by Grace Elliot
Hope woke with a cry. She lay panting and covered in sweat. She tried to sit but a sickening, throbbing agony beat against her temples and she lay still again. Slowly, she raised her fingers to her skull to find her head swathed in bandages. Exhausted by this small effort, her hand fell back to the covers. She became aware of a woollen blanket beneath her fingertips and it puzzled her. The last thing she remembered was a beach and being chased. With a supreme effort she opened her eyes, and flinched from the daylight. She seemed to be in a large oak bed, the patchwork quilt swimming in and out of focus. A voice, soothing and kind, muttered something as a bottle was pressed to her lips. Then bliss. The pain eased and she lapsed again into unconsciousness.
When Hope woke again, she had no memory of sleeping and yet the shadows had shifted. The pain had receded to a dull ache, as cautiously, she moved her head. She stared around at whitewashed walls and bare floorboards, a sloped ceiling, and through a small window, four panes by four, she glimpsed clouds. The only furniture was a ladder-back chair, a table and a candlestick. Craning her head still further she glimpsed banisters from which hung a lantern, and wooden steps going down. She was, she guessed, in a garret or attic room. She was also alone.
Her first thought was escape. Pushing back the covers she sat. But the fierce pounding in her head beat her back. For some time she lay, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Taking care not to move her head suddenly, she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and fire consumed her ankle. With a moan, she fainted.
The next time she woke, Hope sensed she had company. Keeping her eyes closed, her heart pounding, she became conscious of a man's heavy tread as he paced the room. She waited until he was at the window and opened her eyelids a fraction. With the light behind him she saw an athletic man with wide shoulders, tall enough to have to stoop under the sloped eaves. Her stomach felt hollow with foreboding, for without doubt, this was the same man who'd pursued her over the dunes.
He must have sensed a change in her breathing, for suddenly he turned. Dressed in a naval uniform, the jacket cuffs ringed with gold braid, the man exuded authority. He stared, with piercing blue eyes that penetrated her soul. He continued to stare, his face unreadable; wilful, she decided, and yet uncommonly handsome. She blushed and reached for the covers, pulling them up to her chin.
"So, enough pretending. You are awake at last." His voice, deep and melodic, brooked no argument.
"Please, sir, where am I?"
"Under house arrest." He growled, obviously not her friend then. And yet, she touched her bandaged head, it seemed someone had taken care of her.
"You are in pain?" His consideration was surprising.
"Not so much now."
The answer pleased him. "Good, then you have some explaining to do."
"Please, sir, who are you?"
The man threw her a sideways glance and started to pace.
"Captain Huntley, RN. And you are?"
She decided against lying, her name alone couldn’t incriminate her family.
"Hope Tyler."
"Well Miss Tyler, have you the slightest idea how much trouble you're in?"
"Yes."
The Captain stared at the ceiling. "A man died because of your felony. A Revenue man. He leaves a wife and three children."
"I'm so sorry." She whispered in genuine distress.
"His fellow officers are baying for blood."
Hope trembled, things were worse than she imagined.
"Someone must hang for his death."
Her throat closed over.
"Be it you…or the man who pulled the trigger….my men don’t care." Captain Huntley stepped closer, his presence dominating the room. She couldn’t breathe, he seemed made of granite, his eyes like flints, sparking with anger. "But I'm different." His expression softened imperceptibly. "I like to think of myself as a fair man."
Hope nodded, to encourage him.
"Any fool can see you are just a bit-player, a lackey. The men I want are the leaders, those who finance the contraband and organise the landings. Tell me who they are, and I shall intercede on your behalf with the authorities."
"What if I don’t know their names?"
His wide mouth twitched downward. "Then I cannot help you."
She would have shaken her head had it not been too painful. "The men you speak of aren't stupid. They will know I am taken, and will know if I betray them. If I do… they will come for my family."
"Then don’t you want them behind bars?"
"It's too risky. This way, it's only me."
He tried to hide it, but he looked surprised. She saw him drinking in the logic of her words and a shadow darkened his face. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to stare through the window.
"Tell me," he said benignly, "what does it feel like to be abandoned? Because that's what those men did. Sailed away without a backward glance and left you to your fate."
"I know what you're doing and it won't work." She had no intention of explaining that her stepbrother was in that boat and it would have broken his heart to leave her.
"They left you, put out to sea to save their own skins. Are they really worth protecting?"
Hope's head thudded and not just from concussion. Thomas, her stepbrother, she would protect to the end. "You're wasting your time."
His voice softened. "You are frightened. Give me names and I will help you."
"No." Her mouth went dry.
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Miss Tyler, your loyalty does you credit, but it is misplaced." Huntley regarded her coolly. "By rights, you should be in jail."
"Do you want thanks?" She said, bitterly. "I didn’t ask to be brought here."
"You broke the law. I have extended more leniency than is your due. Don’t try my patience."
With surprising grace for one so tall, the Captain approached and sat on the edge of the mattress. In a quiet, contemplative voice he spoke.
"Miss. Tyler, whatever you may think I'm not a monster. Names. Give me names and let me see what I can do."
