Watch the Wall, My Darling

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Of course.” Her mother’s voice was calm, as always, but told her she knew something was afoot.

  “Good.” She hurried out into the hall, threw open the front door and peered anxiously out into the gathering darkness. Suppose Ross should meet the advancing smugglers, all by himself? It did not bear thinking of. At all costs, he must be warned. She listened, desperately, for the sound of horses’ hoofs, returning. Nothing but the wind wailing over the marsh and the steady growl of the sea. Ross must have gone farther than he meant with Richard. What would they be talking of? Sophie?

  No time for thoughts like these. She turned and ran through the side way to the stables. “How long have the gentlemen been gone?” Jem was whistling as he groomed her mare.

  Absurd question. Time meant nothing to him. But he came up, just the same, with a helpful answer. “Time enough for me to sweep out the stable where Mr. Richard kept his horse. If you can call it a horse.” With fine scorn. “I don’t wonder Mr. Ross said he’d be right back. No pleasure in riding alongside of a slug like that one.”

  Christina’s heart leapt with relief. “He said that, did he?”

  “Yes, miss. Told me to wait on and stable Arab for him when he gets back. All the others is gone, see.” The yard was indeed unusually quiet. “He won’t be long, not Mr. Ross.”

  Christina knew Ross’s consideration for the servants well enough to be sure of this herself. Fantastic that his enemies might even now be closing in on the Grange, perhaps finding him on the marsh, all unawares. She had made up her mind. “Saddle Honey for me—quick. I’ll ride out to meet him.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Take no notice of his knowing look. Just hurry … hurry. “Hurry.” She put it into words.

  “Yes, miss, but you ain’t dressed …”

  Nor was she; not for riding. No matter; seconds. might be precious. But suppose Ross had ridden farther than he meant. She must warn someone before she left. Who? With the question, came its answer. A back door opened and her mother looked out. “There you are, Christina. Can I help?”

  “Thank God. Yes.” She joined her mother and explained in quick, disjointed sentences about M. Tissot’s warning. “They may come any time. I can’t leave Ross out there, unsuspecting. Besides, when I’ve warned him, I’ll ride on along the beach for help.”

  “Yes. Should I prepare the others for flight, do you think?”

  “No.” Christina had been thinking hard. “For one thing, neither Ross nor Grandfather would consent to leave the Grange to its fate. Besides—imagine an encounter out on the marsh. It would be worse than anything.… No, we must just pray God and hold out here till help comes.”

  “You’re right, of course. Go carefully, love.”

  “Be sure I will.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dusk was thickening over the marsh, and Christina, taking Honey down the rough drive at as fast a pace as she dared, congratulated herself that there could be not the slightest doubt on the way Ross would come. He would have set Richard on the road to Rye and would come back the shortest way. No anxiety there; and no use worrying about anything else. She had done, was doing, what she could. Nothing else for it but to ride steadily on, while raindrops seeped through her drenched cloak. But surely the weather was on their side. Might not such a night discourage the less bellicose of the smugglers? She should have asked M. Tissot how many the gang numbered. No use fretting about that now. Ride on … ride hard. If possible, she wanted to meet Ross close to where a side track ran down to the beach—that would be her quickest way to Trevis’s headquarters.

  How quickly it was getting dark. Surely she must meet Ross soon. If not, it would mean he had decided to ride on to Rye with Richard. What then? Cross that bridge when you come to it. She needed all her concentration to keep Honey going steadily along the rough, half-visible road.

  Ah—she lifted her head. Yes—at last, the sound of a horse coming rapidly toward her. A single horse—anyway, the smugglers would hardly be riding. They would come secretly, quietly, by ones and twos across the marsh. Thank God this was Ross, reining in Arab at sight of her.

  “Chris! What in the world?”

  “The smugglers! They’re going to attack the Grange.” She told her story as concisely as possible, helped along by his quick, pertinent questions.

  “I’ve seen nothing,” he answered her final question. “But then, I wouldn’t have. They won’t come this way. You should be safe enough, riding along the beach.” He sounded as if trying to convince himself. “But I’d best see you down there.”

