The House at Bell Orchard (8 page)

Charmian turned her head to look at him with a puzzled frown, embarrassment overcome by curiosity. “But Mr. Fenshawe—” she said doubtfully.

Piers shrugged. “Jack Godsall is dependent upon Colonel Fenshawe for his home and his livelihood,” he replied dryly. “He could not send the Colonel’s son about his business as he had sent the village lads. To give Harry his due, I believe that he is sincerely attached to Amy, and it is certain that since he took her under his protection, her father has been obliged to treat her less harshly.”

He paused, regarding Charmian with some concern, for she was very pale now. He attributed this to the shock of what she had just discovered, and reproached himself for allowing her to dwell upon it.

“I am a thoughtless fool!” he said abruptly. “This matter has distressed you.”

“No!” Charmian turned quickly to look at him. It seemed of immense importance for him to understand that Harry Fenshawe did not matter to her in the least. “That does not concern me at all. It was that place, that cottage! You may think this absurd, but to me it seemed to reek of evil.”

Piers gave her a curious look. “I wonder why you should think that?” he said musingly. “Have you, perhaps, been listening to the tales the villagers tell concerning old Granny Godsall?” The bewilderment in her face answered him, and he shook his head. “No, I see that you have not! They say, Miss Tarrant, that she is a witch.”

“A witch?” Charmian shivered, remembering the old woman at the cottage, her face with its beak-like nose and wrinkled, parchment-coloured skin, the eyes bright and hooded as a snake’s. “She has the look of one!”

“The looks and the reputation,” Piers replied calmly. “The one built largely upon the other. No, that is not entirely true! She certainly has an extraordinary knowledge of herbs and their uses—my father was used to say that Granny Godsall knew more of such matters than many an apothecary—and the country folk go to her for cures for all ailments, both for themselves and for their animals. I know that she transacts such business with all the trappings of black magic, and I suspect that she is not averse to adding to her profits in less innocent ways. A love-philtre or a waxen image of an enemy must command a far higher price than a mere draught of medicine. It is not surprising that she is thought to possess the evil eye.”

“Perhaps she does,” Charmian said in a low voice. “That place breathes the very spirit of terror and despair.”

Piers laughed. “Miss Tarrant,” he said firmly, “I shall not permit you to indulge in so morbid a fancy! The cottage is very old, and doubtless there are dark pages in its history as there must be in the history of any ancient building, but I assure you that there is no witchcraft there.”

She smiled, knowing that he was right, that such superstitions were for credulous country folk, to be mocked at by people of education. Yet she could not cast off the impression the cottage had made upon her; even to think of it brought a cold feeling of dread, and she hoped fervently that she need never see the place again.

The feeling continued to haunt her even after her return to Bell Orchard. Piers took his leave and rode away, having promised, in answer to her anxious insistence, to keep her informed of the state of his sister’s health, and Charmian went up to her bedchamber to change from her riding-habit into a gown. The events of the morning had given her a good deal to think about, and when she had changed she sat down on the window-seat, feeling disinclined for Lavinia’s company.

Amy Godsall’s defiant attitude was now explained, and so was the insolent familiarity with which the housekeeper, Martha Godsall, occasionally treated her mistress. It was small wonder that Lavinia, with her exaggerated sense of her own importance, found the situation infuriating.

Charmian recalled Mrs. Fenshawe’s broad hints of hopes for a marriage between Harry and herself, and wondered whether Amy was the reason for his refusal to consider it. It did not seem likely. A man might keep a mistress, and even be deeply devoted to her, but he did not on that account refuse to marry a wealthy woman of his own class. Such marriages were usually matters of arrangement, and a wife was expected to turn a blind eye to her husband’s other attachments.

She sighed, and got up again to study her reflection in the mirror. She knew that she was accounted a pretty girl, but the face that looked back at her now seemed plain and commonplace. Black did not become her; it made her look too pale, and brown hair and eyes were not flattered by it; one needed Lavinia’s cool, blonde colouring, or the red-gold hair of the girl at the cottage, to wear it to advantage; and it would be a year before she was able to appear in colours again. She unpinned the veil of fine black crepe which fell from the top of her head to behind her shoulders, and replaced it with a little cap of lace and ribbon, but could not feel that she had profited much by the change.

She did not see Harry again until that evening, when he returned to Bell Orchard, but then it happened that she was descending the stairs just as he entered the house. She halted near the foot of the staircase, conscious of considerable embarrassment, but Harry was apparently immune to such feelings. Tossing his hat, gloves and whip on to the table, he came straight across the hall towards her.

