them an unearthly wavering glitter. “Christa, in the name of Zeus, would you stop carping about spies?” I said with unaccustomed snappishness. I turned around and led the way back up the slippery stairs to the dry stale air of the church. It wasn’t until we were halfway down the aisle that I realized dismally that my sash was undone and my reticule gone.
“It must have come untied when I brushed against the wall near the foot of the stairs. And I had my reticule tied to it. It’s missing now. I suppose it fell off somewhere near the bottom of the steps.”
Christopher volunteered to go down to get it while the girls and I went outside to warm up. I would have liked to accept his offer but I stated firmly that I would run back and fetch it myself. Pride stiffened my backbone and made me call out airily, “Wait outside, I’ll be right back up.”
My brave words were still echoing from the farthest reaches of the vaulted chancel as I made my way back. I relit an oil lantern and proceeded determinedly down the narrow stairway. It seemed to have grown even colder since I had left. Rivulets of brackish water oozed from the rough sides of the walls and fell into soupy puddles with a tinny, clinking sound. I tried to turn off my thoughts, to concentrate on my search for the missing reticule. As I reached the end of the steps, the object of my search appeared in the circle of light from the lamp. I stepped forward and my body came up against a warm, solid mass. I stepped back quickly and there, in the light of my lamp, glowed a fantastically shadowed face.
“Sacre bleu!” The French curse rang profanely. I didn’t waste time screaming. I just fled.
I didn’t stop until I was encircled by Christopher’s comforting arms. I told him what happened with chattering teeth. He looked grim as he let go of me and said, “You three stay up here. I’m going down to investigate.”
“No, Christopher, you can’t. That man was hiding down there. Don’t you see? He’s probably a smuggler. If you go back there he’s likely to kill you.” I was desperate with fear.
Christopher pulled back his jacket, revealing a serviceable-looking pistol held in place by a leather strap.
“Don’t worry on my account, Elizabeth. I may not be able to hit the side of a smokehouse with an old fowling piece, but with a pistol I’m a dead shot.”
He disappeared down the stairway. After what seemed like hours, he returned.
“There was no sign of him by the time I got down there. He must have gone into one of those connecting tunnels. It would be foolish to try to follow him. I don’t know my way around down there so it would give him too much of an advantage,” Christopher concluded with reluctance.
“Of course you shouldn’t go after him. It’s not your business to go chasing after smugglers. That’s up to the customs men. What made you go after him anyway?” I asked.
Christopher shrugged. His face took on a guarded look.
“Just an impulse, I guess. That man may have been down there earlier when we went down. I don’t like being spied on. It’s a dashed havey-cavey business. Let’s get back to the Goodbodys before they get worried about us.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that! He couldn’t have been more eager to get away than I was. On the way down the hill he handed me my reticule, which he had remembered to pick up from the cavern floor. As I took it from him I asked:
“Christopher, why are you carrying a pistol? Do you always bring it places with you?”
“Well, no. Uncle Nicky thought it would be a good idea for me to have it with me since the whole thing surrounding my father’s death isn’t resolved.” He was still looking uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have shown it to you. I don’t want you to be frightened. There is just a remote possibility that whoever killed my father could take another crack at me. Of course, that’s totally unlikel
y; the gun is the merest precaution,” he pointed out a little too emphatically.
I was happy for the sane normal atmosphere of the Goodbody home. They were alarmed at the story we told them but didn’t hesitate to endorse our actions. The possibility that the man in the crypt had been another tourist who was just as startled as I was speedily dismissed. No tourist would have been down in that stygian darkness without a lamp to guide him. Also, a legitimate visitor would have followed me, calling out reassurances. No, the man was probably a smuggler, perhaps checking on a cache of contraband brought into port one moonless night when respectable folk were home safe in their beds. There was general agreement that the story of my encounter should go no further than this snug parlor. The “gentlemen,” as the smugglers were called, had a longer arm than the law even in these civilized times, and it could be fatally dangerous to provoke them. Besides, the excisemen were far from popular in the neighborhood as their jobs often involved harassing legitimate fishermen as they searched for illegal cargos.
