by Mira Stables
“I’ll leave you to sleep,” he said casually and strolled over to the door. A voice from the bed arrested him as his hand went to the latch.
“Sir!” For the first time it was urgent and appealing. He looked back. Ransome had flung over towards him as far as his bonds would permit. Charles felt again that illogical touch of pity. “Sir!” the hoarse voice repeated, gulping now in its desperate pleading, “I know you owes me nothing—though I swear I never harmed the Marquis—but, Sir, don’t let Meg know! She’s had enough to bear. If she knows I went to my death just through coming back for her, it’ll just about finish her. If you just don’t say nothing, maybe she’ll never find out how I ended.” His eyes were fixed hungrily on Charles’s face, not daring to hope, just waiting.
Charles nodded curtly. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, and went out, locking the door behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
Perhaps it was the unusual circumstances of the closed and shuttered window that caused Nell to sleep late next morning. It was the clatter of a pail, knocked over or dropped on the cobblestones that finally aroused her to a room that was, of course, in darkness, only the thin line of light where the shutters met confirming the idea that it must be day.
She slipped out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and went across to open the shutters, fumbling with the unfamiliar button that fastened the bar and pinching a careless fingertip in the hinge, but managing eventually to fold them back into place. A cautious peep through the window assured her that there was no one about. What should she do? Charles had bidden her keep her room, but if she did that, how was she to discover what was happening? She stood thoughtfully sucking the injured finger and decided on compromise. Walking over to the hearth she pulled the bell, then unlocked the door and scrambled back into bed again.
It was some little time before the summons was answered, and she was beginning to wonder if the bell was out of order when the expected knock sounded on the door panel and Miss Smithson came into the room. Nell glanced up at her, a request to be given breakfast in bed hovering on her lips, and uttered instead a startled exclamation of shocked pity. The woman looked almost distraught. Her normally pale face was sheet white, except where a blue bruise disfigured one cheek. There were olive purple smudges under her eyes, eyes that were dully glazed beneath their swollen lids. Even her prim cap was set awry for once, permitting strands of soft brown hair to straggle untidily about her face. But it was the way in which her lips were twisting and working, as though they were forming words that she dare not utter, that really tore at Nell’s heart.
With no thought for anything save to offer comfort, she jumped out of bed and ran to catch the cold shaking fingers in her own warm young hands. “You poor dear,” she said gently. “Come and sit down and tell me what has happened. What have you done to your cheek?” And she reached up gentle fingers to touch the swelling bruise.
Margaret Smithson looked at her, blindly, uncomprehendingly, as though she did not even hear. “You rang your bell, Miss. What can I get for you?” she said in a steady monotone.
Nell ignored this, trying to coax the poor creature to be seated in the low wicker chair which stood near the window. After a moment or two, the warm sympathy, the soft little pats and the broken exclamations of pity seemed to reach her, and she allowed herself to be installed in the chair, with a soft shawl tucked over her knees, while Nell rummaged frantically in a drawer for a pot of herbal balm of Emma’s brewing with which to anoint the bruise. She began to smear it gently over the woman’s cheek, chattering all the while of such inconsequential details as the ingredients of the balm and Emma’s superstitious notions about picking the various simples at certain phases of the moon, of anything in fact that might distract the poor soul from her tormented thoughts, and wondering the while what else she could offer in the way of help or comfort. One could not go on for ever smoothing ointment into a bruise. She put the jar down on the dressing table, dipped a clean handkerchief into the ewer of cool water that stood on the washstand, and began to bathe the swollen eyes. Miss Smithson simply sat still and suffered her attentions with neither thanks nor protest, but at least the dreadful working of her mouth had stopped.
Rather tentatively Nell next removed the stiff cap, and picking up one of her brushes began to smooth the straggling ends of hair into their accustomed neatness. “You have such pretty hair,” she said gently. “It seems a pity that you should always have to hide it under a cap.”