“Miss Tarrant,” he said abruptly in a low voice, “it occurs to me that I did not properly thank you for bringing the child safely home. Believe me, I am deeply grateful!”

Surprise for a moment or two deprived her of speech. Harry, looking up at her as she stood above him on the stairs, added almost apologetically:

“The truth is, ma’am, that I am devilish fond of the brat.”

“That is natural, sir,” she stammered, feeling quite at a loss. “He—he seems an engaging child.”

“He is a mischievous little devil,” he replied flatly, “but for all that, I would not wish any harm to come to him. I must ask your pardon, too, for the way I spoke to you. It was outrageous!”

Surprise was crowding upon surprise. Charmian said faintly: “It is forgotten, sir! I know it must have looked odd to you, but Miss Wychwood became indisposed—”

“Lord, m’dear, you have no need to explain to me,” he said hastily, “nor to Lavinia, either, for I swear I’ll not blab! Piers is the best of good fellows, and we were good friends until he grew so curst sober, but now I cannot resist picking a quarrel with him whenever we meet. For all that, I know I could trust him if the need arose.”

It seemed an odd thing to say, even though it confirmed her own opinion of Piers Wychwood, and for one crazy moment she wondered if Harry were showing her a way out of her dilemma, telling her where she might safely seek the help she so sorely needed. The briefest reflection, however, convinced her that she must be mistaken. He would be as concerned as the rest of his family to prevent the secret of their conspiracies from being betrayed, and she was reading a significance which was not intended into words meant to be taken at face value.

Somewhere above them a door opened, and Lavinia’s voice was heard issuing some instruction to her maid. A faint frown crossed Harry’s face, and he stepped aside so that Charmian might pass him, and then went briskly up the stairs. She heard him exchange a curt word of greeting with his stepmother, and then, as Lavinia’s footsteps approached, she sped quickly across the hall and into the parlour. From every point of view, it would be best if Mrs. Fenshawe remained in ignorance of the events of the day.

8

Contraband

Charmian had determined that, if no news of Dorothy reached her by the time they usually met, she would go to Wychwood Chase to inquire after her, but during the evening, clouds began to pile up in the west, and she awoke next morning to the sound of rain beating against her window.

The downpour continued throughout the morning with a steady, relentless determination which made any outdoor activity impossible. It veiled the distances in a grey mist, dripped monotonously from the eaves, and trickled in rivulets down the garden paths. The sky was leaden, seeming to rob everything of colour and making the low-pitched, panelled rooms at Bell Orchard so dark that the ladies were obliged to call for candles before they could read or sew.

The gloom out-of-doors had its effect upon tempers within. Lavinia, whose dislike of her country home in fine weather was negligible compared to her loathing of it when the weather was bad, complained bitterly and unceasingly of the circumstances which obliged her to re-main there. Charmian felt acutely uncomfortable: she was as weary of Lavinia’s company as Lavinia was of hers, but for the sake of good manners had hitherto striven to maintain some show of cordiality. This would never again be possible.

Midway through the afternoon the rain ceased, and though the grey, lowering sky suggested that the respite would be of short duration, she decided to take advantage of it and go for a walk. Lavinia’s peevishness had frayed her own temper, and the gloom and heaviness of the day induced a curious sense of being imprisoned, so that she felt she could not bear to be confined any longer to the house. Donning her stoutest shoes and a hooded cloak of fine cloth, she went out into the dripping gardens.

Passing through them, she set out across the park along the route which she and Dorothy and Piers had followed the previous day, for she was conscious of a desire for the open shore and the vast, empty expanse of the sea. Only there, she felt, would she be free of this illogical feeling of confinement, of being caught in a trap from which there was no escape. The rain-sodden grass soaked her shoes and the bottom of her skirts, and as she passed beneath the trees, heavy drops of water dripped from their branches on to her head and shoulders, but there was a freshness in the air which was very pleasant, and slowly her taut nerves relaxed and she was able to put Bell Orchard and its inhabitants from her mind for a time.

She reached the shore at last, and stood for a while watching the grey waves breaking on the grey pebbles, for it was close upon high tide. Then she turned and walked slowly along the beach, still following, almost unconsciously, the path they had ridden the day before, while her thoughts, no longer troubled, drifted pleasantly, soothed by the rhythmic voice of the sea.

It began to rain again, not heavily as before, but softly, almost caressingly, and with a sigh of regret she turned once more towards Bell Orchard. This time she followed a different path, crossing a stretch of rough grassland to the belt of trees which at that point bordered the park. Beyond the trees was a lane leading to the home farm and the stable-yard, and a short way along it stood a barn, a roomy, stonebuilt place with a steeply sloping roof.