  “Nonsense. There’s no time. And, besides, it’s you they’re after. They might well let me by.”

  “That’s true. They love you, don’t they?”

  “Well—the women, some of them, I think, are grateful to me. Ross! We’ve no time to be talking here.”

  “You’re right. Good luck, Chris.”

  “And to you.” She had already turned Honey away from him and threw the words back over her shoulder. Don’t think that they might never meet again. Very likely it would all prove a false alarm. But—here was the turnoff for the beach—Ross had never even suggested such a possibility, and he, surely, should know to what lengths the smugglers were capable of going. Stories she herself had heard of the famous—or infamous—Hawkhurst gang would keep coming into her head. There had been cases enough of horrible vengeance exacted for betrayal—or simply of the murder of riding officers who had been too hot on their trail.

  Maddening to have to go so slowly, but this was a mere track, and, worse still, one she had hardly ever used. She dared not risk a fall, the chance of laming Honey. Slow and steady, she told herself, steady does it. It had stopped raining. Good? More likely bad, though undoubtedly a relief to have only wind in her face. Where would M. Tissot be by now? Doubtless snug by the fire in some hiding place or other. She should be grateful to him, but felt only anger, a cold determination that sometime, somehow, he must be caught and made to pay for his treachery.

  Thank God, here was the steep slope of the sea wall. She dismounted, to lead Honey carefully up it, and then slowly, step by careful step, down the sliding shingle. And here, by mere good luck, was a groin from which to remount. She was up in a bound and guiding Honey down to the waterline. The tide had fallen fast since she had met M. Tissot; now it was well below the bottom of the breakwaters. Safe enough to let Honey out at last, and exhilarating to feel the wind of her own movement. Ahead—a long way ahead—she could see the lights of the little camp by the first gun emplacement—her destination. Suppose Trevis was not there. Well, there would be someone in authority.

  How long had it been since she had left the house? And how successful would her mother have been in organizing its defense? But at least, Ross should be there by now. Aunt Tretteign, of course, would be in hysterics—and Sophie? An odd flash of memory took her back to a day long ago in America when there had been rumors of an Indian attack. Sophie had been little more than a baby then—a terrified baby who did not understand—and it had been Christina’s task to look after her and, at all costs, to keep her quiet. She should be at the Grange now, doing the same thing. Would it always be her task to look after Sophie, at whatever cost to herself?

  The lights were very near now. She turned Honey’s head inland and, once more, was forced to dismount and lead her carefully over the treacherous shingle.

  “Who goes there?” Although she had expected it, the welcome challenge made her jump.

  “Friend.” She found Trevis himself in the disused farmhouse that served as headquarters for the gun crews. He would have liked to waste time exclaiming over her drenched condition, but she would not let him. “No time for that.” She held on to her drenched cloak. “Besides, I mean to go back with you.”

  “Back?”

  Telling her story yet again, she began to feel herself in some recurring nightmare, the kind where movement becomes impossible, and feet cannot touch the ground. And yet, he, too, was quick to grasp the s
ituation, and equally quick to act on it. As he listened, he was scribbling orders, sending out messengers for reinforcements, throwing questions at her as he did so. Of course, it had not occurred to her before, in her private anxiety, but for him this was a golden opportunity to make an end, once and for all, of the smugglers. Preoccupied with this chance, he did not, to her relief, think to ask why they should attack the Grange.

  Suddenly, absurdly, deplorably, she felt sorry for them, moving as they were, all unawares, into a trap. She tried to shake off the feeling, but could not. After all, they were not just smugglers, they were Jem’s uncle, Betty’s cousin, lord knew who else. If only it would all prove a nightmare.

  Trevis had finished his arrangements and was putting on his heavy military greatcoat. “You’ll wait here, of course.”

