Smugglers' Summer (22 page)

Mr Wynn drew it. The blade glinted wickedly in the light of the lamp, which Sir Tristram held towards him.

“This is the only fire. We could build one, but the smoke would suffocate us."

“It will have to do.” He held the blade in the flame, plunging the room into a nightmarish, flickering red light. “Deanbridge, you will have to hold his arms, and you sit on his legs, ma’am. Miss Gray, if you will be so good as to come and help wherever help is needed?”

“I hope you can do without her help, Martha,” said Sir Tristram grimly. “Jack is going to cry out when the red-hot steel touches, and he’ll bring a pack of dragoons down on us. Octavia, find a cloth and hold it across his mouth with all your strength. If there’s more than a peep out of him, all is up with us.”

Numb with horror, Octavia untied the neckcloth which had served her as sash and folded it into a pad. She knelt by Red Jack’s head and laid it loosely over his mouth.

The writer-politician lifted the knife. Its blade glowed dull red. He adjusted the lamp to give the best light and bent towards his patient. Octavia looked away.

“Octavia!” Sir Tristram’s voice was commanding. “You must watch or you will not know when to exert your full strength.”

Biting her lip, she turned her head and watched the knife descend. Just before it touched the angry flesh, she pressed hard with both hands on the captain’s mouth.

The great body convulsed. Martha Pengarth and Sir Tristram barely managed to hold him down, but only a muffled moan emerged through the cloth.

"Once more."

Again she forced herself to watch, fighting down nausea. The smell of burned hair reached her as she braced for the struggle. There was none. Red Jack went limp.

Sir Tristram lifted her to her feet. She leaned against him, shaking.

“Brave girl,” he murmured, “oh, my brave girl! It’s over, that’s all. I’ll take you home now. Wynn and Martha can manage. Come now, here is your cloak.”

He left her in Ada’s care and went back to the cave. She staggered up the stairs, stood like a statue while Ada took off her filthy gown, tut-tutting, and fell into bed.

She expected the memory of Red Jack’s agony to keep her awake in spite of her tiredness, but her last thought before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep was of Sir Tristram.

Whatever happened in the future, they had worked together this night and nothing could take away her memory of it. He had counted on her aid; she had given it freely and seen the admiration and gratitude in his eyes.

That must suffice.

Chapter 18

Octavia woke to the sound of the ancient clock striking noon. Her first sensation was of hunger, and she rang the bell quickly. If she hurried she would be in time for luncheon.

Ada appeared at once.

“Morning, miss,” she said cheerfully, drawing back the curtains to reveal a sunlit hillside. “I was right next door, in Miss Julia’s room, working on that dress you wore last night. It won’t be fit for much, I misdoubt.”

“Perhaps I shall need it again tonight! It was one of my old ones, and I mean never to go back to such dowdy stuff, whatever Mama may say, so it does not matter.”

“That’s the spirit, miss. Can I get you a tray? You must be right sharp set after all that running about.”

“I am starving, but I shall go down.” She threw back the covers. “Where is Julia?”

“She went down to breakfast, miss!” said the abigail in a marvelling tone, as they went through to the other chamber. “If that’s not a sign of true love, I’m sure I don’t know what is. Then out right away, leaving word to my lady she was gone a-walking in the gardens. Them dragoons are gone, I’m glad to say. What will you wear today, miss?”

Octavia chose one of her new walking dresses, an amber muslin trimmed with straw-coloured lace. She hurried down to the dining room, where she found Raeburn putting the last touches to the cold buffet.

“Morning, miss,” he answered her greeting. “My lady and Miss Crosby will be here any moment.

“And Sir . . . the others?”

“Miss Julia went out early, miss!” Unaware of James Wynn’s arrival, the butler was still more astonished than the maid. “Sir Tristram got up uncommon late, not more than an hour ago, I’d say, and he took a hamper and went after her. They’ll be picnicking in the garden again, I daresay.”

“I am too hungry to go looking for them now,” said Octavia in disappointment. “Pour me some tea, if you please, and I shall wait for my aunt.”

Miss Crosby and Lady Langston came in almost immediately. Miss Crosby made a spiteful remark about gentlemen being obliged by good manners to stay up till all hours listening to the chatter of thoughtless young women.

