“Quiet!” Her French was as fluent as his. “You are safe … for the time being.”
“But—you are French? It was all a nightmare then? Where am I?” Feverishly now.
“In England. Not a nightmare, but—you are safe, if you will do as you are bid.”
“Of course. For such an angel … an angel in a velvet gown … not a nightmare. A dream of happiness …” His eyes flickered shut again and she smiled sardonically to herself: trust a Frenchman to come up with a compliment. And how remarkably unlike her cousin Ross. Once again that phrase of his echoed in her mind: “Puts off our proposals till the morning.” No time to be thinking of that now. They would be lucky if they were not all in Dover Castle by morning.
Several times while she was dressing the Frenchman’s wound, she had paused to listen anxiously at the door. Put out the light, Ross had said. Impossible, with the candle lit, to be sure that there was no chink in the apparently windowless room that would betray a light to a search party. And the cloisters so deadened sound that she might well not hear them until they actually emerged from the chapel door. Better safe than sorry. She fetched the tinderbox from its place over the door, put it beside the candle on the table, drew the chair up to it and blew out the candle.
The Frenchman did not stir, but she thought he was sleeping now rather than unconscious; his breathing certainly sounded easier. Anyway, there was nothing more she could do for him, nothing at all to do but think. And not pleasant thoughts either. Was she mad to have obeyed Ross? What was she doing here, hiding a Frenchman, an enemy? Well—she paused at the thought—whose enemy? And, in retrospect, she heard her own voice, over dinner, talking to Richard. Nothing to choose between French and English? Did she really believe that? Of course not—certainly not now, not after living here, understanding what Bonaparte’s conquest of Europe really meant. A pity she had said it, but Richard’s half truths had infuriated her beyond caution.
Caution. It brought her back to the present. What was she involved in now? What was Ross doing? Was there something worse than smuggling? It almost seemed so, and yet she could not make herself believe it. For the moment, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If his explanations, when he returned, were not satisfactory, there would still be time to—to do what? Impossible to imagine betraying him. She had chosen her side, that first night on the marsh; too late now to change. But one thing was certain: Ross would have some explaining to do when he came back; and this time she meant to have her questions answered. There would be no putting her off with that easy charm of his.
She stood up, quiet in the darkness. What had she heard? The wind? Imagination? No, now she heard it again, the tramp of feet, voices.… She moved over to stand close beside the Frenchman. Keep him quiet, Ross had said, at all costs. And she had understood him. She knew a woman who had smothered her own child rather than let its crying betray her hiding place to the Indians. Well, at least the Frenchman was a stranger. If only she had had the forethought to gag him, instead of sitting dreaming.… Do it now? No, he might wake and struggle. Best chance his continuing to sleep.
The voices were nearer now. She wished she dared leave him and listen at the door, but she must not. As best she could judge, the party had just entered the cloisters from the chapel door. She could hear the tramp of booted feet, an unintelligible order, and then, much nearer, Ross’s voice. “Never believed it haunted myself, but, dangerous, yes. That’s why we don’t use it.”
“And these doorways?” The strange voice sounded immediately outside and she could see light glancing through crannies in the stonework high up toward the ceiling of the room. Just as well she had put out the candle; though, of course, since they carried lanterns they would probably not have noticed its feeble light.
Ross’s voice sounded alarmingly near. “Bricked up behind,” he said. “See, it won’t move.” A hearty shove on the locked door proved his point.
“Safer than to leave it like the other one,” said the stranger. So doubtless Ross had already showed him the room on the opposite corner. Had he contrived to arrange a rock fall as he had done for her? Very likely. One should not, it was clear, underestimate Ross.
“And the other corner?” The voice was farther away now and she allowed herself a soundless sigh of relief.
“Bricked up as well.” Ross, too, had moved away.
“It’s a strange place. No wonder there are rumors.… But, just the same, it would make an excellent hiding place. You are sure no one could have got in without passing through the house?”
