by Grace Elliot
"Captain Huntley said as how yer might want a wash."
Hope regarded her with surprise. "How kind." Indeed, Hope didn’t know which was more uplifting: the anticipation of a hot bath, or that Captain Huntley had considered her comfort.
Hope pushed away the covers and with the maid's help, stood. Unable to take any weight on the injured leg, she leaned against her to hobble to the bath. At the thought of removing her night-rail in front of a stranger, Hope blushed but the maid spoke softly.
"Best I stay, Miss. You'll need help getting in and out."
With a resigned nod, Hope pulled the night-rail over her head and ignoring the embarrassment as cool air touched her naked skin, allowed the maid to help lower her into the water. Hope let out a sigh as the warm water caressed her bruised and aching body. With the strapped ankle resting on the bath side, she sank deeper and surrendered to the water, letting the warmth seep into her pores.
"Well," she mused to herself, "if I'm to hang, I might as well look my best."
The soap smelt of lavender, reminding her of summer gardens and bumblebees. Hope lathered every inch of her skin and then scrubbed until it glowed lobster-red. Finally, she sank into the darkening water to wash the sand from her hair. Exhausted by the effort she lay still, languishing in the cooling bath until goosebumps prickled her arms.
"Best be getting out now, Miss. Don’t want to be catching a chill now."
The maid helped Hope out of the water. Too weak to protest, Hope let herself be dried and a clean night-rail slipped over her head. Her limbs felt like jelly as she returned to bed and slid beneath the covers. Unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer, her head no sooner on the pillow, than she fell into a deep sleep.
Several hours later, Hope woke in darkness. She felt confused, disorientated at having apparently lost a day. She blinked, trying to make sense of the leaping shadows. While she slept, someone had drawn the curtains and placed a lit candle on the nightstand—a small act of kindness which made her yearn for home. Beneath the warm covers she felt safe, and yet, something dreadful haunted her…and then she remembered where she was.
Fully awake now, she sat up. The bath had clouded her judgment, for any day now Huntley would transfer her to jail. Time was running out. She must escape…
Her room faced the sea, she was sure of it. A lantern hung on a nail by the window and a plan took form. The room was chilly, and she shivered as she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Using her arms and taking her weight on the good leg, Hope lowered herself to sit on the floor.
Reaching up, she grasped the candlestick on the table. On her bottom, moving in a crab-like manner, she sidled across the floorboards, pushing the candle ahead of her. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the window, every second in expectation of discovery. But luck was with her, her movements gained rhythm and she reached the window.
Pulling herself up on the curtains, Hope got her stronger leg beneath her and stood. She leaned panting against the window ledge, breathing deeply to avoid passing out. Slowly, she regained her senses enough to peer into the black night. In the distance came the gentle shush of waves hitting the shore, and the courtyard below was in darkness. She faced the sea and it seemed those who would see the signal, were those on The Solent who thought to look. Not only that, but ivy tapped the window pane and when Hope opened the window, she saw the creepers were thick as a man's wrist: perfect for climbing. Buoyed with optimism, Hope lifted the lantern from the nail and lit the wick. Now all she had to do was hope that her signal would be seen by those with a mind to help.
She devised a way of covering the lantern, such that she could reveal the light in three short and then three long flashes. Working patiently, signaling continually, time passed swiftly. A guffaw of laughter on the landing below interrupted her concentration and with fear like a stone in her stomach, she extinguished the lantern. Plunged into darkness, the male voices seemed even louder. Her body refused to respond, she couldn't move and stood shivering, waiting to be discovered. Slowly, her heart beat less chaotically and her body became hers again.
Lowering herself to the floor, Hope made for the bed. All the while, the men's conversation continued outside the door. Growing bolder by the second, Hope paused to listen. Words drifted up, talk of…tides and storms…of tea and tobacco…of smugglers and spies. Hope's eyes dilated in distress.
The more she heard, the more alarmed she became, as the Excise men discussed the time and place of the next haul….information supposedly known only to the smugglers.