The effect of those innocent words was surprising. It was almost as though she had uttered a powerful incantation. The lax figure stiffened beneath her hands. Colour flowed back into the white face, and the drooping shoulders straightened themselves almost proudly. Quite unknowingly Nell had used words that had once been dear and familiar on the lips of her young lover. He, too, had insisted that she take off her cap, and praised her pretty hair. So long ago. And since then she had existed in dumb misery, crushed and submissive, for what was there to hope for? Tom was gone—to the far Antipodes—and she would never see him again.
Life and hope had stirred within her when he had come back so unexpectedly. But she had been terrified of the danger in which he stood; sure, too, that her uncle and Sir Nicholas were trying to involve him in their schemes. It was never from kindness that her uncle had helped him to a job with Sir Charles Trevannion, for he had no kindness in him. Oh! He had taken her in when she had come to him in her shame and destitution, but only because he could use her, and she had worked like a slave up to the very day of her baby’s birth. Like enough ’twas the heavy unaccustomed work at that dreadful tavern in Field Lane that had killed it. And since—since they had moved to Wintringham—she had served him loyally and faithfully, and in ten years she had never had so much as a kind word. He even grudged her the few simple clothes that were necessary for decency.
She knew it had been weak and wrong to shut her eyes to certain very dubious activities that were carried on from the Fleece. Not so much the smuggling. Well—everyone was in that to some extent. Even Parson was known to turn a blind eye. And her uncle didn’t seem to take much count of it, except that there’d been strangers hidden once or twice in the ruined cottage out beyond Winchelsea. Then there was Sir Nicholas, whose regular visits seemed to be the signal for her uncle to depart on various unobtrusive journeys. She’d felt uneasy at times, though there was nothing to put a finger on. Not until that nice friendly young gentleman had been murdered had she been really worried and frightened. Since then it seemed as though she just couldn’t stop turning things over in her mind, and when Sir Nicholas had brought this kind girl to the inn she had determined to do her best to protect her. But at first everything had seemed pleasant and smooth enough, not to mention that Sir Charles looked to be well up to the task of looking after his promised wife.
Then Tom had come back. And her dim grey world had suddenly dissolved into a bewildering kaleidoscope of hope and fear and anxiety. This morning, when Tom didn’t come in for his breakfast as usual, she had asked her uncle what he was doing to be so late. He had answered with a burst of bitter vituperation against Tom, and when she had stared at him, not understanding this sudden animosity, he had struck her across the face, calling her a useless idle slut.
She had run out to the stable, but Tom wasn’t there. Only that big groom of Sir Charles’s, busy over his master’s greys. That wouldn’t suit Tom, neither, she thought vaguely. He set great store by those greys. But Tom was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t in the harness room, and he wasn’t in the tiny attic above it, his sleeping quarters, though his gear was scattered about it in some disorder. That was somehow comforting. At least he hadn’t gone off and left her. And then sudden terror had seized her. Suppose he had been murdered, like that other poor young man? In vain she had tried to tell herself that no one—she didn’t specify who—had any cause to kill Tom.
Back to the kitchen then, in the silly useless hope that he might have come in, and that she would find him eating the
breakfast that was spoiling on the hob. The kitchen was empty of course. Miss had rung her bell, and no one to answer but herself, for young Jenny was nowhere about. Dimly she wondered where everyone had got to this morning as automatically she had moved to answer the bell.
Whatever was she doing, sitting in Miss Easton’s chair, letting herself be babied like this? Eyes suddenly alive again met Nell’s anxious hazel ones in the mirror. She put up a hand to catch the girl’s that was plying the brush, took it gently from her unresisting fingers, and laid it back in its place. Carefully she tucked away the loosened strands of hair and pinned on her cap, then folded the shawl and stood up. Her knees had stopped shaking she found, and her voice was quite composed.
“Thank you, Miss,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I acted a bit dazed like. I think knocking my face must have turned me a bit queer. I’ll be all right now. Thank you for being so kind. Was it your breakfast that you were wanting when you rang your bell?”