The rain was falling faster now, and it occurred to her that it might be wiser to avail herself of the shelter close at hand than to continue on her way. She hastened her steps, and was fairly within the barn before she realized that it was already occupied. A cart stood there, with a patient horse between the shafts, and in one corner of the barn a heap of straw had been dragged aside to reveal a pile of small wooden kegs, which two brawny countrymen were engaged in transferring to the cart. It seemed so curious an occupation that at first perplexity was her only reaction. She stood and stared, until one of the men turned his head and saw her.

He voiced a curse and heaved the keg he was holding swiftly into the cart, while his companion swung round to learn the cause of his dismay. Then, in unspoken agreement which was in itself disquieting, both advanced towards her. She fell back a pace, bewilderment giving way to alarm, but the taller of the two was already between her and the doorway, stretching out an arm to block her path.

“Spy on us, would ’ee?” he said roughly. “Come creeping to pry into matters as don’t concern ’ee?”

“No, no!” she faltered, still completely at a loss. “I only wished to shelter from the rain.”

The other man laughed harshly. “A likely tale!” he jeered. “We’ve a short way wi’ spies, my lass! One as will teach ’ee a lesson ye’ll not forget.”

She shrank back, not comprehending how she had offended, but sharply aware of her danger in that lonely spot. Then, with a relief so great that for an instant she wondered whether her senses had deceived her, she caught the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Harry, perhaps, returning from Godsall’s cottage.

With a suddenness which took the two men unawares, she ducked beneath the outstretched arm and darted out into the lane, hearing them curse as they pounded in pursuit. Panic lent her speed as she fled towards the approaching horseman, still hidden from view by a bend in the lane, and then she slipped on the wet ground and fell headlong, knocking all the breath from her body.

Strong hands seized her by the arms and hauled her to her feet as the rider, rounding the bend, saw the little group before him and spurred his mount forward. He came to a plunging halt beside them and his whip cracked resoundingly across the shoulders of the nearer man, making him swear and release his hold on Charmian.

“What the devil—?” It was Piers’ voice, taut with anger. “Stand back, the pair of you! Have you taken leave of your senses?”

As the two hurriedly obeyed him, he sprang from the saddle and stepped quickly to Charmian’s side. She was still breathless with fright and the shock of the fall, and clung thankfully to his arm.

“My dear Miss Tarrant!” Piers’ voice was full of urgent concern. “Have these two ruffians harmed you?”

She shook her head. “They were in the barn,” she faltered. “I went to shelter from the rain and—and they threatened me!”

One of the men sullenly muttered something about strangers and spies, and Piers said sharply:

“You confounded fool, the lady comes from Bell Orchard! I imagine that Colonel Fenshawe will have a word to say when he learns it is no longer safe for his guests to walk abroad on his estate.” Ignoring their sheepish protests, he looked again at Charmian. “Miss Tarrant, you have been badly frightened. Let us step into the barn, where you may sit down for a few minutes, and when you have recovered a little I will take you home.”

She obeyed without protest, leaning gratefully on his arm, for it was now raining heavily once more. Within the barn Piers paid no heed, beyond a single, comprehending glance, to the cart and its mysterious load but found a seat for Charmian on a pile of hurdles, saying curtly over his shoulder to the two men who were now hovering uneasily in the doorway:

“Fetch my horse, one of you, and then take your wagon and go. And think yourselves lucky to escape so easily!”

They hastened to do his bidding, the younger one hurrying to lead in the horse while the elder heaved the few remaining kegs into the cart with the utmost dispatch. Straw was hastily tossed over them, one of the men went to the horse’s head, and the cart lumbered forward out of the barn into the slanting spears of rain.

Piers, who had watched these activities with an air of controlled impatience, turned back to Charmian. She was calmer now, and able to feel conscious of her bedraggled appearance, her cloak and gown plastered with mud, her hair falling in damp, dishevelled curls about her face. She had grazed her right hand badly when she fell, and had been trying, without much success, to bandage it with a wisp of handkerchief already stained with mud and blood.

Piers sat down beside her and, taking her hand gently in his, proceeded to bind it with his own larger handkerchief, paying no heed to her faint protest. For a moment or two she was silent, studying his down-bent fair head and serious face, and then she said in a puzzled voice:

“I do not understand! Why were they so angry that I had seen them here?”

“Why?” He glanced up, smiling faintly, before returning to his task. “Because, Miss Tarrant, you are a stranger to them, and had caught them in the act of shifting contraband goods.”

“Contraband?” she repeated in a stunned voice. “You mean those men are smugglers?”

“Certainly, when they are not being honest labourers.” Piers knotted the handkerchief and looked up, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “But then we are all smugglers here, to a greater or lesser degree.”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and shock, and the amusement in his eyes deepened to a smile.

