The Cornish Heiress (16 page)

The ladder was new. John had built it to be sure it would
hold his weight, but it was not the first to lie in that position. Its ancestor,
which had been found by the scholarly gentlemen investigating the cave, was the
best proof that the long-dead owners of Bolliet Manor were probably no better than
they should be. Megaera was horrified to learn that they had probably been wreckers,
who had kept goods and perhaps prisoners in the caves.

She was not thinking now, as she had so often before, that
the family had come full circle. Her mind was a muddled mass of doubts, fears,
and desires made more confusing by her fatigue. By the time she had stretched
her aching limbs in her comfortable bed, she was almost ready to back out of the
whole enterprise. The few extra pounds commission would not be worth the agony of
spirit, she told herself. The decision quieted her enough so that she slept, but
not for long. For the first time in more than a year she dreamed of making love
and woke up weeping.

The few hours of rest had revived her somewhat, and the
dream, leaving her unfulfilled, had sharpened her appetite. First she realized that
she could no longer back out, she had promised Pierre she would buy the goods for
him.
And don’t be a
fool,
she told herself.
This is a golden
opportunity. Philip is handsome, gentle, and, best of all, has no acquaintance in
the neighborhood. There is
no
chance that he will ever, meet Mrs. Edward
Devoran. Besides, he won’t stay in Cornwall after his business is finished.
He’ll go back to France with Pierre.
That produced a sinking feeling of
disappointment rather than relief, but Megaera’s spirits rose again when she
remembered that, if the buying trip were successful, Philip would surely come back
to repeat it—especially if he wanted to see her again.

The second time it was even easier to go to sleep. This time
she slept peacefully, although dreams continued to flit through her brain. They
were sweet dreams—of soft whispers, gentle touching, kind looks. Megara was a child,
then suddenly a woman, but the man, whose face was a dark blur, was always the same—father,
lover, protector, he was uniformly loving. He comforted the child, who had
scraped a knee, then suddenly was kissing the woman with passion. His breath
was sweet, untainted with liquor—and Megaera knew she was safe forever.

Before Megaera had even got into bed, Philip waved goodbye
to John and set off at as fast a pace as he dared to where a secondary track, which
went eventually to Buryan, met the road that ran past Bolliet. Here he turned
due north, steering by the stars and by his memories of rides with Perce. He
went a little astray, but it was a fortunate mistake and brought him out right at
Drift rather than at Catchall, which was half a mile farther west along the
main road. He was not really surprised to find it was Perce who opened the door
for him.

“You’re late,” was all he said.

“Yes, and I must leave very early. I do not think I will be
back—not for some time.” Philip’s eyes twinkled. “I think I have found a way to
restore my fortunes.”

“Yaas,” Perce drawled. “Pay those debts that have been on your
mind so much. You wouldn’t like some company?”

“With your French accent?” Philip shuddered and laughed.

His friend shrugged. Actually he was good at languages. He
spoke French, German, and Italian fluently and could manage a little Russian as
well—but he spoke every one like an Englishman. Worse, he knew “English” was
stamped on his face, so that it was true he would be more a danger than a help.

“Damn!” he said softly as he closed the door. “Is there anything
you need? Money?”

“No. I told you. I am about to make my fortune. You need not
worry. I will be quite safe.” The disbelief on Perce’s face led him to say a
little more. “I have met an old friend of my father’s. Believe me, I am more
likely to be stifled by protection than exposed to any excitement.”

Actually Philip was not much interested in his adventure in
France at the moment. That excitement had been temporarily superseded by
another. He was no less determined to do what he could to help his nation and
foil Bonaparte’s plans but he could not do anything about that until Pierre’s
return—and he was meeting Meg tomorrow.

Perce had not answered Philip’s nonsensical assurances as to
his own safety immediately, merely staring at him in frustrated silence. Then
he sighed. What could Philip say? “Do you want a nightcap?” he asked.

“No. Lord, I must reek, of brandy already—but it was good
brandy, I must say. That is what comes of drinking at a— Never mind. I had
better go to bed before I say what I should not. But Perce, do you know where
your unstamped brandy comes from?”

“The same place yours does, you idiot—France. Where else?
And there is
no
stamped brandy in Cornwall,” Perce answered
sardonically.