“Of course. The entrance we used is the only one. The gates to the stable yard are always locked at night. Impossible to reach it save through the house.”
“Yes.” Thoughtfully. And then, on a note of sudden decision, “One thing we can do, just to make sure. Douse those lights, men! And—silence!”
The streaks of light vanished. It was eerily quiet in the cloisters and Christina found herself holding her breath, as if even its soft whisper might betray her. And as she did so, she realized that the Frenchman on the bed was doing the same thing; he must have been awake all the time. Her hand went out to touch his sound shoulder in a gesture at once of warning and of reassurance. The silence stretched out endlessly; then, at last, came a sharp order and the crash of spurred and booted feet on the paving stones of the cloisters. They were going away.… Were they?
Suddenly, the stranger spoke just outside the door again. “If I were you, sir, I’d be inclined to have the whole place closed off. It’s hardly safe as it is.”
“That’s why I have given strict orders that no one is to come here. Not that the servants are much inclined to, being convinced that it is haunted. Groans and gibberings are the least of what they have heard. All nonsense, of course. Well, what more can I do for you? A drink, at least, before you go? It’s cold work out on the marshes at night.”
“I thank you, no. We must not linger. We have lost enough time as it is. I’ll have something to say to Mrs. Emeret in the morning.”
Mrs. Emeret! A cold prickling ran down Christina’s spine.
But Ross’s voice was casual as ever. “Poor Mrs. Emeret, do not be too hard on her, Lieutenant. One must make allowances for the spite of a servant dismissed for incompetence. And, after all, her information paid off to a certain extent. Your men caught the smuggling vagabonds in the act, you say.”
“But what’s the good of that, since they fought their way out and got away? If I had only sent a larger force—but, to tell truth, I thought, like you, that it was most likely malice and moonshine. We all know how active you are with the Volunteers, sir. It’s not likely anyone would dare use the Grange for smuggling, but you can see what an ideal position it has. Well, I must not be keeping you any longer from your bed. My one consolation is that my men are convinced they wounded one of the miscreants, and pretty sharply, too. They saw him being carried off.… Well, he’ll have a hard job to hide himself, if, as he’s sure to be, he’s a local man. And, once we’ve got him, never fear, we’ll make him tell us the names of his friends.”
“I’m sure you will.” A leisurely yawn. “But let me give you something to warm you before you go. We’ve no housekeeper, and my cousin, who looks after us, is in bed long since, but I’m sure I could find something for you and your men.”
“No, thank you again. We must be on our way. There’ll be the devil to pay in the morning over this night’s work.” His voice dwindled as he spoke, as if he was leading the way out of the cloisters.
Once again Christina’s hand touched the Frenchman’s shoulder in silent warning. One could not be sure.… But it certainly sounded as if they were going. And, as they went, she could not help a pang of sympathy for the lieutenant. And—how had Ross felt while he made such a fool of him? Unfair that Ross’s captaincy in the Volunteers should have given him such an advantage.
“Mademoiselle!” A breathless whisper from the bed. “Are they really gone?”
“I think so.” She moved sil
ently back to take his wrist in her cold hand. The pulse was racing. His forehead, when she felt it, was at once hot and clammy. “Try and rest,” she whispered. “Anyway, we had best not talk.”
“No. But—God bless you, mademoiselle.”
She thought he fell into a restless sleep. There was nothing to do but sit on the hard chair, rest her elbows on the table and castigate herself for the fool she was. The silence in the cloisters was absolute. Once, a bat shrieked, and she jumped; once the Frenchman turned over and began an agitated muttering in his sleep and she moved over to put a soothing hand on his brow and murmur, in French, a reassurance that she did not believe. Hours seemed to have passed since the soldiers marched away. What could Ross be doing? Surely he would not leave her here all night? Surely he knew that now, at last, he must explain?