"No." Despite everything, the Captain sitting on the bed was making it very difficult to think straight.
"Either with your cooperation, or without it, I will have those names."
His bear-like manner made her shrink away. "I tell you I don’t know."
"And I don’t believe you."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"Don’t play games, Miss Tyler."
Above the pounding of her heart, she managed to speak. "You think this is a game for me? Well, it isn't. Far from it."
He raised a cool brow. "Tell me, then."
A lid had been lifted on a well of frustration. "You think I wanted to join the free traders, well I didn't. You think you are so high above me with your laws and morals…well some of us can’t afford the luxury. Some of us have to scrape by the best way we can, just to survive."
He stared at her thoughtfully. "A pretty speech."
She hissed like a cat. "It's not words, it's not an excuse, but the truth."
"One which doesn’t alter the fact that you were caught breaking the law."
The memory of an empty belly and growling stomach made Hope indignant.
"That's what you see, from your comfortable house, wanting for nothing. But to me it's a way of putting food on the table."
An image of the scaffold filled her mind. Her situation was hopeless, she knew that, so better be hung for a wolf as a dog. She took a deep breath.
"With the land enclosures, and poor catches of late, there's not enough food to go around. Honest folk are starving—while His Majesty raises taxation. If those bypassing those taxes give us a way to earn a little extra, to make life bearable, tis a justice of sorts."
"You cannot take the law into your own hands."
His unblinking scrutiny was breaking her heart. "You are a man of honor, doing what you think is right, and in that we are the same."
"I don’t think so."
“Do you kno
w what it is to go to bed hungry every night? To spend all day up to your knees in salt water to harvest a few measly cockles?” Her eyes blazed. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever wanted for firewood or clean clothes?”
He spoke more softly, his clear blue eyes brimming with emotion. “I understand more than you think, truly I do, but you have to help me first.”
She shook her head; he was playing the oldest trick in the book and she would tell him nothing, not even if he made her blood heat like a lovestruck girl. His face resumed its guarded expression as he stood.
“Doesn’t it bother you that they left without you? Think about it and on my return, I suggest being more helpful.”
“I know what you’re thinking…but there is honor amongst the free traders.”
“And that’s worth dying for?” For a moment, he looked immensely sad. “Because you will swing unless you give me a reason to save you.”
“They would die for me, just as I will for them. Would your men do that for you?”
She saw doubt flash across his face and was glad.
“I have the comfort of knowing I do the King’s bidding.”
“Even if that means hanging those trying to put food on the table?”
“Yes.” The Captain said mechanically.
She dreaded to ask and yet had to know. “What happens now?”
Captain Huntley regarded her with cold, dead eyes. “Once well enough to travel, you will be sent to Ringwood Jail, put on trial and most probably hung.”
That night Hope had plenty of time to reflect, for never had the hours of darkness seemed so long. The following morning, there were steps on the stairs. Hope braced herself to face Captain Huntley, but this time a bulky, bustling man, who squinted like a mole, appeared behind the banisters.
"I'm the surgeon, my dear. Bristol's the name. Been sent to sort out your leg."
"Really?" Hope raised herself onto her elbows; if they meant to make her well, perhaps they also meant to be lenient.
"Aye, the Captain wants to make you fit for the gallows, he does."
"Oh."
"Well, what did you expect?"
"Nothing, absolutely nothing." Hope's opinion of humanity reached an all-time low.
"Now then, let's take a look at the offending article."
"Excuse me?"
The surgeon sighed. "The leg, dear, the broken leg."
Hope tried to free herself from the covers but found she hadn’t the strength. The surgeon pulled away the blankets, leaving Hope feeling exposed, wearing just a night-rail. She hugged her arms across her chest as the surgeon pushed the skirt above the knee. Even though the ankle was heavily bandaged, her foot was clearly at an unnatural angle and the sight of it made her queasy. For the first time, the surgeon glanced at her with something approaching sympathy.
"I won't beat about the bush. You are obviously a brave sort which is just as well. The ankle is dislocated and must be put back in place."
Hope nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. He seemed to approve of her lack of histrionics.
"That's a good girl."
"This is going to hurt, isn’t it?"
He nodded. "A lot, I'm afraid, but with a good dose of laudanum, you won’t remember."
Reaching into his bag he produced a brown vial, and measured out two drops. He studied her face…and then measured out a further two. "Here, take this."
True to his word, Hope found she remembered little of the next half-hour. She was vaguely aware of two stable hands coming up the stairs, bringing with them the smell of horses and straw. She remembered the indignity of their large hands on her shoulders, pushing her down onto the bed and then being surprised at the doctor's strength as he gripped her leg. Then excruciating pain wiped out all else. Too surprised even to scream, she set her mind free and welcomed the oblivion of unconsciousness.
*****
Captain Huntley sat at an oak desk, lost in thought. From his position in the Custom's Office, he had an uninterrupted view of the harbor which stretched for miles, over the sandbanks and out to sea, and on a clear day he could see the Isle of Wight. But today, becalmed in the fog, fishing smacks and cutters bobbed at anchor, but in his distracted state Huntley saw nothing. Once again, Hope Tyler niggled at his conscience in a most irritating way.
