“I don’t know—I can’t imagine—but we must assume he will. Else why has he escaped?”
“I know. If I could only think …”
“There’s no time, Parkes. Tell me.” All the authority she could muster in her voice.
“Yes.” He was glad to let her decide for him. “Mr. Ross said a landing tonight would be too dangerous. The signal’s to be for them to sink the cargo—”
“Sink it?”
“Yes. They mark it with floats, like lobster pots. Then the fishermen pick it up at leisure.”
“I see. But … Mr. Ross?”
“Will row himself out, miss, when the Bel Ami’s near inshore. Don’t look so frightened. It’s not so bad as it sounds. He’s got friends at one of the batteries. They’ll let him through.”
“I see.” Treachery everywhere. Well—which side was she on? Doubtless the soldiers were heavily bribed. “Parkes, did he mention where or when?”
“No, miss, there was no need.”
“Thank God for that. So the worst M. Tissot can do is betray the general plan.”
Parkes shook his head gloomily. “That Lieutenant Trevis is no fool, miss. If it gets to him, it’s but to move all the defense posts.”
“Move them?”
“The guards. To different stations. Don’t you see? Mr. Ross will expect to find friends …”
“Oh my God! He must be warned.”
“Yes, but how! He was spending the day at one of the hideouts on the marsh. He did not tell me which. It’s hopeless, miss.”
“It can’t be.” And then, “What’s that?” A noise in the cloisters. The scrape of a foot? “M. Tissot?” She breathed it before picking up her gun and bending to blow out the light.
Dead silence for a moment as she moved cautiously in the new darkness toward the door of the room. Now she could hear movement outside. She turned the key, swung the door open. “I’ve got a pistol. Don’t move, or I’ll fire.”
“Chris!” Ross’s voice.
“Oh, thank God, it’s you. You’re safe!”
“You think so?” His face was haggard, his clothes mud stained, his expression unreadable.
“Ross, what’s the matter?”
“Matter! I’ve been dodging your friend Trevis all over the marsh. How could you, Chris? But—there’s no time for that. Only—I must know how bad it is. You let M. Tissot go. How much did you tell him?”
“Tell him? I? Ross, what do you mean?”
“Well—what else can I think?” He sounded as exhausted as he looked. “I was a fool, a crazy fool to trust you. You’re American, after all, you said it yourself. Nothing to choose, you said, between the French and the English. Well—you’ve chosen now. What was the bribe, Chris? Your mother’s estates?”
“Ross!” He actually meant it. “If I were only a man, I’d show you.” Her voice shook with anger. But there was no time for anger; no time for explanations. Any minute now, the servants would come looking for her. “You’re wrong, Ross.” She steadied her voice. “We’ll talk of that later—there will be time … there must. Parkes, you’ll explain? I can’t stay—the servants will be looking for me. Later, Ross, I’ll accept your apology.”
“Apology!” He broke off. “What’s that?”
“The servants, I expect.” She, too, could hear a confused sound of voices at the far end of the cloisters. “I’ll get them back to the house if I can. Lucky they’re so afraid of ghosts. If you can, get out by the tunnel—both of, you …” The noise was louder now. “I must go. Parkes, explain!” No time for more. She picked up the lantern she had blown out—no time to relight it. “Here I am,” she called, emerging from the little room and pulling the door shut behind her. “Something blew out the light. I’ve been stumbling about in the dark … there’s … something here. Thank God you’ve come.” She could see them now: Frank in the doorway of the chapel, light in hand, the cook and another man behind him. At all costs she must get them back to the house. “Did you hear it?” As she approached them, she looked fearfully backward over her shoulder.
“What?” Cook asked. “What did you hear?”
“A … a kind of groaning … and there was a phosphorescent … glowing.” This just in case Ross should not have thought to put out his dark lantern. “Help me to the house. I think I’m going to faint.” And she leaned with all her weight against Frank, compelling him and the other man to pick her up and carry her to the house, while the cook lighted their way with a lantern.