It wasn’t until I lay in bed that night that I remembered the oath that the “smuggler” had uttered as I ran into him. “Sacre bleu.” How many smugglers in Dyle would curse in French?
Chapter Seven
After the excitement of our visit to Dyle, the next few days seemed sadly flat. Christopher had gone away with Lord Dearborne to spend some time at Petersperch. Kit had hinted broadly that there would be a surprise for me on his return. So there was that to look forward to, I supposed, making a few uneven stitches in the worn sheet I was darning. My bare feet were cool against the uneven stone floor of the cottage. It had been warm all week.
I wondered what Christopher and his handsome guardian were doing at this minute. Perhaps sitting in an elegant velvet-walled drawing room sipping chilled champagne from crystal goblets. I leaned back against the old elm settee and lifted my feet up onto a nearby chair. Wearily I reached my hand up to rub the back of my neck, when the memory of Lord Dearborne’s caress that day in the library came floating, unbidden, into my mind. Hastily lowering my hand, I glanced across the room to where Mrs. Goodbody sweated over her butter churn, to make sure she hadn’t noticed the betraying rush of color to my cheeks. I saw with relief that she was still intent on her task. She was attacking the semiliquid butter with such vigor that it set a-tremble the flitch of home-cured bacon which hung from the ceiling. I smiled, thinking how Christopher always managed to knock his head on the bacon whenever he came into the cottage.
I decided to get up from my comfortable place and add some water to the peonies that I had placed in an old stoneware vase in the middle of the table. The heat had wilted them until they looked like the wives of Henry VIII, making obeisance before losing their heads.
“Halloa,” came from outside. It sounded like Christopher himself.
“We’re here,” I called back, and he entered, promptly setting the flitch of bacon to swinging with a knock of his head.
“Blast!” he muttered.
“Oh, poor Christopher. We’ve been thinking about moving that bacon for quite some time,” I said.
“How are you all?” he said, nodding to Mrs. Goodbody.
“It’s good to have you back, young sir,” she said heartily. “Elizabeth and I were becoming bored without our young Christopher.” Christopher looked pleased.
“You’ll be gladder yet to hear I’m back when I tell you what we’ve brought with us—the primest bits of blood you ever saw,” said Christopher with the air of one delivering joyful tidings.
“Kit, I’ve never heard anyone like you for going on about blood,” I told him tartly. He frowned at my response and then laughed, lifting me in his arms and whirling me round and round, threatening to upset every knickknack in the cottage.
“There’s never another girl like you, ’Lizbeth.” Kit put me down, choking with laughter. “I mean horses, little dunce. Remember I said I’d teach you how to ride? You know, on the night of the Macreadys’ ball! Well, so I will. Uncle Nicky’s bought us horses to ride. Run and get into your riding habit now. It’ll be the greatest sport ever!”
I was about to protest that I didn’t own a riding habit when it occurred to me that there was one in the shipment from London. I remembered it particularly because the bonnet that came with it had a teal-blue poke front trimmed with puffs of ribbon and everyone had been dismayed that it was so pretty but there had been no horses to wear it for.
“Go,” said Christopher, nudging me imperatively toward the bedroom. I wondered more about the horses as I donned my riding habit. Was the marquis extending his commission more than was customary in this case? Horses were hardly a necessity of life. Perhaps he was doing it to amuse Christopher. It occurred to me that I should look these gift horses in the mouth and place it before the marquis that he was being overly generous. But life is full of things that one should do and one does not.
The twins were already bouncing around on a pair of lively chestnut Welsh ponies at the shouted corrections and instructions of Jason, the groom.
“We picked a very ladylike mare for you,” Christopher said. “She had beautiful manners, you’ll get along famously with her. Jason, bring out Snowball,” he called. Jason disappeared into the stables and came out again leading a delicate-looking pearl-gray mare who pawed the ground and snickered as she was brought over to us. In spite of her delicate appearance, she looked rather large from up close. Too large.
“Might as well begin right away. Come over to the mounting block. That’s right, now put your left foot in the stirrup,” said Christopher, with the unconcern of someone born on a horse’s back. “No, Elizabeth, not like that! All you have to do is slide your foot into the stirrup.”