  “No.” She had been ready for this. “They may need me. Please let me come too. I’ll be no trouble, I promise you.” And then, when he still looked doubtful, “Besides, if I understand your plan aright, you intend to catch the smugglers unawares. What more natural than that you should escort me back and stay for dinner? With your men posted outside—it can’t fail.”

  “I suppose it should be safe enough.” Doubtfully.

  “Of course it will. I can’t believe they’ll attack so early—well, it stands to reason they’ll wait till the house is quiet. And, besides, what would I do here?”

  “It’s true.” This argument struck home. “It’s very far from being a fit place for a young lady.”

  She took this, with a sigh of relief, as capitulation, and followed him outside to where a little party of soldiers was drawn up, mounted and ready. The smallest possible delay while Honey was fetched for her, and they were riding back the way she had come, along the beach. “Much less chance of encountering the gang this way,” said Trevis.

  “Yes.” Once again, the cold question nibbled in her mind: how many of her friends—or her friends’ friends—would be found among the smugglers?

  It was just perceptibly lighter now than it had been when she came. From time to time a rag of moon showed among hurrying clouds. “There’ll be light enough to recognize them,” said Trevis, with a cheerful ferocity that chilled her blood. And then, “Best ride in silence now.”

  They stopped, at last, down on the beach, where the path turned off for the Grange. Trevis made his final plans with a quick certainty that Christina found formidable. The rest of the troop were to dismount here, leaving their horses in charge of one of their number, and spread out to surround the house. Another contingent should arrive, soon, from the far side. “Don’t worry, we’ll be ready for them when they come,” said Trevis, as he and Christina started on the short ride up to the house.

  No noise but the wind and the sea. Christina breathed a sigh of relief as they came up over the sea wall; there lay the house, quiet as usual, lights showing in a few windows.

  “Good,” said Trevis.

  “Yes.” She had been too fully occupied to realize just how anxious she was. Had she really expected to find the house a smouldering ruin?

  Just the same, it was an eerie feeling to come in among the outbuildings, as she led the way around to the front of the house, and wonder whether dark figures were crouching there, watching her every move. Be natural—at all costs be natural. “I’m grateful to you for escorting me home.” She made her voice loud on purpose. “I rode farther than I meant.”

  “You certainly must have.” Trevis had jumped down and held her horse for her to dismount.

  “If you’ll hold them a moment”—she moved up the front steps— “I’ll send the boy.” The door would be locked, of course, an elementary precaution. She beat a resounding tattoo on the knocker.

  “Who’s there?” Ross’s voice. Doubtless he had been following their approach through the darkness.

  “It’s I, Chris. And Lieutenant Trevis. Could you send Jem to stable the horses?”

  The door swung open. “I’m glad to see you.” Ross raised his voice, to shout the order back to the servants’ quarters. “All’s well?”

  “Quiet as the grave.” And then, on a more prosaic note, “We’ve been waiting dinner for you.”

  “Good. I’m famished.”

  It was not Jem, she noticed, who came running to take the horses, but a new boy they had recently taken on. Now Trevis came up the steps to join them, and to ask, “No trouble yet?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. The house should be surrounded by now. There’ll be a hot welcome for them when they get here. This should be the end of the whole rascally pack of them.”

  “Yes.” An odd note in Ross’s voice. Well—no wonder. If she had qualms about the smugglers’ fate, how much more must he? “You’re drenched, Chris.” He turned to her. “Hurry and change. Dinner can wait.”

  She smiled at him. “It must be spoiled already. Very well, then, if you’ll excuse me.”

  When she entered the drawing room ten minutes later, she was at once aware of tension crackling in the air. Her mother, of course, greeted her imperturably as always. “There you are, chérie. We were getting almost anxious about you. Lieutenant Trevis tells me you rode farther than you meant”

  “Yes. I must apologize for delaying dinner.” How right her mother was to behave as if nothing was amiss.

  But Mrs. Tretteign’s hands were working in her lap, and there were spots of disastrous red high up on her cheekbones. “Food!” Petulantly. “I couldn’t eat a thing. Not now …”

  “You must,” said her sister-in-law. “Lieutenant Trevis, if you will come with me?” She led the way across the big hall to the dining room, and Christina, watching her Aunt Tretteign flutter anxiously after her, took time to breathe a question to Ross. “Grandfather?”