“I am not jesting, ma’am. Oh, I do not mean that we all go down to the beach on moonless nights and haul the cargo ashore—though I have done that before now.” He paused to laugh ruefully at the recollection. “When Harry Fenshawe and I were boys, we counted it a great adventure if we could take a hand in running a cargo. We did so, too, on several occasions, until our respective fathers learned of it. That put an end to active smuggling—for me, at all events, though it would not surprise me to learn that Harry still helps with a run from time to time. He has the nature for it, and Jack Godsall is the leader of all the smugglers hereabouts.”

“But surely,” Charmian protested in bewilderment, “it cannot be done as openly as this? Do the authorities take no measures to prevent it?”

Piers shrugged. “The Excisemen should do so, of course, but, in this neighbourhood at least, they seem extraordinarily unwilling to take any action. That casts the whole responsibility upon the magistrates, such as myself, who are also landowners. Nine out of ten of our labourers and tenants have a hand in the smuggling trade, and we could not turn them all over to the law. Nor would we, I even if we could. It has been going on for generations and, as I say, we are all smugglers along the Sussex coast. It is exceedingly reprehensible, no doubt, but I am obliged to own that most of the brandy in my cellars, and many of the silks and laces my mother and sister wear, never had a penny of duty paid on them. And I have no doubt at all that the same is true at Bell Orchard.”

Charmian was silent, trying to adjust her mind to this new and startling outlook. Hitherto she had thought of smuggling, if she thought of it at all, as a furtive and dangerous practice carried on in secret at dead of night, but here it seemed to be an accepted, almost respectable occupation, inextricably mingled with the commonplace tasks of every day.

“Even the clergy turn a blind eye to it, Miss Tarrant,” Piers said quietly, as though guessing the trend of her thoughts. “I have known times when the church bells could not be rung because of the quantity of contraband hidden in the tower, and there is more than one tomb from which spirits of a very tangible kind issue in the dark of the moon.”

“What would have happened to me, sir, if you had not come when you did?”

Piers frowned. “You might have been handled somewhat roughly, even made prisoner for a time, but they would have let you go as soon as they realized who you are. I will see to it that word of what happened reaches Jack Godsall, and he will make sure that nothing of the kind occurs again. My assurance to those fellows may not be sufficient, for at present I am regarded with suspicion. The rumour has spread that I am seeking to put a stop to all smuggling in these parts.”

Charmian, now completely out of her depth, asked faintly: “And are you, Sir Piers?”

He laughed. “I know better than to attempt the impossible, ma’am. No, all I am trying to do is to end a more dangerous traffic in which Godsall has lately been indulging—the smuggling into England of Jacobite agents along with his silks and brandy.”

Charmian’s heart gave a great lurch, and began to pound so violently that it seemed her companion must surely hear it. In a voice she scarcely recognized as her own she heard herself ask: “Are you sure?”

“
I
am sure, ma’am, but I am finding it exceedingly hard to convince anyone else of it,” he replied ruefully. “You see, I have no proof, and without it, no one is inclined to take me seriously. All I have to go upon myself is the word of a dead man.”

“A dead man?” she repeated. “I do not understand.”

“One night last spring, Miss Tarrant,” he explained, “there was an extremely bad storm, and the next morning, as I rode along the shore, I came upon a man lying at the water’s edge. The poor fellow must have been swept overboard from some ship, probably a smuggling craft, and though he had succeeded in reaching land, the struggle, and the subsequent exposure to the cold as he lay exhausted upon the beach, had proved too much for him. I did what I could, but it was plain that he was at the point of death, only partly conscious and unaware of my presence. He seemed greatly troubled, and from his disjointed mutterings I gathered that he was a Jacobite messenger, the bearer of important letters from the Pretender to his supporters in England, but even in his extremity he named no names. He died before I could summon help.”

“But you spoke of letters,” she protested. “Did they not provide the proof you needed?”

“Ah, the letters!” he said with a rueful laugh. “They were clutched in his hand, and close by lay the piece of oiled silk in which they had been wrapped for protection. His last thought had been to prevent them from falling into unfriendly hands, and he had torn them into fragments and thrust them into the wet sand. Not a word was decipherable.”

“And no one believed you when you told them what you knew?”

He shrugged. “They listened courteously enough, and I promised to look into the matter, but that was the end of it. I even carried my tale to London, and fared no better there than here.”

Charmian was silent for a moment or two, and then she said diffidently: “If this unfortunate man had been swept overboard and swam ashore, he might have no connection with this part at all. Help might have been waiting for him in quite another place.”