Lady of Spirit, A (6 page)

Maggie clapped both hands to her mouth.

She needn’t have—with the wind and the sound of the sea, they could not hear her gasp, and even if it had been as silent as a church, they did not look as though they were aware of very much but their own two selves.

Lizzie and Tigg!

Goodness gracious. It was one thing to suspect that they no longer harbored the feelings of companions at arms. It was quite another to witness a moment that should be completely private and where three was most definitely a crowd.

She must go away before one of them saw her.

A return to the house by the drawing room or front door was out of the question. Her only choice was to go sideways and hope that she might circle around to one of the servants’ entrances and slip upstairs to her room. Fleet as a hare, she ran to the west, where the headland upon which the house stood dipped down toward the beach.

The beach. That’s where she would go for a few blessed minutes, where there was no one to criticize, no one to look amused behind china cups, where she could enjoy the pleasure of her own company while she gave Lizzie and Tigg enough time to recollect themselves and go back inside before the Lady realized they were gone.

The heath and clumps of thrift on the slope down to the beach seemed to separate rather naturally into a path, though she had to gather up her skirts and crouch on the last bit, where the soil thinned into solid rock and she was forced to pick her way down more carefully. In the daylight, this would be nothing, but at night, the shadows were inky and the footing uncertain.

A sensible person would have climbed back up and gone to bed. But Maggie was not in the mood to be sensible. In fact, she hoped there was a good collection of smooth tumbled rocks on this beach that she could fling into the sea until she wore herself out.

The tide seemed to be on the ebb, which gave her quite a stretch of wet sand to walk upon. Her slippers would be ruined. Perhaps she would go into town and get new ones, and charge them to the Seacombe account. This happy prospect lifted her spirits somewhat. It would not do to spoil her dress, however, so she looped her skirts over one arm and paced closer to the cliff.

Somewhere above sat Lizzie and Tigg. If they ventured closed to the edge and leaned over, would they be able to see her? For it was certain that she could not see very much up there, no matter how she craned her neck.

She would not go far. If she rounded the headland in the opposite direction, she would find herself on the far reaches of the harbor, and that would not do at this time of night. So she skirted farther to the west, in the shadow of the cliff, until at her feet the cliff base tailed off into a nice scree.

And here were her rocks.

For some time she amused herself flinging fist-sized round stones into the water, aiming for the foamy tops of the waves as they peaked and crashed. Then, for good measure, she flung a few at the darkness of the cliff itself.

Clack. Clack. Plonk
.

Oh dear. That wasn’t right. Could there be something other than solid rock in those shadows? It had not shattered, not with a sound like that, but … perhaps there was a cave?

At Gwynn Place, not so far up the coast, there were caves in the cliffs, and the Lady had said that as a child, she had found pirate silver in them.

Oh, for a light!

For the moon had not yet traveled enough across the night sky to shed much light on this part of the cliff. She peered into the dark, seeking what had caused that hollow sound.

She bent and tossed another rock.
Plonk
.

Definitely a cave. A deeper darkness seemed to lie on the cliff’s face, and as she put a hand on the rock to steady herself, she felt something strange. Her fingers examined ridges and whorls, spaced in a regular pattern. Carving—or chiseling, at the very least, all around the edge of the opening in the stone. How very curious. And then her seeking fingers found a niche—and in the niche were several familiar shapes.

Moonglobes.

She shook one into life and held it up. Its cool light illuminated the carvings in the rock, which resolved themselves into stones—an arch—a door.

A huge door, large enough to admit a landau, or a ketch or other small sailing boat. But who would make a door in the bottom of a cliff? Some long-dead Seacombe, or someone from years before? For the carvings were old—perhaps hundreds of years old, covered with lichen and moss, the lower ones nearly obliterated by the pounding of the sea. At low tide, half the door would be under water, allowing only a shallow arch for a boat to glide in.

If this were not a pirate cave, which tended not to announce themselves with carvings and stone arches, then was it still in use by those above?

Maggie couldn’t resist. She’d just have a quick look-see, and then she’d go back to the house.

The floor was sandy, with granite protruding up through it like the caves at Gwynn Place. But to the left was a landing-stair, slick with the green weed of low tide. Carefully, watching where she placed her sodden slippers, Maggie mounted the stair to a wide stone quay.