Perhaps he was thinking what lies to tell her. And would she believe him, despite her common sense? Intolerably, desperately, she found herself longing for America, for home, where things were simple, where danger and safety alike were straightforward, recognizable. What was she doing here, in a country she did not understand, among people she could not trust?
Her head went up. Yes, it was the noise of quiet footsteps in the cloister; then she heard the key fitted in the lock. “All’s well.” Ross’s voice. “It’s I.”
“All’s well!” She managed a note of mockery. “I’m delighted you think so.”
“In the dark still?” He put down the lantern he carried and turned to look at the Frenchman. “He gave you no trouble?”
“The mildest of men. But … ill, Ross. What are we going to do for him?” And, on the words, was angry with herself for this assumption that she was on his side. Before she did anything more, he must explain.
“You seem to have bandaged him very competently. He should do till morning.”
“I’ve done my best. But he’s feverish already. He should have a doctor.”
“Impossible.” The word was bleak in the little room. “I hope he lives, but if he dies, he dies a martyr …”
“A martyr? Ross, you must explain. I have gone with you, blindfolded and against my better judgment so far, but I can tell you it’s gone against the grain with me. It was touch and go whether I called out when you were bamboozling that poor young lieutenant out there.”
“You heard it all?” He sounded merely amused. “I was afraid you must. Is it not a fortunate thing that I have more confidence in you than you have in yourself, Chris? I never thought for a moment you would betray me.” And then, unaware of how he had infuriated her, he went on. “We are partners, you and I. It was settled the first time we met. I wish you were a man. You showed a man’s courage then—and again tonight. I never had a brother”—he paused oddly for a moment—“never could feel even as a cousin should toward poor flimsy Richard—but you, why, with you at my side I could do anything. You’re a friend, Chris. Don’t tease me with suggesting I can’t trust you. I know it’s nonsense. I’d trust you with my life … well, in a manner of speaking, I have.”
“Manner of speaking!” She picked up the part of his speech that was easiest to answer. “I don’t think there’s much doubt of what would have happened to you if I had thought fit to scream when that poor young man was outside.”
“It would have been monstrous inconvenient, of course, but, no, Chris, it would not have cost me my life. I was afraid I would have to explain to you. Besides, I need a new ally. Parkes is getting too old. Imagine his going to bed before Richard, and letting him lock the back door against me. But, come, it’s time we were going.”
“Going? But we can’t leave this poor man here alone.”
“Not ‘can’t,’ must. We must both be on parade in the morning when the story of this night’s events comes out. He’ll be all right—I hope. Parkes will see to him in the morning. And, if not, well, à la guerre comme à la guerre, as he would doubtless say.”
“War? That’s it, isn’t it, Ross? You’re not a smuggler at all?”
“Oh yes I am, and a very successful one too. Where do you think Grandfather’s brandy comes from? And ask on the marsh about the Captain and you’ll hear I’m something of a legend. But … there’s the difficulty. To my gang, I’m nothing but a smuggler. I can’t be protected, not immediately, not openly. If it came to a trial, of course, it would be another matter—and anyway, my usefulness would be exhausted. But, in the meantime, I’m on my own. Or rather”—he held out a firm, brown hand to pull her to her feet—“we are on our own.” And then, as an odd non sequitur, “I’m glad you’re not stupid, Chris.”
“Not stupid! Thank you.” She looked at the bed. “And this, I take it, is a French spy?”
“Secret agent is a phrase we prefer. Yes, he is a friend of ours from France, and a deuce of a problem, too, just now. He is supposed to go to London tomorrow—and back to France when the next cargo comes. Is there any chance, do you think?”
“Of his going to London? None. Of his returning to France—unlikely. What will you do, Ross?”
“Sleep on it. And so should you. We must be innocent as daisies in the morning.”
“It seems profoundly unlikely. I shall not sleep a wink for very terror.” But she let him place a pitcher of water by the Frenchman’s bed, cover him as best he could with his own greatcoat, and then lead the way down the dark and silent cloister and back to the house.
