Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (20 page)

Forty Six

Marley Court. Jesamiah was not impressed. Granted, there were signs it had once been a magnificent house, but the place was gloomy, almost derelict and in need of blowing up, in his opinion. The louring grey sky did not add to the general air of depression, but even on the sunniest day in midsummer he doubted anything could brighten up this pile of mouldering stone.

He had left the transferring of two dozen kegs of best brandy from the S
ea Witch’s
hold to Carter Trevithick; he was getting the liquor for free, he could damn well sort the logistics of transporting it. There had been one tricky moment when the Instow customs officer had come snooping.

“You selling illegal imports?” he had asked imperiously, eyeing the first batch of kegs being hauled ashore.

Jesamiah had sniffed disdainfully and regarded the man as the turd he was. “These,” he said, flapping his hand loosely in the direction of the piled kegs, “are my own property. They are a birthday gift to my kinswoman, Dowager Lady Westley.”

The man had jeered. “Your kinswoman? Haul the other yard, it’s got sails on it!”

Tempted to run him through, Jesamiah had stoically refrained from violence, and had said, “You are welcome to ask Lady Jennet of the circumstances of our relationship, should you so desire.”

Carter had then added his boot to the confrontation. “This is the gentleman who rescued Lady Beth and Lady Pamela when their coach overturned yesterday. The ladies could have drowned had Captain Acorne not acted as he did.”

Even Jesamiah was surprised at the reaction. The man took his hand, shook it, thanked him, and told him to bring whatever he liked ashore. Not being one to waste an advantage, several of the crew were promptly ordered to lodge the remaining illegal cargo in Carter Trevithick’s cellar. “Where, I trust,” Jesamiah had emphasised to Carter, “you will remove it to somewhere less conspicuous?”

“You asking me to store stolen property?” Carter had countered, fists on hips, head tilted back.

“Certainly not. It is all my property, I have no intention of paying import tax on it, that is all.”

“Storage will cost you rent.”

“Aye, normally it would, but you owe me for saving your neck the other night, and now for these decent kegs. I reckon we are quits even, don’t you?” If Carter looked inside the barrels being removed to his premises and discovered the valuable content, then maybe Jesamiah would have to renegotiate. There was a small fortune being taken into that Appledore cellar.

It would take several small fortunes to set Marley Court looking anything like a viscount’s residence. One wing was habitable; one had completely burnt down with only part of the walls and the chimney stacks left standing, and those were heavily covered in creepers, lichens and weeds. The middle wing was little better, although all the walls stood, and there were some exposed roof beams – but no roof. No glass in the windows. A silver birch tree was growing where the lavish entrance hall had once welcomed visitors. The third wing was in one piece – just about – for the mortar was crumbling and the window and doorframes were riddled with woodworm.

Handing Tiola down from the carriage he had hired to bring them by road from Appledore, Jesamiah reckoned one strong blow of a gale from the direction of the moors and the whole lot would fall down.

“If this is the luxury that minor nobles live in,” he said to Tiola, “then I think I’ll stay a sea captain.”

She was shaking out her gown, the grey silk of the skirt rather crumpled from being stored in her clothes press aboard
Sea Witch
. Hanging it had helped, for the silk’s natural fabric did not, fortunately, hold creases. Pegget had helped her twist her hair into ringlets and pile its mass up on her head, and the sapphire earrings Jesamiah had given her a while ago set the colour of the darker bodice off well. Tiola was not vain, and did not particularly concern herself with fashion, but this was a lovely gown, and occasionally it was nice to pander to her femininity. She lifted the skirt carefully to negotiate around a puddle, not noticing the dilapidated state of the house.

“Not what I expected,
mon ami
,” Rue remarked a step or two behind, observing the decay. “Although we ‘ad some idea from the Tawford Barton frugality,
non
? The family has fallen on ‘ard times,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Not much hope of a rich marriage for you then, my friend,” Jesamiah grinned. “I doubt there is a dowry for the Lady Pamela.”

