by Dilly Court
‘Don’t make a sound.’ A hand clamped over her mouth and she was pinned to the ground by a warm body. His face was close to hers and he smelled of the sea. ‘I’ll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream.’
She nodded vigorously.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Keep very still or they’ll see us.’
Rosalind had little option but she nodded again, sensing that she was not in any danger from the boy, who had appeared as if from nowhere. She could feel a trickle of warm blood running down her cheek from a cut on her head. Her rescuer edged further into the shadows, dragging her with him, and she looked up, following his gaze as he watched the men push the boat back into the foaming waves and leap on board. More shots were fired, but they missed their mark, and Rosalind found herself hoping that the smugglers would get away. The lights had been extinguished in the cave and no doubt those who had been waiting to collect the contraband would be well on their way to safety. Rosalind knew all the cliff paths and the exploits of the smugglers were legendary. Tales of their brushes with the law circulated from below stairs to the Carey family who had owned Rockwood Castle since the eleventh century. Hester, who had been part of the household ever since Rosalind could remember, had regaled them with tales of the derring-do of the free traders, and their brushes with the preventive men. Bertie and Walter had listened avidly as had Rosalind, although Patricia, being four years her junior, had usually been tucked up in bed with Raggy her beloved rag doll.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the boy’s voice sounded anxious.
Rosalind blinked and rubbed her eyes. She had drifted off into a daydream and her head ached, but now she was back to reality. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She moved away from him so that she could look up and study his face. The moon had come out from hiding and although they were still in the protective shadow of the cliffs, she could make out his features and she was not afraid. ‘Who are you? Why did they row away and leave you here?’
‘I’m just a boy, you don’t need to know more. What’s your name and why were you out on your own at this time of night?’
‘I’ll be in trouble if they discover I’m not in bed.’
‘Do you live in the village?’
‘Not exactly. Where are you from? You sound different to the people in Rockwood.’
He chuckled. ‘I’m not from here. I can’t tell you more, little maid. I need to get away from here before I’m caught.’
‘How will you do that without a boat?’
‘I’ll walk if I have to.’
‘Are you a smuggler?’
‘You don’t need to know anything about me, maid.’
‘I don’t care anyway.’ Rosalind scrambled to her feet, but she swayed as she tried to get her balance and the boy leapt up to catch her.
‘I’d best get you home. Do you live far from here?’
‘No, not really, but the preventive men might be waiting at the top of the cliffs.’
‘They’ll be after those who were in the cave. Come on. You can lean on me.’
They made their way up the cliff, using a path that Rosalind and her brothers had created by scrambling down to the beach without being spotted by the gamekeeper or any of the outside staff. When they reached the top Rosalind pointed to the dark shape of the castle that owned the landscape with its imposing presence.
‘That’s where I live, boy.’
‘Then we’d best get you home before you’re missed.’
They walked on in silence. Rosalind knew from experience that sounds seemed to carry more at night, and if Abe Coaker, the gamekeeper found them he would feel bound to tell Hester. It would be preferable to be scolded by Mama than by Hester, especially if she brought slipper into action. Hester was loving and gentle, but when pushed to the limits she invoked “slipper” – an old leather slipper worn to a shine by its contact first with Bertie’s bottom, then Walter’s, and on rare occasions Rosalind had felt its sting. Patsy, of course, was too young and too easily moved to tears to need such chastisement.
‘Does your mother work at the castle?’
Rosalind stopped at the postern gate and opened it carefully, mindful of the squeal of its hinges if pushed too hard. ‘Mama doesn’t work, but she used to sing in opera.’
‘That sounds very grand.’
‘I’ve never thought about it.’ Rosalind laid her finger to her lips. ‘We have to be very quiet or the dogs will hear us and then there’ll be trouble. Follow me, boy. Don’t say a word.’
‘I can’t come in with you, maid. I have to start walking.’
‘You’re clothes are wet – you’ll catch your death of cold, so you must come in and get dry.’
‘All right.’
‘We’ll go in through the kitchen. Bertie will have left the door unlocked. Just don’t tread on the boot boy – he sleeps in the hall.’