He paused to light two candles in the kitchen and, by their light, she could see the hands of the big grandfather clock in the hall at three o’clock. It was late indeed.… But Ross had paused at the library door. “One moment, Chris. There’ll be no chance to talk in the morning, and I did not want to say too much out there.”
“Oh?” But she followed him into the library, and sat down gratefully in an armchair by the hearth, where the embers of a fire still glowed. “You do not trust him then?”
“Not entirely. I trust no one—except you, of course.”
“Thank you.” Ironically. “But—I’m tired, Ross. What else is there to be said?”
“Plenty. If you’re sure M. Tissot won’t be fit to travel tomorrow, I shall have to go to London on his errand.”
“And who will look after poor M. Tissot—is that his name?”
“Probably not, but it’s what he calls himself. And as to looking after him …” He paused.
“I know. There’s no need to break it to me gently. I will.”
“Parkes will help you, but after tonight there’s no pretending he’s not too old to be trusted with the entire responsibility. Besides, I can see you are an admirable nurse. You speak French, thanks to that mother of yours. It could hardly be better.”
“I’m delighted to hear you say so. For my part, I am inclined to think it could hardly be worse. Here am I, with a houseful of visitors already, and you expect me to spend my time running in and out of the cloisters with nourishing broth and cold compresses for a sick man—and to keep it all secret too.”
“You’ll find it’s not so bad. Let him sleep in the daytime, feed him at night, and, whatever you do, don’t let him out of the cloisters, Chris. Keep both doors locked, always.”
“You don’t trust him then?”
“I don’t know him. And—better safe than sorry.”
“You cheer me more and more. What am I expected to do? Keep a pistol on him all the time I dress his wound?”
“No, no, nothing of the kind. This is merely precautionary. I am sure he knows his own interest too well to give you any trouble. But—I should prefer to find him still here when I return.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as I can possibly manage. Four days … five days. I promise I’ll do my best.”
“Well, I suppose so shall I. You don’t leave me much alternative, do you?”
“Thank you, Chris.” She had risen to her feet. “One other thing before you go. I must ride off first thing in the morning. You and Parkes will take care of everything, I know. But, there’s something else …” It w
as the first time she had seen him unsure of himself. “Christina—I know this is the worst possible moment, but—you won’t accept Richard while I am away, will you?”
“Accept Richard? What makes you think he is going to ask me?”
“He’ll ask you all right. And, Chris, now at least you can understand—I have to have the house.”
Oh, now she was angry; now she could warm herself at her own flame of rage. “Are you by any chance proposing for my hand, Mr. Tretteign?”
“What else can I do? We’ve been friends, you and I, good friends, have we not? If I could imagine loving a woman, it might be you. I can certainly think of no other I could trust as I have you tonight. But, understand me, Chris, I don’t ask so much of you. It need not, I am sure, come to marriage.”
“Oh? And why not, pray? I thought Grandfather had it all most ingeniously worked out, so that it could come to nothing else.”
“We’ll get around it somehow, trust me, we will. I will talk to my friends while I am in London. You must see, I have to have the house. It’s invaluable for my purposes.”
“Even if you have to have me too? Is that what it comes down to, Ross?” Heroic to have kept her voice so light.
“I knew I could count on you! That’s it precisely. If the worst comes to the worst, and we have to marry, I promise it shall be the merest formality, and when the war is over, I will see to it the lords grant you a divorce. All I ask is that for now you consent to the appearance of an engagement to me. Who knows? The old man might be so pleased he would settle the estate right away?”
“Deluding yourself, Ross, I think.” Once again she kept her voice merely teasing.
“Perhaps … or, who knows, the war might end.”
“By a miracle? Bonaparte converted to the idea of peace? I think we had best face facts, Ross. If I should be mad enough to consent to such an engagement, it would have to be with the idea of very likely having to go through with it.” Mad was the word—just how mad, she was relieved to think he had no idea.
“You mean, you’ll do it?”
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