“No, you fool I mean, who brings it?”

“How should I know? Do you think m’father or I accept the
kegs? For God’s sake! He’s a justice of the peace!”

“Who does accept them?”

“Butler, I suppose.” Then Perce cocked his head. “Is it
important? Do you want me to wake him?”

“No, of course not. Just curiosity.”

“Oh? I thought maybe you were drumming up trade or looking
for information about your future business rivals.”

Philip laughed as he set his foot on the stairs. “No, you
have the wrong end of the stick. I am not selling. I am buying—and not brandy.
My interest was personal. I have heard…“ Then he paused, feeling ashamed of
himself. He had no right to pry into Meg’s life, really. She had a right to her
own secrets.

“What?” Perce urged.

“That there was some trouble,” Philip finished lamely, needing
to say something.

Perce wrinkled his forehead. “You know, I heard that too,
but it was some time ago. Nothing serious—a petty theft or two, a servant girl
complaining she was mauled about. Wait,” he added as they reached the top of
the stair. “I
have
heard something else. Now, who was it that told me? Well,
never mind. It seems the trouble has stopped and there’s a big brute delivering
now, really big—and—yes, he’s a deaf-mute. Damn! I do remember. It was Levallis
told me. Seems a maid went out to the jakes or something and ran into the
brute. Screamed the place down. Everyone ran out, even Levallis himself, but
the creature just put the kegs down. It was a sure thing he never heard the
girl. Didn’t touch her or tell her to be quiet or anything. Didn’t say a word
to the others either. Just set down the kegs and walked away.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Philip didn’t know whether he was more disappointed or
relieved that Perce knew nothing about Meg. Apparently she was as secretive with
her customers as with Pierre, or perhaps John made the deliveries alone.

“As long as the trouble is over,” he said to Perce. “My—my
new employer is, according to his lights, an honest man.”

“I see.” Perce’s lips quirked. “Wants to be sure his clients
are satisfied. Yes. Very reasonable.” They had reached the door to Philips bedchamber.
Perce put his hand on his, friend’s shoulder. “Be a little sensible, will you,
Phil? If you weren’t around to give me a start now and then, I might freeze
over solid.”

“We will be wicked old men together, I am sure,” Philip
replied. “Will you say everything proper to your parents and sisters for me? Beg
pardon for my sudden departure. I will write, of course, to thank them and to
beg permission to return. I will be back, you know.”

An enormous urge to tell Perce about Meg, to confess that he
had finally met a woman who could arouse more than carnal interest in him,
filled Philip. He shut his teeth hard. Perce would think he was insane! Imagine
a St. Eyre feeling that kind of interest in a girl of common birth who headed a
gang of smugglers. When he thought of it in those terms, Philip himself wondered
whether he was insane. He struck his friend lightly in the solar plexus, forced
a grin, and went into his room.

Of course he was mad, he told himself as he slipped off his clothes.
Meg was beautiful, and she might even be a decent woman, but she was out of the
question for him. Doubtless he was reading all sorts of things into her that
did not exist. He smiled wryly, trying to ignore the weight of disappointment
that settled on him. It was all Pierre’s fault—calling her a “lady” and telling
Philip to protect her. No doubt she was about as helpless as a fully armed dragoon.
He remembered the pistols strapped around her waist. Almost certainly in the
hard light of day he would see her as she was. Philip set his teeth and
imagined Meg in the kind of clothing his bawdy-house girls decked themselves in.
He fell asleep with that picture in his mind and a big empty hole in his chest.
By morning the notion was fixed, and he could laugh at himself without feeling
his throat tighten.

Philip left Moreton Place before anyone but a few servants
was awake. In fact he saddled Spite himself, rode to Penzance as quickly as
possible, and breakfasted while the hired horses were put to the carriage he
had chosen. Megaera had been up even earlier than Philip. She had packed a
small old portmanteau of her father’s with her soberest gowns—and most
frivolous nightdresses and underlinen. The second dream had hardened her final
decision, although she was well aware of its falsity. Even if Philip wished to
be her lover and protector, she could not accept. There could be no permanent
relationship between them. All the more reason why Red Meg should taste what
would be forever denied to Mrs. Edward Devoran.