Nell nodded, more discomfited by this sudden composure than by the hysterical state that had preceded it. “Yes, please,” she said rather shyly, and hastily qualified the request by adding, “if it’s not too much trouble. I slept late—and I have the headache a little.” She blushed furiously as she uttered the mild lie, but Miss Smithson only said that in that case she was very sensible to rest, and that she would bring up breakfast as soon as he could, though she was all behind hand this morning with Jenny not coming. Nell assured her that some bread and butter and coffee was all that she required, and that she was sorry to give her the extra trouble of carrying it upstairs.
“It’s no trouble,” declared the newly invigorated Miss Smithson. “Your uncle breakfasted very early and is gone off somewhere, and Sir Charles is not yet down. I can easily bring up your breakfast.” And away she went to do it, just as though nothing unusual had passed between the two of them.
By the time that Nell had washed her hands and face and tidied her sleep rumpled hair, she was back with a tray, on which, Nell was pleased to note, her frugal suggestions had been amplified by a dish of apricot preserve and a bowl of cherries, while the coffee jug was flanked by a tiny pitcher of fresh cream.
She settled herself to the enjoyment of her breakfast, putting the tray on the window ledge, and sitting where she could keep watch on the stable yard. She was presently cheered by the sight of Giles who strolled whistling out of the stable as though he had not a care in the world and established himself on a bench in the sun with a pile of tack to clean. In a little while she saw Miss Smithson go out to him, carrying a tankard and a plate of substantial looking sandwiches. The two of them talked for a few moments and then Miss Smithson returned to the inn. Giles watched her out of sight with a thoughtful expression, but then applied himself zestfully to the tankard. Whatever had passed between them, Giles did not appear to be unduly disturbed, so there could be no cause for Nell to be anxious either.
But when Miss Smithson returned to collect the breakfast tray, it seemed that she was very worried indeed. It appeared that she had sent Jim upstairs with Sir Charles’s shaving water and he had received no reply to his knock. Jim having gone off with his master, she had taken up another supply of hot water herself, and when there was no reply to her repeated knocking, had tried the door. Finding it unlocked she had gone in, to the discovery that the room was empty and Sir Charles’s bed had not been slept in. Sir Charles’s man had assured her that there was no cause for alarm, saying that his master was probably at Trevannions and would undoubtedly turn up safe and sound in his own good time. But she couldn’t help being anxious, she confided to Nell, because Tom Ransome appeared to be missing too, and yet all the horses were still in the stables. She looked hopefully at Nell as though expecting her to offer a reasonable explanation of why a man should go off with his groom but without his horses.
Nell was guiltily aware that although she knew the answer she could hardly disclose it to Miss Smithson. She could only shake her head in puzzled fashion and murmur rather feebly that one never knew what men would be at. Miss Smithson then broached the real cause of her anxiety, mentioning the young man who had been murdered, and saying that she feared some similarly dreadful fate might have overtaken the two absentees.
Despite her knowledge of the events of the previous evening and her faith that Giles would not be calmly cleaning tack if his master were in any danger, Nell found that she could not quite repress a foolish tremor at this horrid suggestion, but she did her best to reassure Miss Smithson, and then to give her thoughts a new direction by asking if Jenny had arrived yet. This answered well, Miss Smithson explaining that Jenny, the eldest of a large family, had felt very unwell on the previous day and had probably by now succumbed to the feverish sore throat that had been afflicting her several brothers and sisters for the past week.
“Then I shall come and help you in the kitchen,” declared Nell firmly, quite forgetting her supposed headache. “I like kitchens—and I’m sure yours is a nice one. Emma lets me help her sometimes. She says it is always useful to be able to cook.”
Miss Smithson was obviously torn between her longing for the comfort of human society and the gross impropriety of permitting Nell to help in the kitchen. “I don’t think—” she was beginning, when Nell broke in impetuously.
“Please don’t say no. I don’t like being alone, and both Sir Charles and Emma have assured me that I would be quite safe with you.”
