‘I was going for a walk and I got caught by the storm.’ She was unhappily aware of the way the thin material of her dress was clinging to her, making her feel vulnerable and almost naked under his glare.
‘You were going for a walk!’ He sounded incredulous. ‘Another of your sudden whims, no doubt – this insatiable desire for your own company.’ He sounded furiously angry.
‘That’s right.’ She was defiant. ‘As far as I know there is no law against it, sir, as there undoubtedly is against laying violent hands on someone as you have!’ She steadied her voice with difficulty, fighting off sudden stupid tears of shock. How dare he! He was accusing her, trying to make her feel guilty, when she had simply been walking alone, minding her own business, in the churchyard of her father’s church.
She was praying that the men in the castle would remain silent up there above them as she straightened her shoulders and looked as imperiously as she could at her captor. Behind them another cloud shrouded the moon. ‘What exactly are you doing here, Mr Dawson?’ She tried to see his face and failed. All she could see was the faint gleam of his eyes.
‘That’s my business.’
Caroline retreated a couple of steps and felt her shoes sink into the leaf mould at the side of the path. She could feel her small store of courage evaporating fast. ‘In that case, there seems no further reason for me to stay here in the wet,’ she said defiantly, keeping her voice as steady as she could. ‘I think I should like to go home now.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ His voice was strangely soft. ‘But first I think we have to find out just what you’ve seen on this midnight walk of yours.’
‘I’ve seen nothing.’ She had spoken too quickly, she knew it, and her voice was too high.
‘Nothing?’
‘It’s dark. I was getting some air and when the storm came I sheltered beneath the lychgate –’ She broke off. In the silence of the churchyard behind them she heard clearly the sound of light, running footsteps. Her heart almost stopped beating with fear. Somehow she had to distract him; somehow she had to get him away.
‘Please, will you take me home?’ Until she spoke she didn’t realise that there would be so much fear in her voice. She put her hand out and felt her fingers touch the rough linen of his shirt. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, she realised suddenly. Behind them the footsteps drew closer.
‘Please –’
But he had heard them. He caught her wrist and pulled her out of the streaming moonlight into the deep shadows once more. ‘Don’t make a sound.’
‘But –’
‘Quiet, I said!’ His fingers bit into her wrist. Near them the footsteps drew to a halt and they could hear someone breathing heavily. Then, clear in the silence of the night, came a low cautious whistle.
Swearing under his breath Charles Dawson stepped out into the moonlit churchyard, dragging Caroline with him.
Jake Forrester stood clearly visible in the pale light.
‘I thought you’d gone, girl.’ He was staring beyond Charles towards her.
‘You knew she was here?’ Charles’s voice was hard-edged.
Caroline looked from one man to the other uncomprehendingly.
‘She was up at the castle, but I reckoned she could hold her tongue –’
‘Hold her tongue?’ Charles snapped. ‘She had arranged to meet the patrol! If I hadn’t stopped her she would have sent them straight up to take you all where you stood.’
‘No! That’s not true,’ Caroline cried. ‘I didn’t know they were coming – I didn’t know who they were.’ She swung round to face Charles. ‘I don’t understand any of this. What are you doing here?’ With dawning comprehension a slow feeling of dread was beginning to creep over her. Feebly she tried to pull her wrist free of his grasp.
He was looking at her thoughtfully.
‘Whoever it was who rode by just now, I wasn’t going to meet them, I swear it,’ she cried again. ‘You must believe me, I didn’t know they were coming. And even if I did I would not have betrayed –’ She was going to say, ‘you.’ She fell silent, trying to come to terms with what was happening. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Charles Dawson, the suave, tight-lipped son of the bishop of Larchester, was in league with the smugglers. It was impossible. But his next words confirmed that that was indeed exactly what he was.
‘Come on.’ He addressed Jake. ‘Back to the other men. The roads are alive with soldiers tonight. We must disperse quickly.’ Already he was striding back towards the castle, dragging her with him.
‘No.’ Caroline pulled away from him. ‘Please, let me go home.’
The two men looked at her. ‘She’ll not talk, sir,’ Jake said quietly.