“Octavia is less given to idle chatter than any young lady I know,” said Lady Langston fondly, putting an end to that line of attack.

“Then she and Sir Tristram must have had matters of import to discuss,” said Miss Crosby brightly. “What business, I wonder, had
dear
Miss Langston’s suitor with Miss Gray?”

Her ladyship came to the rescue once more, her placidity unshaken. “Books, I expect, for they are both amazingly fond of books. Raeburn, I will take one of those currant tarts. I am particularly partial to blackcurrant tarts.”

“A bluestocking! Of course, a gentleman may discuss literature with a lady, but nothing is less likely to lead to an offer of marriage than an excessive acquaintance with books.” Satisfied with this thrust, Miss Crosby allowed Octavia to complete her meal in peace.

This she did with a hearty appetite, but scarcely noticing what she ate. Sir Tristram had changed his tactics and followed Julia, after saying he intended to leave her alone with James Wynn. She read a message in his actions.

He was warning her not to refine too much upon their closeness last night, reminding her that she was not really his sweetheart. “My brave girl,” he had called her. She was to ignore the first word though the last two could not be retracted. Had she done or said something that revealed to him her discovery that she loved him?

Her only clear recollections were of the glowing knife descending and of his reassuring arms about her afterwards. “My brave girl,” he had said. “It is over.”

“Are you quite well, Octavia?” asked her aunt. “You look a little pale. You had best go out in the fresh air with Julia.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said obediently, but she chose to wander alone about the upper gardens, brooding on the unreasonableness of life.

Julia was in high spirits when she came in to change for dinner.

“I wish you had been with us, Tavy,” she cried. “We quite expected you to join us. James and Sir Tristram were talking politics and I learned such a lot! Did you know Sir Tristram is a Whig? I’ll wager Papa does not know or he would not be so eager to have him for a son-in-law.”

“I expect he does know. It is James’s radicalism and poverty to which he so strongly objects. He cannot insist that you marry a confirmed Tory!”

“Well, Sir Tristram said as we came up, that he has a most respectable friend whose ideas differ little from James’s. He thinks it is James’s eloquence which makes him seem so extreme. Actually, he said James’s words run away with him.” Julia giggled. “Can you not picture them, on little spindly legs, scampering off as fast as they can go?”

“You did not feel Sir Tristram’s presence as an intrusion?”

“Heavens, no. James likes someone to argue with and I am still too ignorant. Besides, I agree with everything he says; his views seem perfectly reasonable to me. And Sir Tristram did not act like a rejected lover, which would have made me uncomfortable.”

“Though James would not have noticed. No, Sir Tristram’s manners are far too good, and I daresay he has not quite given up hope yet."

Octavia determined that her manners should prove as good as the baronet’s. No one should guess her unhappiness; she would join the others and endeavour to be cheerful. She might never see Sir Tristram again once she left Cotehele, but until that dread moment, he must have no reason to think her anything other than a sympathetic friend.

When they went down to the drawing room, Lady Langston called her niece to her. Once again her ladyship had reason to congratulate herself on the effectiveness of her remedy; fresh air and exercise had restored the bloom to Octavia’s cheeks, the smile to her lips.

Sir Tristram came in, slightly out of breath, his cravat arranged with less than its usual neatness. Octavia thought he must have gone to the cave after escorting Julia up to the house. The dinner gong rang at once, so she was not able to ask for news of Jack Day. He smiled at her as he led Lady Langston down to the dining room, but to her relief made no comment about her absence. She did not want her aunt to know she had been alone all afternoon.

Private conversation at the dinner table was impossible. Sir Tristram did not linger over his brandy, but by the time he came up, Miss Crosby had entangled Octavia in a discussion of the works of Hannah More. She upheld her bookish reputation admirably, since the philanthropist was her mother’s favourite writer.
The Religion of the Fashionable World
and
Practical Piety
she was thoroughly acquainted with, and she had even read
Moral Sketches,
published as recently as 1818.

Since Miss Crosby had been unable to obtain a copy in the year since its appearance, this was momentary defeat. However, she was not about to admit it. Though Octavia offered to have her mother send a copy, she persisted in questioning her on every detail of the work.