Holding the moonglobe up high, Maggie surveyed the chamber. It was dry, so the tide did not rise this far, but far from clean. The droppings of sea-birds coated the edges of the landing, as though it made a good place to roost, and the skeletons of long-eaten fish lay toward the end. A pile of empty crates was stacked beyond that, and a tarred rope had been carefully coiled to the height of a person’s knee. Mooring hooks protruded from the stones on the edge, so that boats could be tied up. Water dripped in the darkness, and the crash of the surf sounded hollow, as though this cave were being pounded from the outside.

The whole cave smelled of seaweed, rotting fish and old guano, and the damp of centuries gone by.

At the far end of the stone landing, another set of steps chiseled out of the rock itself wound up into darkness. She would bet her week’s allowance that it led up into the house.

How very exciting! Had long-dead Seacombes made their fortune by bringing in goods by boat to their home? Or was the presence of the cave simply a coincidence, and had come with the property when the first Seacombe had bought it?

In any case, she now understood the meaning of the arch and wave in the family crest.

The
incoming
wave.

She could not see past the circle of light thrown by the moonglobe. There was nothing wrong with her hearing, however. The sound of the surf had become louder. Either the wind had dropped, or …

Cautiously, she looked over the side of the stone landing.

Where her footprints had been in the sand, there was now a glassy sheet of water, lapping against the rocks. Cold fear arrowed through her stomach. How was this possible? The tide could not have come in this fast, could it? But then, she had no experience with tides. The closest she had come was the shallow back-and-forth of the Thames, or the beach at Gwynn Place, and there the Lady always made good and sure they were up on the cliff path before it turned.

She could not get out the way she had come in, unless she waded or swam, in which case she would ruin the only evening dress she possessed.

Her only salvation was the evidence before her eyes of the dry stone dock. But still, she didn’t much like the prospect of spending the night on it, curled up in the stink, waiting for the tide to go back out again.

Maggie, my girl, you cannot go down. You cannot stay. Therefore, you must go up, and hope there is a door at the top with a lock on this side.

She hoisted her skirts up over her arm more securely, lifted the moonglobe, and began to climb.

The staircase, while not as tight a corkscrew as the tower stairs at Colliford Castle, was still fairly steep. It was wide, though, presumably to accommodate a man carrying a crate like the ones down below. She tried to count the steps, but lost the count somewhere around one hundred twenty. But she had no choice now. It was go on or sleep with soaked feet on a bed of stone.

An eternity of climbing passed, in which the muscles of her legs, though fit, began first to complain and then to wobble. Just when she was convinced that one more step would bring utter collapse, the moonglobe showed her a door.

Thank heaven above.

Gasping, her free hand pressed to her side, Maggie took a moment to recover from the climb, wishing not for the first time that she had not laced her corset so tightly. Henceforth, she would forego fashion in favor of practicality, because it seemed that in her case, there were far more opportunities to succeed at the latter than the former.

Finally, she pushed herself off the rough granite of the wall and examined the door. There was no knob, only a curious configuration of blackened iron that did not look as though it had been used in years. But looks, as anyone could tell you, were deceiving.

In the light of the moonglobe, she studied it. To the unskilled eye, it would be utterly perplexing—a series of gears and clockwork that appeared to have no central focus, no means of triggering entry. Which would make sense—if more than one person were using the dock and stair, keys could easily be lost or stolen. But the key to this lock was in the memory … or in one’s powers of observation and past experience with locks.

Maggie leaned in and followed the configuration backward from the latch. Was that it? Could it be that simple—a figure eight, with the trigger point here—?

Maggie pressed what appeared to be a blackened nail head. It gave under her thumb and the mechanism began to move, its parts clicking and creaking and at one point jamming before she gave it a thump with her fist and it lurched into motion once more.

Thunk!
The mechanical lock lumbered to a stop in its terminal position.

Maggie pushed on the door and, moonglobe held rather in the manner of a stone ready for throwing, stepped through.