Before the maid came in with her morning chocolate and to
make up her fire, Megaera had carried the portmanteau to the cave and returned
to her bed. When the girl came in, Megaera told her to send in Rose to pack a
bag. She told her personal maid that she was going to pay a visit and would be
away for a night or two. She discussed with Rose some slight changes in her
evening dresses to make them appear fresher. It was difficult to have much
interest in gowns she knew she would not wear and she was rather impatient with
the way Rose dwelled on details.

“And the carriage, ma’am? Rose asked. “Which will you take?”

“None,” Megaera, replied. “I will ride over to the vicar’s
house where I am to be taken up. Do not be so prying, Rose, but go fix my
gowns.”

The maid did as she was told, but she was puzzled by her
mistress’s manner. Her lady hadn’t been interested in the dresses, not really,
but she was excited and eager to go. Also it was very odd for her lady to say
she was prying by asking about the carriage. After all, someone had to tell the
footman what to tell the coachman. And if her lady was to be taken up, why at
the vicar’s house? Why not at Bolliet?

Then Rose’s face softened. Could it be a man? That could
explain why her lady was meeting him at the vicar’s. Rose knew that Megaera
couldn’t bear to lock her father up, but it was plain as a pikestaff that any
decent man would be scared off by such a father-in-law. But then surely her
lady would have wanted to look her best. So why did she hardly look at her
gowns? And besides, what man in the district didn’t know about Lord Bolliet?

Fortunately Rose was very romantic and very fond of her
mistress. She shook off all practical objections, telling herself that the look
in her lady’s eyes could only mean a man. She even found reasons for Megaera’s
lack of interest in her gowns. Her lady was incurably honest, much to her own
detriment, Rose thought with irritation. Probably the gentleman was
not
local.
He would not know that there were money troubles—all the servants knew that
much because of the cutbacks in spending, but they had no idea how acute the
problem was—because of that monster her lady married and because of his
lordship’s little weaknesses. Her lady would wear the old gowns to show she was
not rich. That was it.

That was the story that went around in servants’ hall, and
even Mr. Crystal, the butler, could not really deny it. His glimpse of Mrs.
Devoran when he served breakfast tended to confirm Rose’s contention. Mr.
Crystal could only hope that his poor, poor lady would not suffer anymore. He
had not seen such a light in her eyes for many years. All he could do for her,
however, was to suppress gossip as much as he could in the servants’ hall and
promise to pin back the ears of anyone who dared to let a word slip to his
lordship. Fuddled as he was, he might take it into his head to interfere in
some way.

Not in the least aware of the conspiracy of helpfulness
surrounding her, Megaera wore away the hours until nine o’clock. Then she had
her mare brought around, had her elaborate portmanteau strapped behind the
saddle, and set out. Mr. Crystal, seeing her off, frowned. She should have
taken a groom. Of course, it was only about two miles to the vicar’s house, and
Mrs. Devoran’s horse knew the way by heart, even if Mrs. Devoran herself should
be somewhat distracted. Still, a groom would have lent propriety. He sighed.
There was no use talking about propriety to Mrs. Devoran. In fact she was a
stickler usually, but when she got an idea into her head she just did things
her own way.

Having held her mare to a staid trot as long as she could be
seen from the house, Meg quickened her pace once she was clear. It was odd that
the passage from the house to the cave could be traversed in a few minutes on
foot, but it took almost ten minutes to ride around the hill. And no one would
ever guess that Bolliet Manor was on the other side. It looked completely wild
country as soon as the formal park was hidden. All, to the good, Megaera
thought. That increased the likelihood that no one would ever associate Bolliet
with the cave.

John was waiting to take the mare in and transfer the
sidesaddle to the pony. Meanwhile, Megaera removed her fashionable riding habit
and replaced it with a sober walking dress from her period of half mourning. It
was pale gray with black ribbons and, in spite of its sobriety, highlighted her
red hair and creamy complexion. The high waist did her no disservice either,
emphasizing her slenderness and her firm, high bosom, although the dress
covered rather more of her breasts than was fashionable. A darker gray pelisse
covered her, and a bonnet with a long poke shaded her face. At this hour of the
day there was some chance of passing someone she knew on the road. Meg hoped
Philip—she shivered inside a little as she said his name to herself—would have
obtained a closed carriage, but if he had not, the hat would conceal her face
and hair.