Hope grappled with the bedclothes, hauling herself up and almost weeping with the effort. She rolled into a ball and prayed, the hardest she'd prayed since her mother's last illness, that the smugglers had seen her signal…for she must get word to her stepbrother or he would sail into a trap…
*****
The next morning, thudding feet on stairs woke Hope. It wasn’t Huntley, but the same maid who had brought her bath water.
"Good day." Hope wriggled into a sitting position.
The maid looked startled. Used to Hope being groggy with laudanum, this lucidity surprised her. She deposited the tray and backed away. Hope smiled, but only succeeded in alarming the young girl.
Later that same day when the maid brought fresh water, growing weary of isolation, Hope tried to strike up a conversation. The two of them were, Hope surmised, of a similar age, and as the maid padded across the room, the scent of wood smoke clung to her clothes.
"Thank you, again."
The girl looked as if Hope had spoken a foreign language. "Beggin' your pardon?"
"I'm sorry to put you to such trouble."
"Tis no trouble, Miss." The girl's hand flew to cover her mouth. "Oh, I'm not supposed to talk to you, Miss."
"But you just did. Twice. But I don’t want to get you into trouble."
Shy smiles broke across their faces.
"Can't be no harm in being polite now, can there?" The maid replied matter-of-factly.
"No indeed…and it's nice to talk to you. My name's Hope. What's yours?"
"I know as your Hope, everyone's talking about you. And I'm Ruby." With a guilty look, the maid smiled and left.
But that had been hours ago as afternoon slipped into evening. With nothing to occupy her, Hope lapsed into an uneasy sleep, haunted by nightmares of choking, an intolerable tightness around her neck. She woke, covered in sweat, and pushed back the bedclothes.
Hope glanced around. Ruby must have come and gone while she was asleep, because the curtains were drawn and a new candle lit. With an urgency born of fear, Hope lifted her broken ankle over the edge of the mattress.
Hope breathed through the white-hot pain, as sliding from the bed she reached for the candlestick; nerves taut as bowstrings, she shuffled on her bottom to the window. At last, with the curtains in grasping distance she levered herself up. Buzzing filled her senses, the walls spun as she stood, reached for the lantern and lit it.
Peering out into the night, pitch blackness cloaked the sea. The wind whistled, and far off, a seagull screeched. Hope had no idea how long she stood at the little window, covering and uncovering the lantern in long and short shows. With every creak and groan of the house, she expected discovery. But no one came, and eventually it was the cold which drove her to blow out the lamp and start the slow shuffle back to bed.
She was halfway there when the door at the bottom of the stairs clicked open. Her heart slammed against her ribs. For a moment she sat frozen, as slow, unhurried footsteps climbed the stairs. If she was quick, there was a chance, just a chance she could make it to the bed…
Hope almost made it. With one hand on the bedstead, she was pulling herself up when long shadows thrown by a candle reached her feet.
"What are you doing?" An unfamiliar woman with crisp, clear diction spoke. Hope collapsed onto the mattress and thought furiously.
"I needed to use the pot."
The shadowed visitor approached, the flickering candle illuminating
a softly lined face and a widow's cap. The woman smelt of tea-rose and Hope found this strangely reassuring, it reminded her of her late mother.
"Here, let me help." With motherly intent, the woman flicked the blankets over Hope's legs and straightened the counterpane. Hope saw a pretty woman in her forties or fifties, with high cheekbones and a kind expression. Hope played along and lie back, wondering why she was here. In a gown of heavy, watered-silk, clearly she was no maid. Smile lines framed the woman's clear blue eyes as she spoke. "You aren’t what I expected."
Hope pouted. "I'm not an exhibit. I'm being kept here against my will."
The older woman arched a brow. "Really? Well I heard, Miss Tyler, that you should be in jail."
Hope bristled. "You know my name, but I don’t know yours."
"Forgive my manners. I am Lady Ryevale and this is my house. You are a guest at the behest of my son, Captain Huntley. I believe you've met?"