Charles looked down at her, his face hard. ‘There is too much at stake.’
‘There is nothing at stake, sir!’ Caroline retorted, goaded into fury by his expression. ‘I have given my word. That should be enough for you. I shall not betray you. Whatever your motives are in doing this it is not my concern. Now, please let me go!’ She wrenched her wrist free of his grasp.
He frowned. ‘Men’s lives are at risk …’
‘I am well aware of that, Mr Dawson,’ she snapped. ‘I can guess what you were doing, though why you should be involved in this I cannot even begin to imagine –’
‘Then don’t,’ he said curtly. He hesitated for a moment then he stepped away from her. ‘Go, then, Miss Hayward. Go back to your bed. But I shall expect you to keep silence. If you don’t …’
‘If I don’t?’ His threatening tone enraged her.
‘If you don’t it will not only be these men and myself who suffer,’ he replied softly. ‘Because you and your father will find yourselves implicated as well.’
‘What do you mean?’ she flared. ‘That’s not possible. We had nothing to do with any of this!’
He smiled. ‘You need find out, Miss Hayward, only if you betray us.’ He turned away and began walking fast through the churchyard towards the gate. Jake hesitated for a moment, then he followed him.
Caroline closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her knees felt shaky and her mouth was dry with fear as she retraced her steps towards the Rectory. She was beginning to shiver. Her soaking dress clung to her and her shoes squelched uncomfortably in the mud. Softly she opened the gate and slipped into the garden. Avoiding the raked gravel of the driveway she tiptoed across the wet grass and round to the back of the house. The French window still stood slightly ajar. With relief she pulled it open and slipped through the curtains.
The candelabra on the sideboard had been fitted with fresh candles. Her father was sitting at the head of the table, swathed in his dressing gown. His Bible lay open on the table before him, the pages golden in the flickering candlelight.
‘I have been waiting for you.’ His eyes travelled up her wet form and she saw the lines on his brow deepen. ‘I am sure you have an explanation for your absence.’ He got up heavily and walking past her, he reached up to shoot the bolts on the windows. He closed the heavy curtains then he turned to face her once more. ‘I am waiting.’
Caroline shrugged. ‘I went for a walk in the gardens, Papa. When the storm came I thought I would shelter rather than try and run back.’
‘Your shelter was obviously sadly inadequate.’ He was staring down at the carpet where the sodden hem of her dress was seeping into a puddle round her feet.
‘The rain was very heavy.’
He sighed. ‘Indeed it was. Would it be too much to wonder why you felt the need to walk in the garden in the early hours of the morning just as a storm was breaking?’
‘I had a headache, Papa, and I couldn’t sleep. I thought the air might help it.’
‘And did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I suggest that you go back to bed before you catch cold.’ He blew the candles out one by one, leaving a single flame burning in the candlestick by the door. ‘We will talk more of this tomorrow. I do not like the thought of my daughter wandering alo
ne, even in the gardens, at night. It is most unseemly.’
‘I am sorry, Papa.’ Gritting her teeth, she lowered her eyes. ‘But there seemed nothing wrong in it, to me –’
There was mud all over her skirt – distinctive, chalky mud from the hillside, mud which could not possibly have come from the manicured beds and lawns of the Rectory garden. With a quick glance at her father Caroline clutched at the sodden green silk, trying to hide the tell-tale smears.
‘Forgive me, but I am very cold. I think I shall do as you say, and go to bed.’
‘Would you like a glass of ratafia to warm you?’ As she reached the door, he stopped her, his voice unexpectedly gentle.
She shook her head. ‘Thank you, no, Papa.’ She took the candle from him and turned away.
As she fled up the stairs, the shadows leaping round her, she was uncomfortably aware of his eyes following her in the soft lamplight from the table in the hall, and of the streaks of dirt left by her swirling skirts.
There were dark rings under her eyes when she confronted her father over the breakfast table next morning. Her hair was tightly knotted at the back of her neck, her dress neat and irreproachable.