Lady Claire Trevelyan allowed Mrs. Seacombe to see the last of her guests off at the door, and found Andrew Malvern out on the terrace, gazing over the gardens and enjoying the scent of the sea mixed with roses and a lingering hint of cigarillo smoke.

“I have never been so glad to see the end of an evening, and considering my mother’s fondness for society, that is saying something,” she said as she joined him.

“It was quite the performance, I must say. I had not believed you capable of it.” Andrew offered her his arm and they paced down the steps and into the garden, where their conversation might be less likely to be overheard.

“It put quite a strain on my ingenuity,” she admitted. “But I was so angry that I could not think how else to put a stop to it. How dare she treat Maggie that way? Did you hear her?
Margaret, clear away these cups. Margaret, wipe up your mess. Let me introduce Margaret, Elizabeth’s companion.
” Claire’s voice rose and cracked in an imitation of Mrs. Seacombe’s tones. “She was lucky I merely displaced her shining star and did not up-end the coffee pot over her head.”

“You are too well bred for that.”

“Sadly, yes.” Claire made an effort to rein in the temper that had risen once more in the re-enactment of the offending remarks. “And I would not want Maggie to stoop to such behavior, either. I have grave doubts about the wisdom of our going up to Gwynn Place and leaving the girls here. It cannot be healthy. Maggie must be sensible of the difference her grandparents are making between them.”

“If she is, then you must give her credit for being more of a lady than her grandmother, and not showing it.”

“Yes, but she cannot be expected to stand there and meekly take the slings and arrows aimed at her. She has not been brought up to accept belittlement or unfairness.”

“Perhaps the question we ought to ask is, why are they doing this? Surely they would not hold her parentage against an innocent young girl who is not only lovely, but accomplished as well?”

She squeezed his arm as they walked slowly among the roses, her heart swelling with affection. “Have I told you lately how glad I am that you understand all that goes on between me and the Mopsies?”

With a pat of his hand upon her own gloved one, he said, “Not lately, but I am glad you honor me with your confidence, Claire. Sometimes I forget that there are only seven years between you—and that you are not in fact their older sister. It cannot be easy sometimes to know which is the right course in their upbringing, even now that they are out in society.”

“I have had many a white night worrying about them, it is true—especially after the recent events at Colliford Castle. But to return to Maggie, yes, I am certain that the Seacombes are making her pay for what they see as their daughter’s shortcomings. Why else make it plain that they view her as merely a companion for Lizzie—a drudge, someone they must put up with for the sake of the legitimate child?”

“Will you speak to them?”

“I fear I must. I cannot let this go on, even if it results in our being turned out of the house before Wednesday.”

The sound of low voices at the other end of the garden stopped her, and in the moonlight she recognized a familiar white dress. But who was this at Lizzie’s side?

“Lizzie—Tigg—are you enjoying an evening stroll as well?” Andrew said as they met in the middle, by the sundial.

“Yes, we are.” Both Lizzie’s hands were wrapped around Tigg’s arm, and their bodies swayed toward one another in a manner that told Claire that her eyes had not been deceived earlier. Lizzie couldn’t keep a smile of womanly pleasure from glimmering in and out like the sun in clouds, and Tigg’s gaze only strayed from her face when it was absolutely necessary for the sake of politeness.

Oh my.

She was making assumptions where she had no proof—or any confidence of Lizzie’s that would make her think such a thing. But Claire remembered all too well how she herself had felt in the moments after Andrew had first kissed her, that day in his laboratory. She too had been giddy and hardly in control of her faculties.

But at the same time, she was not the sister of the heir to a shipping empire. While Claire might have been expected to make a stunning match at one time, her father’s mistake in gambling her inheritance on the combustion engine had put paid to that, and while it had left her penniless, it also freed her to choose her own path. Up until a month ago, Claire had believed Lizzie free to do the same.

But now she wondered. Would the Seacombes welcome Tigg into the bosom of the family in much the way they had welcomed Maggie? Or would his prospects as a lieutenant in the Royal Aeronautics Corps be sufficient to recommend him as a grandson-in-law, if their attachment remained true until Lizzie was of age?

Or was Claire’s mind galloping ahead in paths where it had no business, and she was spinning a fancy out of a moonlit night, a white dress, and the scent of roses?