"Ah."
"Indeed. So I wouldn’t be too churlish about the accommodation."
"Oh, I wasn’t, not at all, what I meant was…"
"Perhaps you were about to express your thanks? My son has broken quite a few rules, bringing you here."
"Yes, of course. I greatly appreciate his kindness."
Lady Ryevale smiled but there was sadness in her eyes. "And you repay him by signalling and breaking his trust?"
Hope blanched and hung her head. "I'm sorry."
"Well, at least you have the good grace not to deny it…unusual for a thief."
Injustice rose in Hope's craw. "I'm no thief!"
"But you're a smuggler. You were caught red-handed."
"It's not at all the same thing. Free traders don’t steal. The goods are bought and paid for."
"Yes, and sold on without paying tax to His Majesty. All monies go into your pocket and His Majesty’s revenue goes unpaid. Theft, by another name."
"And what does the government use the tax on tea, or soap, or tobacco for? To feed starving people? To put a roof over homeless heads? No! The government taxes people's comforts to pay for war!"
"Even so, you cannot take the law into your own hands."
"And what of the people who buy from free traders? Are they lawbreakers also?" Hope had the wind in her sails now.
"Well, yes."
"Because plenty of people rely on free trade to make their business pay. If no one bought our goods we'd have no reason to stir from our beds on dark and stormy nights. If folk didn’t buy contraband, then we'd have no reason to smuggle."
"There! You admit it, you are a smuggler."
"Free trader." Hope grew still, and changed tack. "That's a very beautiful gown, Lady Ryevale. A particularly fine lace by the look of it. May I see it more closely?"
Lady Ryevale looked suspicious but held out her sleeve nonetheless. Her gown was of an expensive watered-silk, trimmed with frothy lace. Hope rubbed the lace between finger and thumb, then spread it to see the pattern. She studied it carefully; the repeating pattern of roses struck her as familiar.
"Such fine craftsmanship," she muttered, "and an unusual shade of cream."
"Beautiful, isn’t it?"
Hope folded her arms across her chest and grinned. "It's French. I'd recognise that design anywhere. I remember it because I wore yards of it wound around my belly, so I looked seven months gone. Waddled unchallenged, right past one of your son's officers at Southampton docks."
Lady Ryevale’s mouth worked up and down. “That’s outrageous! I don’t believe you! My gowns come from Madame Xavier in London—I have no truck with smuggled goods.”
“Yes, you do, and don’t even realise it. Don’t you see, your modiste buys her supplies at the best price she can…and somewhere along the chain. that means buying from free traders.”
Lady Ryevale sat back on her haunches, seemingly gathering her thoughts. “My poor girl, I do believe you’ve been brainwashed. Who tells you such things?”
“Tis the evidence of my own eyes. All I know is that there are plenty folk in my village who would starve if it weren’t for the work the free traders send their way.”
“Yes, because they should be making an honest living...fishing, and farming the land.”
“They do that as well, Ladyship, but when the harvest fails or a fishing skiff sinks in a storm…there is hardship aplenty. And since the land enclosures, things is ten times worse.”
“But the consequences if caught…”Lady Ryevale grew still. “What does your mother say? What kind of woman allows her daughter to take such risks?”
“My mother is dead.”
“I’m so terribly sorry. So your father…he takes care of you?”
Hope raised her head high. “Grief is a sickness to my father, oftentimes he is too ill to fish. Tis my brother and me, that keep bread on the table.”
“But surely there is an extended family? Do they not help?”
“Last winter my Uncle and his two sons perished in a storm. His family had been living on potatoes, seaweed and cockles for weeks. They put to sea to make a good catch to sell for fresh vegetables, and clean linen for the babe his wife carried. Now she is a widow, her babe raised without a father. Each family has troubles of their own.”
“My dear…how awful.” A thought struck Lady Ryevale. “You express yourself well for a…”
“For a fisherman’s daughter?” Hope prompted.
“Well, yes.”
Hope couldn’t help but smile. “There is much you don’t know about me.”