In the kitchen, she subsided with a groan into the cook’s armchair by the big stove. “Hartshorn, at once!” She looked nervously over her shoulder. “Shut that door, Frank. It … it might follow me.”
“Mary and all the saints preserve us.” Cook crossed herself. “Meg! The hartshorn!”
“But … but my uncle … Mr. Parkes?” Meg asked.
“Not a sign of him.” Christina had been thinking hard. “He must have gone out the front way, if you’ve not found him indoors. Or down to the sea perhaps?” Ordinarily fantastic, she knew that tonight of all nights this suggestion must seem reasonable. Tension was expected. Parkes might well have slipped out on some errand in connection with it, and, in that case, would not thank them for making his absence known. She sipped the hartshorn Meg had mixed for her and began to show signs of recovery. “I believe, now, if you were to help me to my study I should feel better.”
As she expected, it was a popular suggestion. Her presence in the kitchen was inhibiting, to say the least of it. “Don’t tell my aunt.” She drooped convincingly between the two men. “I’d be ashamed …” She subsided with a sigh of only half-simulated relief on the chaise longue by the embers of the study fire and assured her helpers that she would be better alone. “Only, send Parkes to me the minute he returns. If he’s not back soon, we’ll have to search outside.”
She was alone at last with her anger. Ross had thought her capable of conspiring with M. Tissot to betray him. Her hands clenched and unclenched themselves in her lap. If there had only been time … now, the furious things she had not said burned in her throat. She actually thought, for a moment, that she was going to be sick. After all she had done for him … and then.… Think, she told herself; be calm, be reasonable. Ross thinks all women venal—why not, with his mother always before him as an example? No doubt he had assumed that she consented to their mockery of an engagement entirely for her own selfish reasons. From that, it was only a step to imagining her capable of the kind of conspiracy he had imagined tonight. And, of course, he must be furious with himself for having trusted her. It was anger with himself, as much as with her, that had spoken.
It was thin enough consolation. But by now he would know his mistake: Parkes would have explained it all. He would believe Parkes. He would be sorry for what he had said. It was almost possible to imagine that he would come to her to apologize. For—here was more solid consolation—one good thing, surely, had come out of this evening’s work. He must see that it was quite impossible for him to get to France. Any minute, now, she hoped to hear him and Parkes making their official arrival by the front door.
Time was passing. The fire was almost out. Her eyes flickered shut and she dreamed for a moment of accepting Ross’s apology. Then they were wide open. A noise in the house? Yes, voices in the hall, then Parkes, alone, very white, very anxious-looking. He was too old for a night like this. But—she sat bolt upright.… “Parkes, where is Mr. Ross?”
“Gone, miss. I hope.”
“Gone! But, Parkes, it’s madness.”
“I know, but there was no moving him. He said he had to. He’ll be careful, miss, for the sake of his errand. He told me so. He’s got a good chance, truly he has … one man alone, knowing the marsh, and the soldiers either strangers or, most likely, his friends. He can do it if anyone can.” He was talking, she knew, as much to convince himself as her.
“Please God you’re right. Parkes, did you tell him?”
“About M. Tissot. I tried, miss, but there w
as so little time … I’m sorry … I … he …” The old man stumbled to a stop, his face whiter than ever. Christina was on her feet in an instant. Monstrous to have forgotten the blow he had received.
“Parkes, you’re ill.” She half helped, half forced him into a chair. “Sit there, I’ll get help. But, first, what do we tell them? You were out taking a breath of air, tripped, fell and hurt your head. It’s taken you all this time to get back. They’ll think, of course, that it has to do with the smugglers, but no one will say so.”
“No, miss.” He was looking worse and worse, but made one last effort. “Mr. Ross said … tell Jem … no one else. Trust him—”
“Not me?”
But his head had dropped forward and he did not even hear the bitter question. By the time she had summoned Frank he was only half conscious, collapsed deep in the chair, muttering to himself.
Frank heard her explanation impassively. “Very good, miss,” he said at last. “We’ll look after him. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m sure you will.” There was one other thing she must ask, but casually. “Are Jem and Thomas back yet?”