Sir Tristram threw Octavia a glance of commiseration and spent the evening at Julia’s side.

It was still quite early when Julia stretched and yawned and declared that there was nothing like a day in the open to make one sleepy.

“Come on, Tavy,” she added. “We cannot have you sleeping the day away again. What a waste of the countryside you longed for!”

Miss Crosby’s face was full of triumph as Octavia unwillingly said her good nights and retired.

Having risen so late, she was not in the least sleepy. She sat up in her bed, leaning against a pile of pillows, and tried to concentrate on the first part of Byron’s
Don Juan,
a poem Julia said every lady of fashion must be acquainted with. She did not like it, but it seemed an appropriate rebellion against Hannah More.

There was a knock on the door and Ada came in.

“Here’s a note from Sir Tristram, miss,” she announced in a conspiratorial whisper. “He said as you’d be wanting to hear how the captain goes on.” She handed over a much-folded sheet and slipped out.

Octavia held it for a moment without opening it. She wanted to press it to her heart, but could not bring herself to do anything so suggestive of a Cheltenham tragedy. With carefully steady fingers she unfolded it.

No salutation. He had not wanted to write “Dear Miss Gray.” And it ended simply, “In haste, Deanbridge.”

“You will be glad to hear,” it said, “that Jack’s condition is much improved. The fever is diminished, though naturally his arm pains him greatly. I am deeply grateful to James Wynn; I had rather be grateful to anybody else in the world, as you may imagine.

“My humble apologies, ma’am,” she imagined the laugh in his eyes at such formality, “for the postponement of our outing. Even had you not been too fatigued for it, I must have remained close to Jack until his improvement was certain. Tomorrow I must go down to Mount Edgcumbe to inform the earl of what is toward. I beg your indulgence for the day after, which shall not pass without a visit to Cotehele Mill.

“Wynn is not the only person who has my heartfelt gratitude, together with my undying admiration for her courage.

In haste, Deanbridge.”

Perhaps there was good reason to press it to her heart after all. She folded it and put it under her pillow, and fell asleep with her hand upon it.

Julia was once more up betimes. They went down to breakfast together and were arguing the relative merits of tea and chocolate as a morning drink when Sir Tristram came in.

“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “You may think yourselves early risers, but I have been before you. Since I shall not be here today, I have got you a picnic packed up already, and taken it down to the arbour by the fish pond.”

Julia clapped her hands in delight, while Octavia smiled at his ingenuity. Undoubtedly a goodly portion of the hamper’s contents had already found its way to the cave.

“Where are you going?” asked Julia. “I hope you will not be gone for long?”

“I have business with Lord Edgcumbe. I shall return late tonight.”

“Good. We shall miss you, shall we not, Tavy?”

Sir Tristram looked surprised at her words. Octavia saw that he still did not realise that Julia simply enjoyed company, even when her James was with her, and not merely to avoid political lectures.

Miss Crosby came in and took a seat beside Julia, whose attention she engaged with compliments about her fine suitor, accompanied by significant glances at the baronet.

Julia answered her politely, while her suitor seized the opportunity for a quick word with Octavia.

“Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed. After all, I have been waiting for several weeks now! You have seen our friend this morning? How does he go on?”

“Still improving. I hope to arrange his future today. I beg your pardon, ma’am?” He turned to Miss Crosby. “But certainly Miss Langston’s gown becomes her admirably. However, Miss Langston would be beautiful in rags. Her beauty is of the type that needs no adornment."

Julia sparkled at him. “Pray do not tell Papa such a thing!” she exclaimed. “How shocking if he were to take your words seriously. Now if you will excuse us, ma’am, Octavia and I are eager to take the air while it is fine. Do not miss the tide tonight, Sir Tristram. I look to see you at breakfast tomorrow."

They walked down through the passage into the lower garden, and went to the bower to check on their picnic.

“Shall we take it with us?” asked Octavia doubtfully. “There are two handles, I expect we might manage.”

“No, James shall come up here with us. I’m sure all the servants know he is here, and neither Mama nor Miss Crosby ever stirs from the house. What an odious woman she is! Always disparaging you and toadeating me.”