  “Knows nothing.”

  “Good.” But here was Sophie, deathly white, emerging from the shadowed corner by the piano, where she had been pretending to look over some music.

  “Tina, you’re all right?” she asked.

  “Of course I am, goose. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you all waiting for your dinner.”

  “Oh … don’t. Tina, I’m frightened …”

  “Nonsense.” This was Ross, robustly, as he took an arm of each of them. “You’re hungry, that’s all.”

  It was a strange enough travesty of a dinner party. Mrs. Tretteign was in one of her crises of the nerves, and Christina, watching her sniff into her handkerchief, sigh gustily and pick at her food, could only congratulate herself that these were enough of a commonplace to cause no comment. But Sophie was another matter. She, too, was silent. Her pale face and reddened eyes suggested a recent storm of tears; there were red spots on her cheekbones and even her dark hair seemed to have lost something of its usual luster. Drained of its animation, her face was pitiful and almost plain, and Lieutenant Trevis, who had not met her before, treated her merely with the careless courtesy due to the insignificant child she looked.

  Ross, too, was withdrawn, and Christina, helping her mother to carry on a routine conversation with Lieutenant Trevis, wondered what pangs he must be suffering on the smugglers’ account. After all, he could not help but feel the whole thing his fault.

  They were all strained, listening, in the many pauses in the conversation, for sounds from outside. Once, Mrs. Tretteign half rose to her feet. “Shots!” she said. “I hear firing.”

  Trevis and Ross both rose and moved to the window to listen. “You’re imagining things, Mother,” said Ross coldly. “It’s only the wind on the marsh.”

  “The wind, indeed! As if I hadn’t heard that nights enough to be able to tell it from gunfire. But I suppose I’m just an hysterical female, too.” A glance for Sophie suggested the point of this remark and Christina wondered more than ever what kind of scene she had missed.

  Sophie sniffed loudly into a tiny lace-trimmed handkerchief. “We can’t all be heroines,” she said. “And as for me, I always understood ladies were not supposed to go riding in the dark alone. I’m sure, Mamma, if y
ou’ve told me once—”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, Sophie,” interposed her mother, “not to speak about what you don’t understand.” And then, rising, “You will not be long over your wine, Ross?”

  “Of course not. But Trevis and I intend to make a circuit of the house before we rejoin you ladies. It’s getting late.”

  “Yes.” They had, indeed, dined very late, and Christina, her ears at a stretch like the others’, had been expecting the attack momentarily and wishing she had had a moment to find out what plans had been made for the defense of the house.

  But now, at last, the four women were alone in the saloon. “I’ll ring when we wish for tea,” her mother had told Parkes. “Till then, we do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Poor old thing,” said Christina, when he had closed the door behind him. “I wish we could persuade him to go to bed. He looks like death.”

  “Oh really, Tina,” burst out Sophie. “I’ve no patience with you. Here we are, about to be murdered in our beds—if not worse—and all you can think of is the butler’s health. Have you no finer feelings?”

  “Not many, I’m afraid, love,” said Christina cheerfully. “And, really, it seems to me most unlikely that we are to be murdered in our beds—or worse, as you suggest. After all, there are I don’t know how many troopers out there guarding the house.”

  “Gallantly fetched by you. Not at all the thing, I should have thought, to be riding about the marsh like that, but I seem to be in a minority.”

  “Yes you are, aren’t you, pet” Her mother spoke with cheerful firmness. “It was foolish, you know, to break out at your Cousin Ross like that. I’ve yet to meet the man who can bear female tantrums. Oh well, come and sit down, and tell yourself that at least you’ve learned a useful lesson tonight.”

  “Lesson! I’ve learned that Ross Tretteign has the manners of a backwoods lumberman. He slapped my face.” One little hand went up to the red spot on her cheek. “I’ll never forgive him.”