Rosalind led the way across a cobbled courtyard to the rear of the castle, and as she had predicted the door to the kitchen had been left ajar. The vast kitchen, where little had changed over the centuries apart from the addition of a cast-iron range, was illuminated by the glow from the fire. Rosalind tiptoed across the flagstone floor and motioned her new friend to sit down while she cut bread from a loaf she found in the larder and buttered each slice, adding a spoonful of jam, which she spread lavishly. She watched the boy devour the food in seconds, and she cut her piece in half and gave it to him. She poured milk from a pitcher into two cups and handed him one.
He drank thirstily and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Oughtn’t you to tidy up?’
Rosalind shrugged. ‘The scullery maid will do it when she gets up. It’s her job. You’d better sleep down here. It’s quite warm in the kitchen, just make sure you’re gone before she starts work.’
‘Thank you, maid. Just tell me one thing.’
Rosalind put her head on one side, eyeing him curiously. Now she could see him more clearly she liked the look of the boy from the boat. He was probably a bit older than Bertie and he was tall for his age, with a mop of dark hair that curled slightly round the back of his head. What struck her most were his eyes, which were slightly almond-shaped, large and a mysterious shade halfway between green and brown with tiny gold flecks. She decided that she liked him. ‘What do you want to know, boy?’
‘Will you tell me your name, so that I can remember the little girl on the beach?’
Rosalind smiled. ‘My friends call me Rosie. Goodnight, boy.’
‘Not so fast, Miss Rosalind.’
Rosalind found her way barred by the ample figure of Hester. ‘What’s going on, and who is this?’ Hester grabbed the boy by the collar as he attempted to escape.
‘Boy brought me home, Hester. Don’t scold him. I was on the beach and the preventive men were shooting smugglers. I fell and boy saved me.’
Hester released him. ‘What were you doing on the beach in the middle of the night, Miss Rosalind? You’re bleeding. Sit down and I’ll take a look.’
‘I’ll go, miss,’ Boy said hastily.
‘You’re not local. I haven’t seen you before. You’re not going anywhere, my lad. It’s not safe with them smugglers roaming the cliffs.’
‘I can take care of myself, miss.’
‘You’ll sleep here tonight, boy. You can leave in the morning when it’s safe to do so.’ Hester attended to Rosalind’s abrasions. ‘Now, off you go to bed. I’ll look after your young friend.’
With a backwards glance at the boy who had come to her aid, Rosalind left the warmth of the kitchen and made her way through the dark corridors to the grand entrance hall. The sudden booming single chime from the grandfather clock, which stood next to one of many suits of ancient armour made Rosalind jump. A shaft of moonlight filtered through an oriel window guiding her up the sweeping oak staircase with its carved balusters, and banister rail worn to a silky patina by centuries of use. Her room, which she shared with five-year-old Patricia, w
as in the north-east tower, while Bertie and seven-year old Walter slept in the room a little further along the landing. Their old nursery, on the floor above, was now converted to a schoolroom, where Miss Brailsford tried hard to instil some knowledge into their heads. Of all the children only Walter showed any real interest in learning, while Bertie wanted to be out of doors, climbing trees, diving from the cliffs at high tide, or riding the pony their father had bought him for his eleventh birthday. Rosalind slipped off her damp clothes and left them in a pile on the floor for the maid to retrieve and take to the laundry room next morning. She put on her nightgown and climbed into bed, snuggling down beneath the down-filled coverlet.
She awakened early and she dressed hurriedly, glancing every now and then at her sister, but Patricia was still sleeping soundly with Raggy clutched in her arms. Her pretty face had not lost its baby chubbiness and her golden hair was tumbled around her head like a halo. Her eyelashes for golden crescents on her pink cheeks, but her angelic looks belied a strong will and a determination to make everyone in the household bow to her wishes. Rosalind loved Patsy dearly, but sometimes she felt she could strangle her little sister. Then, of course, she was contrite and felt guilty for her intolerance – after all, Patsy was only little – she would soon grow up and then she would be a good companion.
