The Pursuit of Pleasure (21 page)

Until Mr. Tupper ushered in the groundsman—and every instinct began to prickle with unease.

They appeared a little after one o’clock, the former with another stack of canvas-bound ledgers under his one arm, and the latter looking something like a dog might have dragged in off the beach.

He was handsome enough; a big, strapping young man, wearing well-worn clothes of a nondescript dirt color and a tired, resigned expression that told her he was not best pleased to be there. That made two of them.

Oh, and there, at the bottom of the disreputable picture he presented, were the sea boots she’d seen worn by sailors all along the waterfronts of the South Devon Coast. So damnably curious on a groundsman.

“Ah, there you are. It’s Hugh, isn’t it? You may come in.” She hoped her smile wasn’t as nervous and intimidated as she felt. But no doubt that was his intent, with his heavy scowl.

He stepped carefully into the room and pulled off the floppy-brimmed hat, revealing a shock of wheat-blond hair and light blue eyes the temperature of ice. The familiarity was instant. He was definitely the man Jamie had been talking to that afternoon down along the low cliffs, and the man whom Tupper had sent to find her when she had been wandering the estate. So he was a servant after all. Curiouser and curiouser.

“You are the under gardener?”

“Groundsman, ma’am,” came the mumbled reply as he turned to toss a glance at Tupper.

A flash of something—the way he stood in profile and the fact that he was wearing a brown coat, clicked in Lizzie’s mind. She had seen him before, somewhere else. Before Glass Cottage. Not quite so natty as the first, but just enough of the same color to recognize him, finally. He was the man she had seen with Jamie, that day in town.

Nearly a month ago, on the High Street. She’d been there with Celia, on their way to the Booksellers. Her eye had been caught by the sight of two such striking men walking together. Until she had realized one of them was Jamie, and her heart had jumped and tumbled somersaults in her chest. And this was the same man Jamie had been talking to so strangely on the path that first morning she’d come to Glass Cottage. The one who had said it would be better if the house were empty. It struck her again—the impression that he and Jamie had been talking, conversing, almost as equals.

Equals, or near to it. He must be another of Jamie’s charity cases, but unlike Tupper, who was possessed of a bluff good humor, this Hugh seemed resentful, and perhaps even embarrassed, by his circumstances. What else but embarrassed pride could explain the raw hostility emanating from the man like steam from a teakettle?

But she should not forget her first impression, that the man was a smuggler. Oh, it was all so bloody curious.

“Your name please, Hugh?”

“Ma’am?”

“Your surname, please. Hugh what?”

“Hugh McAlden.”

“Thank you. And just what is it you do, Hugh?”

“I, ah, work for the groundsman.”

“That would make you the undergroundsman then, wouldn’t it? Our own mole, as it were?” He didn’t laugh at her little joke in the way a good servant would have, just to oblige his mistress. No, the man was clearly not a servant at all. Oh, this was dreadfully, marvelously curious. It would be a relief to puzzle this mystery, something to occupy her mind instead of incessant grief.

“And what is the groundsman’s name, Hugh?”

“Uhh. Sir?” The man attempted to give all the appearance of a dim rush light. Oh, no. No matter what he wanted her to think, he was not stupid. Stupid men were like dumb animals, incapable of showing anger or disdain, both of which were evident in the cold blue of this man’s sharp eyes.

“Yes,” she carried on in what she hoped was still a pleasant tone of voice, “Mr. Tupper’s had some difficulty with the matter as well. Which leaves me in a difficult position, you see. If an employee, a servant, is not around long enough for his employer to know his name, it suggests he is not doing his job properly, doesn’t it?” It meant he, whoever he was, was most likely smuggling. As perhaps were these two, Tupper and McAlden. Just what had Jamie gotten himself mixed up in?

“Did Captain Marlowe employ you himself, Hugh, or did Mr. Tupper?”

“Captain Marlowe, ma’am.”

“And are you a veteran of the navy, Hugh?”

“Ah, yes, ma’am.” His eyes cut across to Mr. Tupper’s.

Lizzie brought his attention back. “And may I ask, what was your rank, Hugh?”

He sharpened his gaze and, so very unlike a real servant, looked directly at her. “Mate, ma’am.”