“Is everyone gone?” Lizzie asked. “We slipped away when Miss Penford began at the piano. Is Maggie with you?”

“No,” Claire replied. “I thought she might be with you.”

Tigg shook his head. “We haven’t seen her.”

“Then she must have gone up to bed, because she was not in the drawing room when everyone took their leave. Which reminds me, Lizzie—since dinner was in your and Maggie’s honor, it was not well done of either of you not to see the guests off at the end of it.”

“Oh … I am sorry, Lady.” They had reached the terrace now, and Lizzie’s chagrin was illuminated by the wide bars of light falling through the French doors. “I never thought of it. I—we—”

“It’s my fault, Lady,” Tigg said. “I convinced her to take a walk along the cliff-top, and we lost track of time.”

“It happens,” Andrew said easily. “But there are bound to be several such occasions over the next two weeks, so bear it in mind. One’s obligations to one’s guests take precedence over … moonlit walks upon the cliffs.”

And whatever else might have gone on there.

Claire and Lizzie bade the gentlemen good-night on the gallery, and then went their separate ways to their rooms.

But when Claire stepped into the girls’ room, expecting to see Maggie, she was surprised to find it empty, the beds neatly turned back, and their nightgowns laid out by the maid upon the coverlet.

“That’s odd,” Lizzie said. “Where could she be?”

“It is not like her to disappear without you,” Claire said. “And she is not with Claude.”

“Perhaps she has gone into her mother’s old room. She found a letter, you know, Lady. Under the floorboard, when we were exploring. We believe it was from a gentleman to her mother, in 1877. I’ll just run along there and check, shall I, in case she has gone back for another look?”

“At eleven at night?” But with the Mopsies, one ought not to put limits on what they might do, no matter what time of night it was.

Lizzie was back in five minutes, shaking her head. “I don’t understand it.”

“Did she seem upset to you this evening?” Claire asked carefully. “Distressed in any way that might have caused her to behave rashly?”

“Maggie? Rash? I don’t think so. She seemed perfectly content, and she was laughing at dinner. But then, sitting next to Claude would make anybody laugh. One simply can’t help it.”

Perhaps Claire had taken offense at something that existed only in her own mind, and Maggie was not in the least upset. But be that as it may, she would not be able to sleep until she knew her girl to be safely in her bed.

“I shall fetch Tigg and Mr. Malvern,” Claire said at last, “and we will mount a search—quietly. I do not wish your grandparents or the staff to be alarmed.”

Fortunately, neither Tigg nor Andrew had got much further than removing their jackets, and when they assembled in the gallery overlooking the front entry once more, Claire told them what was amiss. “Tigg and I will take the main floor and downstairs—the kitchens and so forth. Andrew, you take Lizzie and search the upper floors. If you can get out onto the roof, do so, since—” She flashed a smile at Lizzie. “—the girls have a particular fondness for them.”

“Why should Tigg and I not go together?” Lizzie objected.

There was no time for anything but blunt honesty—which was the only thing that worked with Lizzie in any case. “Because I fear you will become distracted, and I would like a quiet word with him while we are looking.”

In the silence of the sleeping house, Claire distinctly heard Tigg gulp.

“Everyone has a moonglobe?” Mr. Malvern whispered. “Right, then. Off we go.”

It was almost like old times, if she had not been dressed in dinner clothes and had the Mopsies safely together as scouts. In less than five minutes, Claire and Tigg had determined that Maggie was not in the drawing room, dining room, or any of the parlors. Nor was she in the butler’s pantry, the scullery, the larder, or the main kitchen. In fact, the only person awake in the servants’ part of the house was the boot boy, whom they frightened practically out of his skin when they loomed up behind him as he was polishing his master’s boots.

“Is there anywhere else we might look, then, mate?” Tigg asked him, when it was clear he was too frightened to answer Claire. “We’ve been all through these rooms and the ones above, with no sign of her.”

“There’s nowt else down here, sir, but the cellars, and it’s not likely the young lady would have found her way there, being the master and mistress’s granddaughter and all.”

“That, you will find, is faulty logic,” Claire said rather grimly. “We have exhausted the likely, so I believe it is time to consider the unlikely. Will you show us the way down, please?”

