Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Parkes was indeed better. Sitting up in bed, he greeted Christina with the clear look of returned consciousness. “Thank you for coming so quick, miss.” And then to his niece, who was hovering anxiously in the doorway, “Run along, Meg, there’s a good girl, and ask Cook for a hot posset for me.” He watched the door shut behind her. “Miss, it’s tonight.”

  “No! But … there’s been a message … from France, Jem says, to call it off as being too dangerous. Only … he thinks the others may ignore it. They don’t seem sure it’s genuine.”

  “How can it be? How would Mr. Ross get back else? But it will be dangerous. There was to be information laid that it would be in Fairlight Cove. And then, someone was to light the beacon there. He said that would cause chaos for a while and he’d slip in here as easy as be damned. Excuse me, miss.”

  “I see.” It was a good plan. She remembered the confusion on November fifth when, despite strict orders to the contrary, half the villages had lit bonfires and burned Guy Fawkes in effigy, and the other half had at once jumped to the conclusion that the invasion had started. On another such night, anything might happen.

  “What time is it?” He still looked very frail and ill.

  “Early yet. There’s time, but not much. Tell me, Parkes, where did he tell you this?”

  “In the cloisters, of course. Oh … you mean …”

  “Tissot. Could he have heard you?”

  “I—I don’t know.” His head moved restlessly on the pillow. He was looking worse again.

  “Don’t worry, Parkes. Jem is riding to Rye to find out what is happening. I’ll warn him—”

  “He’ll need to see Barnes at the George. Tell him I said …” His eyelids fell shut.

  She found Jem in the stable yard, saddling up the pony he and the other servants rode. Her pretext—a commission for James’s powders and tincture of rhubarb from the apothecary—was soon dealt with. She looked around. No one was within earshot, since the gray winter afternoon forbade loitering out of doors. ‘She’s coming, Jem, the Bel Ami. Parkes says it was to be tonight, here. There’s to be a false alarm at Fairlight and the beacon there lit. You must see Barnes at the George.”

  “Barnes! I don’t like that. And—the Bel Ami’s out there already, miss.”

  “Oh my God!” It was true then. “Be quick, Jem.”

  There was one more thing she needed to ask Parkes. She found him still peacefully sleeping with Meg hovering anxiously near the bed, posset in hand. “Should I wake him for it?”

  “On no account. Leave it here and I’ll see he drinks it as soon as he wakes.”

  Dark shadows were creeping out from the corners of the room when Parkes stirred at last. “Meg?” His voice was much stronger. She had been right to let him have his sleep out.

  “It’s I, Miss Tretton.” How long would he stay awake this time? “She’s there, the Bel Ami, and Jem has ridden to Rye to see Barnes. Tell me, Parkes, can they manage without you?”

  “Yes. Barnes knows the signals. Mr. Ross said, ‘two safer than one.’”

  “That’s good.” She had had an uncomfortable vision of herself down on the beach, flashing a dark lantern and, inevitably, encountering Lieutenant Trevis. Her part would be safer—and worse. She would have nothing to do but stay here and worry. It was almost dark now. She watched Parkes settle back against his pillows, then hurried from the room at the sound of horses’ hoofs in the yard outside. Jem was back.

  His news did nothing to allay her anxiety. Barnes, it seemed, had listened impassively to the message from Parkes and then sent Jem to the right about. “‘What you don’t know, won’t hurt you. And that goes for old nosy Parkes too. I’ll manage tonight my way for once, and so you can tell him from me.’”

  “But don’t,” Christina warned Jem. “I’ve given him something to make him sleep. So, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Nothing, miss.”

  Mrs. Tretteign was unusually gay over dinner that night and teased Christina about her preoccupied silence. “You look worse and worse, my dear. I really think I shall have to suggest to your grandfather that you need a holiday. It’s a terrible season for it, of course, but if I were to take you to Bath, or Cheltenham, for the waters … or even Tonbridge Wells, perhaps? I’m told there’s quite a lively little society there these days. I’m sure if I explained to Papa that your health needs it, he would be reasonable. And besides, it would serve Ross right if he were to return and find no one here to welcome him. You mustn’t let him see that you’ve taken his absence so to heart … that would never do, believe me.”