"Damned messy business," he said to no one in particular.
Interrogating a woman would be an unsavory business, distasteful, and yet it had to be done—even if there was an unexpected loyalty about Hope Tyler that inspired his respect. Her circumstances had moved him and for the first time in his career, Huntley felt torn. Putting down the quill, he rested his head in his hands. Damned smugglers! This whole thing was a mess: a woman doing a man's job, not what he'd anticipated when he'd volunteered for this posting. With his ship, HMS Swann, in refit, he'd seen this as a chance for adventure with the Preventatives—and not, as it now seemed, an exercise in breaking a woman's will.
"Hell and damnation." His fist collided with the desk. "What are you—a man or a mouse?" His sense of duty overcame his misgivings. As senior officer he had to set an example and he had Cooper's death to avenge, for just as the surgeon had predicted, it was the priest who had a job to do. Huntley snorted. Free traders indeed, they were nothing but common felons.
"Tomorrow, damn it, tomorrow she goes to jail."
Huntley screwed up the report and tossed it onto the growing pile beneath the desk. To add to his troubles, he could trust no one. The office door squeaked open and along with a blast of icy wind, Bennett entered.
"Captain." He hung his hat on the rack and made for the fire.
"Lieutenant Bennett. What's it like out?"
"Grim, Captain, in more ways than one."
As Bennett stretched his hands towards the fire, steam rose from his damp outer coat. He had aged these past few days, his air of carefree joviality gone. Huntley knew his own presence was resented, but this was more than that.
"Is there something you want to say, Lieutenant Bennett?"
Slowly, the older man faced his superior, the glint of determination in his eye.
"Captain, the men were wondering if you had any names yet?"
Huntley leant back in the chair, his muscular bulk making it creak. "The prisoner has proved remarkably stoic."
Feet apart, shoulders square, Bennett stared at a spot on the wall above Huntley's left shoulder, refusing to meet his eye.
"The thing is, the men have been talking and…well…"
"Spit it out, man."
"It don’t seem right as she's featherbedded while Cooper's widow has three mouths to feed—four including her own."
Huntley narrowed his eyes. "You have to trust me on this."
"Sir?" Bennett's nose twitched in the hint of a sneer.
“I’ll see Mrs Cooper is taken care of, she'll not go short, you know that.”
“Aye, sir, I do.” Bennett continued to stare at the wall.
“Well? There's more?” A pulse throbbed on Huntley’s temple.
“Happen a stay in the cells would loosen the chit’s tongue. Happen then she’d be less brave.” The grim set of Bennett's lips betrayed his determination.
Huntley noted the vehemence of Bennett's reaction, not the response of a man in cahoots with smugglers. The Captain controlled his expression; he needed to pacify Bennett, give him something to take back to the men. “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that, but there is another option.”
“Better be good, Captain, strong feelings hereabouts.”
“Really? Because from the support the smugglers get on the mainland, it makes me wonder whose side folk are on.”
Covertly he studied Bennett, watching for a twitch, or other telltale sign of guilt. Nothing. Inwardly Huntley sighed. Fighting the French was one thing, but suspecting your own kind quite another.
“Aye, that’s true enough when it was just about cheap whisky, but Cooper grew up in these parts as his father did before him. His murder’s made folk a mite less fr
iendly towards the smugglers.”
“About bloody time." Huntley curled his hand into a fist. "Shame it took a death to open their eyes.”
"So the girl goes to jail?"
Huntley's mind raced. How to make Bennett understand that Miss Tyler was a pawn—a victim of the gang's ringleaders, every bit as much as Cooper had been? Then the idea came to him; like sunshine breaking through cloud, a way to appease his conscience while avenging Cooper's death.
"Confidentially, just between us, the girl is bait in a trap. We'll let her friends think the Grange is unguarded, an easy target, and when the felons crawl out of their holes to spring her, we catch the whole damn lot like the rats they are." It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it wasn't bad, as he waited, steely-eyed, for Bennett's response.
The Officer nodded thoughtfully. "It could just work. The smugglers will be worried she talks. They'll want her free to protect themselves."
"Exactly." Huntley picked up his quill. "Now, if you don't mind, I have reports to write."
Bennett saluted and made for the back office.
Once the door shut on Bennett, Huntley’s head sank into his hands. He blamed himself for Cooper’s death: if he’d thought faster his rating would still be alive. Instead of which, he was using a girl in a game of brinkmanship which could end with her family being hung. Little wonder, he reflected, he slept badly of late.
Chapter Three
Despite the cotton sheets and china plates, Hope knew she was a prisoner. Down the attic stairs behind the door, a guard was stationed day and night. From what she heard he ate at his post, and a servant took his place when nature called. Sometimes she caught snippets of conversation; chatter about a bullock run amuck in the High Street, of grim weather and poor fishing.
One morning, a ruddy-faced maid bumped a tin hip bath upstairs. She left without a word, and reappeared ten minutes later with pails of steaming hot water.