“To the cellars, milady?” He was so shocked that he spoke to her directly.

“Yes.”

“Now, milady?”

“If she is hurt, we will do her no good if we leave her there until morning.”

“But, milady—” He scrubbed his hands on a rag. “—it’s only Mr. Nancarrow the butler who has the keys to the cellars. Because of the spirits, you see.”

Good heavens. Were there ghosts down there? Prior victims of Seacombe pride and heartlessness? “Does he believe they will submit to lock and key?” Claire inquired impatiently.

The boy looked up at her, his face blank with incomprehension.

“I believe he means the sort that comes in bottles, Lady,” Tigg murmured.

“Ah, of course,” Claire said, ashamed of the relief that swept her. “And Mr. Nancarrow has gone to bed, I suppose?”

“Aye, milady.”

From somewhere below, they heard a sound.

“Are you sure you meant only the kind in bottles?” Claire whispered. “What was that?”

Again, the sound—a hollow, muffled sound like the booming of surf … and a cry.

A cry she would know anywhere on earth—whether above or below ground.

“That’s Maggie,” Claire said, clutching Tigg’s arm. “Where is it coming from? Where is she?”

Tigg dashed down the corridor, following the sound, Claire and the boot boy hot on his heels. At the far end of the corridor, on the other side of the kitchen, was a set of stone steps going down to a door that looked as though it had been there since the Norman conquest.

Someone was pounding on the other side.

Claire pushed the boot boy out of the way and put her mouth close to the blackened iron keyhole. “Maggie? Is that you, darling?”

“Lady!” came a muffled cry. “Oh, thank heavens. I can’t get out—and I can’t go back. Can you get me out of here?”

“Instantly. We shall get the butler and the keys.” She turned to the boot boy. “Go and wake Mr. Nancarrow at once and tell him his keys are needed.”

“Oh, milady, I couldn’t. I’d be sacked.”

“You can and you will,” she informed him with the command developed over three centuries of breeding. “Your mistress’s granddaughter is locked down there. If you lend her your assistance and be quick about it, not only Mr. Nancarrow but also Mrs. Seacombe will hear of it from me, in the warmest and most complimentary terms possible.”

The boy vanished without another word.

Claire turned back to the keyhole. “Maggie, are you hurt?”

“No, Lady,” came the muffled reply. “But my feet are soaking wet and I’m cold. The tide came in when I wasn’t looking. I had no idea it would turn that fast.”

How and why Maggie had been anywhere near the tide were questions for later, over a hot bath and a cup of tea.

“Tigg, while I wait for the keys, do please go and tell Lizzie and Mr. Malvern that we have found her and as far as we can tell, she is safe.”

“Of course, Lady. You’ll be all right here on your own?”

“Certainly. I have no fear of Mr. Nancarrow sacking me. Quickly, now. I would not wish Lizzie worried a moment longer than necessary.”

He hesitated on the first step. “Lady—about her—Lizzie—”

“I know I said I wanted a word, but it will have to wait for another time. Just know this, Tigg—”

“Yes, Lady?” In the greenish-white glow of his moonglobe, his brown eyes were worried, and fixed upon her as though she held the keys to his future.

“I have no objections to your forming a deeper attachment than the comradeship you share now. You are just as dear to me as either of the girls, and your happiness has always been my first concern. But she and you may find things more complicated now than they were before.”

“I know it, Lady. But we—it just happened—I hardly know how—”

“We will speak of it later, dear one. For now, Maggie’s safety must be uppermost.”

He nodded, and it seemed to Claire that his face relaxed, as though he had been afraid she would say … what? That she did not approve? That his uncertain parentage mattered more to her than his character, his intelligence, and his prospects? For all he had ever confided in her was that he was the son of a Nubian aeronaut and a Whitechapel seamstress, neither of whom he remembered. One’s reputation could not depend upon that of one’s parents, as any of them might attest. One was only responsible for one’s own, and Tigg had never given a moment’s concern in that department.

He took the steps two at a time, and the sound of his boots faded away down the corridor.

“Lady?” came Maggie’s voice through the keyhole.

“Yes, darling. I’m here. The keys should be here shortly, too.”