  “Oh, Aunt, please! There’s nothing wrong with me but the blue devils. Does the sun never shine in England?” Rain was lashing against the dining-room windows, and she shivered, thinking of Ross.

  Mrs. Tretteign rang the bell. “You need a glass of something to cheer you up, Christina. Now, perhaps, you are beginning to see how I feel about this dead-and-alive house. And it’s only December. You wait till you’ve lived through a whole winter of dark and rain. You’ll know, then, why I’d do anything to get away. Oh, Frank, we’ll have a bottle of the best claret, if you please.”

  But Frank was big with news of his own. “Ma’am, Miss Tretton, the beacon’s alight on Fairlight cliff. The French must have landed!”

  “Good God!” Mrs. Tretteign was on her feet at once. “There’s not a moment to be lost. Have the horses put to in the carriage this instant, Frank, and the wagons got out for the rest of you.”

  This was something that Christina, in her other anxiety, had not thought of. “But, Aunt”—she too had got up and moved to the window to peer out from behind the heavy velvet curtain—“how do we know it is not a false alarm? Don’t you remember how some people took flight on Guy Fawkes night, and how silly they looked in the morning.”

  “But this is not Guy Fawkes!”

  “Nor is it invasion weather. Listen to the wind! It’s not possible, I tell you. Besides, Parkes is too ill to be moved.”

  “Well, let that niece of his risk her life looking after him. I know I’m not going to stay and be ravished on his account. I tell you, Frank”—he was still there, hovering by the door—“have the horses put to at once.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting Grandfather?” said Christina. “He must decide. Wait, Frank.”

  Running upstairs to her grandfather’s rooms, she was aware of the rustle of panic through the house and for a moment felt a thrill of pure rage at Ross. What right had he, for his own ends, to plunge a whole district into this abject terror? Old people, loaded hastily into farm wagons, might die of cold tonight; babies be born prematurely on the road, and all because Ross Tretteign needed cover for his return from France.

  Her aunt was following her up the stairs; it would make the interview with old Mr. Tretteign that much more difficult. At least he had heard the news already and seemed to be taking it calmly enough. “Another invasion scare, what?” He was still up, sitting in his big chair and drinking one of the three glasses of port he allowed himself a night. “Household in a panic, eh? And you, too, Verity, by the looks of you.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Papa.” Mrs. Tretteign’s quick breathing belied her words. “It’s not for myself I’m concerned, but for this poor child here. What will Ross say if we let her stay here to be ravished by the French?”

  “What will he say if we let her die of cold on the road? I can tell you one thing and that is that I am not going. Not tonight. Greg’s been to look out the front windows. There’s nothing stirring in the bay—they couldn’t land without lights. Well then, they must be beyond Hastings since the beacon’s on Fairlight. Even if they have landed, which I very much doubt, they cannot possibly be here before morning. We can sleep peacefully in our beds tonight and leave in good order after breakfast if the morning news warrants it. That’s what I am going to do, at all events—and any servant who wishes to keep his place. You ladies, of course, will decide for yourselves, only I must point out that you’ll have a cold’ drive
of it, since I shall keep the carriage for myself. You’ll not enjoy yourselves much, I think, in Ross’s curricle. How about it, Christina? Are you afraid of waking to find six Frenchmen in your bedroom?”

  “I’m a good deal more afraid of being lost on the marsh in the dark. I don’t for a minute believe it is a genuine alarm. How could they have crossed in this weather? And even if they had, as you say, Grandfather, they must have landed beyond Fairlight. Why should they come here? They’ll head straight for London, won’t they? Not that I believe they have landed.”

  “You sound very sure of it.” His eyes met hers with one of his piercing glances.

  “I am, Grandfather.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. Good night, ladies. Sleep well, Verity.” Mockingly. And then, “Well, Greg, what is it now?”

  “If you please, sir, Lieutenant Trevis is below, asking for Miss Christina.”