Rue glowered. “She is a fine woman, and I thank you not to deny ‘er character. Aside,” he grinned, “I ‘ave enough of a fortune to provide such necessities for ‘er, should I choose.”

This was true, unlike most of the crew – most pirates – both Rue and Jesamiah had more sense than to spend every gold coin, silver shilling or copper penny in the nearest tavern on drink, gambling and women. Both men had sufficient wealth, in various commodities, tucked away in banks and warehouses in various ports and harbours.

A footman was waiting at the door. “His lordship awaits his guests in the drawing room, sirs, ma’am.”

Jesamiah handed him his hat, cloak and cane – he too was dressed well, despite the grumbling an hour earlier when Finch insisted he wear full regalia of powdered wig and embroidered coat and waistcoat.

“The last time I dressed up as a fop I got arrested and nearly hanged,” Jesamiah had moaned, and settled for a plain, but decent coat, smart waistcoat, breeches, stockings and shoes. Already he was regretting it, for he never felt comfortable out of his knee-height old boots. The wig, he had flatly refused, but had consented to tie his hair back, using one of his own blue silk ribbons. For most of the journey Tiola had berated him for fiddling with his cravat. Finch had tied the wretched thing too tight.

“It is only for a few hours,” Tiola admonished as, yet again, she batted his hand away from his throat. “Please show these good people – your family, I might remind you – that you are capable of behaving as a gentleman, not a ruffian.”

“Captain Acorne, Mistress Acorne!” John Benson strode across the room, weaving around several groups of chattering people, his hand outstretched, bonhomie on his face. “Monsieur de la Rue! How good of you to come!” He bowed formally, kissed Tiola’s hand, then fingers firm on Jesamiah’s arm, whispered, “Do not mention last night beyond the family; we have agreed to say in public that Instow House was disturbed by a couple of common thieves, who were easily dispatched. Nothing more.”

Jesamiah raised one eyebrow. “And how, then, do I explain this bruising to my eye and face? And what about him?” he pointed towards a group of four gentlemen over by the far window. Nicholas Hartley, deep in discussion, was seated, his bandaged leg resting on a footstool. His face was more bruised than Jesamiah’s.

“Alas, poor Nicholas took a tumble down the stairs while chasing those scoundrel thieves out of his house, and you, Captain, received your injuries while rescuing two ladies from an upturned coach.”

“
That
story has probably reached London by now!” Tiola giggled, then lowered her voice. “It is better for Isabella if few hear the truth Jesamiah, I beg you to abide with Sir John’s request.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to me,” Jesamiah answered with a half shrug.

Benson dipped his head in gratitude and changed the subject. “May I introduce you to Sir Cleve Hartley, Viscount Westley, Sir! Captain Jesamiah Acorne.”

Hartley turned from a group of guffawing men. He had the same look about him as Nicholas, same eyes, chin, cheekbones. A similar voice too, but Sir Cleve was not the arrogant young man that his son was; here stood a man bowed by fear, self-doubt and debt. His face was florid, his manner excessively convivial, the sweat on his brow prominent. Jesamiah had seen too many men on the verge of insolvency to not recognise the signs of desperation. Cleve Hartley was drowning, and no one seemed bothered to throw him a rope, not even one to hang himself with. If Nicholas Hartley was hoping to redeem his debts on inheriting his father’s title and estate, Jesamiah thought perhaps he ought to reconsider. There was nothing beyond crumbling mortar to inherit.

“Acorne? Pleased to make your acquaintance, and Mistress Acorne. Lady Jennet tells me your father, Captain, was something to do with Alexander, Lord Westley?” He coughed, lowered his voice. “From what I gather, your father was born the wrong side of the blanket, and had no proof of paternity, so that is an end to the matter, eh? And, you must understand, Jennet is an old woman. She does incline towards a muddled memory over certain matters.”

“She seemed perfectly in command of her wits yesterday,” Jesamiah countered, annoyed at the less than subtle hint that this family relationship news was not welcome or believed here at Marley Court.