“Yes, miss, just a few minutes ago. Shall I lock up, since Parkes is ill?”
“Please.” So many questions she would like to ask. None that she could. Jem and Thomas would be telling the story of the night’s events in the servants’ hall—but even they would not know what had happened to Ross. For this, there was nothing to do but wait till morning. If he had been caught, they would hear soon enough. Tomorrow, if ever, no news would be good news.
But how endure till then? In the anguish of her fear for him, she hardly had time to think of Ross’s unjust suspicions of herself. If he survived, it would be time enough to think of that.
Betty woke her next morning with an anxious request that she visit Parkes as soon as possible. Glum faces in the servants’ hall told her that the news of the sunken cargo was out. And one look at Parkes made it clear that this was not a case for her to handle. Jem must ride to Rye at once for the doctor. She managed a minute alone with him in the stable yard. “Jem?”
“Yes, miss?” Quick intelligence in the open face. Monstrous that this boy should be involved in—no time for that.
“You know … about Mr. Ross?” No time for beating about the bush either.
A quick anxious look around. He moved nearer to her and lowered his voice. “Yes, miss. But he wasn’t there last night—not at the meeting place—it was the other—”
“Don’t tell me who. But, what happened, Jem?”
“A bad night’s work. Someone blew the gaff … the preventives were out all over, and the soldiers. The Bel Ami had to sink her cargo—and they’ve got gunboats out this morning picking it up. It’s more than a man can bear to watch them. And not a sign of Mr.… of the Captain either. There are even some say it’s his fault.”
“Oh!” Danger everywhere. And Ross almost certainly in France, beyond warning, beyond help. How would he get back? Parkes must know his plans, but Parkes was unconscious. “Trust Jem,” Ross had said. What else was there to do? “I think he’s in France, Jem.”
“Mr.… the Captain?” A long, low whistle of astonishment. “So that’s it. I did wonder. There was talk of a boat. Too much talk, if you ask me.” And then, on a different note, “Very good, miss, I’ll fetch the doctor for you, all right and tight.”
“Thank you, Jem.” Frank had appeared in the kitchen doorway. “And all the news from Rye, too.”
“Yes, miss.” His look showed how well he had understood her.
The whole house was out of sorts that morning. Mrs. Tretteign complained of migraine, refused to go to bed, but sat, very sorry for herself, on the sofa in the morning room, bitterly resenting any attempt of Christina’s to leave her and see how the real invalid, Parkes, was faring. Upstairs, old Mr. Tretteign had one of his attacks of the gout, and the slightest noise in the house brought Greg down with a complaint.
At last, late in the afternoon, Jem and the doctor rode into the stable yard. Christina hurried to meet them, her pretext being requests from both the old man and Mrs. Tretteign that Dr. Pembly visit them first. Greeting the doctor with this news, she managed an exchange of glances with Jem. All’s well, said his look. She was afraid, for a moment, that she would faint with the relief of it, but bit her lip hard and busied herself with welcoming the doctor.
Of course he saw his patients in order of rank. A bitter draught for Mr. Tretteign’s gout; headache powders and sympathy for Mrs. Tretteign; then, at last, a visit to the little downstairs room were Meg watched anxiously over old Parkes. “Overwork, you think?” He looked at Christina with sharp eyes that missed little. “And a blow on the head? Yes …” Gentle fingers felt about under the scanty white hair. “He was lucky. Tripped and fell, did he?” Once again, his eyes met Christina’s, full of implications. “Well, it could be worse. Only, he’s an old man. It will take time … and nursing. Not much I can do.” No sympathy here. He followed Christina from the room. “Wild work on the marsh last night. I wondered, when you sent for me, whether you had had trouble here.” He let it hang, hopefully.
“Oh no.” Indifferently. “A glass of something, Doctor, before you go?”
She got rid of him at last, rang and sent for Jem. Inevitably, there were medicines to be fetched from Rye. Having dealt with this, “Did you learn anything?”
“Not much, miss. There’s a lot of talk—angry talk, of course. But no news of Mr.… of the Captain. And there’s talk about that, too, I can tell you. When will he be back, miss?”