‘I have not learned the Bible passage, Papa.’ She met his eyes defiantly. ‘There has not been time.’ She held her breath, waiting for the outburst she knew would come, but to her surprise her father merely shook his head. ‘Tonight, then, tonight. You are none the worse for your soaking?’
‘None the worse, thank you, Papa.’
Her father was helping himself from a dish of eggs beneath one of the silver covers on the sideboard. ‘I thank the Lord you were not tempted to stray beyond the garden last night,’ he went on, not turning. ‘The smugglers were out. My verger was here at eight. He said the excise men failed to catch them.’ He sighed as he sat down. ‘These rogues must be caught. They killed a man down on the foreshore last night.’
‘No!’ Caroline’s distraught cry made him look up.
He frowned. ‘I am afraid so. But don’t distress yourself. They will be caught.’
All night her brain had been whirling with the events at the castle and in the churchyard. Each time she had closed her eyes she had seen Charles Dawson’s tall figure – wet through, wild, dressed in shirt and breeches, his hair tousled by the storm, his eyes alight with anger. And her body had remembered the hard touch of his fingers with a strangely disturbing glow of shame.
She shivered imperceptibly again now at the thought.
‘Is it known where they come from?’ she asked cautiously as she sat down.
‘Local,’ he replied. ‘It would surprise me if some of them didn’t come from this village. The rogues! They deserve to hang!’ He frowned at his daughter. ‘Do you not wish to eat?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry, Papa.’
‘I trust you are not sickening for something. Take some hot chocolate at least. I am going into Larchester later this morning to consult with my fellow magistrates. There must be something more we can do to catch these men. It is a scandal that they are still free!’
Caroline watched her father ride away an hour later with mixed feelings. Half of her was relieved that he was so distracted by his anger against the smugglers that he had forgotten his indignation at her; the other half was eaten up with anxiety over what was to happen about the smugglers. How could Charles Dawson be involved with them? How could he, a man of God, be a thief and a murderer?
Miserably she paced the floor of the morning room, oblivious to the beauty of the day outside. Still his image rose before her eyes. The anger and hardness in the man, his determination, his ruthlessness. If Jake had not been there to restrain him, what would he have done to her? Her mind shied away from the answer to that question. But the truth remained. He or his men had killed that night. And if they had killed once, why should they not have killed again?
Suddenly making up her mind she ran for her bonnet and taking her basket, loaded with jars and packets, on her arm she let herself out of the Rectory. The lane was already drying in the hot sun, the muddy ruts hardening beneath chalky crusts as the hedgerows steamed, glittering with raindrops.
Jake Forrester’s cottage was at the far end of the village, a tiny run-down hovel. She hesitated only a second before she knocked at the door. It was several moments before it opened.
Mrs Forrester peered out, blinking in the sunlight. She was a thin, stooped young woman, her heavily pregnant figure obvious beneath her threadbare gown and flimsy shawl. ‘Why, Miss Hayward!’
‘How are you, Susan?’ Caroline groped in her basket for her jars of calves’ foot jelly, her honey and her loaves of fresh baked bread from Polly’s oven. ‘I thought I would come and see how you are. Is your cough still bad?’ She followed a flustered Susan Forrester into the cottage and peered round the small dark room. It was empty. She could feel the chill striking off the walls. ‘How is your husband, Susan? Is he here?’
Susan shrugged. ‘Jake’s all right, Miss. He’s gone over the hills today and tomorrow to help with some droving.’ She sat down heavily. ‘I don’t like him going so far and leaving me so long, but we need the extra, with another baby on the way.’
Another baby. Caroline had noticed the empty cradle by the window. Three babies had been born in this house in the last three years and all had been dead within six months. She felt a clutch of pity at her heart. ‘He’s a good man, your Jake.’
‘Aye.’ The woman’s thin face broke into a smile. Then as swiftly as it came it vanished and Caroline saw fear and worry in the woman’s eyes.
‘What is it, Susan?’
‘Nothing.’ She made a big effort to smile again. ‘I worry about the baby.’