“Well,” Hartley said with another embarrassed cough, “this is not the time to be discussing such things. Help yourself to a drink from the sideboard. There is elderflower cordial should you wish, ma’am,” he said to Tiola. “Luncheon will be served soon, I am told.” He bowed and took his leave to return to the men he had been conversing with.

The two dozen or so others in the room were local merchants, landowners and minor gentry from Barnstaple, Bideford and the surrounding area. Powder-wigged gentleman with their paint-faced, ruched and ruffled wives. Fluttering fans, the rustle of silk, guffaws from the men, twittering laughter from the ladies. The sort of party Jesamiah despised. Within five minutes he was wondering why he had come. Rue had ensconced himself with Pamela, the smile on her face bringing a glow of pleasure as he had joined her on the far side of the room. Tiola was seated with Lady Bethan. Of the Dowager Countess there was, as yet, no sign. She was resting upstairs, Pamela had said.

It was a large room, if a somewhat dour and draughty one. Someone had made an effort to make it look presentable but Jesamiah’s keen eyes noticed the damp creeping along the walls, the stains hidden behind the cobwebbed pictures and cracked paintings. The darning on the faded velvet drapes. Nor could the beeswax candles, various oils and unguents disguise the pervading smell of dry rot and mould. Thank God for his supply of brandy! At least
that
was what it was supposed to be. If he bought a house to settle into, it would not be some drab mausoleum such as this, but smaller, comfortable. Overlooking the sea…

“Captain Acorne, I believe?”

Jesamiah spun around, startled from his reverie, saw a tall, thin, grey-haired man of about sixty years of age. He was well dressed, elegant, but the z-shaped scar marking his cheek from eye to mouth was the only thing that drew immediate attention. Hastily, Jesamiah averted his eyes to look direct into this fellow’s. They were green, the colour of a storm sea.

“I am Captain Acorne, aye. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The man bowed his head slightly, returned the assessing gaze and offered his hand. “I am Sir Ailie Doone, Earl of Exmoor. Captain Jennings mentioned you.”

Did he now
, Jesamiah thought. “Henry has been remarkably free with my name, I am discovering, your lordship. It is somewhat disconcerting, especially when he talks of me to a man who is related, I assume, to a band of outlaws far more notorious than any humble pirate.”

The Earl laughed, a deep-throated chuckle. “The infamy of the Doones has spread to the Colonies I perceive. I assure you, much of what was described in the news-sheets was exaggerated untruth. My uncle, Sir Ensor, was not the rogue he was often portrayed to be; we were but a dispossessed family from Scotland robbed, many years ago, of our rightful inheritance. When James, the third Earl of Doune, as they say it in Scotland, went to God my great-grandfather should have inherited the title. Alas it passed, by way of treachery, to a younger brother. My grandfather did not care to fight a lost cause, so we moved south to where we had other, shall we say, friends.”

He’s a Jacobite
, Jesamiah thought; then,
why has Henry got me mixed up in all this? Damn him – in all what!
For want of something to say, he stated, “I was unaware there was such a title
Earl of Exmoor
. Is it legal?”

Sir Ailie laughed again, “It takes a rogue to know a rogue, eh?” He thumped his hand onto Jesamiah’s shoulder, making him wince as the blow jarred various bruises. “I am a legitimate Laird, young sir, it is but that the present King and his government are not congenial to recognising my claim.”

“And were another king to have a say in things…?” Jesamiah left the sentence unfinished, realising he was treading heavily on the toes of treason.

Tiola, glanced across the room, aware of Jesamiah’s discomfort. Not for the first time she wished she had the ability to read a person’s mind. There was something about the man he was talking to that unsettled her. His body language was at ease, yet he was hiding something.

“Who is that man with my husband?” she asked Bethan. “He looks most stern.”

Bethan turned slightly to look over her shoulder; winced as her neck protested. She had fallen quite a tumble yesterday and the after-effects would probably last some few more days. “You mean, Sir Ailie? He is a very old friend of the family. His father knew my mother’s father well.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I believe they got up to quite a few mischievous adventures together. And Sir Ailie has had his own share of daring deeds.” She sighed then, and folded her hands on her lap. “Though not all are pleasant to remember.”