That was ambiguous enough. “A warrant officer. Might I also ask why you chose to leave your profession after you had achieved such a high rank?”

He took a long moment to answer. “I no longer liked getting shot at, ma’am.”

This little unpleasant reminder knocked her curiosity back a step or two. She couldn’t blame the man for not wanting to end up as Jamie had. She wouldn’t wish that on anybody.

“Yes, one can hardly argue with that. As I said to Mr. Tupper, it does seem a particularly mortal occupation, doesn’t it?” She nodded her apology and firmed her jaw to keep the sudden heat from pooling in her eyes.

“I am sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

“I thank you, Hugh. You’re very kind. Though I suspect I need to offer the same to you. And to the Tuppers. You all knew Captain Marlowe, too, and have felt his loss as well.”

Another glance between the two men, this time uneasy, almost embarrassed. Well, she wouldn’t dwell on something that obviously brought pain to them all.

“Am I to understand you’re still handy with a boat? There seems to be a dory down in the cove.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Yet, another glance at Tupper, but different. This time it was sharp with communication. Oh Lord, they were definitely up to something together.

“And Mr. Tupper indicates there are eel pots and other—” she waved her hand vaguely, “fishing things. I thought supplying the table here and at the cottages would be a better, or more likeable, occupation for you.”

“Ma’am.”

“I hope to make Glass Cottage entirely self-sufficient. But that will demand we all do our jobs conscientiously and well.”

“Ma’am.”

“Oh and one other thing. I am not fond of company, so I would ask that in the course of your work you keep an eye out for, and discourage, uninvited visitors.”

A ghost of a smile wafted across his lips, with just enough of a sneer to get her back up. Why was she tiptoeing around these men, with their significant looks and games? Why should she countenance their dabbling with the smugglers?

“I shall be keeping a sharp lookout as well, both for unwanted visitors and for anything …” She finally chose her father’s word. It was the only one that suited. “For anything havey-cavey.”

“Havey-cavey.” His eye held the glimmer of a genuine, amused smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Right. So, you may feel free to put that wonderfully intimidating scowl of yours to use immediately to warn off all visitors. You may tell them—and you’ll be glad of this, Mr. Tupper—that the house is closed.”

He seemed as pleased as Tupper. “Closed,” he repeated with a nod.

“Yes, closed. Thank you. You may go. Now, Mr. Tupper about this other groundsman of yours? I have a list of tasks I should like to see accomplished in the kitchen gardens.”

“You may just give that to me, ma’am. I’ll know what to tell him.”

“I have no doubt of that, Mr. Tupper. However, I should like to meet all the persons in my employ. Considering the estate employs only four people at present, I shouldn’t think it was too much to ask.” She smiled again to try and leaven the firmness of her request.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you planning on hiring more?”

“Of course. Eventually. As we see how well the estate does.”

“Ma’am, I know it isn’t my place, but the master, Cap’n Marlowe, did say as he didn’t want you living out here.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me. I do understand. And I do appreciate your loyalty, I do. But this is where I belong. I hope you can respect my wishes and square it with your loyalty to the Captain’s memory. Now when can I expect the other groundsman?”

Tupper bobbed his chin down. “He’s away, ma’am.”

“Away? You said he had gone into Dartmouth for supplies. So when might I expect him back?”

“Now, missus …”

Oh Lord, now they were in for it. Her mother’s servants only ever called her “missus” when they were prevaricating or placating. Maybe both. She had hoped for none of that from Tupper. But she needed to start as she meant to go on.

“Mr. Tupper, if you please.” She made her voice as calm, unruffled, and sweetly commanding as ever her mother had done. “If the groundsman is not back on the premises, with his repairing supplies, and presenting himself to me with an explanation of his absence, I shall simply have to give him notice.”

“Now, ma’am, I’m after seeing the fellow all the time. I give him the jobs and he gets on with it. There’s no reason you need to worry yourself about that. I’ll see to things.”