“I am trying to,” I said, vexed. “But the horse keeps moving away.”
“Right. Well, I’ll help you mount. Jason, hold tight on the reins and I’ll give her a boost. There now, up you go!”
In a flash, I was on the horse’s back. It was a very long way to the ground.
“Hello down there,” I said weakly. My vertigo increased as Snowball began turning in circles underneath me.
“Snowball is a weathercock,” I told Christopher. “You stole her from the top of the barn.”
“No, honestly, I didn’t. She only acts that way because she knows you’re a beginner,” said Christopher, intent on his new role as Job’s Comforter. Being on horseback was a strange feeling.
The twins were soon right at home on a horse’s back. As for my own case, never was there a more patient teacher than Christopher nor a more inept pupil than myself. I had less grace on the Arabian mare than a farmboy on a plowhorse; moreover, instead of improving as the lessons went on, I merely grew more nervous. Once, in despair, Christopher cried:
“Elizabeth, you’ll never be able to ride until you show the horse who’s boss.”
“I don’t have to show the horse who’s boss,” I wailed. “Snowball already knows that she’s the boss, it’s a foregone conclusion, she’s fifty times bigger than I.”
Christopher sighed, patting me on the shoulder with tolerant affection. “I’m afraid you’re just too nice to ever be much of a rider.”
* * *
Apart from riding lessons and the usual chores, the twins and I devoted all our energies to preparations for the Norman Conquest pageant. Christopher’s efficient and imaginative assistance made us sure that our depiction of the invasion would be so spectacular as to outdo the real thing. After I had completed the final draft of the dialogue and read it aloud in the cottage, Mrs. Goodbody pronounced it “not half bad,” which my sisters and I interpreted as tribute indeed. There had been only one reservation. Mrs. Goodbody felt that a reference by King Harold to “William the Bastard” was coming it a bit strong and she told me mildly that I could keep or change the line as I saw fit; unfortunately, the look that accompanied her words made it clear that I had better see fit. I wanted to oblige her. But “William the Love Child”…? I was mulling the problem as I lay flopped on my sto
mach on a worn blanket under a honeysuckle bush near the orchard. It was one of my favorite places for thinking, especially in the summer; it combined quiet with shade and the sweet perfume of blooming honeysuckle. Today I was awaiting the arrival of Christopher and the twins for a Play Committee meeting. I was munching absent-mindedly on an oaten cake left from lunch when I heard the firm tread of leather boots approaching.
“Well, Kit,” I called out without turning my head, “what do you think? Shall we have a bastard or a love child?”
The footsteps stopped and I froze as I heard the voice that accompanied them.
“It would seem that the freedom of manners current among modern youth has reached alarming proportions.” Lord Dearborne’s drawl was lightly spiced with sarcasm.
I flushed, thinking sourly that if we were talking about the freedom of modern manners, the marquis was certainly no one to moralize. I wondered what he would say if I asked him if he had warned the “Snow Queen” or Lady Doran about overfree manners. It was better not to find out.
“It’s the play for our parish fête day,” I explained. “We plan to put on the Norman invasion of England this year and Mrs. Goodbody doesn’t think we should call William the Conqueror by William the Bastard (for all that it’s true). But if we call him William the Love Child, it will sound like we’re only calling him that because we didn’t have the courage to say bastard. If you can see what I mean.”
To my surprise, the marquis dropped, with lazy grace, next to me on the blanket.
“I can see that it would be a struggle for a sincere playwright.” I couldn’t tell whether he meant to be satirical. “Torn between artistic integrity and the limitations of one’s audience. I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for ‘natural son’—a compromise of bluntness and insipidity.”
“Natural son.” I thought it over and sighed. “I suppose it will do though it still rings like a euphemism.”
Lord Dearborne supported himself on one elbow. He was dressed casually, in buckskins and riding boots with his lawn shirt open at the neck. A light breeze gently ruffled his hair as his sapphire eyes scanned me with idle speculation. His new benign attitude put me more on my guard than ever. What a pity it is that my guard is so weak. I returned his look with one of grave suspicion.