“I wish to God I knew. With the next shipment, I suppose.” Fantastic to be talking about it so freely. “Have you any idea when that will be, Jem?”
“No one has. That I am sure of. We never hear till the day itself. Less chance of treachery that way.”
“Of course.” It was elementary sense. “But who gives the word?”
“Parkes, mostly. He very likely knows now. He’s always been hand in glove with the master and acted as go-between.”
“And God knows when he’ll be conscious. What are we to do, Jem?”
“Wait, I think, miss. There’s nothing else we can do. Very likely Mr. Ross will contrive to get a message through. They often come by way of Jersey. And one thing you can count on—there won’t be another shipment for a month … the dark of the moon, you see. So at least there’s time.… Maybe Mr. Parkes will be better.”
“I hope to God he is. Oh, one other thing. Is there any news of the Frenchman?”
“Not a word, miss. And I don’t like that either.”
“No more do I, Jem.”
The long, anxious days dragged by and still there was no change in Parkes’ condition. Listening to his restless mutterings as he lay somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness, Christina blamed herself bitterly for the burden she and Ross had put on so old a man. Dr. Pembly was puzzled by his slowness to mend, which he considered most unsuitable in a member of the lower orders. But Christina was sure that he was suffering less from the blow he had received than from the long strain of helping nurse M. Tissot and, at the same time, carrying out his usual round of household duties. It was like Ross to be careless on such a point, but there was no excuse for her. Well, she was paid for it now. Tonight, this very minute (she was sitting, at dusk, by Parkes’ bed), Ross might be heading to land from the Bel Ami—to find no confederates awaiting him. What would happen in such a case? If there was no one to receive the smuggled goods—and, doubtless more important, to pay for them—would the French captain consent to land Ross alone, or would he not hold him as hostage for future payment? Anything might happen—and, worst of all, she might never know.
Over dinner that night her aunt surprised her. “I’m worried about you, Christina.”
“About me?” This was a new departure.
“Yes. I wish you would leave the nursing of Parkes to the servants, whose work it is, and take a little care of yourself. You’re losing your looks, you know. There used
to be—well, call it a kind of healthy glow about you that some men might find attractive. Now look at you! Your grandfather sent for me only this morning to ask what’s the matter. He thinks you must be pining for Ross!” His mother’s voice made it clear that she found the suggestion nonsensical. “He’s getting very impatient himself at Ross’s staying away so long.”
“I know.” This was another cause for anxiety. No wonder if she looked drawn and haggard. And the moon had passed the full; the nights were getting darker. Anytime now, Ross might land and find no one there to meet him. Or—not land at all. Her aunt was looking at her oddly. She picked up fork and spoon and made a gallant pretense of eating trifle.
Chapter Ten
Jem came tapping at the door of her study the next afternoon, ostensibly to ask permission to ride into Rye and visit his mother. “Miss! There’s been a message.”
“At last!”
“Yes, from France, by way of Jersey. It’s from Mr. Ross, I think. He says we’re to lay off for a while. It’s not safe.”
“Not safe! Well, you’ve seen the guards along the coast. But how will he get back? And you’re sure it’s from Mr. Ross?”
“No, of course not. They come by word of mouth, you see, passed on. The others don’t seem too sure of this one.”
“But how …?” Best not ask too many questions. And anyway, he had more to say.
“They’re not best pleased, the others. Not after losing the lot the last time. They say, if they see her, they’ll signal her in just the same.”
“Her?”
“You know—the Bel Ami.” And then, changing his tone. “Thank you, miss. I’ll be sure and be back on time.”
“Miss Christina.” It was Meg, the kitchenmaid. “Uncle’s asking for you. He’s better, truly he is. He sat up in bed, large as life, and asked what day of the week it was.”
“Did he?” Christina and Jem exchanged glances. “I’ll come to him at once.”
“I’d be rare pleased if you would, miss. He’s in a proper taking about something. ‘What’s so awful about it being Friday, Uncle?’ I asks him, but all he’d do was ask for you, miss.”
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