“Yes, Mr. Tupper.” Lizzie fought to keep her temper, never predictable at the best of times and lately wildly erratic, under control. She must resist the temptation to give into the hot clarity of anger. But she was getting damned tired of having this conversation. She made her tone quiet but firm. “But the point is I
want
to meet him. I do not seek to supervise him or his work, but I do intend to meet him and put an eye to his face. I’ll thank you to
please
,” she made her voice firm and not placating, “see that it’s done without any further delay. Do I make myself clear?”

“As gin, ma’am.”

She had to laugh. It was such a manlike, exasperated thing to say. And it was funny. She could just picture Mr. Tupper tossing back a dram of the cloudy spirit with his one good arm.

Her change of demeanor gave him an opening. “But if I may say, ma’am, this groundsman was hired by Captain Marlowe himself, and neither of us are in a position to be able to let him go.”

“What?” So much for her attempt at a sunnier demeanor. “You’re telling me I can’t give my own servant notice?” She was flabbergasted. “Oh, good Lord. Don’t tell me—another navy veteran, isn’t he?” Lizzie began to laugh and laugh. “You’d think we were running a home for superannuated sailors and not a farming estate!”

C
HAPTER 13

T
he Heart of Oak stank of stale, spilled beer, damp wool, and day-old fish, but it was close to hand and the patrons knew how to mind their own damn business.

“What the hell’s going on?” The tall man threw his bag into the bar with obvious disgust.

“Keep your voice down. What do you mean?”

“What’s this business about scaring the shite out of the bloody woman?”

“Which woman? The old housekeeper, Mrs. Tupper?”

“No. She’s no problem. Keeps to her cottage.”

“The place is supposed to be empty.”

“Well, it bloody well ain’t!”

He swore colorfully into the night. This was not a part of the plan. They would have to adapt. Quickly.

“So we’re to go in and put a fright into her?”

“I guess. I don’t like the idea. Could get dicey. Always does with women. Unpredictable, that’s what they are.”

“Don’t be such a flaming puss. We’ve run this ken before to empty the place out. You go in disguised and armed. She’s not like to say boo to a pair of pistols.”

“Pistols? Since when have we taken to threatening women with guns?”

“Since that house became occupied, that’s when.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to do it. There’s plans made can’t be changed. They might be asea already.”

The tall man shook his head. “There’s things and then there’s things. I don’t want any part of going after that woman, pistols or no.”

“Orders is orders. We need to see this done. So shut your gob and drink your beer.”

Lizzie got up to poke up the fire and then retreated to the warmth of the wide bed. Though it was the beginning of summer, and the days could be warm and lovely, the nights were still apt to have a chill. A damp, sea-borne chill.

Somewhere in the house below, a door groaned open, and then creaked closed. At least she thought it was a door. Directly below, in the library.

Had Mr. Tupper finally relented and come back to restock the wood for the fire? Lizzie had been used to coal fires at Hightop, and indeed there was a grate for coal in the fireplace, but she suspected the wood, or the lack thereof, was just one more way for Mr. Tupper to discourage her residence. But a glance told her the copper bucket next to the fireplace was already stocked full of seasoned wood. How strange.

She glanced up at the clock on the mantel. Well past one o’clock in the morning. Mr. Tupper would never be up so late.

The upstairs corridor was dark and empty and she was, of a sudden, reluctant to leave the warm glow of heat and light in the bedroom. How ridiculous. Since when was she such a faint heart? And in her own house?

She would have gone out into the hall but a sound, rising up the stair and echoing through the empty halls, raised the hairs at the back of her neck.

A long, low moan. And then again, louder, as if the noise, the person, whatever it was, was moving through the house. Searching for something. For her.

Her lungs filled with the hot acid of panic. She stared blindly into the darkness and strained to hear in deafening silence, but the pounding of her blood in her ears drowned out all other noise. Lizzie could only sort out two thoughts—this was what it was like to be frightened, and how stupid she was to be so alone.

Everyone, from Jamie to her parents, had told her, over and over again, it was not safe for her to be living in the house alone. Why hadn’t she listened? Jamie had begged her, had made her promise him. She should have listened, damn her ears. She should have kept that promise.

Then the eerie sound came again, rising out of the darkness below to lift the fine hairs on her arms. But the ghostly moan was rapidly followed by a sharp grunt, a muffled curse, and a sound that was very much like the scrape of furniture along the floor.