‘It will be all right this time, Susan. There’s been no disease in the village this summer –’
‘Not yet!’ Susan could not keep the bitterness from her voice. ‘Squire Randall said he’d improve the cottages, but he hasn’t done it. He said he’d see we’d have the thatch patched; look at the damp in here after last night’s rain.’ She was racked with coughing again as she pointed to the glistening marks on the mud walls. ‘And new wood for the door. They even talked about some kind of drains in the village once, but nothing ever came of it. Dr Styles says we’ll never be free of the fever until they sort the drains.’
Caroline bit her lip. ‘I’ll talk to Papa again. I’m sure Mr Randall will listen to him.’
‘He’ll listen. And he’ll promise. He’ll promise the world. But he’ll do nothing.’ Susan put her hand to her belly defensively. ‘You see if I’m not right. If anything’s to be done it must be done by ourselves. My Jake’s promised he’ll do the roof, somehow. He’s got some pennies saved, he reckons.’ She smiled tolerantly, obviously not really believing it. ‘Maybe that’ll do to keep the place water tight this winter and keep the baby warm.’
Caroline frowned. ‘I’ll do all I can. I promise.’
‘I know you will try.’ Susan smiled wearily. ‘You’ve been good to me.’
But not good enough. Caroline frowned as she walked slowly away from the damp cottage, still cold, even on such a warm day. It was not right that women such as Susan Forrester, who worked so hard and asked so little in return, should suffer so in the loss of her babies. Did Susan know Jake had turned to smuggling? She thought not. And could she really blame him for it, if it brought some money into that penniless household? Wouldn’t she have done the same thing in his shoes?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hooves in the village street and she looked up to see Marianne Rixby and her brother, Stephen, trotting towards her. They drew to a halt beside her. Stephen raised his hat. ‘It’s a very hot day to be walking, Miss Caroline.’
Caroline smiled. ‘I wasn’t going far.’ She eyed Marianne cautiously. The girl’s riding habit looked cool and elegant, her hat on her bright curls throwing a delicate shade across her face. And she couldn’t help making a comparison between this spoiled, cosseted young woman with her rich, el
egant clothes and slim, daintily gloved hands and Susan in her threadbare home-spun. It was an uncomfortable thought.
She bit back a wry smile. What would Marianne think if she knew her precious Charles was out at midnight after the dinner party last night with a gang of smugglers; what would she say if she knew that, for a moment or two, admittedly in anger, he had been holding Caroline pressed close to his chest!
At the thought she felt the heat rise again in her cheeks. She put her hand to her face. ‘Perhaps I should go back to the Rectory. I hope we shall see you again soon.’
‘Indeed you shall.’ Marianne simpered prettily. ‘Charles has asked to speak to Papa this evening. When he has done so and we announce our engagement we shall have a party, and you shall be invited, dear Caro.’
Dear Caro! Caro! Caroline seethed as she walked on her way. Marianne had never, ever, called her that before. She swung her empty basket onto her other arm. No doubt Marianne would be less happy when she had sampled Mr Charles Dawson’s vicious temper and found out what a hypocrite and a liar he really was!
The rector returned in time for luncheon very pleased with himself. ‘Someone on the quay has talked. We know who their ringleader is!’
‘You know?’ Caroline stared at him, white-faced.
He nodded smugly. ‘Not only do we know, but we know they’ve planned another landing tonight. The devils! They thought that would fool us – going out two nights running. How wrong they are! We’ll catch them red-handed and we’ll hang every one of them.’
‘Papa –’
‘No, Caroline. I know how soft your heart is. But they must be punished.’ He turned as Polly knocked on the door to announce the meal. ‘Come, my dear, let us eat, then you can learn your Bible passages this afternoon while you rest.’
He couldn’t know about Charles. If he had learned that a man of the cloth, and the bishop’s son, was involved in the smuggling surely he would not be so calm? Surely he could not keep something as terrible and shocking as that to himself? She glanced at him warily. He couldn’t know the truth. He couldn’t.
Later, in her room, Caroline stood looking out of the window at the garden. The heat of the afternoon lay like a gauze curtain on the countryside, making it shimmer like gossamer. Her Bible lay open near her on her desk but she had not looked at it.
Distant Voices Page 11