“Oh, then do tell…”
But, if Hope was tempted to reveal her secrets, the moment was lost as the door crashed open, bouncing back on its hinges. Captain Huntley pounded up the stairs breathing heavily, his eyes wild as an angry bull. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, silhouetted against the bright corridor.
“Mother! Are you alright?”
“Yes, of course , why ever would I not be?”
The captain rolled his eyes. “Oh, no reason Mother. Other than you are alone with a dangerous felon.”
“I am in no danger.” Lady Ryevale looked perplexed. “Your man is outside the door.”
“Yes, and I’ll deal with him later for letting you up.”
“Oh no you won’t, George, that officer was terribly concerned and it was against his express wishes that I came up. You can’t blame him After all I am mistress of this house.”
A low growl rumbled from the Captain’s throat. “Then why?” He grew in stature the angrier he became.
“I had a wish to meet my new house guest.”
“Mother!”
“Now dear, manners!”
The tension rose a notch. Hope cowered beneath the covers as Captain Huntley glowered with cold, hard eyes.
“I will pretend you didn’t say that, Mother. So, tell me. Did you find the prisoner good company? My conversations with her have all been rather one-sided.”
“Oh, yes dear, we’ve had a delightful time.”
Huntley sniffed the air suspiciously.
“What’s that smell? Is it…hot oil?”
Hope froze—had he smelt the lamp? Had he guessed?
Lady Ryevale sniffed. "No. I can’t smell anything."
“Was she out of bed when you entered?” His hard eyes burned with suspicion, searing into Hope. Huntley was no fool.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he almost snarled, “was she, or wasn’t she out of bed?”
“What a ridiculous question. Of course she was in bed. Why, what did you expect, the poor girl to be dancing a jig on a broken ankle?”
Relief warmed Hope, but it also puzzled her why this lady should have protected her.
“Of course not. I just wondered…perhaps it's time to transfer her to jail.”
Lady Ryevale reached for her son’s hand. “Nonsense dear. Sometimes, George, you work too hard. If I thought you had any imagination, I’d say it had run away with you. Now, how about a nice pot of tea and you can tell me about your day.
”
Lady Ryevale rose and, much to Hope's amazement, smiled at her. But even more surprising was Captain Huntley following after his mother, like a bear being led by a lamb.
*****
The next night Hope lay staring into the darkness, willing herself to stay in bed. She daren’t risk signalling again. Huntley's grim expression the previous evening had spoken eloquently enough of his suspicions. But even so, to lie there doing nothing was torture in itself, for with every passing minute the future grew more perilous.
At night the house had a voice all of its own; from the creak of settling timbers to the wind sighing down the chimney. On the roof above her head came the scrabble of seagulls feet, and when she listened hard she heard the guard snoring, behind the door at the foot of the attic stairs.
As the hour grew later the wind got up, knocking ivy against the window with a scratching screech which set her teeth on edge. But when the scratch turned to a tap, her eyes flew wide open. There it was again, faint but regular. At first she hardly dared believe it, every muscle tense, in case she'd imagined the tapping. But there, it came again, insistent and regular—three short, then three long. Her heart raced as she pushed herself upright. That was the free traders signal—someone was here to rescue her.
In a now well-practiced routine, she slithered to the floor and shuffled to the window. Urgency leant her strength as she grasped the window ledge to haul herself upright. Her heart thudded fit to burst, praying for a friendly face as she drew back the curtains.
A moon-bright face leered out of the darkness at her. Hope gasped as her stepbrother grinned back like a demonic monkey. She stuffed a hand into her mouth, to stifle the rising giggles. Never had she been so glad to see Tom's foolish antics. He pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed to the latch. With a nod, Hope opened the window and in rushed the night air. Tom's calloused fingers gripped the casement as he fitted his head through. Being a broad man his shoulders were a tight fit in the narrow frame.
"What took you so long, girl?" said Tom, outside clinging to the ivy as if it was the most natural thing in to world.