  “He is, is he?” Another sharp glance for Christina. “My compliments to Lieutenant Trevis, and perhaps he will step up here.”

  “Grandfather—”

  “Don’t look so scared, girl. I won’t eat him. But calling on a young lady at this hour of the night—”

  “Shows a most lamentable lack of breeding,” put in Mrs. Tretteign.

  “When I want your opinion, Verity, I’ll ask for it. In the meantime, if you wish to stay and hear what Mr. Trevis has to say at this unusual hour of the night, I suggest that you hold your tongue, if you can contrive to. Christina …”

  “Yes, Grandfather?”

  “Did you send for Mr. Trevis?”

  “Send for him? Oh—in my panic, do you mean? What a poor opinion you have of the female sex.”

  “Do you blame me? But you have not answered my question.”

  “I do not intend to. It is insult enough to have been asked it.”

  Perhaps it was as well that Greg announced Lieutenant Trevis at this point.

  “Good evening, sir.” Mr. Tretteign pulled himself ramrod straight in his chair. “You will forgive me if I do not rise to greet you. And for sending for you here. Miss Tretton does not receive callers at this hour.”

  “Of course. I should apologize for disturbing you so late were it not that the news I bring provides its own excuse.”

  “Not news of an invasion, I trust?” The old man’s voice was dry.

  “No indeed, sir. But I was afraid—I thought you might think …”

  “You expected to find us already loading up the family treasures and getting ready to flit? You should have given us credit for stronger nerves, Mr. Trevis. Or some of us. It’s all a false alarm, then?”

  “Worse. It’s a deliberate diversion.”

  “A what?”

  “A decoy. You must know about the smugglers, sir. They mean to land, here in the bay, tonight. The beacon at Fair-light was intended to draw all our force over there and leave them a clear field here. But they’re out of luck this time. They’ll find us waiting for them … here. That’s why I thought it my duty to come to you in case you should hear the fighting on the beach and think the French were landing indeed. Don’t worry. Lock your doors tight and take no notice. It will just be the finish of as daring a gang of smugglers as I’ve ever heard of.”

  “I … see.” How much, Christina wondered in her despair, did he see? “Well, it was good of you, Lieutenant, and we are grateful. If we can be of any assistance tonight—in tending the wounded or anything of the kind—you will call on us.”

  “And now, good night, Mr. Trevis, and, good luck.” He waited, silent in his chair, till they had heard Trevis’s booted feet clatter down the stairs. Then, “Good night, Verity. You can sleep easy now. Christina, a word with you before you go.”

  No gainsaying so absolute a command. She moved forward to face the big chair and he went on, watching her closely from under his shaggy brows. “I’m not a fool, even if that young man is. What do you know about tonight’s work?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You mean, you won’t tell me? I think you had better, Christina. I’m a selfish old man, true, but Ross is the last of the Tretteigns. Or”—savagely—“all the last we’ve got.”

  “Ross?”

  “I told you, I’m not a fool. He’s got involved with this gang of ruffians somehow and you’ve been covering for him. You think I know nothing because I stay up here. I’ve got a very useful pair of eyes and ears downstairs, in Greg. Just because he keeps himself to himself doesn’t mean he’s not got his wits about him. Who’ve you had hidden, since Ross went away, in the cloisters?”

  “Good God!” The sharp question had thrown her completely off her guard.

  “Yes. And, think again. If I know that, how many other people must know too? Just like Ross, of course. He was always too set on what he was doing to see an inch before his nose. But I’d have thought you had more sense. And as for Ross, don’t let him think he can come crying to me for shelter when he gets into trouble. He’s made a fool of himself—he must take the consequences.”

  “What you mean is”—she did not attempt to keep the cold fury out of her voice—“that so long as Ross was getting away with it, you were happy to turn a blind eye and not ask too many questions as to where your brandy and tea came from. But if he’s in trouble, so much the worse for him.”

  “Precisely. I am glad you take my meaning, girl. And, if I were you, I would begin to accustom myself to the idea of Richard Markham as a possible husband. He may be a babbling popinjay, but he’s not been in gaol.”