Rosalind let herself out of the sunny tower room and made her way down the spiral staircase to the wide landing where the rest of the bedchambers were situated. There was a priest’s hole situated at the side of the back stairs, and there were numerous secret passages with doors leading into the main rooms, which were used by the servants so that they did not disturb the family or guests. Rosalind wanted to check that the boy had left and she used the servants’ staircase to reach the kitchen. Mattie, the young scullery maid, was busy scrubbing the pine table. She stood to attention at the sight of Rosalind, averting her eyes hastily.
‘Good morning, Mattie,’ Rosalind said, smiling. It was only a few weeks ago that she had played hide and seek with Mattie and other children from Rockwood village. The older boys had constructed a tree house in an ancient oak in the woods, designed by Cedric Cottingham, the squire’s son, although it had been Bertie’s idea originally. He had taken over from Ceddie and had organised the process with a degree of command that Rosalind admired. Mattie’s father was a fisherman and at the age of ten she was the eldest of six children. She had started working at the castle just a month ago, and Rosalind could only hope that Cook did not work her too hard.
‘Good morning, Miss Rosalind.’ Mattie bobbed a curtsey.
‘Are you settling in well, Mattie?’
‘Yes, miss. Thank you.’
Rosalind eyed the sticky patches where she had spilled some of the jam the previous evening. ‘I’m afraid I made a mess on the table, Mattie. I came down in the night to get something to eat because I was hungry.’
‘Yes, miss. I’ll clear it up before Cook gets here.’
‘You get up very early,’ Rosalind said cautiously. She could not ask outright if the boy had been here when Mattie came down to start her daily chores.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Well, I mustn’t disturb you, Mattie. I’m going for a walk but I’ll be back soon. No need to tell Hester that I was here. It’s our secret.’ Rosalind left the kitchen before Mattie had a chance to answer and she stepped out into the courtyard. The sun was shining and it was warm, even this early in the morning. She had no need for a bonnet or shawl and she stepped out briskly, heading for the clifftops. Across the fields she could see Farmer Greep herding his cows towards the milking parlour, and a plume of smoke rose from Abe Coaker’s cottage on the edge of the copse. When she reached the top of the cliffs she shielded her eyes against the sunlight bouncing off the water, but the only vessels she could see were fishing boats. She could only hope that the mysterious boy had been rescued by the smugglers and that he was on his way home, wherever that might be. The waves had washed away any signs of a boat being dragged onto the shore and last night’s escapade might never have happened. It could have been a dream, but the boy was real enough. He had come into her life and now he was gone forever.
Look out for Dilly’s spellbinding six-part new series …
The Rockwood Chronicles
Beginning June 2021, with Fortune’s Daughter.
Available to pre-order now!
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About the Author
Dilly Court is the No.1 Sunday Times bestselling author of over thirty-five novels. She grew up in North East London and began her career in television, writing scripts for commercials. She is married with two grown-up children, four grandchildren and two beautiful great-grandchildren. Dilly now lives in Dorset on the Jurassic Coast with her husband.
To find out more about Dilly, please visit her website and her Facebook page:
www.dillycourt.com
/DillyCourtAuthor
Also by Dilly Court
Mermaids Singing
The Dollmaker’s Daughters
Tilly True
The Best of Sisters
The Cockney Sparrow
A Mother’s Courage
The Constant Heart
A Mother’s Promise
The Cockney Angel
A Mother’s Wish
The Ragged Heiress
A Mother’s Secret
Cinderella Sister
A Mother’s Trust
The Lady’s Maid
The Best of Daughters
The Workhouse Girl
A Loving Family
The Beggar Maid
A Place Called Home
The Orphan’s Dream
Ragged Rose
The Swan Maid
The Christmas Card
The Button Box
The Mistletoe Seller
Nettie’s Secret
Rag-and-Bone Christmas
The River Maid series
The River Maid
The Summer Maiden
The Christmas Rose
The Village Secrets trilogy
The Christmas Wedding
A Village Scandal
The Country Bride
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