“Well—maybe I could set a chair for you by the kitchen door,” suggested Miss Smithson. “It’s pretty there, with the hollyhocks and the roses, and you could do your sewing or write letters if you wished. I’ll not deny I’d be glad of company this morning.”
The two of them spent the rest of the forenoon in rather uneasy companionship. Each felt nothing but good will towards the other, but both had secrets to keep, and every topic of conversation seemed to be set with traps. After Giles had managed, while her companion’s back was turned, to bestow upon Nell a reassuring nod, and a conspiratorial jerk of the head in the direction where Trevannions might be supposed to lie, she was able to feel perfectly comfortable about Charles’s safety, though she couldn’t help wishing he would come back. It was rather a galling admission to one of her independent spirit, but she felt both safer and braver when Charles was at hand, especially when her uncle or Rudd were in the vicinity.
However just at present the inn dozed peacefully in the midday heat, and there was nothing to fear. Indeed Nell, having declined an offer of luncheon because, after her late breakfast and lazy morning, she wasn’t hungry, was almost asleep in her chair. Miss Smithson, who seemed incapable of being still, had completed all the preparations for the evening meal and was now making bread, explaining to Nell the various processes involved in producing the delicious crusty loaves that she enjoyed so much, when they heard the sound of a vehicle approaching the inn.
Nell sat up abruptly. Miss Smithson’s quiet monologue ceased, though she went on kneading the dough. Nell hoped uneasily that it was not the landlord. He would be bound to wonder what she was doing in the kitchen quarters, and she found his oily geniality both distasteful and somehow frightening. There was not long to wait. The approaching footsteps were not the crisp decisive ones of Sir Charles, nor the heavier tread of the landlord. Round the corner came familiar workaday Jim Cooke. But since he was heading towards them with an air of unusual importance, perhaps he was the bearer of a message. Both ladies awaited his disclosures with deep and anxious interest, but his opening remarks were disappointingly commonplace.
“Muster Rudd won’t be ’ome till nightfall, missus. We took a couple barrels over to Tilstowe, and ’e’ve stopped there. Seemingly ’e and Mus’ Dunn ’ave business together.”
Since Simon Dunn of Tilstowe farm was a leading spirit among the smuggling fraternity, the message was perfectly comprehensible to Miss Smithson, who nodded understanding. But Jim was not finished. Addressing himself to Nell, he went on, “And Mistress Woodstead says will you be sure to stop
by at Springbourne today, seeing as you didn’t get to see her yesterday, and she’s got something special to show you.”
His burden delivered he stood regarding the two ladies hopefully, and ignoring Miss Smithson’s dismissive nod said eagerly, “I was thinking p’rhaps Miss would let me drive ’er over to Springbourne if so be as the captain ain’t ’andy.”
Nell guessed that this would be a much pleasanter way of spending an afternoon than the heavy tasks that were Jim’s usual portion. She smiled and promised to remember his kind offer, but thought it unlikely that she would require his services. Captain Trevannion would probably be back in good time. Jim trailed away disconsolate. Miss Smithson finished kneading her dough and set it to rise.
The day wore slowly on towards afternoon. Giles and Jim came into the kitchen where despite the heat of the day they disposed of generous helpings of meat pudding and vegetables. Nell left them to enjoy their meal in comfort, feeling that her presence might be an embarrassment, and went up to her room where she fidgetted about restlessly, not knowing quite what she wanted to do. She stood for a while gazing out of the window. The road to Springbourne and to distant Trevannions stretched white and empty. Nothing moved upon it. Presently Giles came out, moved his bench into a patch of shade cast by the stable, sat himself down, propped his shoulders against the wall, and appeared to drift off into peaceful slumber.
If only something would happen. It was this waiting about with nothing to do that fretted her nerves. There had not even been an opportunity for private talk with Giles. If she were to ask him to drive her over to Springbourne to visit Emma he would at least be able to tell her what had happened after Charles had left her last night.