  “You mean, you’d cut Ross off, just like that?”

  “What else d’you expect me to do? He ought to be grateful I didn’t say anything to young Trevis tonight, but I won’t be the one to queer his pitch for him. If he does it for himself, that’s something else again. Understand, girl, the Tretteigns are an ancient and honorable family. The name’s not going to be disgraced by anyone—still less by one who has no right to bear it.”

  “You mean … you’d rake that up?”

  “Well, of course I would.” He thought himself entirely reasonable. “What else could I do? So just pray to God that he’s not out there in that Bel Ami that’s been making herself so conspicuous all day. Because if he is, he’s done for.”

  “You put it very clearly.” So much for any idea she had had of telling him the whole story and asking his help. It would be merely to betray Ross’s confidence uselessly. “Good night, Grandfather.” She moved to the door.

  “You’ve not kissed me good night.”

  “Nor am I going to.” She closed the door very quietly behind her and found Jem hovering anxiously in the hall.

  “Miss! What are we to do?” Someone, clearly, had contrived to hear what Trevis had said to them. Well, in this house, anything was possible.

  “Nothing, Jem, there’s nothing we can do. Except pray.”

  “I’m not much catch at that. But mayn’t I go out, and watch? I might have a chance to warn ’em.”

  “More likely you’d get killed as a traitor for your pains. Besides, it’s not so much Barnes and his men I care about, it’s the others.”

  “On board. I know. There’s nothing we can do to warn them. Not if Fairlight Beacon was the signal. But, Miss Christina, I could at least go and see what happens. Then we’d know …”

  “Oh, Jem”—suddenly the tears she had fought all evening hung heavy in her eyes—“if you’d do that! But be careful, I beg of you. To have you caught …”

  “I know, we’d be proper sunk. Don’t worry, I won’t be caught. I know the shingle banks like the back of my hand, which is more than can be said for Mr. Lieutenant Trevis and his men. They’ll never so much as get a whiff of me.”

  “Right, Jem.”

  Alone in her room at last, Christina carefully put the tinderbox beside the candlestick, then bent to blow out the tiny flame. Darkness was soothing. Perhaps nothing was as bad as she thought. She waited for her eyes to get accustomed to the dark, then moved over to the window and drew back the cur
tain. At first, there was nothing but absolute blackness, but it was not quite the dark of the moon. Gradually she began to see the hint of shapes. Fairlight was a darker shadow away to the right. They must have got the beacon out by now, and she imagined the cursing, desperate work that would have been. And on the left, Dungeness Light. No other light showed. They went to bed early in the marshland farms and doubtless the men on guard in the batteries along the shore had had orders to show no lights. She shivered, thinking of the men who must be down there in the darkness … waiting.

  And the Bel Ami? No trace of a light out to sea, but that meant nothing. She would come in as darkling as the enemies who waited for her. And there was nothing to be done. Waiting is worst of all. But that was what she must do. She pulled a chair nearer to the window and sat down, the heavy curtains draped around her. It was raining, a light sea drizzle that whispered against the window panes. It seemed, somehow, the last straw. She could think of nothing but Ross landing from the little boat; the sudden volley of shots out of the darkness; rain blurring everything. He might even escape, to lie wounded, dying in the rain, all night on the desolate shore.

  Don’t think of it. You may need your strength later. Deliberately, she closed her eyes, leaned back in a pretense of comfort in the chair, tried to make herself relax. Impossible, of course. And yet—for how many nights had her sleep been interrupted? Her head fell back into the corner of the chair. She dreamed that Lieutenant Trevis was chasing her across a vast shingle waste … her feet could get no purchase … she was hardly moving. They were shooting at her.…

  The shots woke her. Fully conscious in one frantic moment, she leaned forward and peered out of the window in time to see the flashes from a second volley. Now there were lights showing; from time to time she could see a dark figure moving between her and one of them. A fight, of course. But Ross? And to have to sit here, watching, helpless.… Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands. She stood up and opened the window, to lean out into the drizzling rain, but could hear only a confused sound of shouting, and more shots.